Page 2 of The Fractured Veil

“Yeah, thankfully I’ve been able to avoid them for the most part,” I responded, forcing a casual tone as I refilled her coffee, the aroma of dark roast filling the air.

“You’d think with all the stories, people would be used to them by now.” Vicki chuckled as she took a sip of her coffee. “But no, everyone still gets their knickers in a twist whenever one of them shows their face. You'd think they were seeing a ghost."

“Well, it’s not like they’re exactly friendly,” I pointed out, the image of the hooded figure flashing in my mind. “Most of them barely acknowledge our existence, let alone make an effort to be sociable. And the ones thatdo… well, let’s just say I’ve heard enough stories to last a lifetime,” I added.

“True enough,” Vicki conceded, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. “Still, I can't help but be curious as to why they're in Nyvorthia. What brings them to our little corner of the world?”

"Itwouldexplain all the disappearances," I murmured, the thought sending a fresh wave of anxiety through me. Our city held its dangers even without the presence of the Gifted in our small, isolated territory. Rumors and whispers of shadowy figures haunting the city streets and tales of people vanishing without a trace kept us on edge—a constant hum of fear beneath the surface of everyday life.

"Maybe, but I don't think so. The Gifted have come and gone over the years, and this is a recent issue. Something darker is at play," Vicki sighed, tucking her book away in her worn leather bag. "Anyhoo, be careful getting home, sweetheart. These streets can be treacherous after dark." She smiled, a genuine warmth in her eyes, as she grabbed her cane, making her way slowly towards the door.

"You too, Vicki," I said, smiling back. The bell above it jingling softly as she exited. I watched her go, a familiar pang of loneliness settling in my chest. I didn’t have a lot of good things going on in my life, but Vicki, with her kind eyes and gentle spirit, was a reminder that the world wasn't as horrible as it seemed. I cleared her table, my thoughts drifting back to the hooded figure. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach.

* * *

As I finishedanother grueling twelve-hour shift at the café, my feet ached, and my eyelids felt heavy. I locked the door, the click echoing quietly, and started my walk home. The familiar route offered little comfort.

The city felt different at this hour—alive yet strangely still, as though the city itself were watching me. I’d lived here my entire life, but I'd always felt as though I was never meant for this place—an intruder walking amongst my own people.

The streets shimmered under a silvery glow, the streetlamps flickering like distant stars in the dark night. My footsteps echoed softly against the sidewalk, the cool air intertwined with the fading aroma of coffee and pastries clinging to my clothes.

Taking a deep breath, I watched as my breath formed a delicate mist.What now?The question echoed in my mind, a constant reminder of the instability and uncertainty that had taken root in my life.

The café’s routine had offered a sense of normalcy for a while, but even now, that comfort was wearing thin. There had to be more than this—some kind of purpose meant for my life, right?

As I turned the corner, the warmth of the café slipped away, replaced by the chilly late-September air. Tugging my jacket tighter, I wrapped my arms around myself, attempting to shield against the biting cold and the shadows playing at the edges of my vision.

I stood at the crosswalk, bathed in the soft red glow of the pedestrian light. A couple passed by, their laughter echoing in my ears—a fleeting echo of the connections I craved but could never seem to grasp. I swear the gods, for whatever twisted reason, took pleasure in my misery. As the light changed to green, I stepped off the curb, trying to ignore the tingling at the nape of my neck, as if something whispered from the shadows. Glancing over my shoulder, I quickened my steps but saw nothing.

“It’s just your imagination,” I muttered, thinking back to the caretakers at the orphanage who would dismiss my cries of shadowy figures as nothing more than a lonely child's delusion.

Heading into the narrow, dimly lit alley, I studied the rusted fire escapes lining the walls like veins, rising up towards the sky. The air was thick—a mix of damp concrete and faint smoke—while the bridge above added to the boxed-in feeling.

A shiver ran down my spine as I continued to ignore the shadows that danced in my peripheral vision. I’d seen them for as long as I could remember—the darkness constantly playing at the edges of my vision, swirling and shifting like restless spirits. It was unsettling, this feeling of being watched, of something lurking just beyond the veil of reality. I'd learned to mostly ignore it, to chalk it up to an overactive imagination, but the unease never truly faded.

As I made the final turn onto my street, I glanced up at my apartment building—its brown bricks dull and battered, washed out by years of grime. The front door was worn, chipped at the edges—a testament to countless uses, with the lock still broken from the most recent break-in.

My footsteps echoed in the stairwell as I trudged up to the fourth floor, the scent of stale cigarette smoke clinging to the peeling wallpaper. I stopped in my tracks when I saw a small box sitting on my doorstep. Intricately carved from dark wood and painted a deep navy, it was tied with a delicate silver ribbon. The ornate box looked strangely out of place against the chipped paint and worn carpeting of the narrow hallway.

I surveyed the deserted corridor, glancing over my shoulder before cautiously approaching my door. The silence was broken only by the faint hum of the flickering fluorescent lights overhead.

A small gasp fell from my lips as I picked up the mysterious gift. I'd never received anything like this before. The ornate wooden box felt heavy in my hands. I strained my eyes, noticing the elegant script written in small lettering across the top:To Thalia Cross, destined for greater things.

I scanned the hallway once again before carefully unknotting the ribbon and lifting the lid. Inside was a stack of neatly arranged papers. At the top, bold letters read:Nexara Academy—an institution whispered about in hushed tones in Nyvorthia, a place where the powerful and Gifted were trained, hidden away in the western mountains.

The invitation seemed to glow in the fluorescent lights. "You are invited to join Nexara Academy. This is your chance to explore the depths of your abilities and find your path in the Nexara."

I froze, the crisp paper crinkling between my fingers before I started flipping through the documents. Yep, it definitely saidThaliaon all of them.

Was this some kind of joke? This couldn’t be real—me,Gifted? No way. Sure, sometimes I saw shadows darting at the edge of my vision or felt a strange tingling on the back of my neck, but those weren’t gifts. They couldn’t be. Just paranoia and an overactive imagination, courtesy of my childhood.

I ran my fingers over the words again:Explore the depths of your abilities.

A spark within me began to simmer, a long-suppressed desire struggling to resurface from beneath the weight of self-doubt and anxiety. I forced down the lump in my throat. I carefully tucked the papers back into the box, the lid clicking shut.

Sliding the key into the old, worn door of my studio apartment, I took a deep breath and muttered to the empty room, "Might as well take the opportunity to get away." A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "It's not like anyone would miss me here anyway."

I placed the box on the small coffee table, its presence an uncanny beacon in the dim light. Nexara Academy. Just the name sent a shiver down my spine, a tangled knot of fear and anticipation tightening in my gut.

---