In Veil, no king or queen is born to the throne. The Great Loom decides. Every few years it weaves a new tapestry, and the face in the silver thread becomes the next monarch. Mira, a seamstress's daughter, was sweeping spindle-dust in the workshop when the new cloth was unveiled. She glanced up and forgot how to breathe. Woven in living silver was a girl with her exact face. Hers. Before she could move, two royal guards stepped through the door and looked straight at her.

Mira's first thought was simple: run. She dropped the broom, ducked under the loom, and bolted out the back door into the crowded market. The guards shouted behind her. If the Loom really wove her face, the whole kingdom would soon be hunting her, and she wanted answers before she let anyone put a crown on her head.

Mira squeezed through the market crowd and slipped into the old dyers' alley. An old woman with ink-stained hands grabbed her sleeve. "You're the new face," the woman hissed. "I weave for the palace. The Loom doesn't lie, but people do. Come, before they catch you." She pulled Mira toward a low blue door.

The old weaver pressed a small loom-key into Mira's palm. "This opens the Loom room. Go tonight, and the Loom will weave the truth in front of you, untouched by any noble's hand." Then boots thundered in the alley outside. "They found us," the weaver breathed. "Go out the back. Now."

Mira slipped out the back as the guards broke down the front door. Clutching the loom-key, she crept through the dark streets to the palace and let herself into the Loom room. She set the key in place and the Loom began to weave the truth, with no noble there to fake it. Whatever face it chose, she would trust it, and so would Veil.