The Night the Veil Stirred

The storm that night should have been ordinary.
But when it rolled down the Aelyrian hills, it carried something with it—something that did not belong to this world.

Elira felt it before she saw it. The air shivered. Her lantern dimmed. And from the forest came a sound that did not belong to the rain—a low, broken groan that belonged to something human… and not.

When she found him—half-buried in mud, his silver hair tangled in pine needles—she almost turned back. No one survived wounds like that. No one bled gold.

But Elira was a healer, and mercy does not wait for permission.

She carried him through the storm, back to her cottage at the edge of Wrenvale, unaware that every step was a thread being woven into fate. Beneath his torn shirt glowed runes that pulsed like living fire, and when her trembling hands brushed them, the light dimmed—as if the marks recognized her touch.

That was the night the Veil began to stir.
And neither Elira nor the world beyond would ever be the same.

Because the stranger she saved was not mortal at all.

He was Kael — exile, heir, and the key to a realm long sealed.

And her act of compassion would spark a war between gods, mortals, and the forgotten Fae.