The wind howled through the borderlands, kicking up clouds of glowing dust that stung Kaelith's eyes as she crouched beside a jagged outcrop. Above her, the Veil shimmered—a fractured ribbon of light splitting the sky, its edges pulsing like a wound that wouldn't heal. She adjusted the scarf around her mouth, squinting through the haze at a faint glint caught in the rock. Veilscrap. Her fingers, calloused and nimble, worked a thin blade under the shard, prying it free with a soft crack. It glowed faintly in her palm, a shard of solidified magic, cold as ice despite the heat of the afternoon. Worth a week's bread in Dusthaven, if the traders didn't cheat her again.
She tucked it into the pouch at her hip, casting a wary glance upward. The Veil's nearest crack loomed overhead, a splinter of darkness against the shimmering barrier. It hummed—a low, bone-deep sound she'd grown used to over years of scavenging. Beyond it lay the Ethereal Lords' prison, or so the Order of the Saffron Flame preached. Kaelith didn't care much for their sermons. To her, the Veil was just a broken roof leaking profit—and danger. Twisted trees clawed at the horizon, their bark blackened by wild magic, and somewhere in the distance, a Veilspawn roared. She'd seen one once: a hulking thing with too many eyes and legs like shattered glass. She didn't plan to see another.Her journal poked out of her satchel, its edges worn from years of doodling. She'd sketched the symbols from her dreams again last night—spirals and jagged lines that made no sense but felt right. A waste of charcoal, probably. She shook her head and stood, brushing dust from her patched trousers. Time to get back before the storms kicked up.
"Kaelith."
Her breath caught. It wasn't the wind. It came from above—from the crack in the Veil. The shard in her pouch seemed to pulse against her hip, and the air grew heavy, cold. Words followed, soft and insistent, in a tongue she didn't know. Yet they tugged at her, familiar as a half-remembered song. Her vision blurred, and for a moment, she saw something: a figure wreathed in light, impossibly tall, its voice echoing in her skull. Listen, and be free. Then it was gone, leaving her gasping, hands trembling.She stumbled back, heart pounding. "Not today," she growled, forcing her legs to move. Dusthaven wasn't far—a mile, maybe less. She'd sell the shard, buy some bread, and forget this nonsense. But the whispers lingered, brushing her mind like fingers.
She'd barely made it halfway when a shadow fell across her path. Three figures stepped from the dust, their ember-orange robes billowing in the wind. The Order of the Saffron Flame. Their mirrored masks glinted, reflecting her own startled face back at her. Patrols like this were rare this far out, but they always meant trouble.
"Hand it over," the leader said, voice flat behind the mask. He held out a gloved hand. "The Veilscrap. It's not yours to take."