The moon hung low, swollen and red, bleeding over the cliffs of Dalerune. Lyra sat alone by the edge of the Forgotten Forest, her fingertips grazing the petals of a flower that shouldn't be blooming this early. Camellia. A symbol of endings before beginnings. She didn't remember planting it.
She hadn't told anyone about the way her magic trembled now, or how her dreams came laced with the scent of ash and cold wine. A name sometimes lingered on her lips when she woke—Raven—but she'd never spoken it aloud. Not even to herself.
Tonight, however, something had changed.
The wind carried whispers, not from her world, but from the space in between—like a voice not yet born, calling through the seams of what should be impossible. It was soft at first. But growing. Always growing.
In the shadows behind her, the trees refused to rustle.
Far across the veil, Raven stood at the edge of a broken cathedral in his realm, one no longer blessed by blood nor time. The stones hummed, ancient and wrong. His people were growing restless, even the elders who feared little. Raven could no longer pretend the veil was holding. It wasn't.
Last night, he'd seen her.
Not fully. Just the shape of her—candlelight in her hair, fury in her eyes. It was a flicker in the mirror, a heartbeat in a dream. And yet, it lingered longer than it should.
He didn't know her name. He didn't know why the world trembled when she appeared.
But his magic knew. His blood knew. She was bound to him, or he to her. That truth settled in his chest like a curse he didn't ask for.
Back in her world, Lyra's grandmother, High Witch Ivara, opened a forgotten text sealed with gold stitching and wax. The pages whispered warnings. Not in words, but in dread. And in the center of the book: two silhouettes—one of fire, one of shadow—standing too close to the veil.
She slammed the book shut.
"Lyra," she whispered to the wind, "what have you seen?"
And the veil—once silent, once still—sighed.