The city of Marlugrathara faded behind him as Alden walked northward, leaving the shouts of merchants, the clatter of skids, and the murmur of city folk far in the distance. Soon, the path narrowed and tilted slightly downward, drawing him into the cool embrace of the Veilwood Shroud. Here, the trees grew taller, their trunks twisting upward like ancient guardians, casting long shadows over the narrow dirt trail. The air thickened with the scent of damp earth and old leaves, and the sunlight thinned, filtering through the dense canopy in narrow bands that painted the forest floor in hues of twilight.

As he ventured deeper, the Shroud seemed to breathe around him—a living, shifting world where even sound behaved differently. Leaves rustled with a strange echo, and the distant calls of unseen creatures seemed muted, swallowed up by the low fog clinging to the ground. The deeper he went, the taller and older the trees became, until they stood like silent giants, their rough bark etched with the scars of centuries.

The path underfoot began to fade, twisting between roots that jutted up from the soil like skeletal fingers. For anyone else, the Shroud would have been a treacherous maze, where even the best hunter or woodsman could lose their way and wander in circles for days. But Alden was unbothered, weaving his way through the trees with the ease of one who knew their secrets.

A low mist rolled across his feet, cool and swirling in delicate patterns, adding to the timeless feeling that permeated the Shroud. Here, beneath the vast canopy where the sky was hidden, it was impossible to tell if it was afternoon or dusk. Sunlight never fully reached the forest floor, and what little light slipped through was filtered, tinted green and blue, as though passing through glass. The forest had a stillness to it, a hush that seemed to hold its breath as he passed.

At last, he reached a familiar break in the trees—a hidden glade wrapped in dappled light and shadow. Here, the towering giants gave way to younger trees, their trunks forming a protective ring around a small, glassy pond. Long ago, one of the ancient trees had fallen, its roots tearing a crater that had filled with water over time, and young growth had crowded around, reaching for the unfiltered sunlight. The pond’s surface was perfectly still, mirroring the surrounding trees with a clarity that made it seem like a portal to another world.

A hollowed log lay across the pond’s edge, its inner wood softened by years of weathering, forming a natural archway that Alden ducked through easily. He emerged on the other side, a sense of calm washing over him as he entered his own secret world. Here, in this secluded place, he felt the weight of expectations slip away. There were no merchants angling for favor, no traders watching him with calculating eyes. Just the quiet, the trees, and the soft rippling of water.

Alden set the sack of pastries down on a smooth stone and took a seat on the log, letting the silence settle over him. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, as though drawing strength from the Shroud itself.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes to see a faint mist rising from the pond’s surface. The mist shimmered with prismatic colors, soft blues and greens swirling together with hints of pink and gold, refracting the last slivers of light that filtered through the canopy. It gathered and thickened, forming the ethereal, shifting outline of a woman. Though her shape was only barely human, Alden knew her well.

“Lysandra,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

The mist drifted closer, her presence as gentle as a breath of wind. Her colors shifted as she moved, radiating a warmth that was more felt than seen. Though Lysandra had no face, no features, Alden could sense her watching him, her gaze soft and filled with a quiet affection.

“Did you enjoy the market today?” The words floated into his mind, her voice carrying a hint of mirth, like the first light of dawn after a long night.

Alden nodded, his gaze drifting over the pond. “It was busier than usual,” he replied. “Everyone’s talking about the envoy from the Galactic Council. People are… excited, but also wary. They wonder what more off-worlders might mean for the city, for all of Umbralumara.”

“New connections, new faces,” Lysandra’s voice seemed to envelop him. “They will change your world, Alden, but remember—change is neither good nor bad on its own. It is simply… possibility.”

Her light shimmered, and for a moment, he felt a familiar tug of longing, a yearning that resonated with her words. The Shroud was his home, but the world beyond—other planets, distant stars, the very cosmos—called to him in ways he could barely understand. His fingers brushed the soft moss on the log, grounding himself, as if to remind himself of where he was.

“They’re worried, though,” he continued, almost as if to himself. “The merchants, the drivers… even the traders who only care about profit. They fear that too much will change.”

“Fear is the shadow of hope,” Lysandra whispered, her voice carrying a soothing lilt. “Both are born from the same place. Do not let one blind you to the other.”

As her words settled over him, the edges of the clearing darkened. The shadows around the trees thickened, pooling like ink, and began to stretch toward him. Slowly, they coalesced, taking on form and shape, until it resolved into a figure that seemed crafted from shadow itself. Where Lysandra was light and warmth, this being was dark and cool, his silhouette broken only by faint ember-like eyes.

Vaelus had arrived.

He did not float or shimmer; his form was grounded, solid. His presence felt heavier, like the weight of a storm cloud before rain.

“The people are right to be cautious,” Vaelus’s voice resonated in Alden’s mind, cool and measured, like the settling of dust. “Off-worlders do not come without cost. They bring influence, Alden. Influence can reshape a place more thoroughly than any blade.”

Alden nodded, absorbing the words. “Influence we can’t control?”

“Influence that can turn allies into threats, or worse,” Vaelus replied, his tone a whisper of warning. “You are the Duke’s son. Remember that not all who smile at you are friends.”

Lysandra’s mist brightened, “And yet, Alden, loyalty is built through trust, not suspicion. Remember the faces in the market, the ones who offered you their goodwill.”

“Ah, the market.” Vaelus’s voice drifted in, cool and dry. “Busy as ever, with that fine chaos of bartering and bravado. Though I must say, the merchants have gotten rather bold in what they try to pass off as ‘rare’.”

Alden’s mouth quirked into a small smile. “Was that you commenting on the Theranthis crystal? And the veluuma from Azoria?”

Lysandra’s mist shimmered in a warm, playful glow. “Caught in the act, Vaelus. Couldn’t resist inserting your… ‘wisdom,’ even when Alden was out in the open?”

“Merely offering perspective,” Vaelus replied, his tone a blend of mischief and defensiveness. “Can’t have the boy misled by merchants eager to impress the Duke’s son. They’d sell him sand and call it stardust if given half a chance.”

Alden chuckled. “I had a feeling that was you. Vareck nearly fell over when I started talking about Azorian soil. I could practically hear you smirking.”

“Smirk? Me?” Vaelus’s shadow seemed to deepen, as though drawing itself up in mock offense. “I was merely helping to ensure you weren’t swindled. Besides, it’s not my fault you’re so impressively observant.”

Lysandra laughed, her mist twinkling with prismatic light. “You mean meddlesome.”

“Meddling? Lysandra, I provide insight.” Vaelus’s tone was smooth, his ember-like eyes glowing faintly. “Alden deserves to know what lies beneath the surface, don’t you agree?”

“Only when it suits your own brand of cryptic advice,” Lysandra teased, her mist swirling in playful defiance. “If you had your way, the boy would believe the world is nothing but danger wrapped in shadows.”

“Perhaps that’s because it often is,” Vaelus replied, his tone somewhere between sardonic and sincere. “But, by all means, Lysandra—wrap him in the comforting blanket of your boundless optimism. Just don’t let him suffocate.”

Alden laughed, feeling the warmth of their banter settle over him like a well-worn cloak. “Between the two of you, I’ll be perfectly balanced—half wise and half wary.”

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“See, Vaelus? He’s catching on perfectly,” Lysandra cooed, radiating a soft glow of approval.

“A pity he’ll grow up believing half of what you tell him,” Vaelus muttered, though his tone held a hint of reluctant affection.

Lysandra’s mist brightened, swirling closer to Alden. “Alden, dearest, don’t let his brooding nature scare you off. Vaelus is just bitter because he hasn’t seen a sunrise in a few millennia.”

Vaelus’s shadow shifted, the faintest flicker of a smile breaking through. “And Lysandra’s only hopeful because she never tires of watching stars flicker out.”

Alden rolled his eyes but couldn’t help grinning. “Maybe I’ll let you two argue this out while I watch from the sidelines.”

Lysandra’s laugh was like a ripple of soft light, filling the clearing. “Oh, you’re far too clever for that, Alden. Besides, you already know our debates are endless.”

Vaelus’s shadow softened, almost as though he were settling into the ground. “Eons have taught us many things. Chief among them—there is no final word between light and shadow.”

Alden glanced between the two, feeling the familiar pull of their opposing truths. Lysandra urged him toward openness, hope, and connection, while Vaelus tempered his dreams with caution, realism, and the raw truth of power. He nodded his understanding to them.

Lysandra’s mist shimmered warmly, like an approving nod. “Trust yourself, Alden. The world can be vast and kind, if you allow it.”

Vaelus’s shadow loomed over him, steady and unyielding. “But never ignore the darkness in others, or in yourself,” he said, “Power lies in knowing your own limits. And power, wielded unwisely, can be dangerous.”

Alden met Vaelus’s ember-like gaze, feeling a chill run down his spine. “I understand, Vaelus. I’ll remember.”

"And so the scholar becomes the philosopher," Lysandra’s jab carried a veil of amusement.

"I merely offer perspective," he replied, his voice resembling the rustling of dry leaves under a weightless breeze. "However, it is truth. A truth you must confront."

Lysandra’s glow brightened slightly as though she were chuckling silently at their exchange. "Vaelus always did love his riddles—"

"And Lysandra her comforting platitudes," interjected Vaelus with a scoff that sent ripples through his smoky form.

Lysandra's luminescent form pulsed with soft laughter as she regarded her darker counterpart. "Ever the pessimist, aren't you, Vaelus?"

"Realist," corrected Vaelus tersely, though there was no heat behind his words.

Alden couldn't suppress his grin at their bantering – this was how it had always been. This bizarre kinship was entwined with his every memory, since his infancy, Lysandra and Vaelus had been his constant companions. They had seen him take his first step, whisper his first word, been there when he had failed to demonstrate even the most basic form of magic. Alden’s father and mother assured him that it didn’t matter to them, but it sometimes made Alden wonder if his lack of the magic all the peoples of Umbralumara could use was the cause for his family’s move to Veilwood when he was so young. Together, Vaelus and Lysandra had been his playmates in childhood games, exploring partners as he learned the ways of the Shroud. With them, Alden navigated life's turbulent currents - unseen and unheard by anyone else.

Their conversation settled into silence, the familiar rhythm of their banter leaving Alden with a comfortable warmth. He felt as though he carried a piece of their wisdom with him, as though light and shadow themselves had woven something precious into his soul. He closed his eyes, breathing in the rich, mossy scent of the Shroud, letting it anchor him to this moment, to this place.

Finally, he rose, gathering his sack of pastries and brushing off his clothes. The day was waning, and he knew his mother would be waiting for him back at the manor. With a last glance at the pond—where Lysandra’s light was already fading, and the shadows of Vaelus were retreating back to the trees—Alden made his way out of the clearing.

The fog shifted around his ankles as he walked, the path through the Shroud twisting and fading, but he felt no hesitation. Guided by memory and instinct, he threaded his way through the darkened forest, until the trees began to thin, and a soft light broke through the canopy ahead.

As he stepped out of the Veilwood Shroud, the forest gave way to an open clearing. Fairwood Manor stood near the center of this sanctuary, a long, low building with broad, sweeping lines that blended the rustic with the modern. The walls were made of dark wood and smooth stone, with large windows that reflected the twilight sky, casting a warm glow from within. It was an elegant, unpretentious home—a place built for comfort, though it bore the quiet dignity of nobility.

To the northeast, a small lake glistened in the fading light, fed by two trickling creeks that slipped out from the woods like silver threads. At the lake’s southern edge stood a paddock and a small barn, where horses and a few sleek, wild-looking animals grazed lazily. The single stream that drained from the lake wound westward, disappearing into the trees.

A wide path of polished obsidian steps led from a clearing at the edge of the grounds—where fliers could land—up to the main entrance. The double doors, carved from rich, dark wood and inlaid with subtle metal designs, opened into the manor’s main hall. As Alden stepped through the grand wooden doors of Fairwood Manor, the familiar warmth of home embraced him, greeted by the familiar scent of cedarwood and faint spices. The soft glow of the setting sun streamed through the wide glass windows, casting golden streaks across the polished wood floors and the stone walls of the open main hall. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the subtle aroma of herbs, wafting from the direction of the open kitchen. Alden’s stomach grumbled in response, and he let out a quiet sigh of contentment. No matter what the day brought, the Manor was his sanctuary, a place untouched by the noise of the outside world.

In the spacious, airy kitchen at the far end of the hall, Alden spotted his mother, Elara, bustling around the long stone counter. She wore a simple yet elegant apron tied neatly over her dress, her auburn hair gathered loosely at the nape of her neck. Despite her noble status, Elara seemed completely at ease rolling dough for a second batch of pastries. Her movements were precise yet fluid, a rhythm born of years of quiet domesticity layered over the regal poise of a duchess. Beside her stood one of the household maids, a younger woman with a perpetually worried expression, wringing her hands as she hovered by the counter.

“My Lady, please,” the maid implored, her tone a mix of exasperation and deference. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself with such things. Let me—”

“Nonsense, Meryn,” Elara interrupted without looking up, her voice warm but firm. “I enjoy cooking. Besides, these hands of mine could use the work.” She dusted her hands in flour and gave the maid a quick, reassuring smile. “It’s good for the soul.”

Meryn sighed, clearly used to such dismissals, but stepped back with a resigned bow. “As you wish, my Lady.” She muttered something about flour getting into places it shouldn’t and set about tidying the counters that Elara had just finished dusting with flour again.

Alden couldn’t help but smile at the sight. His mother’s refusal to fully embrace the trappings of her station was both endearing and infuriating to those around her. To Alden, though, it was one of the many things that made her feel so uniquely her—his mother, not just the Duchess of Fairwood.

At the far end of the room, his father, Duke Lucian Fairwood, stood near the wide bay window that overlooked the tranquil lake. The fading sunlight framed him in hues of gold and orange, highlighting the streaks of silver in his dark hair. Tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of quiet authority, Lucian carried himself with a confidence that spoke of years of leadership. Yet there was a softness to him here at home, a relaxed tilt to his posture that Alden rarely saw when his father was in the city, navigating the labyrinth of noble politics.

Lucian was engaged in a quiet yet clearly losing battle with Selwyn Halstead, the family’s long-suffering butler and Lucian’s personal assistant. Selwyn, dressed impeccably in a dark suit despite the remote setting, held a crystalline echo in one hand and a neat ledger in the other. His sharp hazel eyes were narrowed behind a pair of half-moon spectacles, his lips set in a thin line of determined persistence.

“Your Grace, I must insist,” Selwyn said, his tone exasperated but respectful. “The trade guild dinner is not optional. Your absence will be noted, and not favorably. Several of the guild leaders have already expressed concern about your… reclusive habits.”

Lucian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. “Selwyn, I’ve made my position clear. I have no interest in sitting through another evening of hollow pleasantries and thinly veiled requests for tax exemptions.”

“Be that as it may,” Selwyn pressed, his voice sharpening slightly, “your position as Duke requires—demands—that you make an appearance. If not for their benefit, then for the sake of preserving the Fairwood family’s reputation. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to spend the next six months fielding accusations of neglect.”

Elara glanced up from her baking, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Oh, do stop tormenting him, Selwyn. You know how much Lucian hates those dinners. Besides, the trade guild will survive one more evening without him.”

“The trade guild will survive,” Selwyn shot back, his tone deadpan, “but the family’s political alliances may not. My Lady, you know as well as I do that the Duke’s presence at such events is crucial.”

Lucian held up a hand, forestalling further debate. “Enough, Selwyn. I’ll… consider it.” His tone suggested he’d rather face a pack of rabid tuskbeasts than another trade guild dinner, but Selwyn seemed momentarily placated.

Alden stifled a chuckle as he crossed the room, placing the sack of pastries on the counter beside his mother. “I brought these back from the market,” he said, drawing both his parents’ attention. “Master Haldor saved a batch just for us.”

Elara’s face softened into a radiant smile as she pulled him into a warm hug, leaving a faint smudge of flour on his tunic. “Thank you, Alden. Haldor’s pastries are the best in Marlugrathara.”

“His cinnamon rolls, especially,” Lucian added with a rare grin, stepping away from the window. He ruffled Alden’s hair as he passed, a gesture both affectionate and grounding. “Good to see you made it back before dark. The Shroud isn’t as kind to most as it is to you.”

Alden felt the weight of his father’s gaze, warm but searching, as though Lucian saw more in him than Alden could see in himself. He nodded, brushing flour from his tunic. “I didn’t stray too far, Father. The Shroud… it feels different lately. Like it’s holding its breath.”

Lucian exchanged a glance with Elara, his expression darkening slightly. “The Shroud reflects its surroundings,” he said, his voice low. “Just as it reflects us. Keep your senses sharp, Alden. Always.”

Alden nodded again, feeling a faint chill despite the warmth of the kitchen. He glanced back at his mother, who had resumed her baking with serene determination, and at Selwyn, who was now jotting notes into his ledger with a resigned air.