Through the Veil of Shadows

The wind hissed between skeletal trees, their bare limbs scratching the night sky like the claws of slumbering giants. The chill in the air wasn’t merely cold—it gnawed at the bones, seeping into skin and soul alike. Every shadow stretched unnaturally long, tangled across the forest floor like the roots of some buried nightmare. Above, the stars blinked faintly as if afraid to watch what was unfolding beneath them.

Kiran adjusted the collar of his rust-red parka and gave the fire pit a glare sharp enough to chip stone. “This is the worst idea you’ve ever had, Nia,” he muttered, stamping his feet into the stiff, frosted earth. “And you’ve had a lot.”

Nia, hunched near the pile of firewood, grinned without turning. Her shaggy brown hair bounced slightly as she leaned in again with the flint. “Just give me a second. You’ll thank me once we’re roasting marshmallows under the stars. It’s called bonding.”

“It’s called freezing to death.” Kiran scowled and drew his arms tighter around himself. “You said there’d be a fire already. You promised s’mores, Nia.”

“I also promised we’d get away from the city. Look around you—no buzzing streetlights, no honking cars, just peace.” Her voice carried a teasing lilt, but her hands were shaking slightly as she struck the flint again. The spark fizzled against damp twigs.

Kiran’s breath plumed in white puffs. “It’s not peaceful when I can feel my eyebrows freezing off.”

“You’ll survive,” Nia said through gritted teeth, then muttered, “I hope.”

A sudden crack rang out from the dark forest beyond. Sharp. Unmistakable.

Both froze.

Kiran’s face lost its sarcastic edge. “That wasn’t you stepping on a twig, was it?”

Nia shook her head slowly, her flint frozen mid-strike.

“Probably… a fox?” she offered. “Or a raccoon?”

“Or a bear,” Kiran replied flatly.

The underbrush rustled again—slow and deliberate. Leaves crunched beneath unseen feet, careful and methodical. Something was watching. Listening. Waiting.

The fire finally caught—a small, flickering tongue of orange licking at the wood.

In the new light, the trees around them suddenly seemed too tall, too close. Their silhouettes leaned forward as if listening in.

A whisper drifted in on the wind. “Helloooo…”

Kiran’s head snapped toward the voice. “Did you hear that?”

Before Nia could answer, a second voice echoed, higher, almost giggling. “Travellerrrss…”

That was enough. Kiran didn’t wait for another cue. He grabbed Nia’s arm and yanked her to her feet. She didn’t resist. Her instincts screamed louder than her voice.

They bolted, the fire behind them sputtering out like a dying breath. Branches clawed at their jackets. Mud sucked at their boots. The laughter followed—more voices now. Dozens. Mismatched, layered, disjointed like a chorus out of tune.

“What is that?” Nia gasped, stumbling as Kiran dragged her through the thickets.

“Don’t know! Don’t wanna know!”

The forest became a blur of motion—shadow, bark, wind, and breath. Kiran’s foot caught on a root and both tumbled forward, landing hard in a shallow ditch. His back slammed into cold earth. Nia rolled beside him, coughing from the fall.

For a second, silence.

Then the laughter returned—closer, clearer. It danced around them, above and behind. Mocking. Joyful. Wrong.

“We have to move,” Nia panted, pushing herself up. “Come on!”

Kiran gritted his teeth. Pain lanced through his left leg, but fear was stronger. With Nia’s help, he limped forward, deeper into the forest.

They stumbled through thorny undergrowth, leaves whipping at their faces. Kiran’s hand clutched her coat like a lifeline. They didn’t know where they were going—only that they needed to get away.

A voice followed, sing-song and taunting. “I see you…”

Then everything changed.

A blinding light engulfed them as they stumbled across a hidden threshold. One moment, moonlight and panic. The next, sunlight and stillness. The air turned warm, heavy with jasmine and honeysuckle. Their coats suddenly felt suffocating.

Kiran blinked against the brightness. Nia shielded her eyes.

“What… the hell?”

They stood in a glade that hadn’t existed seconds ago. Emerald grass blanketed the ground. Trees now bore blossoms, their petals drifting lazily on a breeze that no longer chilled but comforted.

The laughter was gone. Replaced with birdsong and the gentle babble of a brook.

A man stood nearby, barefoot in the grass, his clothing simple—linen tunic and loose trousers. His long hair was the color of forest bark, cascading down his back like a silken waterfall. His skin shimmered subtly, like sunlight on water.

“Welcome, travelers,” he said, his voice warm and melodious. “The sun greets you.”

Nia and Kiran backed away, instincts still coiled tight.

“Who… who are you?” Nia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“My name is Elyon.” The man bowed slightly. “You crossed the veil. Now you are here.”

“Where’s here?” Kiran’s voice cracked. “And why do I feel like I’ve just been drugged?”

Elyon chuckled softly. “This place has many names. Some call it the Blooming Hollow. Others, the Threshold. But names are only as powerful as the ones who speak them.”

As he spoke, a harp appeared in his hands as if conjured from air. He strummed it, and the notes shimmered in the sunlight. With each chord, the forest seemed to respond—flowers opening, winds shifting, colors deepening.

Nia blinked slowly. Her fear dulled, replaced with wonder.

Kiran rubbed his eyes. “Are we dead?”

“No,” Elyon said. “But you are far from the world you knew.”

Then, without another word, he faded—like smoke caught in a sunbeam.

The spell of calm lingered.

“What just happened?” Nia murmured.

“I… don’t know. But I don’t feel scared anymore,” Kiran said, taking her hand.

They walked, barefoot now, having shed coats and boots in a daze. Time blurred. Their steps led them to a river of crystalline blue, lazily winding through the glade. On its banks sat a woman in a silver dress, her hair long and golden, trailing in the water.

She was playing with iridescent fish, laughing like windchimes.

“Hello there,” she called. “Will you play a game with me?”

Kiran and Nia glanced at each other. Their hesitation had vanished.

“What kind of game?” Nia asked.

“Just riddles,” the woman said, her smile dazzling. “Three riddles. Answer them, and you may pass.”

Kiran stepped forward. “We’ll play.”

The woman clapped her hands. “Wonderful. First riddle.”

She stood, her voice suddenly taking on a musical cadence:

“I’m always running, yet have no legs.
You need me, but I don’t need you.
What am I?”

Kiran grinned. “Water.”

“Correct,” she replied, her smile widening—but not with joy. There was a tinge of something else beneath it. Something like sorrow.

She turned to Nia.

“I used to wiggle, now I fly,
My wings are bright, I touch the sky.
Hold me too tight, and I will fall,
On breezes light, I heed the call.”

Nia glanced around. A butterfly drifted past, then landed on a nearby flower.

“A butterfly,” she said.

“Correct.”

The woman’s smile faltered.

“One last,” she said. Her voice dropped in pitch.

“Alive without breath,
As cold as death.
Never thirsty, always drinking—
What am I?”

Kiran frowned. He hesitated. So did Nia.

“Snow?” she guessed.

The woman shook her head. “No.”

“Winter?” Kiran tried.

Still, the woman said nothing.

The ground began to shift. The vibrant greens dulled. The river grew still. Silence fell like a stone.

Then, suddenly, they were underwater.

Kiran gasped—but there was no pain, no struggle. He looked down. His coat and clothes were back. As was the freezing air. The firepit smoldered beside them. The night sky loomed above, cold and uncaring.

They were back at their campsite.

Both of them coughed violently, soaked to the bone. The forest no longer sang. It brooded.

“What… what just happened?” Nia choked out.

Kiran didn’t answer. He looked to the treeline, where a pair of eyes glinted—silver and smiling.

And from the darkness, a soft voice echoed, one last time:

“Incorrect.”