“There’s a cave back there. Small but dry, if we need it for anything.” His mouth curves. “Do you remember that cave in the Windwhistle? After the battle at Springwood?”
“The one that flooded every time it rained?”
“The one where Serath woke up with a rat on her face.” He’s grinning now. “She screamed so loud I thought we were under attack.”
“And Vel asked her if she’d checked the bedding properly first.”
Therin chuckles. “Serath didn’t speak to her for three days. Vel said it was the most peaceful three days of her life.”
The memory is so vivid I can smell the damp stone, and hear Serath’s shriek echoing off the walls. We were being hunted then too, but we had our power. We had each other … and we weren’t dragging half-dead fae through human territory and hoping no one noticed.
A sound reaches me, almost lost under the creak of cart wheels and the shuffle of feet. I turn to see Serath climbing down from one of the carts, and she’s humming. The same song she hummed in her cage, the old one from Underhill, and the knot in my chest loosens a little more.
Therin follows my gaze. “She’s one of us,” he says quietly. “If anyone can claw their way back …”
“Go and check on everyone. We need to raise the veil as quickly as possible.”
Therin dips his chin and moves off to organize the fae, directing them to unload supplies and help the weaker ones find places to sit. I turn my attention to the hollow itself, walking along its outer edges, searching for the anchor points I can useto lay the foundation of our camp.
A veil-camp is not a thing any human would recognize as a shelter. There are no canvas tents or wooden frames. Instead, the structures will rise from nothing—walls that shimmer faintly silver at the edges, roofs that arch overhead like frozen moonlight. They will be solid enough to touch and lean against. They will keep out wind and rain. But they’re made of magic, not material.
Before the Sealing, we could raise a camp like this in minutes. Now, after centuries of iron stifling our powers, it could take hours.
Vel appears at my elbow as I’m marking the first anchor point with a drop of blood.
“I found six whose magic has started to return. They’re weak, but they want to help.”
“Bring them.” They might not be able to do much, but allowing them to help will give them purpose.
She returns with them a few minutes later.
“I need anchor points around the perimeter,” I tell them. “Blood and intent at each marker. Can you manage that?”
They nod. I show them where to place the markers—twelve points around the hollow’s edge, spaced evenly, each one requiring a drop of blood and a push of will to hold, and they scatter to their positions while I move to the center.
The structures will be mine to build.
One by one, I feel the anchor points flare to life as the others complete their work. The first is tentative, barely a spark. The second is stronger. By the sixth, I can sense the framework taking shape—invisible lines of power connecting each point, forming a web that will hold whatever I build on top of it.
When the last anchor catches, I close my eyes and reach for the power inside me. It answers more readily than it did a weekago, and silver light bleeds from my fingers as I push outward. The walls rise, shimmering at the edges and solidifying as I pour more into it. Then a roof. I flick a finger to add a doorway, and then move on to the next.
By the time I’ve built the last shelter, the light has nearly gone, but the hollow has transformed. Structures stand where there was only forest floor. Not quite tents, not quite buildings, but something between.
The concealment comes next. I weave it through everything—the structures, the trees, the hollow itself—until the eye slides past without catching. Anyone walking by would see nothing but more forest.
When I’m done, I’m breathing hard and my hands are shaking. Using that much magic has cost me, but the camp holds. I can feel it humming against the edge of my awareness, stable and solid.
There are enough shelters to house everyone in small groups. A separate one for me, larger and set apart from the others slightly, which will be used as a base. Another close by which Therin and Vel will share. The rest are scattered through the hollow.
They glow faintly in the gathering dark, silver-white against the shadows, visible to us, but concealed from anyone else. I watch as Vel and Therin move amongst our people, settling them into the shelters in small groups, and distributing food and supplies.
I walk through the camp, checking each group, and answering any questions. Most of them don’t speak, watching me pass with eyes that haven’t quite accepted any of this is real. Others have fallen asleep already, exhaustion finally winning out over fear.
I find Serath near the stream, sitting on a flat rock at thewater’s edge, her feet dangling in the current. She’s humming again, that same melody, soft and steady.
She doesn’t look up when I approach, but she shifts slightly to make room on the rocks.
I sit beside her, saying nothing, and after a while, her hand moves across the rock to cover mine. At her touch, a third thread beside Therin and Vel’s comes to life inside me.Serath. Her presence is like moonlight on still water, a voice raised in song.
