Crossing the veil
The pendant flared one final time — a burst of violet spiraling outward from Caelan's chest like a breath.
Behind him, the glow of the world he had known vanished into mist and silence. The Mirror Arch stood tall before him, ancient stone etched with spirals pulsing like a second heartbeat. Each pulse echoed through the soles of his feet, vibrating up his spine — like the land itself was remembering something long forgotten.
He was not alone.
The emissary waited at his side — masked, still, and silent.
Two more robed figures had stepped out from the veil of fog. They stood beyond the arch, motionless, each masked in silver-veined porcelain, each bearing a single spiral where the mouth should be.
None of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
Caelan had already asked his questions.
He already knew.
The veil between worlds was open now — not metaphor, not dream — real.
"You said this place is a wound," Caelan murmured, not looking at the emissary. "A memory."
"Yes," came the answer — layered and quiet.
"A wound between what?"
"Between what the world is," the emissary replied, "and what it was meant to be."
Caelan gripped the pendant at his chest. It was no longer glowing. Cold now. Still. Heavy, as if it carried the weight of a thousand locked doors.
"I'm still human," he said, low and sharp, more to himself than to anyone else.
"You are," the emissary agreed. "For now."
The phrase hit him like a chill.
"What happens when I cross?" he asked.
"The world will see you," the emissary said. "The kings will know. And the spiral will turn again."
Caelan let out a dry laugh. "You keep saying things like riddles. Why can't you just say what's going to happen?"
"Because you would not understand it yet," the emissary said, not unkindly. "Some things must be felt, not told."
A gust of cold mist passed over the grass, circling the base of the arch like a whisper. The stone spirals glowed once more — brighter this time, slow and rhythmic.
They were waiting for him.
This wasn't a test.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a calling.
And he had followed it.
Every strange dream. Every crack in the mirror. Every whisper in the fog. Every impossible truth he tried to ignore.
He had followed.
And now the threshold waited.
He stepped forward — closer to the arch. The space within shimmered with more than shadow. It rippled like water and burned like stars, alive with memory and promise.
The air against his face felt denser now. Not oppressive, but watching. Listening.
He stopped just before crossing.
"Is there really no way back?" he asked.
The emissary tilted their head, porcelain mask gleaming in the fading light.
"The path behind you no longer remembers how to lead you home."
"That doesn't mean I'm ready."
"No one ever is," the emissary said.
The mist shimmered within the arch — and for the first time, Caelan saw through it.
A fractured sky of twin moons, one whole and one broken. Mountains sharp as blades. Blackened trees. A structure in the distance, rising like a fang from the earth. And beyond it all — movement. Life. Shadows walking ancient roads.
He blinked, and it was gone.
Just the veil again. The threshold. Waiting.
"I don't know who I'm supposed to be," he whispered.
The emissary said nothing.
Because they didn't need to.
Caelan had come this far. That was enough.
He took another step.
The air beneath the arch pushed back — not to stop him, but to test him. A breath of old magic curled around his limbs, reading him like a book written in blood and silence.
Then, slowly… it let him pass.
The pendant pressed against his skin like a forgotten key finally returning to its lock.
Caelan turned once, glancing behind him.
But there was nothing now.
No arch. No clearing. No path home.
Only fog.
He looked back at the emissary, standing just beyond the threshold, unmoving.
"You're not coming with me?"
"Our task ends at the border," they said.
"Who's waiting for me?"
"The ones who remember," the emissary replied. "And the ones who never forgot."
A howl rose from somewhere in the distance — low, deep, full of sorrow and welcome. It echoed across the unseen valley ahead, and something deep inside Caelan trembled.
It didn't feel like fear anymore.
It felt like recognition.
He turned back toward the winding path that lay ahead. Silver trees lined the trail, their bark etched with spirals that pulsed with a dim, violet light. The sky above was a patchwork of stormlight and shifting shadow.
He breathed once.
Twice.
And stepped forward.
Each footfall felt heavier than the last — not with burden, but with meaning. As if the ground itself acknowledged his presence. As if the land had been waiting.
The masked emissaries faded behind him.
The veil closed.
And the spiral turned.