Page 12 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

His grip eventually softens, one hand sliding down my arm while the other glides across my collarbones, stopping dead center where my heart pounds beneath.

He presses me back, his palm firm, forcing me to step into him until our bodies touch.

I draw a shuddering breath, the contact as foreign and unsettling as the colors and shapes before me.

His breath warms the lace by my ear, his stubble scraping against it.

"Wild magic makes the aether glow, the rocks and plants sing with it—with help from us, of course.

" He stretches his arm, pointing to a swath of sky painted in pale, shining colors, like the pearls Mother sold for firewood after Father passed.

"We call them opal skies, in your parlance. They’re nothing compared to what our home plane once was, but it’s enough to sustain the wild magic of this one."

I finally draw a steady breath, grounding myself in the sweet, wild scent of him, in the warmth of his hand on my skin, his voice so close to my ear, his breath fanning against it.

"Is the sky always so many colors?"

He nods against me. "The colors reflect the proper light wavelengths, which allow the plants to grow and generate more aether—and more wild magic as a byproduct. That way, the magic here is never in danger of depletion, even though this isn’t a realm with native wild magic."

I see now. "You rewrote the natural order to create magic because you weren’t powerful enough here?"

"And what if we did? Would it be so terrible to long for what the Old Ones stole from us?"

I pull away from him, colder for it but steadier, stronger. "And in doing so, you created a chasm. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps your gods took your power so you wouldn’t subjugate the natives of your exile?" My glare locks onto him, my heart racing for an entirely new reason.

He studies me carefully, his eyes moving from my lips upward, as though trying to pierce the darkness of my hood. I grant him the same scrutiny, cataloging the sharp edge of that jagged, silvery scar and the impossible depth of his eyes.

After a moment, his frame softens—shoulders lowering, gaze hooding slightly. "You’re staring," he says, his tone expectant, as though waiting for a particular response .

He wants me to point out that he was staring, too. That he started it.

Mother didn’t raise me to defy demons, but there’s something about this one in particular...

"You’re in my way," I retort.

"Mmm, I am, aren’t I?" His mouth twists into a smirk. "But then, you don’t seem to mind so much, do you?"

Heat rushes to my face again, coiling through me like smoke slipping through cracks, seeking every hidden space it can fill. The demon king stands before me, still and maddeningly composed, his inane game unraveling me piece by piece.

"What are you doing?" I ask, crossing my arms. "Why do you play these games? Am I some kind of pet to you? A new toy you’re testing, waiting to see how I react to your horseshit?"

The demon king frowns, his gaze steady and far too composed. "Now, now, is that any way for the daughter of Tiriana herself to speak? I’m sure your mother taught you much more ladylike ways to express yourself."

"Oh, she taught me plenty," I fire back, the jab sharp and teasing. "Like exactly where to aim a knee for maximum pain."

The words punctuate the movement—a bare knee to the demon king’s family jewels.

His eyes widen, then squeeze shut.

But he doesn’t double over. He doesn’t grab his groin.

The demon king laughs, the sound low and dark as he steps closer, leaning in until his overwhelming presence, scent, and power roll over me. This time, I don’t back away. I let it hit me.

"You’re angry. That’s good. Anger is useful. But tell me, Maiden, what will you do with it? "

He doesn’t wait for my answer. With a fluid turn, he’s gone, leaving the door to my room wide open behind him.

I stare out at the brutal, beautiful world outside, so different from what Mother said lay beyond the frost. Vella would love it here.

She’d drink in the magic—the riot of colors, the wild plants clawing and twisting over one another as though they were locked in a feral struggle for dominance, the jagged black and blue rocks piercing the earth like blades, and the misty rainbow bleeding across the horizon. Lovely, she’d say.

And it is. Lovely, like every demon’s face, the unnerving flawlessness of their features, the lethal grace of their powerful bodies.

But beneath both are only half-truths and endless games of manipulation, their schemes like spiderwebs stretched taut, waiting to ensnare anyone foolish enough to stumble.

But Vella… Vella wouldn’t see any of that.

She’d see the beauty, the magic, and believe in it the way only she could.

Dama’s hand, I miss her. The thought of her laughing, of that infectious smile, hits me like an ache I can’t swallow down.

The longing makes me want to turn around, to run home, to pretend I never left.

But if I fail these Trials—or win them all—my fate won’t be up to me anymore.

Mother is smart. She’ll make do without me.

But Vella… No. I can’t think about that.

I must focus on this place, not home. Focus on what I can do to survive whatever these demons have in store for me.

Maybe, with enough luck, I’ll survive long enough to see them again.

But that thought rings hollow.

Who am I kidding ?

The chances of surviving, let alone seeing my family again, won’t improve if I don’t act.

I smooth the lines of my cloak and pull the hood lower, grounding myself in the feel of the delicate weave beneath my fingers, a small tether to focus my scattered thoughts.

If I’m going to face this place, I’ll do it on my terms—even if it means braving the shadowed corridors alone, even if every echo feels like a threat.

I step into the hallway, quick and light, like the lace itself, heading in the opposite direction of the demon king.

The air feels heavier out here, pressing against my lungs, whispering that I don’t belong.

The faint sound of my steps echoes against the cold stone, only to vanish into the shadows ahead.

The first door isn’t locked. I ease it open and peer inside.

The room is identical to mine—mirrored and empty, smelling of stale air and dust. A shadow flickers across the edge of my vision, brushing past my cheek like an icy whisper as I step back and let the door close.

Heavy as it is, it slides shut quietly, sealing its secrets away once more.

I continue, my fingers brushing the cold walls for balance as unease gnaws at the edge of my focus.

Again, my footsteps echo faintly, the sound swallowed too quickly by the oppressive quiet.

Shadows ripple just beyond my vision, drawing my head sharply to the left, then the right.

My pulse kicks every time, but each time, there’s nothing there.

Only the oppressive weight of the hallway, as if the stone itself is watching me.

The second door resists when I try the handle, its refusal somehow more disconcerting than if it had opened. The next one is locked, too, and the one after that. Each rejection tightens the coil in my chest.

But the fourth door …

I push it open to find three Maiden potentials sitting among stacks of strewn pillows, their vibrant silks spilling across the floor in a cascade of jewel tones.

Candles flicker on low tables pushed into the corners, their golden light softening the shadows of the room.

The air smells faintly of something floral and spiced, like a perfume meant to seduce rather than soothe.

Their knees touch as they lean toward each other, laughing in hushed tones, sharing something intrinsically feminine—camaraderie, perhaps, or sisterhood.

The kind of bond I’ve never been part of.

"Hello," I say, drawing their attention.

They pause in unison, then turn to face me.

"The little frozen one finally comes out to play, hm?" the blonde one says, her tone sharp, eyes pale, assessing.

I give her a tight smile. "Play? No, just thought I’d stop by to enjoy the riveting company."

Her lips curve into a razor-edged smile, sharp enough to cut. "Trust me, honey. A girl like you…your best bet is to stick to yourself. Ignorance is your best weapon."

My fists clench at my sides as I step fully into the room. "I’m so sick of everyone telling me what they think I need. How about you answer my question, and I’ll decide what to do from there?"

They laugh—not cruelly, but with a dismissive edge that says I’m as fragile as the ice they imagine I come from.

I take a slow breath, committing their faces to memory. The brash blonde with too many edges. The confident brunette with deep, knowing eyes. And the quiet, watchful brunette. The one being serviced in the bath, with heavy hair framing a face that gives away nothing.

"Then, if you won’t share the details, will you at least tell me when the first Trial is? "

They exchange glances before the confident brunette nods. "I suppose that can’t hurt, right?"

"Right," I agree.

"The first Trial is tomorrow at sundown," the brunette says with a hint of something I can’t quite place—pity, maybe, or amusement. Whatever it is, it tightens like a fist around my stomach, squeezing out my breath.

Tomorrow evening.

The thought claws through me. My breath rages like a storm behind my ribs, fighting too slow. I’d run the entire way back to my chamber, and doing it in slippers on polished stone was harder than trudging through ankle-deep snow.

I brace a hand against the door, gulping air. The solitude here is thin, a fleeting thing. Shadows press against the aetherglass, pooling in the edges, watching. I refuse to look at them.

I wasn’t getting anything more from the potentials. Or from Sinea, for her supposed role as my attendant. I’d asked the king, the man who refused to be introduced, and he’d?—