The air tasted wrong the moment the barge crossed the threshold.
Calen leaned against the railing, fingers curled around a cold strip of alloy as the island grew on the horizon - a jagged green mass wrapped in mist, mana storms flickering in slow arcs above the treeline.
The Outer Island was closer than it looked on the map.
It always was.
Behind him, the Combine-certified expedition barge hummed quietly, enchanted engines pulsing with runes older than most cities. The deck was empty except for the two crew mages who'd refused to make eye contact since Calen stepped aboard.
They had his name on their manifest.
They had the incident record.
And probably a whispered summary of the Veil spell filed under "watchlist" tags.
Didn't matter.
He wasn't here for them.
He was here for Hollow Ridge.
The island accepted them in silence.
No welcoming breeze. No cry of birds. Just fog and a low electrical buzz beneath the leaves, like the whole land was holding its breath.
The drop point was uneventful - a small stone pier half-sunk into the coastline. Ancient runes lined the edge, mostly eroded but still faintly glowing. The crew didn't step off the ship. They lowered the cargo crane, dropped Calen's gear crate onto the moss, and pulled the rope back before it even stopped bouncing.
He stepped onto the shore alone.
His boots sank slightly into the wet soil, and the hairs on his neck lifted.
The island knew he was there.
He checked the mission details again, displayed on the scroll-slate clipped to his belt.
MISSION: Survey Mapping - Hollow Ridge perimeter.
OBJECTIVE: Mark leyline flares, catalog flora anomalies, collect spell resonance readings.
THREAT RATING: Green to Yellow.
DURATION: 48 hours max.
NOTES: Mana resonance is unstable. Previous caster reported visual duplication, disorientation, temporary loss of self-recognition.
Calen reread the last line three times.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
"Temporary loss of self-recognition."
He knew what that meant.
He'd felt it already.
The path toward the ridge was overgrown. No Combine crews had passed through here in weeks. Vines wrapped over shattered bonewood trees. Spell-blooms pulsed quietly underfoot - low-light flowers that absorbed ambient magic like moths to heat.
He moved slowly, scanning the terrain with his focus compass. The needle twitched constantly, vibrating like it didn't know which direction magic was coming from.
Which meant: it was coming from everywhere.
By the time he reached the marker for the ridge zone, his coat was soaked through with sweat and mist. His gloves were heavy with condensation. His registry charm flickered.
He set up camp in a hollow beneath two leaning stone spires - not ideal, but protected. Enough space for a ward perimeter and a heat sigil.
As he etched the anchor glyph into the moss, his hand trembled. Not from fatigue.
From something else.
A shape moved in the corner of his eye.
When he turned, it was gone.
Night on the Outer Island didn't fall. It arrived.
All at once, like someone snapped the world's neck and let darkness pour out. The fog didn't lift. It glowed, faint and opalescent, dancing with mana particles drifting like ash.
Calen sat cross-legged inside his circle, trying to steady his breath.
His thoughts were louder out here. Not just his parents. Not just guilt.
Everything.
The way his old instructor looked at him when he failed his second rune test.
The letter from the expedition scout who said, "you're useful, not gifted."
The sound of his father's voice when he said, "you sure you want this life?"
He reached into his satchel. Pulled out the anchor charm Saxon had given him.
"Use it when the memory isn't just yours," Saxon had said.
"When the place itself starts to remember too."
Calen activated it.
The charm glowed gently. A soft blue pulse.
And then the Veil opened.
Not violently. Not like before.
It slipped into place like water over glass.
One moment: moss, fog, stone.
The next: a street. Familiar. Wet with rain.
Eastridge.
His old hometown.
Exactly how it looked five years ago - power lines hanging low, broken brickwork on the corner shop, the blinking sigil of the café where he studied spells after class.
And in the center of the street - a younger version of himself.
Seventeen. Hair shorter. Shoulders tenser. Holding a scroll. Crying.
Calen stepped toward it.
But the illusion twitched.
Young-Calen looked up, and the skin beneath his eyes melted - not gore, not horror, but paper. Crumbling. Folding inward.
The memory collapsed.
And the street became a tunnel.
Stone and moss. Flickering runes.
And then: his parents' voices.
"You didn't write."
"You forgot us."
"We called."
Calen fell to his knees.
"I didn't," he gasped. "I tried-"
"You didn't try hard enough."
The charm pulsed harder, cutting through the sound.
The voices faded.
The world cracked.
And the island returned.
He woke hours later, curled in the dirt, his coat tangled around his legs. The perimeter ward was flickering. Something had drained it during the projection.
He stood slowly, body aching, head full of fog.
But the Veil was gone.
Or so he thought.
He found the tea tin just before dawn.
Nestled in a hollow near a root cluster.
Exactly like the one his mother kept in their shop - floral pattern, bent lid, a small label faded to illegibility.
He picked it up.
It was warm.
