The Birth of the Veil
They say the world was once woven of light.
Not the pale sunlight that breaks through Lockwood's towers now, but a living radiance that sang through rivers, trees, and human hearts alike. It was called the Aether, and those who could touch it were known as the Magi—keepers of creation's first language.
In those days, the kingdom of Lockwood was not built of marble and fear, but of flame and faith. The Magi walked among kings, shaping the winds and calling rain from the heavens. They mended bones with whispers, grew forests from dust, and painted constellations in the night sky. For centuries, they were revered as the blessed—until the stars themselves began to die.
No one remembers when the sky first cracked. Some say it was the Magi's pride that pierced the heavens; others, that the gods envied mortal hands. But the truth was far crueler:
the Aether itself began to hunger.
Magic turned upon its wielders. Spells that once healed began to rot the body from within. Rivers boiled with restless spirits. The Aether screamed for release, and the world trembled beneath its fury.
So the kings of men sought salvation from their brightest star—Henry Astride, the first High King of Lockwood.
He was no mage, but a man of ruthless faith. He believed that the Aether's rebellion was divine punishment—that magic had stolen humanity's humility.
Under his command, the greatest ritual in history was forged: The Celestial Veil.
Thirteen Magi, bound by blood and oath, gave their lives to seal the Aether beyond mortal reach. Their hearts became the Pillars of the Veil; their names were erased from all memory. The rift was mended, the sky stilled—and for the first time in centuries, silence fell upon the world.
But silence is never peace.
The Veil did not destroy magic. It buried it—deep within the veins of mankind. What was once free now slept in every heartbeat, waiting, whispering, yearning to be known again.
And so began the Age of Purity.
The Church of the Veil rose beside the throne, preaching that magic was sin, that the soul's safety depended upon obedience. Books were burned, bloodlines erased, and the Magi became myths.
Children who dreamed of strange lights were branded Touched, and vanished before dawn.
Yet beneath the ash of centuries, a prophecy endured—half-remembered, spoken only in whispers:
"When the moon bleeds and the sun forgets its name, the Veil shall tremble.
And she who carries the lost flame shall awaken the heart of the world."
Some say it was only legend.
Others say the flame has never truly died.
And if one listens, on the wind that crosses Lockwood's darkened plains, one can still hear a woman's voice—soft, sorrowful, eternal.
"Forgive me," it whispers.
"For what I sealed was never mine to own."
Linda of Bramblehollow
The rain had not stopped for three days.
It came down in soft, steady sheets, turning the dirt roads of Bramblehollow into dark rivers that slithered between cottages and vanished into the whispering woods beyond. To most, it was simply a dreary week — another storm sent by the heavens to cleanse Lockwood's fields.
But to Linda Shawn, it felt like the sky was trying to speak.
She stood beneath the crooked eaves of the apothecary's shop, pale fingers gripping the rim of a wooden basin. Her reflection rippled across the surface — green eyes clouded with fatigue, dark curls stuck to her temples, and a faint glow that pulsed behind her pupils when lightning struck.
She looked away quickly.
If anyone saw that light, it would be over.
"Linda! The herbs!"
The voice of Mistress Monica, her employer, snapped her from thought. Linda turned, shaking the water from her hands.
"Yes, Mistress!" she called back, slipping inside the warmth of the small, candle-lit shop.
The air was thick with the scent of rosemary, crushed valerian, and damp parchment. Glass jars lined the shelves — dried flowers, bottled roots, ground powders, all neatly labeled. In the center, hunched over a ledger, sat Monica Thorns , Bramblehollow's only healer licensed by the Church.
She looked up with stern, pale eyes. "You were daydreaming again."
"Only a moment."
Linda placed the washed leaves on the counter, but her voice betrayed a tremor she couldn't hide
Monica's gaze softened. "You need rest. You've been hearing it again, haven't you?"
Linda froze. "Hearing what?"
"The wind," Monica murmured. "You look like your mother when the whispers came."
At that name — mother — Linda's throat tightened.
Her mother had been burned twenty years ago, accused of witchcraft when strange lights surrounded their home during a drought. Linda never saw it happen. Monica had found her the next morning, wandering the woods, dazed and barefoot. Since then, she'd taught the girl the craft of healing and the rules of survival.
Rule One: Never speak of magic.
Rule Two: Never look too long at the stars.
Rule Three: Never let them see you bleed.
Linda forced a smile. "It's just the storm. I'm fine."
Monica watched her for a long moment, then nodded. "Fine. But stay away from the forest tonight. The Inquisitors are patrolling again."
"I will."
She wouldn't.
That night, when the lamps were dim and the town had sunk into uneasy sleep, Linda left.
She wrapped herself in a gray cloak and stepped into the rain-soaked darkness, feet silent on the muddy road. The forest beyond Bramblehollow loomed like a cathedral of shadows — ancient trees, their roots knotted like sleeping beasts.
She walked not because she wanted to, but because the pull was stronger tonight — the same invisible thread that had drawn her into dreams since childhood. It hummed beneath her skin, a whisper she couldn't silence.
Come, it said. The Veil stirs.
She reached the riverbank, where moonlight spilled across the water like molten silver. Kneeling, she pressed her palm to the current — and for a breathless instant, the world changed.
The rain stopped. The wind fell silent. The water glowed.
From her hand spread a soft golden shimmer, light dancing along the ripples. The river warmed beneath her touch, and faint shapes — runes, ancient and half-forgotten — shimmered in the depths before fading away.
Linda's heart pounded. She drew back quickly, clutching her wrist.
"What are you?" she whispered to herself.
But the forest had no answers. Only the rustle of leaves…and footsteps.
A figure stepped from the shadows — cloaked, hood drawn low. A glint of steel caught the moonlight.
"Who's there?" Linda called, her voice steadier than she felt.
The stranger didn't answer. He moved closer, slow and deliberate. In the rain's thin mist, she saw the mark burned into his gauntlet — the sigil of the Church Inquisition.
Her breath hitched. "No…"
He drew a blade. "By order of the Crown, all witches are to be bound and taken. Kneel."
Linda backed toward the river. "You're mistaken," she began. "I'm—"
But lightning cracked — and for an instant, his eyes gleamed with cruel recognition. "It's you. The healer who revives the dying. The one they whisper about in the capital."
He lunged.
Linda raised her hand to shield herself, fear searing through her veins — and the world burst into gold.
Power exploded from her chest like a sun breaking through clouds. The river erupted, hurling the man backward. His sword shattered mid-air, fragments scattering like stars. The water swirled in a great vortex around her, spinning, singing, alive.
When it ended, silence fell again.
The Inquisitor lay motionless among the roots, unconscious but breathing. The river returned to calm, as though nothing had happened. Linda trembled, staring at her hands. Faint golden veins flickered beneath her skin — then dimmed.
She fell to her knees, shaking.
"What did I do…?"
Above her, thunder rolled. From the ridge beyond the trees, unseen eyes watched — another cloaked figure, though not of the Church. His cloak bore the sigil of the royal guard, and though the rain blurred his features, his voice was soft, disbelieving.
"A witch who heals with light…"
"No," he whispered to himself. "A miracle."
The man turned and vanished into the storm, his boots splashing silently through the mud — a single silver emblem glinting on his shoulder:
the crest of Prince Philip Astride.
Linda didn't see him. She only felt the weight of her sin.
The Veil within her pulse throbbed painfully, like a wound reopening after centuries.
Somewhere, deep within the kingdom, ancient seals stirred. Old words burned anew.
And as lightning split the heavens once more, the moon — high above Lockwood
began to bleed