Prologue

“Close your eyes, little light. Let me tell you how the city came to be.”

Deyran’s voice was soft, but the words carried weight. The room around them glowed gently from a rune-touched lamp, its light painting dancing shapes on the high-arched ceiling. Outside, a midnight breeze stirred the glass leaf trees, their branches tapping softly against the window like a lazy lullaby. In a great canopied bed lay Kaela, his daughter, snug under a quilt, her eyes already heavy with sleep. She loved her father’s stories, especially the ones that felt important, told in that hush of night when the rest of the world went quiet.

“Long ago,” he began, smoothing a curl of hair from Kaela’s brow, “before there were towers and bells, or bridges strung like silver across the sky, there were only shadows and fire. The world was breaking. The gods, yes all seven of them, were nearly undone.”

Kaela stirred at that, a tiny crease forming on her drowsy face. She peeked an eye open. “Even Celestine, Papa?” she murmured, voicing the name of the gentle nature goddess she adored.

Deyran smiled sadly and brushed his thumb over her cheek. “Yes, even Celestine,” he whispered.

“Even the kindest of them.”

He gazed past the lamplight, as if seeing some long-lost age flickering in the shadows of the rafters.

“They were all pushed to the brink. Hunted. Cornered. The gods had no more ground to give. The demonkind were not mindless beasts, they were cunning, cruel, wearing the faces of your friends and tearing the sky like cloth. It came down to one final stand.”

Kaela’s fingers curled into the blanket. Though half asleep, she felt the familiar shiver of both fear and comfort, fear at the thought of even the gods in peril, comfort that her father’s warm voice was guiding her through the darkness of the tale.

“But gods,” Deyran continued, a spark entering his tone, “are clever too.” He leaned in closer, and Kaela could see the gentle pride in his eyes. “In that desperate hour, the Seven worked together as one. They drew a line in the world, not with stone, but with pure power. They spoke a shape into being, a great shimmering wall of light and silence. A sanctuary where they could breathe, where they could plan. And beneath that veil of light, they built a stronghold of thought and steel and spell.” He paused for a heartbeat, letting the image crystallize in the dim glow of the nursery. His next words fell reverently: “That was the beginning of our city.”

Deyran’s voice took on the rhythm of an old myth, one told by firelight and remembered in dreams. “The Seven poured their gifts into the refuge. One rallied the broken with promises of shelter. Another etched wards into the very bones of the earth. Gardens bloomed from ash, and flames rose to guard the borders. Time itself bent, giving the weary space to heal. Waters flowed where once was dust. And the last, the Hidden One, cloaked it all in shadow, veiling the haven from demon eyes.”

His voice softened on that final name. A sharper listener might’ve caught the shift, something like respect, or unease. But Kaela only sighed and nestled closer.

“With their powers combined,” Deyran said, “the Seven forged a safe haven amid a world of chaos.

People began to come, at first a few, then droves, from the broken coasts, from sunken valleys, from cities that had fallen to ash. They came on foot and wagon, by starlight and prayer, all seeking the shelter of the gods’ new sanctuary.

Not all who journeyed made it, and not all who arrived were welcomed, only those with hope in their hearts, and a will to help.

Those chosen helped build the refuge higher and stronger. Some took up hammer and spade beside one the god’s masons; some took up arms and stood with the gods’ warriors to hold the walls. All stayed because something in them believed.

Believed that this, ” he gestured as if encompassing all around them, ” could become more than a hiding place. A home, perhaps. A last light in the darkness.”

Outside, the wind picked up gently, a comforting susurration.

Deyran’s voice dropped even lower, nearly a whisper now. “And while the gods pushed back, step by step, battle by battle, they left pieces of themselves in the growing city.

Their voices echoed in the stones; their strength bolstered the streets; their watchful eyes became the wards that guard every gate and alley. Day by day, as the demon hordes were driven further into the dark, the refuge stood stronger.

The war was long and bitter, but at last the demonkind were cast down and sealed away for a time. The world went quiet again.

Some who had sheltered beneath the veil ventured out, hopeful that the rest of the world might heal. But many remained, planting their lives in that protected soil.”

He smiled, and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened with tenderness. “And so the stronghold became a village, and the village grew into a mighty city, layer upon layer, memory upon memory, built with divine blessing and mortal trust.”

His story almost at its end, Deyran pressed a gentle kiss to Kaela’s forehead. Her breathing had gone slow and even; her lashes rested on her cheeks. In her hand, she still clutched the corner of his robe from when he’d sat beside her. Deyran carefully tucked the blanket up to her chin. “That,” he whispered, “is how Idrion, the Veiled City, was born.”

For a long moment he sat in silence, watching his daughter drift in dream. At last he rose, the lamplight catching the silver glint of tears in his eyes, perhaps a reflection of the tale’s sorrows, or a father’s simple love. He walked to the window where night air stirred the curtains and cast one more glance out at the moonlit spires of Idrion beyond. This was the city the Seven had saved, the city he and his guild were sworn to protect.

Behind him, Kaela shifted slightly in her sleep, as if she could still hear him. Deyran’s voice was almost inaudible as he added, meant for her dreaming ears alone: “That’s why we guard the wards, little light. Because nothing stays sealed forever.”

The Duel in the Square

Jasten squinted through the late-afternoon sun at the two figures clashing in the center of the Grand Arena. The crowd around him ooh’d and ahh’d with each burst of magic, but he made sure his own reactions were just a beat too slow, a shade too enthusiastic.

To anyone watching, he was just another wide-eyed country lad gawking at a duel of guild champions. Medium-built, with unremarkable features and a tousle of brown hair stuffed under a fraying cap, he looked as though he’d stumbled in from a barley field and lost his way into spectacle. He even bounced on his heels and flapped his hands once, feigning alarm as a crackling bolt of violet lightning shattered against a conjured shield.

For a breath, something ancient and glacial flickered behind his brown eyes, a razor glint of calculation before he blinked it away, returning to the picture of rustic silliness.

Beneath the sloppy grin and exaggerated flinches, Jasten’s gaze missed nothing. Every sigil traced in the air, every stance and subtle shift of weight between the duelists, he drank in with quiet intensity. He moved with a heavy-footed awkwardness, deliberately clumsy, like someone used to masking presence with noise. Outwardly, he was the bumpkin incarnate: cap askew, shirt a little loose at the collar, all warmth and misplaced wonder. But when he finally turned away, the space seemed quieter, as if some weight had lifted and no one could say why.

The duel was a sanctioned one, complete with a robed adjudicator hovering at the edges of the marble-tiled square, ready to intervene if rules were broken. At stake, according to the excited whispers Jasten had picked up, was an old debt of honor between guilds, a matter that had drawn enough attention to pack the Arena’s tiered stands and overflowing colonnades.

Banners of various guilds fluttered from stone arches; the largest and highest bore the golden phoenix emblem of the Aureate Flame guild, one of the city’s most powerful.

Jasten focused on the combatants. On the right stood Sir Lucien of the Aureate Flame, resplendent in a coat of deep crimson edged with gold filigree. His mask, a magnificent thing of gilded metal, covered the upper half of his face. It was sculpted into the likeness of a bird of prey, a falcon, with ruby eyes that gleamed in the sun. Whenever Sir Lucien cast a spell, the mask flared with inner light, an enchantment attuned to his fiery magic.

Opposite him was Master Rylan of Virelyn Spire, a gaunt older man in a faded blue robe. Rylan’s mask was a simple lacquered wooden visage, carved in the image of a stern owl. It looked scuffed and aged, much like the man who wore it.

“He doesn’t stand a chance,” someone next to Jasten murmured.

Jasten turned to see a bearded onlooker shaking his head. The man’s own mask, dangling at his belt, marked him as a member of the Silver Sigil guild.

“Why would old Rylan agree to this duel? Aureate Flame will snuff him out like a candle.” the man said.

Jasten gave a half-shrug and a clueless grin.
“Maybe he’s braver than he looks? Or crazier!” he offered in a cheery, naive tone. The bearded man chuckled, missing the subtle, almost weary irony in Jasten’s eyes.

Back in the arena, Master Rylan sent forth a flurry of shimmering blue orbs from the tip of his staff. They whirled like will-o’-wisps, then shot toward Sir Lucien with a chorus of high-pitched whistles.

Lucien reacted swiftly, too swiftly for an ordinary human. His mask’s ruby eyes flashed, and he swept out his arm. In response, a golden barrier flickered into being, a semi-transparent shield shaped like a pair of outstretched wings. The blue orbs slammed into the shield and exploded into harmless sparks that rained down on the flagstones.

Jasten winced theatrically at the bright flash, covering his eyes and stumbling back a step. Internally, he noted how Lucien’s shield had manifested almost before Rylan’s attack formed. A familiar pattern, though crudely executed. Foresight, but lacking the true depth of temporal manipulation. 

Lucien must have read Rylan’s intent the instant his opponent’s stance shifted. As the sparks cleared, Rylan was already incanting another spell. The older man thrust both hands forward, and the owl mask on his face momentarily glowed with a soft silver sheen.

A coiled shape of azure light unfurled from his palms, a conjured serpent of pure mana, hissing as it lunged at Lucien.

Gasps rippled through the crowd at the sight of that spell. Jasten heard snippets of startled commentary:

“He’s using the Serpent of Sentries, that’s advanced stuff for him…”

“Didn’t think the old owl had that left in him…”

“Watch the mask, look, it changed!”

Jasten’s eyes narrowed slightly in genuine interest. Indeed, Master Rylan’s mask was changing. The once dull wooden owl-face now had glowing eyes and etched feather patterns that hadn’t been visible before. The mask was responding to Rylan’s surge of will, evolving to channel the higher spell.

It was a fundamental principle of magic that masks grew with their wielders, revealing new facets as a mage pushed the boundaries of skill or resolve.

The conjured serpent writhed toward Lucien, scales of incandescent runes rippling along its length. For a heartbeat, Lucien’s confident smirk faltered. He hadn’t expected Rylan to muster something so formidable.

The golden falcon mask on Lucien’s face flashed brighter as he raised his gauntleted hands and barked a counter-spell. A fountain of fire erupted from the ground between Lucien and the incoming serpent, taking the shape of a roaring lion composed of white-hot flames.

The two constructs collided with a thunderous crackle. Blue mana-serpent and golden fire-lion tore into each other, twisting and thrashing. Heat washed over the spectators; even with the protective wards around the arena, people in the front rows flinched and shielded their faces.

Jasten felt the hot gust and pretended to nearly lose his cap in the wind, waving his arms comically to catch it as the bearded onlooker laughed. All the while, his gaze remained sharp, calculating, the mask of the bumpkin a thin veil over a mind that missed nothing. 

For a moment, it seemed the sheer ferocity of Rylan’s attack might overwhelm Lucien’s defense. The serpent’s fanged maw was inches from Lucien’s chest, pushing back the flaming lion. Master Rylan let out a determined cry, pouring more of his dwindling energy into the spell. His owl mask’s feathers etched themselves deeper, its eyes shining like two moons in eclipse.

The crowd’s murmur grew to a roar, could the underdog actually land a decisive hit?

But Lucien’s expression hardened. With a guttural incantation, he thrust his other hand forward. From the mouth of his lion construct blasted a torrent of flame so intense the air itself screamed. The blaze swallowed the serpent in an inferno of gold and white.

Rylan’s conjuration disintegrated, shards of azure light raining down like shooting stars, and then winking out.

Without pause, the fire-lion sprang through the air, pouncing upon the now defenseless Master Rylan. The older mage tried to raise a ward, but exhaustion slowed him. Lion claws of pure fire raked across him. Rylan’s owl mask absorbed most of the magical impact, its enchantments taking the brunt, yet even so, he was flung backward.

He hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop near the edge of the dueling circle. The wards flashed, ensuring he didn’t tumble out into the crowd, but the blow clearly stunned him.

A collective gasp, and then silence fell over the square.

Jasten bit his lip, genuine concern flickering in his eyes before he smothered it. Master Rylan was not young; such a hit could have broken bones.

Rylan struggled onto one elbow, his mask now dull and cracked from strain. The etched feathers had vanished, the wood smoking slightly. He coughed and tried to speak, likely to yield.

Sir Lucien strode forward, the victor poised to accept surrender. The flame-lion had dissipated into embers at a gesture from Lucien. He looked none the worse for wear, though sweat gleamed on his brow and his breath came a touch faster. His falcon mask’s ruby eyes dimmed back to mere polished stones, and the aura of heat in the arena began to fade.

“Virelyn Spire should have stayed in the shadows where it belongs,” Lucien declared, voice smooth but carrying a cutting edge. “You had no chance against the light of Aureate Flame.”

It wasn’t enough for him to win, he had to twist the knife.

A few in the crowd clapped or laughed at the jab. Many others simply watched in uneasy silence.

Jasten forced a guffaw, as if he thought Lucien’s line was witty, though inside he felt a surge of something colder than dislike. Irrelevant. How quickly mortals forgot the true weight of things. 

Master Rylan finally managed to wheeze out, “I… yield.”

The adjudicator, who had been hovering nearby, immediately raised a hand. A soft bell tone rang through the air, signaling the duel’s conclusion. The protective wards around the arena shimmered and lowered.

A smattering of applause rose, more perfunctory than enthusiastic. Duels in Idrion, the Veiled City, were commonplace, but this one had been a foregone conclusion from the start. The outcome surprised no one, except perhaps during those brief moments when the Rylan’s serpent nearly struck true.

Already, some spectators were losing interest and drifting toward the exits of the square now that the excitement was over.

As the crowd began to disperse, Jasten made a show of craning his neck and standing on tiptoe, trying to catch a last glimpse. Sir Lucien was helping the defeated Rylan to his feet, a gesture that appeared gracious to onlookers, though Jasten suspected it was partly to lean in and hiss some private taunt.

Rylan swayed, clutching his staff with white-knuckled hands. The older mage’s shoulders slumped with more than physical pain; humiliation weighed heavily on him.

“Told you,” the bearded man beside Jasten clucked sympathetically. “That poor fool. Virelyn Spire used to hold rank decades ago, but now… it’s just sad. They should’ve never accepted the challenge.”

Jasten turned to the man, adjusting his cap back onto his head.

“What happens to him now?” he asked, with a naive concern. “They won’t kick him out of the guild or anything, will they? He fought so hard…”

The spectator chuckled again.

“Kick him out? Lad, he is the guild, what’s left of it. I doubt Virelyn Spire has more than a handful of members these days. Some say Master Rylan is the only one keeping its charter alive. The council would dissolve that relic of a guild if he ever gave up. Fitting, eh? The Veiled City doesn’t have much room for faded glory.”

“Faded glory…” Jasten echoed the words softly, his gaze falling to the floor. Disappointment was a simple enough mask to wear. Inside, though, the phrase rang with a different tone, one of primordial resonance, a forgotten song echoing from the bedrock of memory. He quickly masked that inner spark with a forlorn sigh, the effort a familiar ache.

“I guess I was hoping for a surprise upset,” he added wistfully. “I like stories where the little guy wins.”

The bearded man gave him a pitying pat on the shoulder.

“Not today, kid. Not in Idrion. The guilds keep their order. Aureate Flame’s near the top, Virelyn’s near the bottom. That’s just how it is.”

He began to move off with the thinning crowd.

“Take care now.”

Jasten offered a distracted wave as the man left. For a moment, he remained in place, one of the last spectators as the dueling grounds emptied.

Sir Lucien had long since departed, likely off to celebrate or report back to his guild superiors. Master Rylan was being helped by a pair of concerned city medics and a younger woman, perhaps a remaining apprentice from Virelyn Spire, who had rushed into the arena once the wards fell.

Jasten’s gaze followed them as they guided the limping guildmaster away through a side gate of the square. The old mage clutched at his chest; even from a distance Jasten could tell that Rylan’s pride was hurt more than his ribs.

The woman supporting him, a slim figure with auburn hair and a determined set to her jaw, cast anxious looks up at her mentor. Jasten watched until they disappeared from view behind the stone arcade.

Only then did he allow his genial grin to fade, replacing it with a thoughtful, far sharper expression. His posture straightened subtly, losing the slight slouch he affected in public, revealing a bearing that was almost regal. For the first time that day, he looked not like a hapless newcomer, but like a force etched in old blood and older stone, though there was no one left in the square to notice the transformation.

“A debt of honor and a fallen guild,” Jasten murmured to himself, echoing the earlier whispers of the crowd.

He reached into the pocket of his simple vest and withdrew a small object: a half-mask made of plain black leather, featureless except for two narrow eye slits. Running his thumb over its smooth surface, he felt a familiar tingle of latent magic thrumming within.

This was his mask, unremarkable to any casual glance, yet it was perhaps the only possession that truly mattered to him. He didn’t put it on, not here, where any stray observer might see more than they should. Instead, he studied it in the waning sunlight, as if searching for some hint of what it might become.

“Looks like we chose the right day to arrive in Idrion,” Jasten whispered to the mask with a wry smile. “The guild I came for still fights… which means it still lives.”

Drifting clouds hit its surface. For an instant, the black leather shimmered with something older: a silvery glint that traced the shape of a fox’s eye, coiled in a curve so subtle it might have been mistaken for nothing, vanishing as if it was never there.

Jasten’s smile grew ever so slightly, and a quiet resolve hardened in his brown eyes. He slipped the mask back into his pocket and tugged his cap brim low, returning to the aspect of a tired, harmless youth. The weight of the mask, both leather and persona, settled back into place. The show was over, but his own role in this city’s grand performance was just beginning. 

With that thought, he turned and followed the flow of people exiting the square, stepping into the shadowed streets of the Veiled City.

You’ve just glimpsed the beginning — the whispers of gods, the clash of guilds, the shadows that never stay sealed forever. The full story arrives October 17, but the journey starts now:

• 📚 Preorder the book on Amazon and be among the first to hold Idrion in your hands.
• 🌙 Follow along on Instagram, TikTok, and Discord (all linked on my homepage) — where I share lore, behind-the-scenes, and sneak peeks from the Veiled City.
• 💌 Stay close. You’re on my list now, which means I’ll keep you updated as we count down to release day.

This world is growing, brick by brick, voice by voice. I’d be honored if you’d help me build it.