The rain hadn't stopped in three days. Thin silver threads fell over Sunspire's terraces, weaving light into the stone and whispering against the ropes that crossed above the streets. The whole city seemed to breathe slower, as if it too had grown wary of its own reflection.
Wenrel walked through the half-flooded plaza with his hood drawn, following the soft hum that still resonated beneath the storm. It was weak, scattered — a pulse out of rhythm. The kind of imbalance Kael Veyn would've noticed first.
Elaris was waiting by the water gardens of Veyra Hollow, a quiet place usually reserved for scholars who studied echo behavior. Tonight it felt more like a shrine. Pools of black water stretched across pale marble platforms, so perfectly still they looked solid until the rain touched them.
"Don't look too long," Elaris said as he came closer. "These mirrors don't just reflect light anymore."
Wenrel crouched beside the nearest pool. The surface showed more than his face — it showed movement that shouldn't exist. Something like breath rippled through the image, and for a second, Kael Veyn's face looked back at him.
The reflection smiled.
"You pull threads without knowing what they bind," it whispered. "But the Veil listens. Every touch leaves an echo."
Wenrel stumbled backward, but the pool remained calm, undisturbed. Only the hum beneath the rain betrayed the truth — Kael's cadence was here, faint but undeniable.
"That's not a projection," Elaris murmured, leaning close. "It's a cross-reflection. He's using the water as a bridge. That shouldn't even be possible without a fixed locus."
"Then there's something inside the water," Wenrel said. "Something connecting the Veil to us."
"Extended Veilcraft," she said softly. "Rare, dangerous. These reflections don't just show possibilities — they create them. Belief becomes a doorway. The more you believe in what you see, the more real it becomes."
Tavren appeared from the garden's edge, soaked and pale. "The eastern quarter's gone dark," he said. "Lamps flicker, sound cuts off mid-sentence. It's like the air's folding in on itself."
Wenrel looked back at the water. The reflection had changed. This time, it showed him standing somewhere he didn't recognize — a horizon of glass and fire, a sky bent into its own reflection. The scene pulsed faintly, as if waiting to be remembered.
Elaris grabbed his wrist. "Don't move. That's not a vision. That's a contradiction. You touch it, you feed it."
Wenrel's voice was quiet. "I'm not touching it."
He paused.
"It's touching me."
The surface trembled. Rain froze midair. For an instant, all of Sunspire seemed to hold its breath.
Then the water broke. The reflection collapsed into ripples, and the storm crashed back into motion — but Wenrel felt it, a foreign hum in the threads. Something had crossed over. It was faint, wrong, but alive.
Elaris stood beside him, her face unreadable. "Kael's not doing this alone anymore," she said. "The Veil itself is adapting. It's learning."
Wenrel looked toward the horizon, where lightning arced across the spires like handwriting. "Then we learn faster," he said quietly. "Before it learns what we fear."