Nira

Veilrend 60: Survivors guilt The newcomer called herself Nira, though Cailen doubted that was her real name. She moved like someone who had survived too much and trusted too little—every step calculated, every glance sharp. Together they crouched in the ruins overlooking Velith’s nursery, where the air pulsed with a heartbeat that wasn’t their own. Below them, the “children” writhed—infants of flesh and filament, their lullabies a blend of wet gurgles and broken hymns. Velith stood among them, haloed by a shifting aurora of veins, whispering words that dripped like honeyed poison. Each word thickened the walls, birthing new mouths that sighed in unison. Cailen took notes, his hand trembling. “They’re… growing faster,” he murmured. Nira’s eyes flicked toward him. “You call that growing?” she whispered, her voice dry as paper. “That’s infection.” They watched as a tendril reached upward, brushing against Velith’s palm like a loyal pet. The nursery pulsed brighter. The air turned warm—too warm—and the stones beneath them began to sweat blood. Nira gripped her dagger; it wasn’t for fighting. It was for ending things quickly if they were found. Cailen leaned forward, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and despair. “Do you hear that?” he whispered. Beneath the soft crying of the newborn horrors came something deeper—a low, rhythmic chant, dozens of voices overlapping like waves. “That’s not her,” he said. “That’s him.” Vaeroth’s presence pressed against their skulls, an invisible tide of whispers clawing for entry. Nira bit her tongue until it bled to anchor herself. She reached out, yanking Cailen back from the edge as a dozen eyes bloomed on the ground below, turning toward them. “Time to go,” she hissed. But Cailen didn’t move. He stared down at the nursery, entranced. “It’s beautiful,” he breathed, voice trembling. “The end of reason… made flesh.” Nira slapped him hard enough to wake him, dragging him into the shadows.