Morning.

Soren sat at the breakfast table, the scent of black tea and warm bread filling the air. His mother was by the stove, stirring something in a pot, her back turned to him. Tia sat across from him, flipping through the pages of a book.

Everything was normal.

Or at least, it should have been.

He hadn’t mentioned the dream. He hadn’t mentioned the sigil, the whisper, or the masked figure watching him from the depths of his mind.

Because that’s all it was—a dream. It had to be.

He picked up his spoon and took a slow sip of the broth.

It was warm. Faintly seasoned. Tasteless.

His grip on the spoon tightened.

Something in his chest twisted—a quiet wrongness, like a note played off-key.

He forced himself to swallow.

Across the table, Tia turned another page, her brow furrowing slightly.

Then she spoke.

“Did you sleep well?”

Her voice was light, casual.

Soren glanced at her. “…Fine.”

Tia hummed, tapping a finger against the open page. Then, in the exact same tone, with the exact same rhythm, she repeated herself.

“Did you sleep well?”

The spoon clattered against the table.

His breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the room felt smaller—the edges pressing in, the gaslight flickering just a bit too slow.

Tia blinked at him, waiting.

Soren exhaled, shaking his head. “…You already asked me that.”

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Her brow furrowed. “No, I didn’t.”

The air felt heavier.

Soren stared at her, heart pounding. He could still hear her voice, layered over itself, as if the words had echoed before she even spoke them.

He forced himself to breathe.

It was nothing.

Just his mind playing tricks.

“Never mind,” he muttered, pushing back from the table. “I need to get to work.”

Tia didn’t stop him. But as he walked away, he could feel her watching.

Harper’s Apothecary.

The bell above the door chimed as Soren stepped inside, the familiar scent of dried herbs and parchment wrapping around him. The air was warmer here, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across the wooden shelves.

Mr. Harper stood behind the counter, measuring powdered root into a scale. He glanced up as Soren approached, his sharp gray eyes narrowing slightly.

“Ah,” he muttered. “You look better today.”

Soren nodded. “Yeah. Just a long night.”

Harper huffed, setting down the scale. “That fever of yours had your mother pacing enough to wear a hole in my floorboards. You should still be resting.”

“I’m fine,” Soren lied.

He needed something normal to hold onto.

He grabbed a mortar and pestle from the counter and started grinding valerian root, letting the steady rhythm calm his mind.

Harper studied him for a long moment. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned back to his own work.

They worked in silence for a while.

But as Soren reached for a bundle of herbs on the shelf, his fingers stopped just inches away.

The label on the jar had changed.

He frowned.

The words, once neatly written in Harper’s handwriting, were now smudged, warped—like ink bleeding through damp paper.

The letters shifted, rearranging themselves, forming words he did not recognize.

A chill crawled up his spine.

He blinked.

The label was normal again.

Dried Nightshade.

Soren inhaled sharply, his fingers trembling as he grabbed the jar and placed it on the counter.

Harper glanced up at him. “Something wrong?”

Soren forced a tight smile. “No. Just—thought I saw something.”

Harper didn’t press.

But as Soren returned to work, the unease in his chest did not fade.

Evening.

The streets of Luthathel stretched before him, cast in the dim glow of gaslamps.

Soren walked with his hands in his coat pockets, his footsteps quiet against the cobblestones. The air was cool, the scent of rain lingering in the distance.

It was peaceful.

And yet, the wrongness remained.

A shop that should have been there was missing.

A building had changed color overnight.

The street felt too long, as if it stretched a few feet farther than it should.

He kept walking.

The key is hidden where the veil is thinnest.

The words from his journal echoed in his mind.

He gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t think about it.

He wouldn’t—

His steps faltered.

A man stood beneath a streetlamp.

Still. Motionless.

His coat was dark, his hat tilted low, shadows concealing his face.

Soren’s chest tightened.

The man was watching him.

A slow, creeping dread coiled in his stomach.

He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

The man did not blink.

Soren forced himself to keep walking.

He would not acknowledge it.

Not tonight.

But as he turned a corner, his pulse still hammering in his ears—

The same man was waiting ahead of him.

Standing beneath another streetlamp.

Watching.

Soren’s breath hitched.

His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms.

This wasn’t real.

He turned sharply, walking faster.

His house was close. He just had to keep moving.

He rounded another corner—

And the man was there.

This time, closer.

Still unmoving.

Still watching.

Soren’s blood ran cold.

His legs carried him forward, faster now, nearly running.

The house was just ahead. Just a few more steps.

He shoved open the door, slamming it shut behind him.

His breath came fast, chest rising and falling.

The room was dark. The only light came from the dim glow of embers in the fireplace.

Slowly, his pulse began to steady.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

He exhaled, resting his forehead against the door.

Then—

A quiet knock.

Soren’s breath caught in his throat.

The knock came again. Soft. Deliberate.

He did not move.

The air was too still. The shadows too deep.

And then—a voice.

Muffled. Low. Barely a whisper through the wood.

“…Soren Blackwood.”

His stomach dropped.

That voice—

It wasn’t his mother. It wasn’t Tia.

It wasn’t anyone he knew.

Slowly, mechanically, he turned to look through the peephole.

There was no one there.

But the streetlamp flickered.

And for just a second—just a blink—

He thought he saw a yellow mask.