The city’s lights flicker as the moon bleeds red.
A woman in a black coat steps from the shadows
of a speakeasy, her hands stained with ash and
ink. She is known only as The Witch, though no
one dares speak her name aloud.
A letter arrives, sealed with wax and stamped
with a sigil older than the city. It names her
by title: The Keeper of the Veil. The words
inside are written in a language that dies on
the tongue.
The first rule bites when she opens the letter.
A silver chain, hidden in the envelope, snaps
around her wrist. It hums with power, and the
air grows heavy. The chain cannot be removed
without blood.
The second rule emerges at dawn. The streets of
Chicago have changed. Buildings shift, doors
lead to places they never did. People walk with
hollow eyes, repeating phrases they do not
understand. The city is no longer real.
She follows the prophecy’s trail to a church
basement, where a man in a rumpled suit stands
before a crowd. He speaks in riddles, his voice
a blend of static and song. He is the prophet,
and he has seen the end.
The witch watches as he raises his hand. The
crowd gasps. A child falls, convulsing. The
prophet says, “The veil thins. The world ends.”
She tries to leave, but the doors are gone. The
walls bleed. The prophecy is not a warning—it is
a command. The witch must choose: save the city,
or let it collapse into the void beyond the veil.
She breaks the chain with her own knife, blood
spilling onto the floor. The world shudders. The
buildings freeze midshift. The people stop
moving.
The prophet smiles. “You’ve chosen the cost.”
The witch steps forward, her voice steady. “I
don’t need a prophecy to know what’s right.”
The city resets. The buildings return. The
people wake, confused but alive. The witch walks
away, her hands clean, her coat still black.
No one remembers the prophecy. No one sees the
chain. But the witch knows. The veil is thin,
and she is its last keeper.
