The Veiled Dominion

The Night That Fled

Before the Breath, we lay beneath Her dreaming.

The sky was shut, the seas unmoving.

No hunger, no death—only the droning of her sleep.

But the Mother exhaled.

And the light penetrated shadow, seeking its reflection.

From that reflection came thought.

From thought, fear.

From fear, the first heartbeat that was not Her own.

The world opened its eyes—

And sleep, frightened by the loss of silence, fled into the Deep.

We chase it still.

Every night we close our eyes,

And beckon the dream we once were.

Yet the truth endures:

We are no longer the dream.

We are the dreamers.

And She—” (soft exhale) “—She is the dream.

The Veil Breathes

The Rite of the First Breath

The bell tolls once, and sustains, its tone low, trembling the glass of the Sanctum.

Fog spreads between the columns like ethereal veins. The air tastes of salt and copper—remembered blood.

The High Priestess stands at the head of the gathering. Her veil is woven from ash-silk and mica; fingers of light pass through it like moonlight through smoke. It does not hide her face—it hides her reflection. No woman may look upon her own likeness during the Breath Rite. The first heretics learned that mirrors could wake the Hollow Ones, the nameless voices. And so, the Dominion forbade reflection.

Rows of kneeling daughters stretch into the cast (fog) each clutching the hilt of a sword with a molten glow. The red-hot weapons sing a high-pitched tune to the open ear, the heat of living fire pulsing through the metal like blood through bone. Each sword carries the fire of the Mother’s breath, trapped at the dawn of the world. A reminder that the exhale of creation feeds both life and death.

The High Priestess raises her blade. The bead of molten light trailing down its center brightens, pulsing to the sound of her voice:

The veil is mercy

The veil is silence.

The veil is the breath between birth and oblivion.

The High Priestess turns the blade so that its fire lights her veil from beneath. She now stood in an aura of red flame.

Once, Her reflection mistook itself for Her.

It reached across the Veil, turned us inside out, upside down.

We are now the dreamers, and She is the Dream.

Molten tears fall from the blade and cool midair into beads of black glass. Acolytes move through the cast to gather them in chalices. These beads become relics used to anoint the newly born and the dying.

The High Priestess raises her head, feeling the energy shifting.

“Breathe,” she whispers, “and be remembered.”

The daughters breathe in and exhale as one. For a moment, silence reigns.

Then, faint but unmistakable, the cast responds with breath—slow, deliberate.

The High Priestess falters. Her eyes raise toward the terraces.

Solenne, kneeling among the archivists, has already arced her head. She felt it. Like the cast is listening. She can see a crimson light hueing the cloud, with no visible source.

The daughters breathe in and release one last time. The High Priestesses veil burns out, slithering smoke rises to the rafters. The daughters stand in silence. The molten blades dim one by one until the hall is a dwell of simmering dark.

Solenne’s mind lingers in the space of the moment. There’s a presence that feels personal. Like the Veil itself is staring at her alone. She lowers her gaze to the chalice of cooled black glass she carries. Inside, the beads gleam faintly red. The Priestesses call the beads, Mother’s Tears. Tonight, they seem to glow, like living embers.

Don’t stare too long into sacred things, the elders always warned. Reflection invites recognition.

Solenne stares anyway, and for a second, she sees her reflection breathing red smoke.

Someone coughs behind her. She flinches, lowers the chalice, bows her head.

The daughters begin filing out, veils drawn close, chanting the closing words:

Aliento de vida, aliento de muerte.

None seem to notice the cast still moves against the wind.

Solenne waits until she is alone in the pillared hall. The vibration in the air has not faded, it grows deeper.

Then she hears it.

“Solenne.”

The breathy echo doesn’t come from any mouth she can see. It’s like the moment itself calls to her, seeks her attention. Solenne draws her veil tighter and whispers a line from the rite.

“We are the dreamers,” she says, “and she is the dream.”

But the breath that answers amends the phrase.

“No,” it says. “You are the dream—and I am waking.”

The Summons of Matron Serath

The corridors of the Sanctum are marble and shadow within a cold breath. Veiled lamps house dancing flickers behind latticed screens, the light trembling along the walls. Solenne is contemplative as she walks. Each step a different, deeper thought.

At the end of the corridor, two guardians cross their molten swords. Beyond them lies the Hall of Veils, where the Matrons convene. One guard lowers her blade only when Solenne’s throat sigil catches light.

Inside the hall is shaped like a lung. Two curved isles meeting beneath a dome veiled in white silk. The sun’s bronze rays beam in, and every breath of the assembled council stirs the cloth like a chest slowly rising.

Matron Serath sits upon the center dais. Age has cracked her voice but not her presence. Her veil is heavier than the others, layered with ash embroidery that glints like frost.

Serath: “Child of the Archive, you were chosen as the reflection (witness) for the Breath Vigil.”

Her tone carries no warmth, and the word chosen lands like a challenge.

Solenne: “I was, Matron.”

Serath: “Then you may deliver us your findings.”

The walls are lined with witnesses, priestesses, recorders, and Renata—Solenne's rival. Solenne can feel their eyes like the rays of the sun. She chooses her words with surgical care.

Solenne: “The cast thickened near the cliffs, moved against the wind. My instruments malfunctioned.”

Solenne hardly ever recorded anything with her Light-Quill—and she forgot her Ledger of Reflection intentionally. She didn't want it recording her thoughts and emotions during the rite.

Renata: “And the echoed breath that was felt in the Sanctum?”

The question is bait. The room bends with tension. Solenne lowers her head.

Solenne: “A resonance of sorts, perhaps. The molten blades often retain sound after mass chanting.”

A pause is stretched thin. The Matrons glance toward one another, veils whispering against shoulders.

Serath: “Do not treat us as novices, Archivist. The Veil does not breathe without intent.”

Her hands, gloved in black silk, fold over a rosery of cooled glass beads. Each one catches the light with a faint internal glow. The remains of swords long extinguished.

Solenne: “I handle you in no such way, Matron. The cast was behaving in a manner I had not witnessed before. Curiously. It was as if its cloud was seeded with information, in search of a receiver.”

Serath clears her throat.

Serath: “You will surrender your instruments for purification. Your notes will be sealed. The people must hear of calm, not curiosity.”

Renata: “Perhaps we should also examine her bloodline, Matron. The Red Shade’s touch can hide like dirt beneath a nail.”

The words strike as hard as a direct accusation. They are an invocation of fear. Murmurs ripple through the hall. Solenne remains stoic.

Serath lifts a hand; the noise dies instantly.

Serath: “Enough. What we hand the people must be sturdy and of sound clarity. That is the fruit of their trust in us. The value of structure and faith.”

She rises from her dais and steps down until she is beside Solenne. The scent of her veil is charred wood and spice.

Serath (quietly): “I knew your mother. She, too, heard whispers in the cast. She silenced them—for the Dominion’s sake. You will do the same.”

Solenne bows, but her throat tightens around her words.

Serath: Destroy whatever you brought back before it learns your name.”

The Matron turns away. The council disperses in a rustling of silk and footsteps. Only Renata lingers at the threshold, her veil half-lifted with a thin smile that never truly curves.

When Solenne is alone, she reaches for the hidden pocket inside her robe. The shard lies there, warm, pulsing faintly. Not just glowing—listening.

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An excerpt from the Book of Still Waters, the Dominion’s oldest surviving scripture. It is whispered during the rites of silence, when mirrors are veiled and all reflective surfaces turned face down.

From the Book of Still Waters

Volume II, Verses of Reflection (translated from the Old Tongue)

The face birthed the first reflection, and the first wound.

In Her dreaming, the Mother looked upon the waters and saw herself.

But the image she beheld spoke back, and its words had edges (many voices).

So She broke the water and hid Her likeness in the hearts of Her daughters,

that they might carry the weight of Her silence.

To look upon one’s reflection is to summon the voices.

And the voices remember what even the Mother forgot.

Therefore, veil thy countenance in ritual, and let no mirror live un-shadowed.

For when water lies too still, the Deep begins to listen.

Archivists Note (marginalia unsigned):

The original verses speak of reflection not merely as sight but as dialogue. In stillness, awareness divides itself. The prohibition, then, is not of vanity—it is protection. The Hollow Ones, some say, are born each time the mind mistakes its many voices for truth.

Dream and Reflection

Night spreads out over the Sanctum. The lamps dim, their pale light caught in the open air. The corridors are quiet, no longer chattering with footsteps. Only the sound of the Veil’s slow sigh as the fog drifts through the latticework windows.

Solenne lies upon her bed, eyes open. She has not slept since the council’s summons. The shard hidden beneath her pillow flutters like a heartbeat. She closes her eyes, focusing on the pulse.

As she drifts, the pulse becomes louder and louder until it sounds like a voice, speaking words Solenne cannot understand.

She opens her eyes.

Water everywhere. Not an ocean, something deeper, without horizon. Light trembles beneath the surface. Solenne stands barefoot upon the reflection of herself, the glassy floor rippling with each breath.

Her reflection doesn’t blink at all.

Reflection: “You hide your face, but not your longing”

Solenne: “I do not long.”

Reflection: “Then why do you breathe?”

The reflection tilts its head. Behind it, something darker stirs. Like ink in water. A second reflection appears, larger, faceless, the shadow of the first.

Shadow: “The Mother looked upon the water and was afraid.”

The surface begins to crack.

Then it breaks.

Glass hands rise from the deep, reaching for Solenne. The reflection smiles—not cruelly, but with pity.

Reflection: “Even the dreams are beginning to wake up.”

Solenne gasps. The sigil on her neck glows and is warm to the touch. She tries to gather the wires of frayed thoughts.

A voice speaks clearly, “You are the breach. The silence has remembered your name.”

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The world of Vethra did not sleep that night it remembered...

*In the armory beneath the Sanctum, Bladekeeper, Sairen, polishes a ceremonial sword known as The Mother’s Tongue.

The blade has been dull for years—its molten core extinguished during the last Purification.

As she smooths the cloth down the metal, rising heat warms her hand.

She pulls back. The sword begins to burn under a red glow.

Steam rises and the blade begins to whisper: “Breathe”

Sairen drops the weapon. The sound rings out like a struck bell.

***

*Far below, in the cast-drowned pathways of the lower city, an old woman wakes to find her window fogged from the inside.

She wipes it clean and sees letters forming on the glass.

"You are remembered.”

She covers her mouth. It’s in her daughter’s handwriting—dead three winters now. Lost to the Red Shade raids.

When she exhales, the letters fade, replaced by a small handprint.

***

A child in the orphan cloister rises from her bed without opening her eyes.

She walks barefoot through the corridors. Her breath fogs though the air is warm.

The attending Sister follows at a distance, whispering prayers meant to anchor the soul.

The child stops at the central fountain—shaped like a woman holding her veil.

She lifts her face and sings a phrase she hasn’t been taught:

We bled the light to see her face...

The sister falls to her knees, covering her ears.

The water in the fountain begins to pour in crimson.

***

*In a tower outside the city, a lone scribe copies the Book of Still Waters by lamplight.

As she reaches the forbidden verse, “And the voices remember what even the Mother forgot,” her reflection in the ink bowl lifts its head and continues the missing lines aloud:

“They scatter, seeking names to hold what they speak.”

The ink ripples. The scribe flees, leaving the words unfinished.

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Solenne sits in her chambers staring into a small mirror she keeps hidden—knowing she should not. Outside, faint sounds of the city’s unease reach her; distant shouts, bells, the rush of wind through Sanctum spires.

The shard rests on a desk before her.

Pulsing.

Solenne whispers to it.

“What are you?”

The shard brightens, and the answer seems to come from everywhere.

Her reflection begins blinking and expressing independently of her.

Across Vethra, the fog draws inward.

A deep breath begins. Every sleeper turns.

The Veil does not simply breathe...it listens.

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Morning...

Remnants of the fog hang around like stubborn spirits. Red mist covers portions of it like bruised glass. Bleeding its hue onto the white stone of the city’s terraces.

Solenne stands where she stood at the Rite, but the Sanctum below feels much farther away now, as if the lens of memory draws things much closer than they actually are.

The city of Vethra lies beneath her like a dream unfolding.

From here, she can see the clouds of crimson drifting the paths, wrapping the towers in a slow, spiraling motion. The bells of the morning ring hollow—dissonant.

She touches the mark at throat. It feels warm to her fingertips.

Solenne (whisper): “You’re still there, aren’t you?”

The wind answers with its breath, deep and measured, rising from the valley below.

Behind her, the Sanctum doors open.

Renata steps out, veil half-drawn, eyes reflecting the red horizon.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Solenne: “Neither should the fog.”

Renata hesitates, then looks past her toward the city.

Renata: “They’ll blame this on the lower wards. On heresy. But that’s not it, is it?”

Solenne doesn’t answer. The fog curls between them like the visible manifestation of their thoughts.

Renata: “You heard it, didn’t you?”

Solenne meets her gaze.

Solenne: “It heard me.”

Renata steps back. She isn't sure whether Solenne is being truthful or simply trying to impress her. Intimidate her.

Renata: “Then you must run.”

But Solenne only turns toward the horizon. The wind is warm now.

Her heart is full of something—something that can’t be defined by anyone else. The air seems to inhale and exhale with her. As if she is one with the breath passing through the Mother’s mouth.

A ripple moves across the sky, revealing something vast and half-formed behind the Veil. An outline of motion, a shape too large for comprehension.

Solenne: “The Veil breathes.”

Something answers, immense and tender.

“And now, so do you.”

Sleep fled when memory was born.

Inhale.

Now memory sleeps, and the world wakes in her place

Exhale.

— Fragment, Codex of Breath, Volume X

***********************************************

.......Somewhere in the city, far beneath the Sanctum’s red horizon, another girl wakes.

She steps from her bed without opening her eyes.

The streets are empty. Only the cloud moves. It parts for her like water disturbed by memory.

Her bare feet make no sound on the cobblestones.

Each breath she takes forms frost in the air.

And when she speaks, the voice is not her own.

We bled the light to see her face...

A window cracks open somewhere above her.

The child’s head tilts toward the sound, eyes still closed.

...and found our own beneath the flame.

The fog thickens, glowing red from within.

A woman’s silhouette appears in the cloud; tall, veiled, faceless.

She lowers her head to the child as if listening.

And if the fire forgets our shape...

The girl looks up toward the tall silhouette.

...remember us as smoke.

Next Episode: “The Red Shade’s Song”