Submission (#7834) Approved

Deep in the endless twilight of Silveil, where the neon glow of the city dims into the quiet of the bioluminescent forests, there is a flower that likes to live in the shadowy underbrush. The Veilbloom, as it is known, is a plant of both allure and danger, its presence felt more than seen.

It blooms only in the darkest hours, for there is no day in Silveil, only the persistent dusk that blankets the land. The Veilbloom is a plant of the shadows, its black petals blending seamlessly into the forest floor. It does not chase the light, nor does it wither in the perpetual night. While in normal  circumstances, when night would fully fall, the flower unfurls, its edges faintly aglow. Yet in silveil, the plant thrives, always unfurled, always awake. Its petals gloq with an eerie gradient, shifting from the violet to a near impenetrable black, as if absorbing the surrounding glow, becoming part of the very darkness itself. When disturbed, it exhales a fine mist.

Disturbing the flower stirs it. It releases a fine, shimmering mist that curls and coils like breath in cold air. Travelers who've wandered too close say the air around the bloom feels… strange. Heavier, yet somehow softer. Some describe a sense of being unmoored, as though their thoughts become less grounded, emotions swelling like tides. A few even swear they hear whispers, echoes of dreams or memories not their own. Whether these sensations are real or imagined is up for debate, and Silveil is not a place known for offering easy answers.

Though elusive and strange, the Veilbloom holds a certain allure. Artists and dreamers speak of its inspiration, of visions born under its presence. Alchemists, always on the hunt for rare and reactive ingredients, seek out its petals for potions that heighten perception or stir buried feelings. 

The Veilbloom thrives in the thickest parts of Silveil’s forest, growing where the mist lingers like a constant shroud. It flourishes in clusters, blooming only where the darkness is deepest, and where the dreams of those who wander near it are most fragile. Some claim that it only grows in places where dreams have died, where those who sleep near it may never wake. Others insist that the whispers are only the wind. But in Silveil, where nothing is quite as it seems, it’s wise to trust little of what hides in the shadows.