Ash didn't sleep that night.
He lay beneath a half-collapsed roof in the husk of an old dwelling, staring up through the cracks as thin blue mist from the Outer Ring shimmered in the night. Somewhere distant, the city groaned—a sound like metal grinding against bone. The wind carried the scent of ash, old sweat, and broken promises.
The words of the Veiled stranger haunted him.
"You're a Veilborn."
"You've opened the fracture."
But what did that mean? He had no memory of family, let alone a bloodline. No power. No training. He was just a Scavenge-Rat—one of the nameless who crawled through the ruins, trading salvage for crumbs.
But now… the city felt different. Or maybe he did.
He glanced at his side, where the mark burned just beneath the skin. It was faint now, like the ghost of a brand—black threads coiling out from his ribs, crawling toward his heart. Whenever he stared too long, he felt like it stared back.
Ash shuddered and sat up. Sleep was pointless. He needed answers.
The undercity market was still breathing when he arrived—barely.
Lanterns flickered behind rusted grates. Old gods' statues stared from alcoves, their eyes cracked and weeping moss. The walls were covered in makeshift sigils and protective charms drawn in everything from chalk to blood. This was not a place of peace. It was a place of deals—most of them fatal.
Ash walked like he belonged, even if his clothes were torn and his face still bore bruises. In the undercity, appearance was armor. Fear invited predators.
He passed stalls selling illegal relics, whisper-metal trinkets, stitched-together beasts in cages. One stall had a jar full of human tongues, pickled in a fluid that shimmered like oil. Another displayed a naked man—still breathing, eyes wide—trapped in a glass box labeled: "Seer of Forgotten Words. 5 shards to question death."
Ash didn't stop. He kept walking—deeper into the maze—until he reached a curtain of living vines that twitched as he approached. He pressed his hand to a blood sigil carved into the stone. The vines uncoiled, reluctantly.
Behind them, sat Nara.
She was perched on a nest of cushions, half-nude, wrapped in a long silk sash that shimmered like serpent skin. Her tattoos were veiled runes that shimmered when you weren't looking at them directly. She had the kind of beauty that made you uneasy—too perfect, too unreal. The kind that whispered: this thing wears a woman's skin, but isn't one.
"Ash," she purred, without looking up from the glass box in her hands. Inside, something squirmed—a tiny humanoid figure with glass bones and smoke for eyes.
"I need answers."
"You always do," she replied, setting the box down. She leaned back, stretching like a cat. Her hair spilled down her back like dark ink, glistening with scented oils. "But today… you smell different."
Ash didn't answer. Nara sniffed the air theatrically, her gaze sharpening.
"Mmm. Not blood. Not lust. Not fear." She stood, slow and fluid, circling him like a predator. "You smell like a door that shouldn't have opened."
He said nothing. She touched his side. He flinched.
"Ah," she whispered. Her fingers pressed against the mark. It pulsed once.
"You idiot boy," she breathed. "You touched the Cage."
Ash's voice cracked. "What is it?"
"It's not a what, darling. It's a who. A sliver of something that used to be a god… and still remembers being betrayed."
He stared. "So… it's alive?"
She leaned in, lips grazing his ear. "Worse. It's awake."
Nara poured two glasses of violet liquor and sat across from him. Her body moved with grace, but her eyes never stopped watching. "The Veil," she began, "wasn't made to keep us safe. It was made to keep them out. What lies beyond—Nyreum—it's not just monsters and madness. It's the things we forgot on purpose."
"The Cage was one of those things?"
"One of many," she said. "And now it's inside you."
Ash felt his stomach twist. "So I'm cursed?"
"Not quite. You're… becoming." Her smile was unreadable. "Veilborn aren't chosen. They're infected."
The House of Ethershade
Meanwhile—across the city, within the marble-and-blood walls of the House of Ethershade, the ruling elite of the Elarra Dominion convened in secret.
High atop a spire carved with weeping faces, nine figures stood around a table shaped like a dying sun.
The air smelled of perfume, sulfur, and betrayal.
"Another fracture," spat Lady Vael, dressed in translucent silk and daggers. "In the Outer Ring this time."
"They're accelerating," murmured Lord Rezh, his voice like a blade drawn slowly. "We sealed Nyreum for a reason. We are not ready for the return."
A hologram flickered into view—Ash's face.
"This one is the cause. A gutterborn. Marked by the Cage."
"The Veilborn?" someone whispered.
"Possibly. If so, he must be harvested before the fracture deepens."
Lady Vael leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "No. Let me take him."
"For what purpose?"
Her smile was slow and cruel. "To test how much of the boy remains… and how much of the god."
Back in the Undercity
Ash drank the last of the liquor. It burned like regret.
"You need to leave the city," Nara said. "Go west. Past the Withered Flats. There's a place—an old shrine forgotten by the Ethershades. You'll find answers there."
"Why help me?" he asked.
She stood, walking over to him. Her hand slid down his chest, slow, lingering. "Because I like broken things. And you, Ash… are cracking beautifully."
Before he could speak, her lips brushed his—soft, electric—and then she was gone, vanished behind a veil of smoke and laughter.
Ash staggered out of the stall, the mark on his side burning hotter than ever.
Above, the moon cracked in the sky—just a hairline fracture. But it was enough.
The world was beginning to split.