The morning after the forest burned was quiet in the wrong way.
Fog clung to the trees like wet cloth, thick and unmoving, muffling even the sound of breath. Birds were gone. Insects gone. The marsh, once alive with rot and chatter, now pressed in around them like it was waiting for something. Holding its breath. Watching.
None of them spoke.
Nyxia led the way, her pace steady but sharp, scanning every twisted branch and hollow root along the trail. Boo followed close behind, limping slightly from the last skirmish, sabers sheathed but her pistol loose in its holster. Zhurong brought up the rear, nose in his charred notebook, frowning at glyphs even he wasn't sure he believed in anymore.
And Loque'nahak—quiet, silver-furred, and spectral—walked beside Nyxia like her shadow given shape. His fur was still scorched in places. But his eyes were clear. Sharp. Watching.
The trail narrowed, little more than a game path curling through the overgrowth. Half-choked by vines and root-tangles. Even Boo stopped grumbling once they left the wide marsh behind. The terrain began to rise gently—hill country, overgrown but drier. Mist thinned, just enough to breathe without feeling like you were inhaling ghosts.
That was when Loque halted.
Ears forward. Tail stiff. He let out a single, low growl—not warning.
Recognition.
Nyxia didn't hesitate. She veered off the path and followed him through a break in the trees.
"Something wrong?" Zhurong asked, stopping behind her.
"He found something," she said.
Boo raised a brow. "Another flower?"
"No."
Nyxia's voice didn't change pitch. But something behind it dropped. A weight that hadn't been there before. She didn't look at them. Just kept moving, faster now.
The trail Loque followed was barely visible—animal prints in soft dirt, half-covered by moss. They wound up a low ridge and broke into a clearing hidden beneath a canopy of old trees.
At its center stood a solitary stone outcropping. Not carved, not shaped. Just cracked. Natural.
But the way it split down the middle—clean, deliberate, like a wound—gave it the feeling of a tomb.
Loque circled the outcropping once, then stopped. His nose brushed the stone.
Nyxia approached slowly.
Boo hung back, arms crossed. "You sure this isn't just another patch of cursed scenery?"
Zhurong crouched, fingers tracing the moss along the rock. "It's different here. Still. Not empty. Just… settled."
Nyxia said nothing. She reached toward the base of the stone, brushing away a thick veil of vines and dirt.
There, nestled in a small hollow of earth barely large enough for a child's hand, was a ring.
Simple. Silver. Blackened at the edges with time. The band was dented and scratched, the inlaid sigil faded—but Nyxia knew it.
She didn't pick it up right away. She stared at it, unmoving, for long seconds.
Then: "He was here."
Zhurong looked up. "Who?"
Nyxia didn't answer. She knelt and lifted the ring with both hands.
The mark on her arm flared. A low pulse. Not pain. Just… memory.
Her vision blurred.
A heartbeat.
And then she wasn't in the clearing anymore.
She was in a forest. Not this one. Sharper light. Cooler air. Her hands—bigger. Callused. A man's hands. His hands. Her father's.
He ran through dense woods. His breath rasped. His muscles ached. Behind him—shouts. Cultists. Maybe worse.
But he didn't run to escape. He ran to delay. To distract.
He clutched something close to his chest—not a weapon, but a bundle. A charm. A map? No—something else. A token for someone else.
He reached the clearing.
Laid the ring in the earth.
Whispered a name—hers. "Nyxia."
And then turned to meet his end.
The vision shattered.
Nyxia stumbled back to herself, sucking in a sharp breath.
Zhurong caught her arm before she fell.
"What did you see?"
She shook her head. "Nothing." Her voice was low. Controlled. "Just… memory. Not mine."
"Whose, then?" Boo asked.
Nyxia slipped the ring into a pouch at her belt. "Doesn't matter."
Zhurong didn't press. But he watched her. Closely.
They stayed in the clearing longer than they needed to. Boo did a quiet perimeter sweep and came back empty-handed. Zhurong spent the time scribbling symbols in the dirt with a coal stick, testing something none of them could name.
Loque didn't move from the stone. His body was tense. Protective.
As if he were standing guard over something unseen.
They made camp before sundown.
No fire. Just rations. Boo chewed her jerky with a scowl. Zhurong ground dried roots into a tonic that smelled like burnt pepper and salt. Nyxia sat apart from them, her back against the stone, the pouch holding the ring nestled in her lap.
She didn't tell them what she knew.
Didn't explain that her father had been Veil-marked too. That he'd disappeared not out of cowardice or accident—but because the Veil had called him away. That he had tried to find the others, tried to do what she now had to finish.
She hadn't even known if the stories were true. Not until now.
Boo sat down beside her after a while, tossing a canteen between her hands. "That was a weird kind of quiet earlier, even for you."
Nyxia didn't look at her. "It was nothing."
"You're a shit liar," Boo said. She didn't sound angry. Just tired. "Whatever it was, it's in your bones now. I can see it."
Nyxia finally met her gaze. "Then you know not to ask."
Boo nodded. "Fine. But when it tries to eat you from the inside, don't expect me not to stab it on reflex."
Zhurong joined them a few minutes later, a faint glow still clinging to his fingers from some warding ritual.
"Whatever this place was," he said, "it's dormant now. But not dead."
"You think something's coming?" Boo asked.
Zhurong didn't answer.
Nyxia looked down at her hand. The mark on her arm was calm. No burn. No pulse.
But she felt it anyway. The Veil didn't always make noise. Sometimes it just watched.
That night, Nyxia dreamed.
The ring lay in her palm, still warm. A fire burned in front of her—not real flame, but something cleaner. Silver light, flickering gently.
Across the fire sat a man. Cloaked. Face shadowed. But she knew him. She didn't need to see.
"Do you hate me?" he asked.
"No," she replied. "But I don't understand you."
"You will," he said. "One day."
She closed her hand around the ring. "Why did you leave?"
"Because I was called."
"Did you succeed?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "No."
Silence stretched between them.
"But maybe you will," he added softly. "You always had more of the fire."
When she woke, the sky was still dark.
Loque was already sitting up. He looked at her, silent.
She nodded once.
They broke camp before the sun breached the mist.
No one asked where they were going.
They followed the path where the trees leaned too far inward. Where the light dimmed.
Toward the next flower.
Toward the others waiting for them.
And toward whatever test the Veil had planned for them next.