Epilogue

The candlelight flickered incessantly in the meticulously drawn circle that Autumn had outlined with ash and salt, its warm glow casting dancing shadows against the worn walls of her grandmother’s ancient ritual room. Outside, the soft spring wind rustled through the newly budded branches of cherry trees, creating a gentle, melodic sound that felt almost like a whisper. Meanwhile, inside the sanctuary of her past, the Veil waited and listened with an almost sentient presence.

Seated cross-legged on an intricately woven mat, Autumn surrounded herself with a collection of ancestral artifacts—delicate bones that spoke of forgotten lives, smooth stones imbued with ancient energy, vibrant feathers from elusive birds, and the softly breathing Book of the Veilwalker, its pages fluttering as if sensing the charged atmosphere. The remnants of the Hollow fire still etched traces on her skin: a faint silver burn that curled around her collarbone like a serpent, and a tattoo-like mark of dark thread inked into her wrist, alive with the pulse of her magic.

It had been several weeks since she had navigated the treacherous depths of the Hollow, brought back the lost truth of Mara, and, ultimately, forgave the remnants of her former self—those shadows that haunted her dreams.

Yet, with peace came an unsettling discord.

The spirits in the room had grown restless once again, their whispers echoing through the very walls, and reflections in the polished surfaces seemed to linger just a heartbeat longer than they should have. Though she had mended the veil that separated their world from this one, it was now stretched thin, as if straining under the weight of something hidden.

This evening, the spirits were insistent, repeating a name that resonated like the toll of a distant bell, one she could not recall ever hearing before.

With an air of quiet determination, Autumn leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper, “Show me.”

In response, the Book of the Veilwalker sprang open with a sudden rush of air that extinguished each flickering candle, plunging the room into darkness. As the darkness settled, a sigil materialized on the page—unfamiliar and intricate, spiraling sharply and glowing faintly with starlight. Below it, an ancient script began to etch itself onto the paper:

*The Sister of Dust has awakened.*

A chill slithered down Autumn’s spine, sending a shiver through her body as a sense of foreboding took root.

From the mirror hanging on the wall across the room, a shadowy figure emerged behind her—a blurred, spectral outline that would have been unmistakably female if not for the hazy distortion.

She turned swiftly, heart racing. The room was empty, silent as the grave.

Yet, her reflection in the mirror remained for a fraction too long before fading into the ether, leaving her breathless.

A voice called her name from the staircase below—Tristan’s voice, warm and familiar, pulling her back to the present.

“I’m coming,” she replied, but her body remained motionless, rooted to the spot.

Deep within the core of her magic, something had irrevocably shifted. The air around her crackled with energy, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

She was no longer merely a guardian, a keeper of secrets and truths.

She was now a beacon, shining brightly amidst the encroaching darkness.

And something, drawn to her light, was fast approaching.