Eila stood beneath the soft glow of the moon, surrounded by the warmth and presence of her three mates. Their affection wrapped around her like a protective cocoon—Zois brushing her knuckles with his thumb, Lukas watching her with quiet awe, and Leonard standing silently at her side, ever the guardian. In that moment, with their unwavering love pressing in on all sides, she should have felt blissfully whole.
But her heart was heavy.
The joy of her record-breaking performance felt distant—like applause echoing in another world. Her parents' hollow eyes and unmoving bodies haunted the edges of her consciousness. No matter how much she tried to celebrate, the memory of them pulled her down like a tide.
And godess, she was tired.
The exams, the adrenaline, the attention—it had all drained her. All she wanted now was to go home, hug her siblings, and sleep.
She turned to Leonard, her voice soft. "Can you take me home?"
Disappointment flickered in all their eyes. Zois visibly deflated. Lukas tried to smile but failed. Leonard's jaw tensed, but he gave a single, tight nod. None of them argued, though she could feel their reluctance like a pulse.
Soon, the carriage pulled up outside her modest home. The moonlight lit the familiar pathway to her door. Before she could even knock, the door flung open—and chaos erupted.
Her siblings had heard.
Shrieks of excitement filled the air as they poured out of the house, hugging her, laughing, crying. The triplets were sobbing uncontrollably. Even Meera, the usually calm one, had tears streaming down her face as she clung to Eila's arm.
They turned to her mates, chattering excitedly, insisting they stay for the night.
Leonard offered a polite smile. "Thank you, but not tonight."
Zois hesitated. For a heartbeat, Eila thought he might stay—but a sharp glance from Leonard cut that thought short. Zois and Lukas exchanged a look and stepped back, murmuring their goodbyes.
Eila didn't press them. She understood. Their world and hers—especially here—weren't the same.
Once the carriage rolled away, her siblings pulled her inside in a whirlwind of hugs and stories. They demanded every detail of her fight with the golem, of the fireball that turned the target to ash. They made her tell the story again. And again. And again.
By the sixth retelling, Eila could barely keep her eyes open. With a gentle laugh, she gathered the younger ones, kissed their foreheads, and tucked them into bed one by one.
Only then did she let herself breathe.
For the first time in days, she felt still. She climbed into her own bed, surrounded by the familiar creaks of home, and closed her eyes.
Sleep claimed her almost instantly.
—
She was standing in a strange place.
The dream unfolded slowly. A door stood in front of her—massive, ancient, pulsing with dark energy. Confused but compelled, Eila stepped forward and pushed it open.
Inside, the air was thick with power and dread.
A towering man stood before a white, cracked doorframe. His flaming red hair burned like fire, and a deep scar cut across his face—a mark of battle. His hands trembled as he gripped a strange key. It looked like a bone, weathered and ancient.
He forced it into the frame.
The earth shuddered.
A sickening, wet noise echoed through the space as the door pulsed, then split open. A swirling vortex of slime and shadows bled through the opening, warping the air around it.
Eila's breath caught in her throat.
From the darkness slithered a creature of nightmares—void-black, skeletal, with eyes that devoured light.
The Varium.
She took a step back, heart hammering. She had seen one in person that creature of her nightmare , she recognized it instantly. This was no ordinary summoning.
She was witnessing the opening of the Veil.
And someone—someone real—had unlocked it.