The curse died in his throat.

  An instant later, his entire body was ripped off the ground—

  or off what should have been the ground.

  The river swallowed him like a beast, and then everything flipped.

  It wasn’t a fall.

  It was worse.

  Every nerve pulled in the wrong direction, every organ seemed to climb backwards inside him.

  His stomach tried to escape through his throat.

  “Fuck—!” he choked out between spasms, unable to catch a breath.

  Water—no, light—struck his face like burning slaps.

  He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed.

  Everything spun, everything screamed, everything vibrated.

  The world had turned upside down, and his body refused to understand how to breathe in the upward direction.

  He reached toward what he thought was the surface, but his fingers met only emptiness.

  A pull gripped him by the heart—literally.

  Something was dragging him from the inside out.

  He tried to curse again, but his voice dissolved into a gurgle of bubbles.

  For a single instant—one heartbeat—he thought he saw shapes around him.

  Dark silhouettes, unmoving, suspended in the shifting light.

  The Veilwards.

  They were there, perfectly upright, arms crossed, their wave-cloaks pressed flat against their bodies—

  unmoved, as if gravity had forgotten them entirely.

  One of them turned his head toward Kael.

  No gesture, no word.

  Just that steady, calm, vaguely bored stare.

  Kael screamed:

  “You’re fucking kidding me?!”

  The words broke in the current like stones dropped in water.

  Then suddenly—silence.

  The pressure vanished.

  Kael felt his feet leave the ground—

  he was floating.

  Not held, but lifted, as if an invisible hand had plucked him from the current.

  He dared to look up.

  And what he saw knocked the breath from his lungs.

  Above him stretched the High Lands.

  Kael had one thought. Only one:

  It’s so… vivid.

  Endless plains of green, grass so soft-looking it seemed to glow.

  The Soléen snaked through them, its water moving with slow, majestic grace, flowing like life itself.

  Deep-green trees, their leaves trembling under an unseen wind.

  And far away, pale stone structures, and the soft curve of the horizon.

  Another thought flickered in him:

  Pure.

  Kael squinted—the brightness almost burned his retinas.

  “…That’s not possible,” he whispered.

  His heart hammered, caught between fear and a near-painful sense of wonder.

  The Broken Crown felt suddenly distant.

  Small.

  Pathetic.

  Everything here seemed untouched.

  Kael hung suspended between two worlds, unable to tell if he was still rising or had finally reached the top.

  He stayed there, floating, hypnotized by the sight.

  His eyes scanned the waves of light, the arches of water, the gleaming houses.

  He could have stayed forever—

  if a steel-hard grip hadn’t suddenly seized him by the collar.

  “Shit!” he yelped.

  A Veilward had grabbed him, yanking him back with a sharp, effortless motion.

  His wave-veil shimmered, breathing faintly against him.

  Kael tried to protest, but he was already being hauled back toward the barge.

  The boat hovered still—

  suspended above the abyss, swaying slightly like a leaf held by an invisible hand.

  The Veilward dropped Kael onto the deck.

  “Prepare yourself,” he said in that calm, echoing voice.

  “Prepare for what?” Kael snapped, rubbing his neck.

  “The landing.”

  Kael stared at him, incredulous.

  “Seriously? That’s supposed to be reassuring?”

  The Veilward didn’t answer.

  He had already turned toward the bow, arms tucked into his pale coat.

  Kael looked around for a sign, a clue, anything.

  But the air vibrated—

  the current of energy that had carried them was folding in on itself.

  The light thickened.

  The wind rose.

  The boat began to shake.

  “Oh, shit…” Kael muttered, grabbing the rail.

  A jolt slammed him to the floor.

  His breath burst out in a grunt.

  The sky, the boat, the light—everything twisted.

  A dull boom.

  Then another.

  The deck bent like a rope pulled taut.

  The final impact came in a burst of blue sparks—

  and everything went dark.

  When Kael opened his eyes again, he was no longer in the air.

  A taste of iron coated his tongue, his head throbbed.

  The world was still swaying, but the ground beneath him was solid.

  Above him, a familiar silhouette stood against the light:

  the same Veilward, unmoving.

  “You are alive,” he said simply.

  Kael blinked, coughed, and rasped:

  “…Great. Nice to know you can talk after a crash.”

  The Veilward didn’t answer.

  He merely inclined his head toward the horizon.

  Behind him, the High Lands stretched endlessly, bathed in unreal light.

  Still dazed, Kael had just enough clarity to think it was probably the most beautiful place he’d ever almost died.

  He tried to sit up, but his legs refused to cooperate.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The ground tilted under him as if it were still moving.

  A few steps away, the Veilward watched him with an unreadable expression.

  “Stand,” he ordered.

  Kael groaned between his teeth, searching for support.

  “Yeah, yeah… just a minute…”

  He pushed on his knees, muttered a quiet curse, and finally got upright, his back stiff, his temples pounding.

  The cool wind hit his face.

  They were at a dock—

  a narrow little port carved from pale wood, floating on a branch of the river that wound through tall grass.

  The water here was impossibly clear, almost silver.

  A thin stone path led away from the landing, up to a small rectangular building of light stone with low roofs.

  Kael turned toward the Veilward:

  “This the Institute?”

  No answer.

  The man remained perfectly still, his veil barely stirring in the breeze.

  Only when Kael looked down did he realize he wasn’t wearing his own clothes anymore.

  A rough, light-brown robe hung over his shoulders.

  He tugged on it with two fingers—dark stains were embedded everywhere, ancient and unpleasant.

  He wrinkled his nose.

  “I don’t even wanna know what this is made of.”

  The Veilward finally spoke:

  “My task is complete. Disembark.”

  Kael raised a brow.

  “And I’m going… where, exactly?”

  “Disembark.”

  Nothing more.

  No emotion. No guidance.

  Kael sighed, looked up at the sky, and muttered:

  “Love the hospitality.”

  He swung over the railing and landed on the dock.

  The wood creaked under his bare feet.

  The wind carried a hint of rain and moss, almost gentle.

  He had barely taken a few steps toward the small building when something smacked him on the head.

  “Ow!—fuck!” he barked, spinning around.

  A bundle had fallen straight onto him.

  He stared at it, dumbfounded, then saw the Veilward on deck already turning away as if nothing had happened.

  “Seriously?!” Kael shouted, but the barge was already sliding away, silent as ever.

  Grumbling, he scooped up the bundle and set it on the dock.

  His hands trembled slightly as he untied the knots.

  Inside were his things—wrinkled, but intact:

  his old brown coat, worn to threads; a few sewing tools; and his Needle-Case band.

  The sight alone warmed him a little.

  He lifted it gently, then felt something heavier clink at the bottom of the bag.

  He pulled the cloth aside—

  and froze.

  The Needle-blade.

  His improbable weapon, thin as a strand of hair, milky-white and almost invisible in daylight.

  A tired smile tugged at his lips.

  “At least you haven’t changed.”

  He held the needle-blade up, watched the blade quiver, slicing a faint shimmer through the air.

  He tucked it away carefully, pulled his coat on, and turned toward the stone path.

  Ahead, the tall grass swayed in the wind.

  At the end of the trail, the small stone building waited—alone, silent.

  Kael exhaled.

  “Well… may as well go see what these lunatics call an ‘Institute.’”

  He set off, bundle under his arm, sarcasm in tow.

  The bundle bumped against his hip as he followed the path.

  The rising wind made the grass around him move like a calm, obedient sea.

  As he walked, he realized he stood at the very edge of the High Lands.

  The ground stopped abruptly just a few meters from the path:

  a natural cliff overlooking the whole world.

  He stopped.

  Below him sprawled the Broken Crown—tiny, swarming, the river snaking between cluttered districts and dull rooftops.

  From here, everything looked peaceful.

  Almost beautiful.

  The market lanterns, barely visible, twinkled like lost fireflies in the distance.

  Kael felt a pang in his chest.

  “…Didn’t think it was that small,” he murmured.

  He lingered there, caught between nostalgia and sudden vertigo.

  Then he resumed walking, eyes locked on the quiet building ahead.

  The place seemed deserted.

  No voices, no footsteps—nothing but the wind and the ripple of a stream somewhere below.

  The calm was so absolute it felt wrong.

  Kael frowned.

  Something was off.

  Too quiet.

  Like no one had set foot here in a century.

  “This is supposed to be an institute, right? Should be people around… a guard, a dog, something.”

  The building, however, was anything but impressive.

  It was made of pale stone, with a light slate roof and a few simple moldings framing the windows.

  A small sign hung above the door—weathered, unreadable, half-rotten with age.

  Kael set his hand on the handle.

  The door creaked, and a musty smell hit him instantly.

  Inside, the room was dim, lit only by a skylight overhead.

  A cracked wooden counter stood in the center, littered with damp papers and dried-up quills.

  And behind it, slumped in a chair, a man was sleeping.

  Short, round-bellied, shirt stretched tight across his gut, a thin line of drool slipping from his open mouth.

  Kael stared at him for a moment, stunned.

  “How can someone be that fat?” he muttered under his breath.

  He tapped the counter lightly with a finger.

  “Hey. Wake up.”

  The man jolted violently, nearly tipping backward.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and scowled.

  “Good grief… you reek!”

  Kael blinked at him, halfway between amused and offended.

  Realizing his mistake, the man cleared his throat and tried, with limited success, to regain some dignity.

  “Er… good morning, sir… or… sir?”

  His gaze slid over Kael with the same level of respect one might give a stain on the floor.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen an Ombrevu,” he added with a sniff.

  “Twenty-three years, if I remember right.”

  Kael raised an eyebrow.

  “Charming. So… is this the Trame Institute?”

  The man let out a mocking little laugh.

  “The Institute? Oh, no! You’re at a relay.”

  Kael blinked, thrown off.

  “…A what?”

  “A relay,” the man repeated in a tone of exaggerated patience.

  “The starting point for the route from the waterfall to Lucenine.”

  He gestured vaguely toward the outside.

  “But don’t bother waiting: no one ever comes here. This line is reserved for Ombrevu.

  No High-Lander would lower themselves to set foot in this place.”

  Kael folded his arms.

  “So let me get this straight… you’ve been waiting here for twenty-three years for an Ombrevu to show up?”

  The man drew a long breath, looking slightly offended.

  “I have a state mission.”

  “Of course you do. And what mission could be nobler than drooling on a counter, huh?”

  The fat man growled under his breath, but Kael allowed himself a small, discreet smile.

  A nervous, slightly bitter laugh escaped him.

  Honestly, he might have preferred the place to be empty.

  The man’s eyes widened, scandalized.

  “How dare you, young man!”

  Kael lifted a hand, unimpressed.

  “Relax, I didn’t say you were doing your… nap wrong.”

  The functionary’s face turned bright red.

  He sniffed loudly, tugged at his too-tight shirt, and glared at Kael with all the authority of a disgruntled pigeon.

  “And what is a barefoot nobody like you doing here, anyway?”

  “Not exactly,” Kael replied, shrugging.

  “I’m trying to reach the Trame Institute.”

  The man blinked, confused.

  “The Institute? And why would you go there?”

  Kael spread his arms, presenting his filthy robe, his hollowed-out face, his dark circles, his general state of being thoroughly wrecked.

  “Seriously? It’s not obvious enough?”

  Silence fell.

  The man scanned him up and down, narrowed his eyes, then let out a small surprised whistle.

  “Ah… I see.”

  He leaned forward over the counter.

  “You’re… involved in the Trial.”

  Kael didn’t answer immediately.

  He simply raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest.

  The man continued, suddenly more serious:

  “It’s rare—very rare—for an Ombrevu to awaken to the Trial.”

  “And why’s that?” Kael asked.

  The man lifted a pudgy finger, as if about to give a lecture.

  “I have no reason to tell you.”

  Kael frowned.

  “Wonderful. So you’re going to explain what that actually means, right?”

  The man sank back into his chair, looking utterly pleased with himself.

  “Oh, no.”

  He folded his arms across his belly.

  “I’m not paid to answer too many questions.”

  Kael stared, stunned, then let out a joyless laugh.

  “What are you paid for, then? Inflating?”

  “To operate this relay,” the man snapped.

  “And you’re currently delaying its administrative rhythm.”

  “There’s nobody here!”

  “That’s precisely the rhythm.”

  Kael dragged a hand down his face, exhaled deeply, and muttered:

  “Seriously… so that’s the High Lands. Sleepy bureaucrats.”

  The man pretended not to hear, returning to his “professional” demeanor as though the conversation had never happened.

  Kael sighed and crossed his arms.

  “You still haven’t answered me.

  How am I supposed to get to the Institute?”

  Already drifting back toward drowsiness, the man rolled his eyes and let out a long, dramatic yawn.

  “Haaah… I’m not getting my nap today, am I…

  Fine.”

  He pushed himself upright with a grunt, adjusted his shirt—which still bulged in every direction—and added:

  “I’ll take you there.”

  Kael raised an eyebrow.

  “You? And how, exactly?”

  The man flashed a satisfied, almost mischievous smile.

  “By carriage.”

  He paused, then added:

  “Well… ‘carriage’ is a bit generous. But for you, it’ll be luxury.”

  Kael watched the mountain of fat haul himself out of his chair.

  The man wasn’t even up to his elbow in height, but easily twice as wide as two stacked barrels.

  “You have money to pay, at least?” he called over his shoulder.

  Kael froze, offended.

  “No one told me I had to pay anything!”

  “No payment, no transport,” the man replied automatically, like a line he’d memorized long ago.

  Kael lifted his chin, a spark of misplaced pride in his eyes.

  “I’m a Trame-bearer, you know.”

  The man stopped dead, turned back, and looked him up and down with excruciating slowness.

  Then he said, with a mockingly impressed tone:

  “Oh yes, of course… sir Trame-bearer.”

  He even gave a little mocking bow.

  Kael clenched his jaw.

  “That’s supposed to be respect?”

  The man burst into a greasy little laugh.

  “Relax, I’m joking.

  No Trame-bearer pays to reach the Institute.”

  He scratched his chin, then continued more seriously:

  “Let’s say that… if you survive your Trial, you’ll probably be useful to Soléandre.

  And I’d rather you didn’t keel over on me before that.

  It would be… how should I put it… very inconvenient for me.”

  “Inconvenient?” Kael repeated, incredulous.

  “Yes. Inconvenient.”

  He pointed a stubby finger at him.

  “If you die here, I have to file a report.

  And if I have to file a report, I have to write it.

  And if I have to write it… I miss my nap.”

  Kael stared at him in silence for a moment before muttering, exhausted:

  “You really are the face of the administration.”

  “Thank you,” the man replied, not grasping the irony at all.

  He snapped his fingers, and somewhere behind the building came the tired whinny of a horse.

  Or maybe a mule.

  Kael frowned.

  “That’s what you call luxury?”

  “For an Ombrevu, yes,” the man replied without hesitation.

  “Come on, get in.”

  Kael rolled his eyes.

  “I’m gonna end up missing the waterfall at this rate.”