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 sprinted for the city gate, planning to leave Veil for good. But the gates were already closing, guards on every side. A young stablehand waved at her from the shadows and pointed to a hay cart rolling out. "Get in, quick," he whispered. "I saw the cloth too. I'll get you out."

The hay cart carried Mira safely past the gates and into the green hills. The stablehand, named Tobin, grinned. "You're free," he said. But Mira looked back at the city and felt sick. Whoever forged that cloth would crown a puppet and rule through them. She couldn't just leave Veil to a liar.

Mira told Tobin to turn the cart around. "I'm not running," she said. "If the Loom really chose me, I'll prove it. If it was faked, I'll expose whoever did it. Either way, Veil is mine to fight for." Tobin grinned and snapped the reins. They rolled back toward the city as the sun came up, a stablehand and a maybe-queen ready to take on a palace.