Prologue — Nightmare (Book II)

When the Veil Thins

The ink of prophecy had scarcely faded when the night itself seemed to echo it. "When the veil thins and the hounds of night draw near…" The words shivered through the fields, half-remembered, half-spoken, carried not by wind but by something deeper. One voice promised dawn, another promised its absence. Both pressed against the world as if to claim it.

The moon rode high, pale as bone, bleeding its cold light across the hills. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, bending with the land in ways no wind explained. Six figures moved within those shadows—too tall, too thin, their limbs crooked as broken spears. They did not walk so much as flow, drawn by the scent of holiness… and blood.

Ahead of them, a lone Priest staggered. His breath tore ragged, each stride marking the grass with crimson. The Chapel loomed in the distance, its silhouette a frail star against the blackened sky.

The demons laughed, their voices rising like a corrupted choir.

The Crooked One hissed, serpentine syllables stretching into mockery: "The chosen will bleed…"

The Pale-Mouthed crooned, honeyed tone dripping rot: "…and their blood will salt the earth."

The Booming One thundered, iron upon iron: "Your light cannot hide!"

The Whisperer slithered under them all, so faint it was felt more than heard: "…abandonment… abandonment…"

Their six voices tangled like poisoned cords around Mortalin's heart. His lips moved, though no sound came: "Yet their blood will kindle light."

The Psalm and the Oath circled him, entwined like barbed wire, choking and clinging all at once.

Inside, the Chapel received him with groaning timbers and flickering lamps. Wax pooled thick beneath guttering candles. The air smelled of incense turned sour, smoke that no longer sanctified but suffocated. Moisture wept down the stones, streaking them like tears.

Mortalin collapsed against the Altar. The wood creaked as if remembering other burdens, its surface worn smooth by centuries of prayer. His blood spread across it, crimson threads seeping into grooves carved by hands long dead.

His vision swam. He saw the riverfront again—the horse beneath him, the calm cadence of hooves. Then shadows descended, unseen force striking him from the saddle. The ground rose to meet him like a hammer. His steed's cry had torn the night—then silence, broken only by claws rending flesh and laughter savoring it.

Only the Chapel had called him, its outline in the distance like a last star. He had stumbled to it, each step fire, each breath ash. The doors had groaned open and flung him into arms that promised haven.

"Most High," he whispered now, cheek pressed to the wood, "protect me."

He forced himself upright, hand trembling on the sill. Beyond the window he saw the impossible: the holy barrier thinning like frost beneath fire. Its unseen glow flickered, pressed down by something vast.

"No…" His voice cracked. "They cannot undo what is sanctified. I have not defiled it. Most High, why?"

He pressed bloodied fingers to his wound. Breath hissed through his teeth as he whispered the word: "Iaomai."

Light flared beneath his palm, threads of radiance stitching torn flesh. Strength trembled back into him, his vision clearing, the sacred answering.

But then the Booming One roared, shaking the rafters: "And when the night whispers abandonment…"

Mortalin gasped, forcing the Psalm through clenched teeth: "…the dawn will remember them."

The Whisperer slithered beneath, almost tender: "…never… never…"

The Mocking One shrieked laughter until dust rained from the rafters.

The Crooked One hissed, "The Most High has turned His face." The Pale-Mouthed added, sweet as poison: "You are alone."

The Claw-Tongued scraped the words against the stone itself: "…alone… alone…"

The Chapel trembled as though both voices now contended within its walls.

The pounding began. Doors shuddered as if struck by storm, fists hammering, talons prying mortar loose. Splinters flew with each blow. Stones cracked, glowing faintly with unholy fire as claws dug into them.

Mortalin dragged himself upright, pressing his forehead to the Altar. "Most High," he gasped, "clothe me in your armor. Place your sword in my hand."

The air thickened, charged with weight beyond earth. Radiance poured down like molten glass, sealing upon him in plates of living light. Two short swords blazed into his hands, their blades feathered flame like wings descending from an unseen Archangel.

The demons shrieked. The Chapel itself seemed to lift with the fire.

Yet a shadowed hand reached through the breach. The Claw-Tongued clicked as it grasped, extinguishing the flame like a candle snuffed. With a hiss, the blades dulled, shattering as they struck the stone.

The armor, once weightless, grew crushing. The Booming One's laughter struck like hammers: "Your armor will weigh you down!"

The Crooked One hissed: "Your sword splinters in your grasp…"

The Pale-Mouthed coaxed, soft and sweet: "Lay it aside, Priest. The Most High has left you."

The Mocking One broke into laughter jagged as glass, echoed by the Whisperer's soft chant: "…abandonment… abandonment…"

Mortalin forced the Psalm through his failing breath: "…yet their blood will kindle light."

But their chorus drowned him, six voices clashing until even the walls seemed to join: "…the dawn will remember them." "…the dawn will not come." "…you are anathema."

The sound crashed upon him, sacred and profane woven into a single clash of choirs. Mortalin faltered. His vision dimmed. The sanctuary loomed like a tomb.

Then all fell apart.

The dream cracked like glass.

Mortalin jolted upright in his bed, lungs burning, sweat cold upon his skin. The screams lingered, echoing against walls that should have been silent.

Beside him, Saar gasped, trembling. She pressed shaking hands to her face, eyes wide with terror not her own.

"What in all the heavens was that?"

He drew her into his arms. "You saw it?"

She nodded, sharp and frightened. "Not only saw. I was there. I felt your blood leave you. I smelled their breath. Mortalin, I saw through your eyes."

His throat tightened. "It is my fear—the deepest. That He abandons me. I know it is not so. But since…" He faltered, names unsaid but burning between them. Stephen. Serenity. Aloren. Carbry.

"Was it Kristov?" she whispered.

"No. Father Elias taught us how to bar him. This was not his craft. It was deeper. A shadow I cannot name."

From below, the old clock struck the Call of the Archangels. Its chime lingered longer than any bell should, the echo stretching thin as though the house itself carried the sound.

Saar shivered. "It plays at all hours now. Why won't it stop?"

Mortalin frowned. "Sinngin examined it. Said he had never seen its like. My great-grandfather left it, but… perhaps Father Limer will know."

The chime faded, but silence did not return. The air itself seemed to listen.

Grey light crept across the horizon, fragile as new parchment. Mortalin forced a smile, though the night clung like ash. "The sun comes. Let me make you breakfast."

Her laugh was small, weary, yet real. "I love you, Mortalin. But your cooking is fit only for the road. We'll go to the Goat's Breath. Cindy and Katherin will have bread warm from the oven."

"Cold," he said, lips curving faintly. "True, but cold."

They rose together. Yet as the floorboards creaked under their steps, the dream's echo followed—claws scraping holy stone, the clash of voices still reverberating: "…the dawn will remember them." "…the dawn will not come."

And Mortalin knew with a certainty older than memory: This was no dream. It was prophecy.

...the veil grows thinner...