The Fractured Veil

The air in the forge hung thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid sting of burnt herbs. Veyra's arm trembled as she held it over a clay bowl, her golden-tinged blood dripping into the vessel with a rhythmic plink. Sorin hovered nearby, grinding moonleaf petals into a paste, his usual sarcasm replaced by grim focus. Elara knelt beside Kael, her fingers brushing his silver-veined wrist, counting each faltering pulse.

"How much?" Veyra hissed, her amber eyes narrowed against the pain.

"Enough to fill the bowl," Sorin said, not looking up. "Unless you'd prefer to die heroic and dry."

Veyra's flames flickered in her free hand—a reflexive threat—but she swallowed it. "You're welcome, by the way."

Elara's teal eyes lifted, the glow in them dimmed by exhaustion. "Thank you, Veyra. This… this shouldn't have fallen to you."

"Yeah, well. Turns out martyrdom runs in the family." Veyra's laugh was brittle. Her mother's face flashed in her mind—a woman who'd hummed lullabies to fire, whose skin had shimmered gold when cut. A secret she'd taken to her grave.

Kael stirred, his breath rattling. The shadow's corruption had receded to a jagged scar over his heart, but his skin remained pallid, his veins threaded with silver. "Elara…?"

"I'm here." She clasped his hand, her touch colder than it should've been. The Veil's collapse had left her half-ghost, her body flickering faintly at the edges.

Sorin mixed the blood and moonleaf paste, the concoction hissing as it turned iridescent. "This'll either cure him or turn him into a sentient mushroom. Fair warning."

Kael's lips twitched. "Optimistic as ever."

"Drink," Sorin ordered, thrusting the bowl at him. "And don't vomit. Moonleaf's expensive."

...

Nightfall brought no peace.

Kael dreamt of roots.

They coiled around his lungs, their thorns pricking his heart. The Thorned Prince's voice slithered through the dark, softer now, frayed at the edges. "Foolish boy. You think their cure will save you? The rot is in your soul."

"Shut up," Kael muttered, clawing at the roots.

"She will leave you," the Prince crooned. "When she sees what you are. What you've become."

The dream shifted. Elara stood at the edge of the Veil, her back to him, starlit thread spooling from her fingers. "I have to go," she said, her voice echoing. "It's the only way."

Kael lunged, but the roots held him fast. "Don't! Please—"

He woke gasping, the forge's ceiling swimming above him. Moonlight filtered through cracks in the walls, painting silver streaks across Elara's sleeping form. She'd curled beside him, her teal-streaked hair spilling over the cot like spilled ink.

The shadow in his chest pulsed.

Liar, he thought, staring at his hands. Monster.

Thorn Hollow rotted by the hour.

The Ashen Fields had spread, devouring the Gloomshade's edge. Trees slumped like drunkards, their bark sloughing off in greasy strips. The Blackroot River churned with the carcasses of fish, their bloated bodies glistening under a sickly green sun. Villagers huddled in the church, their whispers sharp with blame.

"It's her fault," a woman hissed, clutching her thorn-scarred child. "The Witch and her shadow boy."

Sorin eavesdropped at the door, his dagger loose in his grip. "Charming folks you've got here, Kael."

Kael leaned against the wall, his legs still unsteady. The moonleaf cure had stabilized him, but the shadow's whispers lingered, a constant itch beneath his skin. "They're scared."

"Scared?" Sorin snorted. "They're one bad day from burning you both alive."

Elara emerged from the catacombs, her form flickering as she passed through a sunbeam. "The Veil's remnants are fading. Whatever the Mother unleashed, it's spreading. We need to find the source."

Veyra followed, her sleeves rolled up to reveal fresh bandages. "The cultists mentioned a 'Garden' beneath the woods. Where the Mother first took root."

"Lovely," Sorin drawled. "A field trip to the murder garden."

Elara's gaze settled on Kael. "Can you walk?"

He straightened, ignoring the ache in his ribs. "Try and stop me."

"..."

The woods welcomed them with poisoned breath.

Fungal growths pulsed among the trees, their caps oozing bioluminescent slime. The air tasted of spoiled honey, cloying and thick. Veyra's flames cast wavering shadows, revealing bones half-buried in the mulch—animal, human, and things in between.

"Cheerful place," Sorin muttered, kicking a skull aside. "Reminds me of home."

Elara led, her corrupted hand glowing faintly. The Veil's remnants tugged her forward, a moth to a dying flame. "The First Weaver's temple is near. If the Mother began here, there might be answers."

Kael lingered at the rear, the shadow in his chest writhing. The Thorned Prince's voice dripped into his mind. "She drags you to your grave. Will you let her?"

Quiet, Kael thought, gripping his dagger.

"Or what? You'll stab the dark? How heroic."

The trees parted, revealing a clearing choked with brambles. At its center stood a stone archway, its surface etched with thorns and weeping eyes. Beyond it, stairs descended into blackness.

Veyra's flames roared, illuminating carvings on the arch. "That's… her. The First Weaver."

The figure in the carving wore a crown of thorns, her hands raised to a sky full of eyes. But unlike the church's tapestries, she wasn't smiling. Her face was a mask of agony, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Elara traced the inscription beneath. "'From her suffering, we are born. From her rot, we rise.'"

Sorin grimaced. "Family motto?"

"A warning," Elara said. "The First Weaver didn't choose this. They made her."

...

The stairs spiraled into a cavern, its walls slick with black moss. The air reeked of decay, so potent it burned their eyes. At the cavern's heart lay a pool of viscous liquid, its surface bubbling lazily. Bones floated in the sludge, their edges melted like candle wax.

Veyra gagged. "What is that?"

"The Mother's womb," Elara whispered. "Where she festered."

Kael's shadow surged, his vision blurring. The Thorned Prince laughed. "Home sweet home."

Sorin poked a stick into the pool. It dissolved with a hiss. "Charming. Let's leave."

Elara knelt, her hand hovering over the sludge. "There's something here. A… resonance."

The pool stirred. A figure emerged—a girl with teal eyes and a crown of thorns. The First Weaver.

"You should not have come," she said, her voice echoing with centuries of pain.

Elara stood. "You're alive?"

"No. A memory. A scar." The girl's form flickered, revealing rotted flesh beneath. "They bound me here. Fed me their lies, their fear. I became their rot. Their god."

Kael stepped forward. "How do we stop it?"

The girl's gaze settled on him, her teal eyes piercing. "You carry his shadow. The Prince's poison."

"He's fighting it," Elara said sharply.

"For now." The girl's hand brushed Kael's chest. He gasped as the shadow recoiled. "The rot is rooted in sacrifice. To end it, you must break the cycle."

"How?" Elara demanded.

The girl smiled bitterly. "Kill the gardener."

The pool erupted.

They barely escaped the cavern.

The sludge surged, birthing twisted figures—humanoid shapes woven from thorns and fungus. Their eyes glowed green, their mouths gaping holes filled with squirming larvae.

"Run!" Sorin yelled, shoving Veyra ahead.

Elara's threads lashed out, severing a creature's limbs. It collapsed, screeching, before melting into the sludge. "They're reforming!"

Kael fought beside her, his shadow-blades slicing through rot-flesh. The Thorned Prince's voice egged him on. "Yes! Feed me their fear!"

"Shut up!" Kael snarled, cleaving a creature in two.

They reached the surface as the earth quaked. The clearing split, the archway collapsing into the void below.

Veyra doubled over, clutching her side. "What were those things?"

"The Thornmarch," Elara panted. "The Mother's children."

Sorin wiped sludge from his dagger. "So. The gardener?"

"The cult's leader," Elara said. "The one who bound the First Weaver. If they're still alive…"

Kael's shadow stirred. "Oh, they're alive."

A horn sounded in the distance—low, mournful, vibrating in their bones. Through the trees, torchlight flickered. Figures approached, their armor glinting like beetle shells, their faces hidden behind thorned masks.

At their head rode a figure cloaked in living vines, a crown of antlers sprouting from their helm.

The Thorned Prince's laugh echoed in Kael's skull. "Hello, Father."