Page 77 of Orc's Veil

“Movement at the eastern approach.” Varkhul’s voice is calm, but I feel his attention sharpen. His hand drops to the blade at his hip—not iron anymore, but crystallized Veil-stuff, forged in the transformation that changed us both. It can cut things that shouldn’t be cuttable. We’ve tested it on more than a few Veilspawn in the past three months.

I follow his gaze. A figure approaches the boundary—single, moving slowly, leading a laden pack-horse. Not a threat. Not yet.

“Traveler,” I say. “Merchant, by the look of him.”

“Brave or stupid, coming this close to the Veil.”

“Perhaps both.” I squeeze his hand—a silent reassurance—and step forward to meet our visitor.

The merchant stopswhen he sees us.

I can’t blame him. We must make quite a picture—me with my luminous hair and shimmering skin, Varkhul towering beside me with his rune-marked scars and the blade that seems to drink in the light. We’re not human anymore. We’re not even mortal, not in any way that matters. And it shows.

Horror and awe war in the merchant’s expression. He’s middle-aged, weathered by travel, with the calculating eyes of a man who’s survived by reading situations quickly. Right now, those eyes are darting between us, trying to decide if we’re salvation or destruction.

“I…” He swallows hard. “I need to cross.”

I step forward, keeping my movements slow and unthreatening. It’s a dance I’ve performed many times in the past three months—projecting calm when everything about my altered appearance screams danger. “The Twilight Gate can be crossed. But there’s a price.”

The merchant’s face pales. “I’ve heard stories. About the tithe.”

“Stories exaggerate.” I stop a few feet away, close enough to see the fear sweat beading on his brow. “I don’t take blood. I don’t take lives. Just a memory—a small one, one you won’t miss. In exchange, safe passage through the Veil.”

“What kind of memory?”

“Your choice.” I hold out my hand, palm up. “A childhood afternoon. A forgotten dream. The taste of a meal you barely remember eating. Nothing that will leave a scar.”

He hesitates. Behind me, I feel Varkhul’s presence—solid, watchful, ready to act if the merchant proves to be more thanhe appears. We’ve learned caution in our three months as guardians. Not everyone who approaches the Veil does so with innocent intentions.

But this one is exactly what he seems: a man trying to reach the other side of the boundary, desperate enough to pay whatever price we demand.

“Anything?” His voice is rough with hope.

“Your choice,” I repeat. “Think of a memory you can spare. Hold it in your mind. When you’re ready, take my hand.”

He closes his eyes. I watch his face shift through emotions—concentration, uncertainty, and finally, peace. Whatever memory he’s chosen, it’s one he’s willing to lose.

He takes my hand.

The memory flows into me like water—a summer afternoon in his youth, fishing by a river, the sun warm on his face. Nothing precious. Nothing that will change who he is. Just a small piece of a full life, offered freely in exchange for passage.

I take it gently. Guide it into the Veil, where it dissolves into the barrier’s fabric. The boundary hums with satisfaction—fed, strengthened, content.

“It’s done.” I release his hand. “The path is open.”

The merchant blinks, disoriented. His brow furrows briefly—that moment when the mind reaches for a memory and finds emptiness instead—but it passes quickly. He’ll notice the gap eventually, a summer afternoon that no longer exists in his recollection. But he’ll live. He’ll remember everything else.

“Thank you.” The words come out strangled. “I’ve heard other stories too. About what the boundary witch used to demand. About the blood and the screaming and the?—”

“That was before.” I keep my voice gentle. “Things are different now.”

He nods jerkily and hurries toward the Gate, his pack-horse trailing behind. I watch him go, watch the boundary part to let him through, watch him disappear into the shimmer of the Veil.

Alive. Whole. Missing one summer afternoon but carrying everything else.

It’s a better bargain than most travelers used to get.

I think of the family from years ago—the father who tried to press a copper coin into my hand, the gap-toothed boy who never noticed what he’d lost. I told him to buy something sweet in the next village. A new memory to replace the stolen one. I wonder sometimes if he did.