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 knees shook, but she did not run. The guards bowed low, right there on the dusty workshop floor. "Your Majesty," the older one said. "The Loom has chosen you. You must come to the palace at once." Mira swallowed hard and nodded, deciding the safest thing was to play along and learn the rules from the inside.

In a quiet hall, Mira found the Great Loom itself, still and silent. A thin thread of silver hung loose from its edge, freshly cut. Someone had been working it after the unveiling. Mira reached out and touched the thread, and it was still warm, as if a hand had just left it.