The inside of Maeve's cottage smelled of sage, river mud, and something sweeter — jasmine, maybe. Strange charms hung from every rafter: dreamcatchers woven with thorny vines, jars filled with river stones, feathers braided with silver thread.
Elyra helped Kael onto a bench near the fire. He collapsed heavily, a sheen of sweat already dampening his brow.
Maeve moved like the storm itself — brisk, sharp, no-nonsense. She grabbed a crooked staff from beside the hearth, rapped it once against the floorboards, and muttered something under her breath. Elyra caught only one word: warding.
The walls of the cottage seemed to hum in response. Outside, the mist recoiled, as if an invisible boundary had been drawn.
"You brought something cursed into my house," Maeve said without turning.
Elyra stiffened. "I didn't have a choice."
Maeve finally looked at her — really looked — and her expression softened. "You never do, when the Veil chooses you."
She knelt before Kael, brushing wet hair from his forehead, studying the old scar along his jawline, the ring of Serith wrapped in cloth near his heart.
"Serith blood," Maeve muttered. "The first the Veil has touched in two hundred years."
Kael opened one eye, exhaustion lining his face. "We need to stay hidden."
Maeve scoffed. "Hidden? You carry the Queen's scent like a torch in the dark, boy. Every shade between here and the Eastern Wood will smell you by dawn."
Elyra stepped forward. "Then what do we do?"
Maeve rose, straightening her staff. Her eyes, grey as river stone, pinned Elyra.
"We weave the old magic," she said. "Before the Veil claims you both."
A heavy silence fell.
Elyra felt the pendant at her throat pulse faintly, as if it recognized the truth in Maeve's words.
"What does that mean?" Elyra asked. "What old magic?"
Maeve paced toward the back of the room, pulling aside a heavy tapestry. Behind it, a carved door — old oak, inlaid with patterns that shifted when Elyra stared too long — waited.
"You don't just run from a Queen of Serith," Maeve said. "You have to sever the thread that ties you to her. Or she'll pull you back, piece by piece, until nothing remains but a hollow puppet wearing your face."
The image made Elyra shudder.
Maeve's voice dropped lower. "But severing a thread that the Veil has claimed… it comes at a price."
Kael tried to sit up. "What kind of price?"
Maeve gave a sad, knowing smile. "Your past. Your name. Your memories of those you love."
The room seemed to tilt slightly around Elyra.
Forget her mother? Forget Drenn, her childhood, the warmth of her father's laugh, the memory of her mother's touch?
She shook her head sharply. "There has to be another way."
"There is." Maeve's smile grew grim. "But it's harder. Blood and shadow. You'll have to face her. Step into the Veil itself — not just its edges, but its heart."
Kael let out a weak laugh, full of bitter understanding. "Walk into the Queen's trap."
"Exactly," Maeve said.
The fire popped and flared, shadows dancing wildly across the walls.
Elyra clenched her fists. She felt Kael's gaze on her — not demanding, not pushing. Waiting. Trusting.
Something shifted in her chest. A strange certainty.
"I'll do it," Elyra said. Her voice barely trembled. "I'll go into the Veil."
Kael's mouth opened like he wanted to argue — but then he closed it again, and nodded once.
Maeve's eyes glinted with something between pride and sorrow. "Brave girl."
She tapped the staff twice more against the floor. The carved door behind her clicked and swung open on its own.
Beyond it, the stairs descended into darkness — thick, heavy, almost alive.
"Down there lies the loom," Maeve said softly. "The one thread the Queen fears."
Elyra swallowed hard, her throat dry as ash. She glanced once at Kael — broken, bleeding, but fiercely alive. Then she stepped through the door and into the dark.
The air grew colder immediately, wrapping around her like a thousand invisible hands. She could hear whispers — not in any language she knew, but she understood them all the same.
You are not ready.
You do not belong.
Turn back.
She gritted her teeth and pressed forward.
At the bottom of the stairs was a room carved from stone, older than any village, any kingdom. In the center, a loom stood, made not of wood or iron, but of living roots, twisting and writhing slowly as though breathing. Threads hung from it — threads of light, threads of shadow, threads that pulsed with memories not her own.
And there, in the center of the loom, was a thread that blazed like a falling star — golden, burning, fragile.
Elyra stepped closer.
The whispers grew louder.
Her hand hovered over the golden thread — and she knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that it was hers. Her soul. Her memories. Her love, her laughter, her pain. Everything that made her Elyra.
Trembling, she reached out.
Behind her, footsteps sounded — light, hesitant.
Kael.
Without thinking, Elyra turned — and their eyes met.
His hand covered hers, steadying it.
"We do this together," he said.
And together, they touched the thread.
The world exploded into light.