The old chapel was alive with secrets. Its stone walls, worn smooth by centuries of whispered prayers and silent promises, seemed to hum with a quiet energy. Sunlight from the late-afternoon golden hour was the best kind that spilled through the stained-glass windows, breaking into wild shards of color that danced across the floor like a thousand scattered secrets.
Zaire lounged against one of the towering wooden pillars. His arms folded, eyes locked on Sylen, who was pacing restlessly across the room, his boots scuffing the ancient flagstones.
Nearby, Dusken was sprawled out in his wolf-dog form on the floor, pretending to nap. But every time Sylen let out a frustrated sigh, one of Dusken's ears flicked up, betraying his act.
Finally, Zaire broke the tension with a smirk. "So," he drawled, "Are you not done crying about the tomato assassin?"
Sylen shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Please don't start. She was a menace. A mortal menace."
Zaire's lips twitched, fighting a grin. "Which means you're still upset."
"I'm upset because she mocked my sense of fashion choices," Sylen snapped, throwing his hands up in the air. "Do you know how hard it is to look this good in this season?"
Dusken let out a low, rumbling sound, something between a huff and a canine chuckle. Zaire pushed off the pillar, his tone shifting as he stepped closer. "Alright, enough about the tomato girl. We've got bigger problems to take care of."
Instantly, Sylen's mood shifted to seriousness. He stopped pacing around, rubbing the back of his neck. "The traces we found at the edge of the Northern Grove," he said quietly. "Those glyphs weren't just leftovers. Someone put them there, or more like anchored them. They look fresh and strong."
Zaire's jaw tightened. "Order of the Veil?"
"Most likely," Sylen replied, voice grim. "But this isn't just some scouts. These were marking runes. They're staking out territory and getting ready for something big."
Zaire's eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. "And with Niah—Esme, waking up now… there's no way that's just a coincidence."
Sylen let out a bitter laugh. "Nothing ever is."
For a moment, the two men just looked at each other. There was a lot in that look. The remainder of their old scars, old battles, things neither of them needed to say out loud. The last time the Order had made a move like this, it hadn't ended well for anyone.
Zaire strode over to a battered table in the center of the chapel, where an ancient map was spread out. He tapped a spot marked with faded ink and faint magical traces. "We need eyes on the Western Edge. The threads there are humming with the same energy. It's not a random thread, it's a pattern."
"I'll go," Sylen said, not missing a beat. Whatever annoyance he'd felt earlier was gone, replaced by a steely focus. "I'll take the hill, you know I can blend in better."
Zaire raised an eyebrow, half-amused. "You? Blend in?"
Sylen straightened his coat with a dramatic flourish. "I'am very smart and also witty," he insisted.
Dusken barked once, a sound that was pure disbelief.
Zaire laughed, shaking his head. "Alright, you scout. I'll shore up the southern wards. We meet back here before the moon's third cycle. Deal?"
Sylen nodded, but then hesitated, glancing back. "What about Niah?"
Hearing her name, something shifted in Zaire's expression, just a flicker, but it was there. "She's not ready. But she's trying. And when the time comes… she won't have to face it alone."
There was a finality in his voice, something fiercely protective. Sylen caught it, but didn't push further. He just nodded, turned on his heel, and let his cloak swirl behind him as he strode away.
Dusken finally got up, shaking out his fur before padding over to Zaire and resting his massive head against the man's leg.
Zaire didn't move. He just stared down at the map, lost in thought.
And somewhere behind his steady gaze, fate was twisting tighter and tighter, pulling invisible threads with every breath he took.
* * *