Laila barely slept that evening. The stranger's voice lingered in her dream, his white eyes shimmering like silver in the night. "Because I bear the other half of your curse." What curse? What did he mean? She walked to the library in the morning. Not the town's public library, but her mother's unused study; empty for years, shrouded in dust and silence. The keys to the past were somewhere buried among those books, journals, or old, weathered sketches still pinned to the walls. She ran her fingers along the spines. Hebrew, Arabic, English titles; folklore, mythology, history books. She paused on a big leather-bound one without any title on the spine. She opened it to see a flattened violet and a single line scribbled in her mother's recognizable handwriting: "The veil is not a symbol; it is a doorway.'" A chill went through her spine. Suddenly, her phone rang. A text message from an unfamiliar number: " Meet me by the ruins. Sunset. Come alone.-C." Her heart pounded. Cassian? The ruins were an old marble mansion on the edge of the forest; abandoned, all but forgotten. Once the residence of the Order of the Ivory Veil, now a relic, its loveliness shrouded in vines and desolation. Laila arrived at the time the sun began to hemorrhage gold across the horizon. Cassian was waiting, seated on a rock bench, the sword slung across his back again in sight. His expression was unreadable. "You came," he whispered. "I need answers," she replied. "You said you're bound by the curse. Tell me." He walked slowly, moving toward a split column. "You're not cursed, Laila. Not like you believe you are. You're tied to a family line, to a heritage that was hidden from you for your own protection." Laila's voice was a whisper. "And my mother?" Cassian looked at her, something tender and tortured in his eyes. "She was in on it as well. She kept the last secret of the Ivory Veil. And now... you're it." Laila retreated a step. "Why me?" "Because you're the last of them. And the world is waking up to what they buried." That night, she came home and returned to the journal. This time, she visited the last pages. There was an envelope wedged in, folded with For Laila, when it's time. Written on it. Her hands shook as she opened it. There was a note inside: "If you are reading this, then the Ivory Veil has found you. Do not run. What we protected, they will come for. And what we loved, you must decide to fight for or lose forever." Mama Laila closed her eyes. She had crossed a line. There was no returning now. The shadows deepened as Laila sat at the kitchen table, her mother's letter open in front of her, neglected tea cold next to her. Every line was a weight on her chest. She could not deny the truth anymore; this was not a game, and Cassian was not a mysterious stranger. He was a thread attached to a web of secrets intentionally hidden from her for her whole life. She turned the letter over in her hand, studying the ancient ink. Something about the handwriting; it differed. The strokes seemed rushed, frantic. The final line had been scratched out and rewritten. Why would her mother rewrite a deathbed message? She went to her room, got the shoebox out from under her bed, and sifted through a pile of old photographs. And there it was: a picture of her mother standing in front of the very same ruins she'd just visited. Younger, smiling, but behind her eyes, something enigmatic. Cassian had said "She was part of it too."What was it exactly? She was broken out of this by a soft knock at the door. She was not expecting anyone. She peeked through the curtain and stiffened. Cassian. She pushed open the door, talking in a rough whisper, "Are you insane? You said sunset; why are you here now?" He looked over his shoulder nervously. "Because they are watching." Laila froze. "Who?" Cassian closed the door behind him. "The Brotherhood. They are after more than you. They know your mother left behind a key, one that unlocks the last records of the Veil. They don't know you have it yet... but they suspect." "A key?" she mimicked. Cassian nodded. "Not a physical one. Your memories, perhaps. Or something in your mother's journal." Laila moved to take the journal, returning to the page with the line: "The veil is not a symbol; it is a doorway." Cassian's eyes narrowed. "That verse. It's from some old verse. The Veil believed that truth wasn't something to conceal, but something that was to be revealed only to the ready. Your mother may have left a trail to access it, but only if you understand what she says." Laila dropped into a chair. "And now what? You just drag me into this war and expect me to somehow remember something?" Cassian knelt in front of her, serious. "This isn't about memory, Laila. It's about choosing to find out what they buried. About entering into the life you were created to have. She swallowed, throat tight. "I didn't ask for any of this." "No one does," he said gently. "But you're the one who got the letter. That means it's yours now." The silence that followed was thick with understanding. Finally, she stood. "Then let's begin." The next morning, Laila traveled to her village of childhood, a centuries-old village in the north with dusty paths and rock houses. Her aunt, Aunty Yemisi, lived there even now, and if anyone knew more about Mira Okoye's secrets, then it would be her. Yemisi welcomed Laila onto the veranda, as though waiting for her. "You at last came," she told Laila. Laila tilted her head. "You knew I would?" Yemisi's lips curved slightly. "Your mother said if the day came, you'd have questions only the old ones could answer." Inside the home, Laila was handed a carved wooden box. The lid creaked as she opened it to reveal a cloth-wrapped bundle and a single silver pendant shaped like a flame. "Your mother's last gift," Yemisi said. Laila touched the pendant. "What does it mean?" "It is called *Igba Otito*", stated Yemisi. "The Circle of Truth. Guarded by the last wearer of the Ivory Veil alone." Laila's heart pounded. "She was the last?" "No," replied Yemisi sternly. "You are."Laila lay upon the bed of her youth that evening, looking out the window. Underneath her fingers, the pendant was hot, almost pulsing. Was this how it began? Not with lightning, nor thunder, but with little awakenings in which we thought we'd left them behind? Cassian's words returned to her again: "The world is waking up to what they buried." And Laila Okoye-whether she would or not, was at its center.
