The Veil Between
The wind slices past me like the world itself urges me onward. My paws barely kiss the earth as I run through the forests of Arcadia, each step a rhythmic drumbeat of freedom. The early morning sun glints off my white fur, shimmering like moonlight on still water. Mist seeps from beneath my paws, curling around tree trunks and boulders, veiling me from any watching eyes. It isn’t just concealment, it is my nature.
I am enormous for a female Lycan, far larger than most, though the mist cloaks that too. When my mother, Gaia, first told me of the curse she would place on me, the same punishment Zeus gave the Lycans, I had felt betrayal twist in my gut. How could she? Now..? Now, I live for this feeling. I have walked the earth almost as long as my mother, but nothing compares to the wild purity of this form. It is liberation. It is power. It is me.
As my paws hit the edge of Arcadia, my surroundings shift. In the blink of an eye, I stand on Chari Island, before the one who made me, my mother. I let out a quiet huff before shifting back into my divine form, my limbs lengthening, fur receding, breath still sharp from the run. Gaia extends a hand, beckoning. I cross the space with a grace born of centuries and fold into her embrace.
“Amara,” she says softly, yet firmly, “it is time for a new chapter in your immortal life.” Her words settle deep in my bones. I am to leave Arcadia, my hidden home, and step into the mortal realm.
“You may say your farewells, but keep your truth hidden. Even from the king. Fix his knowledge as needed. Once that is done, go to Mauna Loa, Hawaii. That will be your new home. There you will practice your powers on mortals.” I raise a brow, my concern apparent. Gaia merely chuckles.
“The place I’ve chosen is secluded,” she assures. “You’ll be able to shift, to roam the forests nearby, but remain hidden. No mortal must see your Lycan form.” She knows me too well. I nod, a bittersweet smile touching my lips.
“Yes, Mother. I’ll say my goodbyes and relocate soon.”
She cups my cheek in her warm hand. I lean into it, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When I step back and look around the grand palace built just for me on Chari Island, it felt like the end of an era. I linger for a heartbeat longer, then turn and walk away.
I grew up here, nestled in this world Gaia created solely for me, raised by Nesoi and visited often by both my mother and father, Eros. I learned the intricacies of creation from Gaia, and the pull of love and desire from Eros. Aphrodite and Psyche taught me subtler arts, shaping emotions and hearts. My training has always been really fun, and the support I received from the others kept me from giving up.
I shift again, paws pressing into the familiar earth. I trot through my homeland one last time, watching nymphs dance in rivers and fields, their laughter echoing in the air. My heart aches. Memories come in waves; the laughter, the peace, the love. All of it is mine, and yet none of it can stay.
By the time I reach Arcadia, I am composed. I say my farewells, touching lives one final time before erasing myself from their memories. The sadness was unbearable. Why must I live in secret? Why must I always be alone? The questions repeat in my mind as I wipe the last trace of my presence. Tears threaten but don’t fall. I can see the colors of emotion, feel them in others, and right now, sorrow pulses all around me. The only sorrow that will remain will be mine though.
After I leave, the final step in the spell will click into place and they’ll all forget I ever existed. Sadness sweeps through me, threatening to steal my breath and knock me down. I long for what I’ve never felt, true love. I’ve seen its light in my friends when they meet their mates. It isn’t just emotion. It radiated from them like sunbursts, vivid and warm. I have never known that feeling. I can’t know that feeling. Every time I try, my mother forces me to remember they’ll have to forget me one day. Now that day has come and I almost start to regret making friends.
The sun has long begun to dip by the time I stand at the threshold of my new life. A two-story house nestled in the forest near Mauna Loa. I step inside, taking in the soft grays, blues, and whites of its luxurious interior. A home, by design, but will it ever feel like one?
I pour myself a half-glass of red wine and move to the back porch swing. The sun is setting. My heart is heavy. My omniscient gift let me see into the fates of others, but my own? Nothing. Gaia said this was a training ground, a place to practice. Except, this house sits dangerously close to a portal to the Underworld. This isn’t a coincidence. Not with my mother. Still, I choose to trust her. She has a plan. She always does.
I finish my wine and shift again, this time smaller, mortal wolf-sized. Just in case someone sees me. Just a wolf. Nothing divine. I sprint through the forest, feeling the land hum beneath me. By the time my paws meet sand, the night has taken full hold.
Waves crash along the shore. I walk slowly through the shallows, paws stirring the water. Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. The rhythm soothes the chaos in my mind. The mortal realm feels heavier somehow, more emotional. A stronger field. Emotions stick here. They linger. The gods can reach through worship, but the feelings of this world are trapped within.
I lay on the sand, head resting on crossed paws, eyes on the moonlit sea. I don’t know what awaits me in the days ahead. I only know one thing: I will need strength for the path before me. And something tells me it will be anything but ordinary.
The morning comes slowly, like a whisper brushing against my skin. Mist still clings to the trees when I wake up, a gentle veil of dew weaving between the dark green leaves and branches like the world is reluctant to rise. For a long while, I remain still on the sand, half-submerged in a dream I can’t remember, the hush of the tide syncing with the rhythm of my breath.
The scent of salt and damp earth fills my lungs, grounding me in the moment. My fur is dusted with grains of crushed shell and sand, the remnants of the hours spent wandering the coastline under the moonlight. Even now, the taste of the sea still lingers on my tongue.
Shifting back into my goddess form is second nature by now, a ripple of will, a flex of magic that doesn’t even require thought. My fur recedes like smoke curling inward. My limbs stretch, long and elegant once more, the weight of divinity sliding into my bones like a cloak returning to familiar shoulders.
I rise slowly, barefoot on the cool sand, brushing off the last remnants of my other self. The hem of my long, silver-blue robe dances in the ocean breeze, the fabric woven from moonlight and nymph-sung silk. I’d summoned it ages ago from a loom gifted by the Sea Mothers themselves. It shimmers faintly, always damp but never cold, catching the light of the rising sun in ethereal threads.
A single wave crashes louder than the rest, sending a fine mist of ocean spray over me. I smile faintly. The sea always knew how to greet me. We understand one another; restless and ancient, quietly powerful, hiding storms beneath our calm.
My gaze drifts toward the forest, where the trees stand silent and ancient, like watchers in some forgotten temple. The portal lay hidden somewhere in their depths, nestled between the folds of volcanic rock and life-drunk vines. I haven’t gone near it yet. Not because I am afraid, but because the magic that pulses from it calls to something deep inside me. Something not yet awakened. Something I’m not ready to face.
The ocean hums behind me like a lullaby, and I turn away from it, walking slowly toward the house. My bare feet tread lightly over grass and root, cool dew kissing my skin. The land welcomes me, recognizing the divine thread in my essence. I can feel it pulsing beneath every step, the heartbeat of this untouched island that seems to breathe with me.
A fox darts across my path, trailing faint silver as it slips through a shaft of light. I pause, smiling. It glances back once, as if to acknowledge me, before disappearing into the underbrush. Everything here feels enchanted, alive in ways that even the sacred woods of Arcadia had never been. As if the island itself remembers old gods and still whispers their names in its sleep.
When I step through the back door, warmth greets me, not just from the home itself, but from the sun now streaming through the large windows. The kitchen is a gentle sanctuary. Wood polished to a golden sheen. Curtains that move with the breeze like drifting veils. The scent of jasmine and lilac linger, my doing from the night before. I like comfort. It makes the loneliness more bearable.
I glance at the half-full glass of wine from last night still sitting on the counter. My lips twitch. I reach for water instead. My body might be immortal, but wine before breakfast is a habit I refuse to indulge more than necessary. Discipline is the only luxury I still truly possess.
That is when I hear it, the knock. Firm. Intentional. Not hurried, but insistent. My head snaps toward the sound, brows furrowing. No one should be able to reach this place. I’ve warded the island with spells older than language. Isolation has been deliberate. Protective. Another knock. Louder this time. The kind that makes silence feel like a held breath.
I move quietly, a predator in silk. A flick of my fingers cloaks my divine signature, a reflex more than anything. Power coils beneath my skin, just beneath the surface, ready if needed. My senses unfurl like wings. No anger. No malice. No threat. A presence that is strong. Ancient. Familiar in a way I can’t quite place. Like the memory of a song I haven’t heard since childhood.
I open the door slowly. No one is there. The forest stares back at me, unmoved. The trees whisper among themselves, the wind curling around their trunks like lazy snakes. The air is too still. The sunlight is oddly muted. Then I see it. On the stone step. A pomegranate. I freeze. My breath catches. It isn’t a fruit from this realm. Its skin is as black as volcanic glass, with veins of red pulsing faintly beneath the surface like embers beneath obsidian. A gift. Or a warning. Or both. All I do know is it came from the Underworld.
Slowly, I bend and reach out. The moment my fingers brush the surface, it is like a trap snapping closed. A vision seizes me. Fire. Chains. Wings of shadow stretched across a sky filled with ash. A voice, low, sonorous, calling my name from the dark.
Amara.
I gasp, stumbling back. The world spins. When I blink, the vision is gone. The pomegranate now rests, warm and inert, in my palm. I shut the door and carry it into the kitchen. My heart thunders with unease. There is no immediate danger. Only the weight of something beginning. A story unraveling, thread by thread. A tapestry I hadn’t agreed to be part of… and yet can no longer escape. I set the fruit gently on the marble counter and step back. My gaze lingers. Something, someone, is watching me. Not with malice. But intent. I just can’t yet tell whether they were friend… or foe.
The day passes like a ghost. I try to lose myself in the mundane; sweeping the floor, mending a tear in a tunic, chopping herbs I don’t intend to use. Except, my thoughts return again and again to the fruit, to the fire, to the voice.
Later that day, I wander into the woods. I let my feet find their own path, the way you do when you don’t want to think. Not toward any destination, just away; from the pomegranate, from the silence of the house, from the whisper of a name that still echoes behind my ribs.
The portal hums faintly in the distance, not loud but constant. Like a second heartbeat beneath the land. Slow, steady. I can feel it with every step. A gentle vibration through the soles of my feet, through the roots and moss and stone. I don’t mean to follow it, not at first. But it is like walking downhill without realizing it, some part of me always leaning in its direction.
The air grows cooler as I move deeper. The canopy thickens above, blocking out the gold light of afternoon and replacing it with a dappled twilight. The trees here are giants, twisted and bone-white in places where time had stripped them bare. Some lean together like old women in mourning. Others stand solitary, draped in velvet moss, their bark cracked like brittle parchment. I have the sense that they are watching me, not with malice, but with memory. The deeper I go, the older the forest feels.
Vines curl like sleeping serpents around the trunks, thick and pulsing with slow life. Some of them bear flowers the color of bruises, dark violet and midnight blue, whose petals flutter with no wind. The scent is heady and strange, like spiced ash and rainwater. Glowing fungi bloom in little pools of shadow, tucked between roots and stones, gifts from the goddess of decay, who blesses what others fear. I pause to kneel beside one. It gives off a faint light, pearly and sickle-shaped, like a shard of a forgotten moon.
I whisper thanks to her under my breath. Not because I think she will hear, but because this place feels sacred. Alive. Hungry. I cross a stream where the water runs as black as ink, reflecting no sky. Step carefully over a tangle of thorns that retract at my presence, whispering as they move. Somewhere far off, something cried out, not bird, not beast, but something in between. I don’t flinch. I’ve heard stranger things in my lifetime. That’s when I feel it shift. The hum. It sharpens. Like the tuning of a string that has waited for a song. My breath catches in my throat.
The path I followed dips into a hollow, where the earth smells of sulfur and iron. Steam curls up between moss-covered stones, the ground slick beneath my bare feet. There, at the heart of it, stand two massive slabs of lava rock, obsidian-slick and cold to the touch. The stones lean toward each other like the jaws of some ancient beast, parted in invitation. Faint runes etched their surfaces, too worn to read, but I don’t need a translation. The magic in them is older than language, older than form. I can taste it in the air. This is it. The threshold.
I step closer, the hum now a resonance in my bones. My fingers lift, unbidden, drawn toward the invisible seam in the air between the stones. The portal is not visible, not really. It shimmers like heat on stone, like light through a memory, but it is there. Alive. Waiting. One step, and I’d cross into a realm whispered about only in sacred places. A world where death is not an end, but a throne. A world ruled by the only god I had never dared to meet. My breath trembles.
I don’t fear the Underworld itself. It is whatever calls to me from it. The pull of something ancient and binding coils around my soul like a vine with no root. I can feel it here, more than ever. The portal’s magic calls to me, but not as a stranger. It is intimate, familiar, like a scent I had once loved or the sound of a voice I had long since forgotten. My fingers hover inches from the veil. I don’t know how long I stand there. Minutes. Hours. The forest around me holds its breath. Then… I pull away. Not out of fear. Out of knowing.
Some part of me understands: once I cross, there will be no returning to the person I am. No silence. No hiding. No more illusions of solitude. The moment I touch that world, it will awaken something in me that can never again sleep. I’m not ready. Not yet. So I turn away. The forest whispers behind me, soft and knowing. Soon.
That night, the dreams begin. Dark halls. Ivy-covered stone walls. A castle that breathes like it lived. Inside, a man walks alone through the shadows, his presence vast, stretching beyond the realm of sleep and thought. He wears darkness like a mantle, and yet his eyes are red wine and moonlight. Sadness clings to him like perfume. Not bitter. Just old. He turns. Sees me, and for the first time in my eternal life, I feel something split inside me. A tether forming, unseen, unbreakable. A chord of fate humming in a key I have never heard.
“Who are you?” he whispers.
I wake up gasping, the sheets tangled around my legs, sweat cooling on my skin. The moon hangs high, pale and bright. I step out onto the porch in my robe, heart still racing. The pomegranate is still sitting on the counter. Untouched. Who was he? Was he the one who sent the fruit? How did he find me? The only being I could think of strong enough to alter my dreams was— No. It can’t be. But it is.
Hades. There is no doubt. The King of the Underworld has seen me. But why? Why me? What I also don’t understand is, why act like he doesn’t know who I am? Could another god be at play here? Though, what would anyone have to gain? My fingers clench at the edge of the railing. The wind shifts. I catch the faintest scent of asphodel. My heart skips. The Underworld is calling. I’m just not sure I have the strength to resist.
I spend the next few days walking the woods by day and dreaming of shadows by night. Always the same castle. Always the same eyes. Sometimes, I think I hear his voice in the wind. A whisper against the trees. My name, spoken like a vow. Amara. How did he know my name? Was he pretending not to know who I was? Or is there something I don’t yet remember? A forgotten pact? A debt owed? A love lost to time?
On the fifth night, I can’t take it anymore. I walk to the portal barefoot, the forest warm and heavy around me. The moon hangs high, a silver sentinel above the trees. The air near the seam shimmers as I approach and I reach out. The veil opens. The Underworld yawns before me, its sky dim and filled with stars I don’t recognize. The scent of brimstone mixes with the perfume of strange flowers that grow only in shadow. Far, far in the distance, a castle of shadow looms, vast and ancient, like a heartbeat frozen in time. I step through. The moment my feet touch the land, something awakens in me. My magic surges. My soul cracks open. From the castle, something answers. He knows, and he is coming.