The iron gate of the mortuary creaked open like a tired ribcage, groaning against the wind. Veylen stepped through it slowly, dust clinging to his coat like ash from a scorched offering. The Hollow had left its fingerprints on him—thin streaks of dried blood at his temple, the frayed edge of a glove torn in battle, a shallow cut on his side that had already clotted dark. None of it slowed him.
The door shut behind him with a metallic clack, swallowing the world outside. In the silence, only the ticking of a crooked wall clock dared move. It was late. The city above pulsed on, drunk and oblivious.
Veylen walked past the embalming table, ignoring the scent of formaldehyde and lavender balm. The lights flickered once—recognizing him, or warning him. He didn't care which. His eyes tracked along the corridor's crown molding, where bloodlines pulsed subtly beneath the wood. His warding systems were intact.
For now.
In the backroom, he removed his coat, letting it fall over a chair like an abandoned husk. With slow fingers, he peeled off his gloves—one intact, the other threadbare. He tossed the ruined one into the hearth's embers. It curled and blackened. The small ritual gave him no satisfaction, but it served its purpose.
He washed his hands in a steel basin. Not with water—he never trusted it. He used a solution he'd brewed himself: crushed vervain, powdered hematite, and a trace of his own blood. It hissed against his skin as it cleaned.
In the reflection of the darkened window, he studied himself. No emotion moved across his face, but his eyes sharpened.
The cloak.
That damned cloak.
It had moved differently than the rest. Not Red Choir. Not Sylith's. And not an amateur's either. The stitching had been too careful, the runes along its hem precise enough that he hadn't caught their glimmer until the creature moved—too fast, too silent.
He replayed the moment again in his mind: Sylith vanishing in her crimson mist, her followers dispersing like scattered embers. Then came the ambush—sharp, decisive, outside the script. Too many players. And yet, he had escaped.
Barely.
Behind him, a quiet rasp echoed in the hall.
One of the undead.
The servant he'd used as his puppet—the one Sylith thought she'd bested—stood leaning against the wall like a broken scarecrow. Its jaw hung slightly loose, the magic threads around its spine frayed and fading. A black scorch mark bloomed across its shoulder where her talons had sunk in.
Veylen approached it and studied the damage.
"You held up better than I expected," he muttered, inspecting the charred gash.
The servant blinked once in recognition. Not emotion. Just obedience.
"Still… I felt her surprise. That alone was worth the theatrics."
He crouched beside it, pressing two fingers to the undead's temple. A soft glow pulsed beneath the skin as his blood mark responded. He murmured a word—old, pre-human—and the threads of control tightened. The servant straightened, restored to quiet rigidity.
"You'll rest soon," he promised absently. "But not just yet."
He turned and crossed the room toward a locked panel in the floor. With a flick of his blood-marked thumb over the iron ring, the lock hissed open, releasing a puff of chilled air. A staircase spiraled downward—slick stone, steep as bone marrow.
The crypt below waited. And so did its prisoner. One he grabbed amid the chaos.
Veylen took one last look at the undead puppet before descending. He didn't speak, only smirked.
But something in the air around him thickened.
War was coming.
And he had no intention of losing it.
The city's outskirts slept differently than the core. Here, the lights didn't hum—they watched. Magic hung like old incense in the alleys, half-remembered and slow to dissipate. The streets narrowed into whispering paths, the kind not charted on any map. There were no streetlamps. Only sigils painted on stone and splinters of moonlight catching in broken glass.
She moved through them like a breath between ribs.
No name. Not yet. Just a figure in a long coat, dark and hooded, marked subtly with layered sigilwork—stitched like constellations into the sleeves, the collar, the hem. A pendant swung at her throat, obsidian etched with a glyph so old most mages had forgotten how to pronounce it.
But not her.
Not Thaelyn.
She hadn't come to be seen. She came to watch. For now.
The path she took wasn't a road. It was a current—woven from leylines and memory, a hidden seam in the world used by those who'd once been part of its stitching. She stepped lightly across wards older than the kingdom's charter. Through an archway no mortal eye could perceive. Past a door that required no key, only intention.
And on the other side: the outer rim of Veylen Graveblood's domain.
She stopped.
The mortuary loomed in the near distance, stately and still, nestled in trees that never rustled unless they meant to. The building was beautiful in a way most feared to describe. Not alive. Not dead. Just… aware.
From her perch atop the ridge, Thae watched.
She could feel it. The ripples. The disturbed bloodlines. Something terrible and vast had passed through this place recently—twice, maybe three times over. Old magic. Violent, layered, unclean.
And yet…
Something familiar.
Her fingers twitched near her hip. She whispered a word beneath her breath, and a geometric glyph shimmered briefly at her palm. A sigil of sensing—taste, scent, and sound carried not through air but essence.
The mortuary hummed with tension. And purpose. Veylen was inside.
She exhaled softly.
He was still alive. Still operating.
Still... him.
But she didn't approach. Not yet.
Thae crouched at the edge of the treeline, fingertips brushing the ground. Her other hand traced the pendant at her throat, feeling the warmth of its pulse. Rumors had guided her this far: bodies drained of power, markets shifting, strange forces rising in the margins of the city's blood trade.
All of it pointed to one truth:
Something was unraveling. And wherever threads were breaking, she would be there to trace the pattern back to its weaver.
She stayed in the shadows.
Watching. Listening.
Waiting for the moment when the lines would converge—and she could step into the open without being mistaken for prey.
The garden gate creaked.
Veylen didn't need to look. The sound of sigils unfurling like petals in the air told him exactly who was approaching.
"I could hear your blood humming from the road," came a familiar voice. "You're leaking power again."
He turned from the basin, drying his hands on a black cloth embroidered with silver thread. "And here I thought I'd sealed every crack. You always had a knack for finding the ones I missed."
Thae stood just beyond the ivy-covered archway. Her curls were pulled back in their usual soft cascade, held by a single pin etched with looping glyphs. Sigils shimmered faintly at her cuffs and collar—protective, precise, her own design.
She didn't smile, not yet. "The wards on the northern quarter were twitching like nervous dogs. I thought maybe you'd finally angered something you couldn't outwit."
"I've angered a great many things," he said, motioning her inside. "But they all tend to bleed eventually. Come."
She followed him into the main chamber, her sharp eyes taking in every shift since she'd last stood here. "The mirror's gone."
"It cracked," he said casually. "Screamed for two days before I decided it wasn't worth repairing."
She arched a brow, fingers brushing the place on the wall where it once hung. "That was a gift."
"It was a liability. Like most of your gifts."
That earned him a glare—brief, narrowed, and affectionate in its own hostile way.
Veylen settled into his chair, draping one leg over the other. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Or is this just one of your periodic audits to ensure I haven't let the city fall to rot and ruin?"
"I heard whispers," she said, finally stepping into the light fully. "About bodies drained to dust. About sigils that don't belong to any school we know. And about you—playing more dangerously than usual."
His gaze flickered. "I've always played dangerously."
"Not recklessly."
That landed.
She moved to the shelves, fingers ghosting across rows of sealed vials, old ledgers, and preserved components. She paused on one—a small obsidian jar bound in copper wire. "The Choir, then? The rumors are true?"
"They're not a choir," he said softly. "They're a weapon disguised as a hymn. Someone is orchestrating all this, and it's not just the woman I met in the Hollow."
Thae turned back to him. "You met her?"
"We danced," he said, voice dry. "She has claws. I left her a bruise or two."
That time, she almost smiled. "So… business as usual."
He studied her a moment longer. "You've grown colder."
"Warmer cities make for colder habits," she replied, then looked away. "Or maybe I'm just tired of watching good blood go to waste."
He stood. Crossed the room. "Thae."
She didn't answer at first. He reached out and gently tilted her chin up.
"You wouldn't have come all this way if it didn't matter," he said. "And despite your best efforts, you're not as unreadable as you think."
She flushed—just barely. "You've always known how to twist my tells."
"I taught you how to hide them."
She rolled her eyes. "And yet you insist on dragging them out into the open."
"It's endearing," he said with a smirk.
That earned him a light shove, one that betrayed more affection than annoyance.
"You planning to question everything I do again?" he asked, mock-weary.
"Only if your plans stop making sense."
"They rarely start with sense. But they always end with results."
She considered that, then nodded. "Fine. Then I'm staying. You'll need someone to trace the arcane math behind whatever sigils you're about to step into."
He looked her over once more—sharp as ever, controlled as always. "You sure? This isn't an apprenticeship anymore. I won't shield you from what's coming."
"I don't want a shield," she said. "I want a seat at the strategy table."
Veylen gave a slow, approving nod. "Then welcome back, Thaelyn."
She softened. Almost. "You only use my full name when you're about to manipulate me."
"And yet," he said, already walking toward the inner sanctum, "you always follow."
Her sigh was long-suffering but fond. "You're impossible."
"I prefer irreplaceable."
As they descended into the catacombs together, the torches along the corridor lit one by one—triggered by his blood, responding to his presence.
At the edge of the darkness, two veiled undead awaited, silent and still.
Thae eyed them warily. "I see you've made new friends."
"They're useful," Veylen said. "And obedient."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "Unlike me?"
He chuckled. "No. Far more replaceable."
But there was warmth in his voice, and she didn't press.
Not yet.