He didn't let go right away.
That was how I knew it mattered.
Santiago's hands stayed on my shoulders, firm, grounding, like he was anchoring me to the surface while his mind raced somewhere darker. The Veil pressed close—annoyed, sharp—but he angled his body slightly, shielding me without touching any more than necessary.
"Start from the beginning," he said.
His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind he used when something scared him enough that panic would be a liability.
I swallowed. My throat felt raw, like I'd breathed in cold air too fast. "It wasn't empty."
His jaw tightened. "It never is."
"No," I said. "Not like that. This wasn't residue. Or an echo. It wasn't the Veil folding back on itself." I shook my head, trying to find words that didn't exist yet. "It was… occupied."
That did it.
His thumbs flexed once, subtle but sharp. "Occupied how."
"Aware," I said. "Ancient. And—" I hesitated, then forced it out. "—not hostile."
He exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes cutting to the treeline, the rocks, the invisible seams in the world. "That's worse."
"I know."
I pulled free gently and sat on the nearest boulder, my legs suddenly unsteady now that the adrenaline was fading. Santiago stayed standing, back straight, like sitting would cost him reaction time.
"It didn't feel like a predator," I went on. "No hunger. No pull. It didn't want anything from me."
"What did it want, then?"
"To watch," I said. "To… confirm."
His gaze snapped back to me. "Confirm what."
"That I wasn't alone." I met his eyes. "That you exist."
Silence dropped hard between us.
The forest felt too still, like even the birds were waiting for his reaction.
"You're sure it wasn't using you," he said finally. "No compulsion. No emotional hook."
"I'm sure," I replied. "It didn't push. It barely touched. And when I backed away—it let me go."
That was not how the Veil behaved.
Santiago scrubbed a hand over his face, then dropped it, control snapping back into place. "What did it say."
"Not in words," I said. "But I understood it anyway. It called itself a root."
His breath hitched. Just slightly.
I caught it.
"You've heard that before," I said.
He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was careful. "In fragments. Old theory. Old warnings. The kind guardians file away because they don't help you survive tomorrow."
"What kind of warnings?"
"That the Veil wasn't born," he said. "It spread."
A chill slid down my spine. "Like rot."
"Like a canopy," he corrected. "Fast-growing. Smothering what's beneath it."
I stared at the ground between us, the thin layer of moss and soil hiding depths I suddenly couldn't stop imagining. "And roots crack stone."
He looked at me sharply.
I hadn't meant to say it out loud.
For a moment, something like awe flickered across his face—quick, dangerous, immediately suppressed.
"Careful," he warned. "You're making assumptions."
"I know," I said. "I'm just… connecting shapes."
He paced once, short and contained, then stopped in front of me again. "The Veil reacts to emotion. To desire. To fear. That thing you felt—did it react at all when you thought about destruction?"
"No," I said slowly. "It didn't react to intent. Just presence."
That unsettled him more than anything else I'd said.
"Then it doesn't feed the same way," he murmured. "Which means it doesn't play the same game."
"What game does it play?"
Santiago looked down at me, gold eyes dark, serious. "The long one."
The Veil pulsed around us, faint but irritated, like it resented being discussed.
I wrapped my arms around myself. "It said something else."
He waited.
"It said the Veil wasn't the first," I said. "And not the last."
His mouth thinned. "That's consistent."
"With what?"
"With extinction cycles," he said quietly. "Forces replacing forces. Balance correcting imbalance the only way it knows how."
My stomach dropped. "By wiping the board."
"Sometimes," he admitted.
I stood, unable to stay still anymore. "But it didn't feel like that. It didn't feel like a weapon."
"No," he agreed. "Roots rarely do. They just keep growing."
The implication settled heavy between us.
"If that thing expands—" I started.
"—then maybe the Veil won't survive," he finished.
Neither of us said the next part out loud.
What happens to everything entangled in it?
Santiago straightened, decision locking into place. "We don't go back down for a while."
I frowned. "You said—"
"I know what I said," he cut in. Then, softer: "And I'm revising it."
"You're afraid."
"Yes," he said plainly. "Not of it. Of timing."
I searched his face. "You think if the Veil realizes what's beneath it—"
"It will panic," he said. "And the Veil is most dangerous when it's afraid."
The forest creaked softly as wind moved through the trees. Somewhere deep underground, something old and patient continued to exist, unconcerned.
I took a breath. "It noticed me."
"That," he said, "is exactly why we slow down."
I nodded, even though every part of me wanted answers now. "What do we do?"
He looked at me then—not as a guardian, not as a weapon—but as a man choosing who to trust with the truth.
"We learn," he said. "Quietly. We let the Veil think it's still ahead of us."
"And the root?"
"We don't wake it again," he said firmly. "Not yet."
I hesitated. "It didn't feel asleep."
His gaze sharpened. "Then that makes it worse."
He extended his hand—not to pull me closer. Just to steady me.
I took it.
Above us, the Veil watched, restless and unaware.
Below us, something far older waited.
And between the two, Santiago and I stood—finally understanding that the war we'd been fighting wasn't the beginning of the story.
It was the middle.