Chapter Three – Echoes Through the Veil

Sierra’s POV

The bell rang, sharp and jarring, but Sierra didn’t move.

Not at first.

She stayed seated, hands tight in her lap, knuckles pale against the wooden desk. Each breath was shallow, clipped, measured so precisely it might have fooled anyone into thinking she was calm. But calm was a lie, a mask she’d perfected over years of running and hiding. Inside, her chest throbbed, her heart slamming against her ribs like it wanted out.

Around her, the classroom buzzed with the fading chaos of students packing up. Desks scraped against the floor, whispers darted like minnows across the surface of her awareness, and chairs scraped back with the casual carelessness of those who had no storms raging behind their eyes. One by one, the room emptied, absorbed in gossip and games that didn’t matter. One by one, she waited. Until the last giggle faded. Until the door clicked softly shut. Until the silence settled over the room like a heavy blanket. Only then did she move.

Her legs trembled as she rose, knees weak beneath her, but she forced herself upright. Shoulders rigid, jaw clenched. Each step down the corridor was careful, measured, boots thudding too loudly in her own ears. The air pressed in on her, thick and warm, as though the walls themselves were leaning closer, curious, hungry.

The shadows at the corners of her vision twitched, curling around her heels like smoke. They were aware, she knew. Like they could sense the storm inside her, like they waited for the moment she lost control.

Vel’thra nex umbraa…

To awaken from shadows.

Vel’aruun nex morvex…

Do again from silence…

The voices rose, layered and chaotic, clawing at her skull from all directions. Whispers, laughter, sobs, screams—all mingling and overlapping. Some spoke in languages she understood; others slipped across her tongue in ways her mouth mimicked but her mind couldn’t parse. The words didn’t just echo in her head—they dug in, scratching at nerves and bones, thrumming through her blood like a second heartbeat.

She barely made it to the girls’ bathroom before her knees gave way.

Sliding down the cold tiles, Sierra pressed her forehead to the wall, gasping shallow, panicked breaths. Cold sweat clung to her hairline, running down in rivulets. Her vision wavered, the edges tinged with flickering purple shadow that seemed to pulse in time with her racing pulse.

“Stop, stop, STOP—”

Her hands clamped over her ears, but the voices didn’t come from outside. They were inside her. Inside her blood, her bones, her skin. They had always been there.

The glyph on her palm pulsed faintly, a heartbeat of light against the skin, faintly warm and tingling. Shadow rolled across her forearm like ink spilling across parchment, curling around her fingers. And then—a voice.

Soft. Familiar. Ancient.

“Breathe, little flame.”

Her eyes snapped open.

Time slowed. The world tilted on its axis, or maybe it was her mind cutting through the noise for just a moment. Warmth crept into the room, threading through the shadow, pressing gently against her chest. She blinked against the lingering tears, and in the mirror, blurred and wavering, she saw her mother. Or rather… a reflection of her mother as she must have been, wild-haired, eyes molten silver, the edges of her presence glowing with a shadowy aura that seemed alive.

“Mother…?” Sierra whispered, voice raw and trembling.

The reflection smiled, softly, mournfully, eternally.

“I’m here. I never left. Bound by spell and blood… I walk with you.”

Tears fell freely, unchecked, down Sierra’s cheeks. She hadn’t cried like this in years—not since she had last felt truly safe in a world that had turned against her. The sorrow and relief twisted inside her at once, so potent it made her chest ache.

“But I can’t hear you… not always—why can’t I—why now?”

The woman tilted her head, eyes sharp and knowing. Shadows rippled across the glass, curling like ink in water.

“He’s close. The boy. The one you don’t yet trust. His shadow calls to yours. My spell—my spirit—it awakens through him.”

Sierra swallowed, stunned, a name slipping unbidden through her lips. “Malick…”

The mirror stilled, the warmth fading along with her mother’s image. But the shadows inside her head, though no longer screaming, whispered gently at the edges of consciousness, curling around her thoughts like smoke. They were patient, watchful, waiting for her to regain balance.

Sierra wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her tunic, pressing trembling hands to the cold porcelain sink. One green eye. One blue. Freckles scattered like constellations across her nose and cheeks. And a truth she could no longer evade.

She wasn’t just a girl running from the past. She was a weapon, wrapped in ancient magic, bound by bloodlines that refused to be forgotten. The past wasn’t finished with her. And neither was the future.

She remembered now—the nights when she had been too young to understand, sitting in her mother’s study, tracing symbols across the floor with chalk, with her mother chanting in the same old language that now echoed in her mind. Sierra had always been good at the magic, better than she had any right to be. But the magic had always been dangerous. Her mother had warned her “The shadows are patient, little flame. They wait for you to falter, then they strike.”

She remembered hiding under the bed when men had come, shadows snaking from her mother to protect her, snuffing out light in the corners of the room. She remembered the feeling of power and fear, tangled together like vines, and the first time she had touched her own shadow and felt it respond, a pulse, a heartbeat that belonged only to her.

And now Malick. The boy. Who she didn’t trust. And yet, his presence had awoken something in her. Something that hummed in her blood and whispered through her veins. The shadows had recognized him too.

Her pulse quickened. She wasn’t ready to let him close—not yet—but something about his shadow called to hers in ways she couldn’t ignore. Something about him resonated with the long-lost warmth of her mother’s magic.

She is here. She is real. And yet… can she be trusted?

Sierra shook her head, trying to focus. She had to focus. Magic demanded clarity, even in panic, and she had too often paid for mistakes made in fear. The shadows at her fingertips swirled, flickering like ink caught in water, testing, prodding, stretching toward the faint glimmer of connection Malick had left in their shared space.

And even as she steadied herself against the wall, one thought echoed louder than any other:

She wasn’t alone. Never truly alone.

Not with her mother’s spell guiding her. Not with the shadows at her command. Not with… him.

She lifted her hands, fingers trembling, eyes fixed on the faint glow of the glyph. The shadows clung, curling, whispering encouragement and caution both. Sierra inhaled deeply, feeling the hum of ancient power in her blood. She could fight. She could survive. She could be more than a girl running.

She would be a weapon. She would be a flame.