"The gods were many, but men gave them names — and with names came chains."
— The Book of the Veil, Verse 27
The bells of Lockwood Palace rang not in joy, but in ritual — a hollow sound that trembled through the marbled corridors like the echo of something sacred long forgotten.
Prince Philip Astride stood before the high windows of the eastern spire, watching the white smoke rise from the temples below.
Each plume marked the morning prayers of a different Order — the five great gods of Lockwood's pantheon, once guardians of magic, now worshipped as jailors of it.
The Order of Lumis, god of light and law, sent up silver smoke that glowed faintly even in daylight.
The Order of Veyra, goddess of water and truth, released blue smoke that curled like tears.
The Order of Aethon, the flame and wrath of war, burned crimson and sharp.
The Order of Eryndor, the god of stone and endurance, smoked gray and steady.
And the Order of Thalen, the wind and whisper, offered white incense that vanished too fast to see.
Five gods.
Five chains.
Five reasons magic was condemned.
Philip's fingers tightened behind his back. Below the towers, priests in golden robes moved through the courtyards, chanting verses he knew by heart.
He'd grown up with their words carved into his mind
Magic is temptation, and temptation is ruin.
But lately, the words no longer sounded like truth. They sounded like fear.
⸻
The High Chamber of Faith smelled of iron, oil, and incense — the scent of every council meeting since Lockwood's founding.
Philip entered through the arch of carved obsidian, the same stone once used to bind magic.
Around the circular table sat the five High Clerics of the Orders, draped in jeweled vestments, each wearing the sigil of their god upon their breast.
At the table's head sat his father, King Alaric Astride, his skin pale from illness, his crown dull from years of war.
The old king's eyes were weary, but when they turned to his son, they burned with a stern light.
"Philip," he said, voice thick with effort, "you stand before gods and men. Sit."
Philip obeyed. His chair was carved with runes he could not read — words from the age before the Veil, before magic was outlawed.
When he touched the armrest, the carvings pulsed faintly under his fingertips, as though remembering something long asleep.
The council began.
Reports of border unrest. Bandits in the north. Farmers whispering of strange lights in the woods.
Each cleric spoke in turn, blaming witches, spirits, or heretics.
Philip listened, silent, his jaw tightening.
It was Lady Seraphine Vale, representative of the Order of Veyra, who finally broke the monotony of fear.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice smooth as calm water, "the unrest stems from Bramblehollow. The people there are restless — some even whisper of the old ways. The village once held a mage-school before the Veil was cast. Perhaps… remnants remain."
The word mage cut through the chamber like a knife.
Several clerics crossed themselves in warding signs.
King Alaric frowned. "And what do you propose, Lady Seraphine?"
Seraphine smiled. "A royal visit. Send the prince. Let him see the faith of the people firsthand. A gesture of unity before your… coronation rites are renewed."
Philip's pulse quickened.
He knew what she meant.
Before your father dies.
The king's gaze turned toward him, unreadable. "Would you go, my son?"
"I would," Philip answered, though the words left a bitter taste. "If it serves Lockwood."
The king nodded, satisfied, but the clerics exchanged uneasy glances.
Seraphine, however, smiled faintly — not in victory, but in calculation.
⸻
After the council adjourned, Philip lingered in the palace garden, beneath the towering moonvine trees. Their blossoms glowed faintly under the midday sun — a relic of old enchantments still woven into the soil, though most had forgotten it.
He heard the soft rustle of silk before she spoke.
"You handled them well," said Lady Seraphine Vale, emerging from behind a column of ivy. "You listened more than you spoke. That frightens them."
Philip turned. Her gown shimmered like liquid silver, and a pendant of blue crystal hung at her throat — the sigil of Veyra.
Her eyes, the color of deep water, studied him closely.
"You speak as though I meant to frighten them," he said.
"Oh, you did not." A sly smile touched her lips. "But a prince who listens is dangerous. It means he thinks. And men who think may begin to doubt."
She stepped closer, the faint scent of lotus and parchment following her.
"You doubt them, don't you?" she whispered. "The council. The Orders. The faith that cages us."
Philip hesitated. "I doubt only what I cannot prove."
"That," she said, "is where belief begins to die."
Her words struck something in him — a flicker of rebellion he'd long buried.
He thought of the temple fires, the chants, the fear of magic drilled into every prayer.
And of the stories he'd once overheard from the old soldiers — that before the Veil, Lockwood's rivers ran with light, and the air itself sang with living power.
"Why do you say such things?" he asked. "If the priests heard you—"
"They won't," she said quickly. "Because they think I am their ally. Because they cannot imagine a woman of faith questioning faith itself."
Her voice softened. "You'll find Bramblehollow different, Your Highness. The people there remember things the rest of us have forgotten. Perhaps… that's why the Church fears them."
She reached out — not to touch him, but to let her fingers hover near his sleeve.
"The question is," she murmured, "what will you fear when you see it?"
Before he could answer, she withdrew, leaving only her perfume and unease behind.
⸻
That evening, the corridors of Lockwood were silent.
Philip walked toward his father's chambers, the heavy doors guarded by knights who bowed but said nothing. Inside, the air was thick with incense and old breath.
King Alaric sat by the fire, his crown resting beside him on a velvet cushion.
He looked smaller than Philip remembered — the weight of rule having devoured the man beneath the metal.
"Come," the king rasped. "Sit with me."
Philip obeyed, kneeling by his father's chair.
"Do you believe in the gods, my son?" the old man asked suddenly.
Philip blinked. "I was raised to."
"That was not what I asked."
A long pause. Then, quietly: "I don't know."
The king chuckled dryly.
"Good. Certainty is the enemy of wisdom. But you must appear certain, or they will devour you."
He turned toward the fire.
"The Orders think they rule me. They forget — it was the crown that built their temples. But their faith grows stronger as mine weakens. When I am gone, they will test you."
Philip swallowed hard. "Then I'll be ready."
The king studied him, a faint, bitter smile curving his lips. "Will you? You have your mother's heart. Too soft for this world."
"Then perhaps this world needs soft hearts again."
For a moment, the king's gaze softened. Then he whispered something that sent a chill through the prince's spine.
"Your mother believed that too. And it was her belief that killed her."
Philip froze. "What do you mean?"
But the king only closed his eyes. "Go to Bramblehollow. Learn what the Church hides. Only then will you understand what kind of throne you inherit."
⸻
At dawn, the prince's retinue gathered in the palace courtyard.
Banners of the Astride sigil — a golden sun entwined with a black serpent — flapped in the cold wind.
Philip wore no crown, only a traveler's cloak lined with fur and stitched with the symbol of the Orders. A show of humility before the gods.
As he mounted his horse, Lady Seraphine appeared once more at the archway, flanked by clerics and nobles.
Her gaze met his, and she raised a hand in blessing.
"May the gods guide your path," she said sweetly — but her eyes whispered a different promise.
Or may they lose you to it.
Philip turned away before she could see the doubt in his eyes.
The gates opened.
The caravan began its slow descent into the misted valley below — toward Bramblehollow, the forgotten land of whispers.
Toward the girl whose magic would change everything.
⸻
As Lockwood's towers disappeared behind him, Philip glanced once more at the horizon.
The smoke of the temples had thinned, but one plume — faint and dark — drifted against the wind, rising from somewhere deep within the forests beyond the capital.
It was not incense.
It was not prayer.
It was something older, rawer — a scent of burned sage and silver ash.
The knights didn't notice. But Philip felt it — a pulse in the air, faint as breath.
It thrummed once, like a heartbeat.
He didn't know that, miles away, in a small cottage at the edge of Bramblehollow, a girl named Linda Shawn had just flinched awake from a dream — the same pulse echoing in her chest.
The Veil had trembled.
And for the first time in centuries, magic had answered.