Eleven

The Mirabella Estate loomed before her, a grand relic of a bygone era, its timeworn stones draped in thick, clinging ivy and shadowed by the encroaching dusk. Through the dimly-lit windows, flickering amber light emitted an eerie warmth, but behind the glass lay secrets that pulsed with an ancient energy, concealed from the world outside.

Autumn stood frozen at the wrought iron gate, her fingers curling around the chilled metal, feeling both the weight of its history and the frigid air of the approaching night. Beside her, Tristan remained silent, his presence a solid wall of unease. His discomfort was palpable—she could sense it in the stiff tension of his jaw and the protective brush of his hand against the small of her back, as if he were prepared to whisk her away at a moment’s notice should anything go awry.

“It’s just a house,” she murmured, attempting to dispel the growing anxiety that settled like a heavy fog around her.

“It’s never just a house when it remembers blood,” Tristan replied in a low voice, his eyes scanning their surroundings with suspicion.

With a slow, creaking groan, the gate swung open as if inviting them into its depths.

They stepped through, crossing the threshold into a different realm.

The air shifted instantaneously as Autumn's boots touched the ancient flagstone walkway, thickening with an electric charge, a sensation akin to stepping into a vivid dream. Every breath felt like a ritual, as if the very molecules were attuned to her presence, and the house itself was inhaling her essence, absorbing her very being.

A shiver ran down Autumn’s spine, an involuntary reaction to the overwhelming atmosphere.

Inside, the hallway stretched endlessly, lined with elaborate portraits of long-deceased ancestors who appeared to follow her with their painted eyes, their expressions caught in time. In the largest frame, a striking woman glared down at her, her high cheekbones sharp as carved obsidian and her long, braided hair intricately woven into an impressive crown. Her rich bronzed skin gleamed with an otherworldly glow, and delicate, outstretched fingers clutched a silver amulet—an exact match for the one that now rested heavily against Autumn’s chest.

Beneath the portrait, her name was etched in dark, polished wood:

**Maraya Nox Jordan. Veilwalker. 1812–1879.**

Autumn stumbled back, her breath hitching in disbelief. “That’s….”

“Your great-great-grandmother,” Tristan interjected softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And she was the last known Veilwalker before you.”

Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed through the hall, slicing through the tension. Autumn felt her pendant heat up, a sudden surge pulsing against her skin, while the wooden floorboards beneath her vibrated with otherworldly energy.

She was being summoned.

Guided by the inner pulse that resonated within her, they ventured towards a narrow, spiraling stairwell that descended into the depths of the estate. A gust of cold, damp air greeted them at the bottom, filled with the faint scent of aged stone and flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the walls. In the center of a cavernous chamber stood a solitary pedestal, and upon it sat a leather-bound book, its spine cracked and held shut by a network of silver thorns reminiscent of twisted vines.

As Autumn stepped closer, curiosity and trepidation battling within her, the pendant lifted from her chest, glowing with an intensity that illuminated the chamber. Instantly, the silver thorns curled backward, withering like dried leaves struck by flame, and the book creaked open.

Autumn held back, wary of touching its pages; instead, they began to turn of their own accord, gaining momentum in a magnetic display.

The pages revealed a kaleidoscope of sketches, esoteric runes, fragmented notes in faded Cherokee and Italian, and spells scrawled in dark blood and vibrant pigments. Some pages shimmered with protective wards, while others seemed to whisper secrets that hung in the air like mist.

The atmosphere buzzed with layered magic—her magic.

Then, abruptly, the movement ceased.

One page glimmered, awash in a silvery moonlight. At the top, written in elegant, flowing cursive, were the words:

**The Awakening of the Veilwalker.**

Before she could process what was happening, the ink shimmered, flared gold, and then the page crumbled into dust, swirling about her before sinking into her very skin.

Autumn's body arched involuntarily as a torrent of vivid visions flooded her mind—Maraya standing defiantly on the cusp of a battlefield, a woman cloaked in mist chanting her name with reverence, and spirits bowing before her in acknowledgment.

A jarring pain lanced through her head, and her bones ignited with a searing burn.

Just before she succumbed to the darkness, Tristan's strong arms caught her, preventing her from collapsing altogether.

When Autumn regained consciousness, she found herself in one of the estate's opulently adorned rooms, draped in rich velvet, the flickering candlelight casting a soft glow. The book lay open beside her once more, and this time, a single line shimmered on the page:

**She sees between. She speaks beyond. She walks the thread and cannot break.**

Tristan knelt beside her, concern etched on his handsome features.

“You’re more than just connected,” he asserted, his voice steady yet filled with awe. “You’re chosen.”

Although her mouth felt parched and heavy, Autumn’s resolve hardened, her voice gaining strength.

“Then it’s time I started acting like it.”