It wasn’t superstition. It wasn’t a childhood fear he’d failed to outgrow. It was a condition—etched into his bones like a second skeleton, whispered into his blood before he could speak. His grandmother had called it the gift of the veiled , but Zaviel knew a curse when he lived one.
And he saw, threaded through her own chest, a single frayed silver cord—tethering her to something far away. Something that had once loved her. zaviel
Zaviel froze. That wasn’t a plea. It was a command. Smooth and sweet, like honey over poison. It wasn’t superstition
“No,” the voice agreed, losing its tremor entirely. Losing its youth. Becoming something vast and ancient and patient. “But you are about to be.” His grandmother had called it the gift of
But the voice cracked on the last word like real tears. Like someone who had been crying for hours.