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Threads of the Veil

T he library doors groaned open beneath Lydia’s hand, their iron-bound weight protesting the hour. We slipped inside like shadows returning to the only place left that still remembered us.

The warmth of the vast chamber pressed around us, but it did little to thaw the ache in our limbs or the cold still clinging to our thoughts.

The scent of aged parchment and polished wood curled in the air—familiar, grounding.

Floating candles burned low above the reading tables, casting halos of amber light that swayed with the faintest stirrings of magic.

None of us spoke. Not at first.

Our boots whispered across the ancient rugs. The hush of the library felt deeper than silence. It was reverent. Listening.

He was already waiting.

From the shadowed heart of the library, Professor Crowe stepped into view.

The silence was loud as he approached, though he moved with a grace that made the sound feel more like punctuation than necessity. His unseeing eyes were pale as smoke, but they turned to me with uncanny precision. As though he didn’t need sight to see us.

To see me.

“You found it,” he said, voice soft, but resonant.

I didn’t answer at once. I couldn’t.

My hand drifted to the satchel still slung across my shoulder. The weight of the relic within was more than physical now. It pressed against my ribs like a secret that had learned how to breathe.

Samael stepped forward before I could. His voice was low, strained by exhaustion but laced with quiet urgency. “We barely made it out. The ruins were more than stone and time. Something—didn’t want us there.”

Crowe inclined his head. “They rarely do. The relics aren’t hidden to be protected. They are hidden to protect others. Each one is a wound sealed in stone. Each one a thread in a larger weave. Pull the wrong one, and—”

“It unravels,” Lydia finished, her voice a hush beside me.

Crowe turned toward her, the faintest crease of approval tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Precisely.”

I exhaled and moved to the central table.

With deliberate care, I unwrapped the relic and placed it upon the polished wood. Oblivion’s Embrace caught the low candlelight and twisted it, bending it inward like gravity.

The room dimmed.

A hush deeper than silence settled over us.

The relic did not sit inert. It waited. The swirling void at its heart turned slowly, endlessly—not just absorbing light, but attention. Memory. Perhaps even soul.

Crowe did not approach right away. He stood still for a long moment, as though listening to something the rest of us could not hear.

Then he moved.

“It’s awake,” he murmured.

Lydia shivered. “You can feel that?”

“I can feel many things,” he replied. “Especially now.”

He came to the table, circling it like it was an altar. His fingers hovered above the relic but never touched. “Set it down gently, child. Let us see what you’ve brought back into the world.”

I already had.

Still, his phrasing made my chest tighten.

Samael crossed his arms. “We need answers.”

Crowe gave a slow nod. “And you shall have them, but understand, some truths weigh heavier than the blade.”

He paused, then placed his palm against the table, opposite the relic. The air vibrated faintly, as though it recognized him.

“This was the second,” he said quietly. “The second relic created by the Vale sisters. Birthed not from hope, but from fear. A weapon forged after they saw what lay beyond the veil.”

He lifted his chin toward me.

“The first,” he said, “rests at your throat.”

My hand moved instinctively to the Raven’s Echo. It pulsed faintly beneath my fingers.

“Raven’s Echo was Imogen’s creation,” Crowe continued. “A relic to guide, to whisper truth in the dark. Its curse was mild. Words not meant for the waking world, but this—” he gestured to the Oblivion’s Embrace, “this was Elsbeth’s doing. Made to fight back. Made to return what was given.”

Samael leaned forward slightly. “So why not use it? Why hide it at all?”

“Because it devours,” Crowe said, his voice thinning like smoke. “Each time it reflects a spell, it takes from the bearer. Not pain. Not life. Something more precious. Joy. Memory. Love. It hollows you slowly. Until all that remains is purpose, and power.”

Lydia’s hand curled around her sleeve. “Until you forget who you are.”

Crowe inclined his head.

No one spoke.

Not even Samael.

Finally, Crowe said, “Each relic grew darker than the last. Each one demanded more. The sisters... they sacrificed more than time to make them.”

He began to pace again, slow, measured.

“When the Umbra Gate tore open, Queen Nightlock turned to the Vale twins for salvation. They gave her the relics. Raven’s Echo to navigate the lies. Oblivion’s Embrace to fight back the shadow.”

I felt the weight of the room shift as he spoke.

Crowe’s next words came heavier, his voice wrapped in memory.

“And when the war was won, Queen Nightlock wanted more. She turned her gaze to what lay beyond the gate. She believed the relics were the key not to survival, but to dominion.”

My breath caught.

Samael’s shoulders tightened.

“She turned on the very people who crowned her. The sisters, horrified by what they had helped forge, split. Imogen began destroying the relics. Elsbeth hid the rest.”

“And Cordelia?” I asked, barely more than a whisper.

“She followed Elsbeth’s trail,” Crowe said. “Until she could go no further. She left what she could for the one who would come after.”

He turned to face me.

“Now—you have.”

Silence again.

It was Lydia who broke it, her voice quiet but resolute. “What do we do now?”

Crowe exhaled slowly. “We learn. We plan. When the time comes—we destroy it. Not with haste, but with wisdom.”

I looked down at the relic, the dark vortex within still turning.

The Raven’s Echo thrummed against my chest.

I closed my hand around the amulet.

“Then we begin,” I said.

None of us turned away.