The storm did not break in thunder. It began in whispers—then grew sharp, fast, impossible to silence.
At first it was a single refusal. A servant who would not bow when commanded. Then another who let a tray slip, silver shattering across marble without apology. Small cracks, easy to overlook. But the Veil notices everything.
And so did I.
From the gallery windows, I watched smoke rise from the lower quarter. A warehouse had burned. No one said the word rebellion, but I saw it in their eyes. I heard it in the hurried steps of soldiers moving through the night, in the hush that followed their passing.
The city was shifting. The storm was gathering.
The resistance came to me, their faces tense, their voices fierce.
"They're waiting for your word."
"They won't act unless you lead them."
"You have to decide."
I stood among them, their hope pressing against my skin like heat. They wanted fire. They wanted someone to ignite what had been smoldering for too long.
But fire consumes everything.
"I will not rush into the Veil's jaws," I said at last, my tone as cold as stone. "We strike when silence becomes impossible, not before."
Some bowed their heads in grim agreement. Others turned away, frustrated, whispers of cowardice slipping between their teeth.
But I had seen the Veil's power. I had felt its hunger in my blood, its grip in my dreams. To fight too soon was to die screaming, another nameless shadow lost.
Still, the storm built around us.
Another fire. Another disappearance. Soldiers patrolling with heavier steps, nobles clutching their cloaks tighter as they walked the streets. The city itself trembled like glass before a hammer.
And I—icy, watchful—knew the hammer was already descending.