Page 14 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

"Stand up straight!" Sinea whispers.

I try my hardest not to vomit on the polished floor.

"And arriving only a few days ago, our last potential Maiden—Amara DeTiri!"

The voice booms from somewhere in the glut of bodies, and my mouth floods with saliva.

Not now. Not here.

Every eye in the hall turns to me.

"Do not embarrass me," Sinea hisses.

Too late.

The strange way of traveling plus the sudden swell of attention and eyes on me is just too much. I turn and heave into the corner.

At least my stomach was empty and none of the demons in attendance laced their cheering voices with magic.

Thin comfort, but comfort all the same.

When the spasms pass, I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and straighten.

I have a choice. I can let this ruin me, or I can twist it to my favor .

And I didn’t come here to lose.

"Apologies," I say sweetly, mimicking Sinea’s deference when she spoke to the demon king and dip my head just enough to feign submission. "I don’t do well with crowds."

I pause—just long enough for them to draw their own conclusions.

"If only my attendant had warned me I’d be meeting so many today, I might have been better prepared."

Sinea stiffens beside me.

The crowd’s attention shifts to her.

She laughs—thin, forced, uncomfortable. Then, through her teeth, "You’re going to pay for that."

"Come now. Let’s make way for our last potential."

The voice is silk-smooth, commanding—utterly foreign. Yet the attendees obey without hesitation, the crowd parting like water before a current.

At the end of the path stands a demon king.

Not him.

Not the white-haired, coal-eyed king whose voice drags me under even when I fight it. Whose presence is a snare, a slow, inescapable pull.

This king is warmth.

Golden hair. Shining eyes. A smile generous enough to fill the space between us.

He extends a hand.

He’s asking.

Not pulling. Not demanding. Just waiting.

And so I answer.

One foot in front of the other, ignoring the people on either side of me.

Focused only on the king in front of me.

He wears thick damask, with gold-threaded embellishments. Fabric that doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe—fabric meant for rooms warmed by hearth fires, not the raw bite of winter.

I know those fabrics.

Brocade, damask—thick enough to trap warmth, thick enough to burn slow.

We fed dresses like those to the fire once. Gold-threaded hems curling into blackened ruin before the flames took the rest. The silk went first, fast and greedy. The heavier fabrics lasted longer.

Like embers that refused to die.

The memory drifts at the edge of my thoughts, curling like the gold-stitched embroidery on his sleeves. Heat against cold. Wealth against ruin. Then and now.

But the moment is already slipping. Already shifting. Because he meets my gaze fully.

And I forget everything but that.

"Hello," I say when I reach him, the rest of the hall blurring into nothing.

His smile deepens with ease—radiating effortless charm, effortless perfection, like a storybook prince made real. The blue in his eyes twinkles with delight as he bends my wrist, brushing it with his lips.

"Hello, Amara. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you."

His words whisper across my skin, punctuated with a brief, careful kiss.

"Likewise."

"Walk with me?" he asks, offering his elbow.

I take it without hesitation. "Certainly."

He turns us, leading me toward the outskirts of the hall. The clamor of conversation softens as we move, the gilded glow of chandeliers giving way to the cooler hush of shadowed alcoves. The scent of wine, spice, and candlewax lingers thick in the air .

"I’d be careful about making an enemy of your attendant," he says. "Sinea is ruthless when the mood strikes."

"Sinea has done her damnedest to undermine my confidence since the moment she met me. She made an enemy of me, not the other way around."

The king laughs. Soft. Melodious. A sound that belongs to him.

"That may be true, but she is only doing things the way they were done?—"

"Yes, yes. She’s attending to me the way she was attended," I say, sharper than I mean to, cutting him off. "But as I pointed out to her, the way she was trained didn’t win her the Trials, did it?"

The Golden King laughs again, easy and knowing. "I can see why he favors you."

His gaze glimmers, brow quirked, like he’s waiting for me to ask the question.

"Who?"

"Me."

The voice settles inside me, deep. Like the sound unraveled the lace and skin and found a new home beneath both.

I turn to meet the demon king.

All black silk and white hair, smelling of that dark, entrancing fragrance that tempts me to inhale deeper.

Gooseflesh rises down my back and legs as I meet his gaze.

"You favor me?" I ask.

"I do. In fact, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. But we’ll come to that in time, I’m sure."

Standing between two demon kings only sharpens the contrast.

One is golden light. The other, shadows spun into flesh .

One wears brocade and thick finery like armor. The other moves like he has no need for it—like he’s the weapon.

"Tyr," the golden king says smoothly. Perhaps a touch too smoothly. "Thank you once more for inviting me to your opening banquet."

Tyr.

That’s his name.

It’s sharp, commanding. Unorthodox in a way that suits him.

The demon king pauses, his gaze flicking to me before responding.

"Nonsense," he says, but his voice isn’t dismissive. It’s weighted. Heavy enough to crush. "No thanks required. You know you’re always welcome in Shadowfell, Lorien."

I shudder at the venom in his tone. He spat the other king’s name.

"Now, now, Tyr." Lorien’s voice drips honey over steel. "Let’s not lose our temper in front of all your guests."

A terrible, invisible weight settles over me. The kind that says I don’t belong in this conversation. That I am a fool for standing between two kings with a history I don’t understand.

Lorien smiles, slow and knowing. "Especially not before she’s found out the truth."

"Truth?" My eyes dart between them, searching for meaning in their faces. Trying to strip their words bare. But all I find is contempt, thick as blood.

"The truth, dear girl, that the Shadow King himself is only using you for his own power mongering."

I sigh. Deep and slow, almost unbothered.

"Pardon me, but I’d already worked that out on my own. And also, I’m not a girl," I say sweetly, letting my voice dip into that familiar, deferent tone. I bow my head just enough .

Lorien watches me before stretching his mouth into a dazzling smile. Too dazzling. Heat rises in my cheeks, as if his warmth is something real, something pressing against my skin.

"Quite right, Amara. Please accept my apology."

"Why don’t you ask him why?" The demon king’s words are meant for the three of us alone. "Why I’m amassing power."

I turn to gaze at him, and suddenly feel as though I’m locked in time. Feet rooted to the polished floor, the din of other conversations melt away as the Shadow King’s eyes meet mine.

The corner of his mouth lifts into the barest hint of a smile.

But before I can speak, the moment shatters.

"There you are!"

Sinea’s voice cuts through the tension. Her face is flushed, hair a touch too tousled.

"I’ve been searching for you everywhere!”

I smile at her, brilliant and false. “The Golden King was kind enough to walk me around the hall.”

Sinea purses her lips, straightening slightly before bowing quickly to both kings at my sides. “Your Majesties,” she says, before turning to me. “We need to ascend to the tables so the feast can begin."

"Actually, Sinea, as you’re not effectively performing your duties, I think Amara will dine with me,” the Shadow King says and his words swirl around me, cold as snowfall on the wind.

Sinea’s jaw drops before she herself drops into a genuine, deep bow. "As you wish, Majesty."

The demon king—Tyr—takes my hand, places it on his arm, and leads me away from the still-bowing Sinea and Golden King.

I’m tempted to look back. I don’t.

As we approach the main area, demons—dressed in their finery—and potential Maidens alike, part for us. I try not to notice the weight in their gaze, the lift in their brow as they dutifully move, but internally judge.

Who is she to have the Shadow King’s favor?

I can almost hear them thinking it.

Instead of screaming that I’m just as baffled as they are, I focus on the room. The lights…

Chandeliers casting their glow over the grand hall, firelight splintering against the obsidian walls in jagged refractions. The interplay of flame and shadow turns the space into something both opulent and treacherous—a kingdom carved from darkness, its riches swallowed whole by the stone.

We move through the crowd, and when their weighty stares press against me once more, I pay attention to the tables.

Long tables stretching across the floor, draped in black silks, their surfaces gleaming with polished silver, dishes piled high with spiced meats and jewel-bright fruits, goblets brimming with blood-dark wine.

But Tyr doesn’t lead me to the long table where the other potentials sit, nor to the one where Lorien has taken his place among the vestige nobility. Instead, he moves forward, his stride sure, his grip on my arm light but inescapable. A smaller, singular table waits at the head of the room.

A place apart.

A place of judgment .

My stomach knots. As we ascend the slight rise, whispers scatter through the room like falling embers. Eyes press into me from all sides, the weight now suffocating.

They are meant to look. Meant to see.

I don’t need to turn my head to know Lorien is watching. I can feel it, steady and unreadable. From the corner of my eye, he lifts his goblet, slow and measured, and something in the motion sets my nerves on edge.

At the potentials’ table, a hush pulls tight, subtle but undeniable. The scrape of silver against porcelain falters. A goblet lingers midair before returning to the table, untouched. Their faces remain veiled, their hoods drawn low, but the shift in the room is unmistakable.