Old Man Reza moved slowly around his small hut, lighting oil lamps that cast a warm glow against the encroaching darkness. Outside, the unnatural blue luminescence of frost-covered buildings grew stronger as night deepened. Through the single window, Saguna could see the twisted shadow spire at the village center pulsing more intensely.
"How long has the village been like this?" Professor Nyala asked, accepting a cup of steaming tea from their host.
"The changes came gradually," Old Man Reza replied, settling into a creaking chair. "First, the dreams. People waking in the night, claiming they heard whispers. Then the cold spells—patches of frost appearing in the height of summer. That started perhaps seven months ago." He gestured toward the window. "The black ice began spreading three months past. By then, most had either fled or..." His voice trailed off.
"Or been taken," Saguna finished grimly.
The old man nodded. "Not like your sister. Not all at once. These shadows, they're more patient now. They feed slowly, little by little. The strongest lasted longest, fishermen, mainly. The children were among the first to show signs."
"Signs of what?" Osa asked, his usual humor nowhere to be found.
"The draining." Old Man Reza drew a withered finger down his own arm, tracing an invisible line. "Black veins beneath the skin. Eyes growing dull. Warmth fading, bit by bit, until they simply... stop. Not dead, but empty. Husks."
Saguna's hand instinctively went to the jasper stone. It pulsed with reassuring warmth against his fingers. "Where are they now? The... husks."
"In their homes, where they collapsed. Or in what used to be your family house," the old man's eyes found Saguna's. "That's where it all began. That's where the spire now grows, from the exact spot where your sister was taken."
A chill ran through Saguna that had nothing to do with the night air. "The spire is growing from our old home?"
"The breach was never truly healed," Professor Nyala said quietly. "Only contained. And now it's expanding."
"Why weren't you affected?" Radji asked Old Man Reza, ever analytical. "How have you remained untouched when others succumbed?"
The old man smiled, tapping the carved symbols on his door frame. "I've had some protection. Old knowledge, passed down from those who remembered the last time shadows walked among us."
"You knew of the Veil," Professor Nyala stated. It wasn't a question.
"My grandmother was a Keeper, one of those who maintained the boundary between worlds. Not Academy-trained like yourself, but effective in her own way." His gnarled fingers traced patterns on the table's wooden surface. "She taught me to recognize the signs. To ward against incursion. But my knowledge is limited, imperfect. I could protect myself, but not others." Regret shadowed his features. "Not enough of them, anyway."
"You did what you could," Saguna said, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice.
Old Man Reza had been the only adult who'd believed him twelve years ago. Who'd pulled him from the water when Sahara vanished. Who'd told him to remember the shadows when everyone else insisted he forget. Saguna owed him more than he could express.
"The question now," Professor Nyala said, "is what can be done about the breach. Elder Reza, have you observed any patterns? Times when the shadows are more or less active?"
"They're strongest at midnight. Weakest at noon." He gestured toward the window again. "The black ice recedes somewhat during daylight hours. And there's something else, they avoid certain places. The old shrine on the eastern cliff. The deep pool in the jungle where freshwater meets salt. And, strangely enough, one room in your old house, your sister's room."
Saguna looked up sharply. "Sahara's room? Why?"
"I believe it's because of what happened there," Old Man Reza said carefully. "Your sister's last defence left a mark, not visible to ordinary eyes, but a kind of scar in the fabric of the place. The shadows remember fire."
"That could provide an advantage," Professor Nyala mused. "A point of resistance within the breach itself."
"A foothold," Saguna whispered, understanding dawning. "A way in."
"It's also closest to the breach," the old man pointed out. "A double-edged blade."
Saguna stared into his tea, watching the light from the oil lamps dance across its surface. Returning to that house - the place where he'd last seen Sahara, where he'd failed to help her — was both the last thing he wanted and the thing he needed most.
"What about the villagers?" Osa asked. "The ones who've been... drained. Can they be helped?"
Old Man Reza's expression turned grave. "I don't know. I've tried various remedies, herbs, poultices, even some of my grandmother's incantations. Nothing revives them."
"They're not beyond help," Professor Nyala said with quiet certainty. "But their essence — what was drained — must be restored. And that essence is now part of what feeds the breach."
"So to save them, we must seal the breach," Radji concluded. "And to seal the breach, we need to understand it better."
"We should examine it directly," Saguna said, decision forming. "Not tonight, the darkness gives the shadows advantage. But tomorrow, at midday, when they're weakest."
"The three of you alone won't be enough," Old Man Reza warned. "I've seen what lurks near that spire. Even at noon, there are guardians."
"We won't be alone," Saguna replied, looking at his companions. "We have each other. The triangle protects its points."
A faint smile touched Professor Nyala's lips. "Well spoken, Mr. Taksa. Though I would add that proper preparation will serve us better than poetic phrases." She turned to Old Man Reza. "Do you have maps of the village? Knowledge of the underground waterways? Anything that might provide tactical advantage?"
The old man nodded, rising with effort. "I have better than maps. I have histories." He moved to a wooden chest in the corner, withdrawing a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with age. "My grandmother's records of the last incursion, seventy years ago. Including how it was defeated."
Professor Nyala's eyes widened. "May I?" she asked, extending her hand.
As Old Man Reza placed the journal in her hands, she handled it with reverence, carefully turning its brittle pages. Saguna, Radji, and Osa gathered around, peering over her shoulders at the faded handwriting and intricate diagrams that filled the pages.