He's not human," Kaelen said, fog coiling at his boots. "And he doesn't miss."
That was all he offered as we slipped through the alleys—his cloak drawn tight against Veyrith's damp chill.
His jaw shifted—barely. The kind of tension that meant something was worse than he'd said.
"They call him Specter's Call. He's sabotaged three major Veiled Chain operations in a month. Hit a portal ring, blew up a ledgerhouse, left their second-in-command one hand short."
It was starting to feel more like a wild goose chase than a recruitment mission—logic straining against the hours spent stalking shadows. But Kaelen's instincts were rarely wrong. And anyone dismantling syndicate operations alone was worth the risk.
We moved quickly—scaling rooftops like shadows stitched into the city's skin. The fog swirled around us with every step, thick and gray, clinging to spires and alley edges like it owned the place.
Veyrith always made my skin crawl—not from fear. Thuumar don't rattle easy. But here, the silence watched. Like the city itself was holding its breath, waiting to pounce.
A large structure rose ahead—its silhouette jagged and dark, spires jutting like broken teeth. Kaelen raised a hand. We halted atop a nearby roof, mist curling at our feet.
Then we climbed—Varra's sword steady at her side, Mavik's scarred hands silent on slate. I moved last, shingles creaking under my weight.
At the center of the rooftop knelt a lone figure—hunched over what looked like a cluster of metallic devices wired into a central node—brass glinting dully, etched glyphs shimmering faint in the fog. The wind tugged at his cloak—revealing arcane threading woven into the fabric—brass clasps catching light, runes pulsing like a heartbeat under strain.
None of us spoke.
Mavik leaned in—eyes wide, grin growing. "That's... that's not just a bomb. That's a layered proximity-glyph trigger with planar bleed. You know how hard that is to stabilize?!"
He let out a soft whistle, reverent. "Whoever built this—knows their detonation craft."
His grin faltered for just a second—like he remembered something wasn't quite right, but couldn't stop admiring the technique.
Kaelen didn't take his eyes off the figure. "And they didn't build it to scare anyone. That's not intimidation.
That's a message—to people who can read it."
The odds of this going wrong? One in five.
"I take it you're Specter's Call?"
"I've been called many names," the figure replied without turning—his voice strange—like it echoed from a place just slightly out of sync with this world. Distant. Hollow. A whisper from beyond the veil.
The figure didn't flinch. Fingers still moved—precise, slow. Whatever he was making, it wasn't an accident.
Then he rose—cloak swaying—and turned.
Four long limbs slipped into view, jointed and clawed like willow branches. A ribbon-thin tail swayed behind him. Horns, smooth and pale, curved elegantly from his head. And those eyes—voidlike mirrors—reflected nothing.
Something in me hesitated. Just a breath. Like looking too long at a place where the world forgot to finish itself.
Not human. Not even close.
"He's Vaelmen," Kaelen said quietly.
Vaelmen, or Veilborn as most call them—born of the thinnest points between worlds. Not dead. Not living. Fragments of broken fates stitched into flesh. Myths that step through walls. Errors in the weave.
"I thought Veily boys were just stories," Mavik muttered—hand hovering over his satchel.
"Kaelen, you sure about this?" Varra asked—golden eyes narrowing.
"He's efficient," Kaelen replied. "Untraceable. We need people like him."
The Veilborn tilted his head slightly. Horns catching lantern light. Tail swaying like a pendulum.
"Why would I want to join?" His voice was distant. Echoed. A ripple from elsewhere.
"Purpose," I said—before anyone else could.
And immediately regretted how much it sounded like I cared.
"You go where destruction calls," I added. "But you don't know why. We can give you something larger than yourself."
He watched me. Silent. Unreadable. Veilborn were drawn to broken things—dreams, people, cities. Maybe that's why he was here.
Maybe he'd haunted other cities before this. Maybe this one just let him stay longer.
Then—without a word—he turned and began to sink through the rooftop.
Mist curled around him, body dissolving into stone as if it were air. Runes flickered. Then nothing.
"Do you think he's going to join us?" Varra asked, eyes scanning the empty rooftop.
"Questions later," I said, already backing away. "We need to move."
We leapt—boots pounding shingles—just as fire ripped the roof apart. A plume of white fire tore skyward—silent for a second, like even the blast didn't dare interrupt Veyrith. Then came the sound, low and wrong, like thunder buried under stone.
And then... silence.
From a nearby wall, the Veilborn emerged—stepping clean through the stone, cloak unruffled. Clawed limbs folded beneath him again.
"I'll join," he said simply.
The fog curled tighter around him—as if sealing the promise.
Then turned and vanished—into the mist, into nothing. No scrape. No whisper. Just... subtraction.
Like he hadn't left. Like he'd never been.
Specter's Call. It fit him.
Kaelen's recruits were getting stranger. Stronger. Sharper.
And as I watched the fog swallow him whole, I thought:
Whatever war we were preparing for—
We'd just recruited the ghost that would haunt it.
I logged the assessment later. But I remembered the silence first.
"So how many more friends you got to recruit?" Mavik asked—watching the smoke curl from the crater behind us—voice lilted, an explosive twirling in his grip.
A glimmer of a smile played across Kaelen's lips—rare, fleeting. "I guess we'll see."
Varra shot me a look—golden eyes narrowing, brow arched.
I nodded. Reassuring her.
Logic affirmed the choice.
Risk balanced by gain.
The Hand didn't just grow sharper—it grew stranger.