Page 15 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

Tyr pulls out a chair.

I hesitate, pulse drumming in my throat, then sit.

Before me, a feast. Rich, dark fruits spilling from a silver dish. Wine so deep it drinks the light. Tender meat draped in a sauce dark as nightshade. A meal befitting a ruler. A meal meant to be watched.

But I am no ruler.

I am a spectacle.

Still standing, Tyr sweeps a hand toward the gathered onlookers, a silent command for them to continue eating.

"I’m glad to see we’ve all made it to another season of the Maiden Trials." He turns to the nobles—both demon and human. "Your time is valuable, and I appreciate your willingness to humor me with this preliminary, unsanctioned trial."

His cape whispers as he pivots to face the table of potentials.

"Ladies," he says, voice smooth but weighted, measured enough to mean something different to each of them.

"For some of you, this was inevitable. Others are still finding your bearings, and that’s to be expected.

I want you to understand how much I value your willingness to participate in these Trials—to find our Maiden, to mend what was lost."

"Here, here!" a nobleman cheers from the far end of the table, louder than necessary, his voice cutting through the chamber. His clothes aren’t as fine as Tyr’s or Lorien’s or even most of the other wardens, but that doesn’t seem to concern him.

The others follow suit, raising their glasses and echoing the toast.

"Tell us about your favored one!" another calls out, emboldened by the wine, by the night, by the game they all think they understand.

A slow smile spreads across the demon king’s face.

"Now, now," Tyr murmurs, turning toward the speaker. "You know better than that, Lord Vaeth."

The warden grins back, sloppy and unconcerned, his shrug loose, indulgent—as if he’s already been in the wine well before it was served.

"For those unfamiliar, or those with subpar attendants"—Tyr’s voice carries easily over the gathered nobles, rich with amusement—"after the banquet, our potential Maidens will gather in the Gloaming Room. Once all chambers are prepared, they’ll be escorted inside, and the preliminary Trial will begin. If she succeeds, she’ll advance to the presenting ball tonight, where she’ll meet the rest of her fellow potentials from across the continent. ”

A ripple moves through the line of potentials—a nod here, a shift there, lace billowing in synchrony, as if they were trained for this, too.

"Good luck to all. Good luck to those placing wagers. And enjoy the feast. "

Tyr settles into his seat beside me without a sound—not even the whisper of silk.

"You wager on us?" I ask, keeping my voice as even as possible.

He reaches over his plate and plucks the knife from my trembling fist. "No stabbing kings, Amara."

I didn’t realize I was holding it. My fingers unclench, relaxing against the table, the knife lying inert where it had been poised for violence.

"I—I didn’t do that on purpose," I admit softly. He can’t see me as a threat. Not yet.

A dry, humorless laugh breaks the silence. "If I thought you had, I would have done more than lightly chide you."

"Be that as it may," I say, staring ahead, giving away nothing. "You wager on us."

"I do not." His voice is as smooth as ever. "Others… Well, I wouldn’t be a very effective king if I banned sporting fun, would I?"

He spears a hearty slab of meat and sets it on his plate. As soon as he lowers the serving fork, I reach for it—but before my fingers close around the handle, his hand blocks mine.

"That food is not for you."

Where is that bleeding knife?

"Excuse me?" My voice is pulled tight—over-tuned strings straining, waiting to snap.

"The food here is too rich. Too much fat, too much substance for someone accustomed to a peasant diet."

Peasant diet. That’s what he thinks we were fed.

"Peasants are at least allowed to grow their own food," I snarl, reaching for the fork again.

The meat glistens under the low light, and my mouth waters.

"You’re absolutely right." His tone is unbothered, but there’s something else there—a current beneath the words. "And that’s why you’re here, as I understand, isn’t it?"

A shudder runs through me. Not at his words. Not at anything happening now. But at the memory of being found.

The garden.

I remember the leaves pressing against my skin, the air thick with summer green and earth. I remember the guard’s hand, hard and unyielding, yanking me up—but then?

The memory stutters.

Something isn’t right.

I should remember the rest. But all I have is a gap, a sense of movement, of being carried, of nothing at all.

Tyr heaps sauce onto his meat, his voice light, as if the words mean nothing. "The guard said he found you in the most beauteous, lush garden he’s ever seen."

My stomach knots.

I try to untangle the strangeness echoing through me, but the more I grasp for it, the further it slips.

"Eat your bread and cheese, Amara. We’ll work up to more luxuriant foods."

On my plate—empty until now—rests a single slice of soft brown bread, a few hunks of cheese I can’t name, and a lone piece of unsauced, unseasoned meat.

I stare at it. Grateful for it. Angry about it. All in one breath.

"I want fruit," I demand.

A shadow of a smile—just at the edge of my periphery.

"I thought you might. But the fruit here is macerated—heavy with sugar and alcohol. It won’t sit right with you. And I want you at your strongest for the first Trial. "

I turn to him fully. He might not be able to see my eyes meeting his, but I know he can feel it.

"I want fruit," I insist. "If you’re going to control my diet, at least give me a piece of fruit, you beast."

A flicker. Something shifts in his usual half-lidded expression.

Barely a breath, but I catch it—the sharp rise of his brow.

"You can’t have this, but…"

His hand moves beneath his cape. The motion needles at me.

Familiar. Reminding me of…

I don’t know.

He pulls out a fat, purple-fleshed nyrelith fruit. With a flick of his blade, he scores the skin, breaking it open. The jewel-like pearls spill free, clattering against the table.

"Would you like some?"

A fork drops. Somewhere.

I don’t look. I’m locked into his mirrored eyes. Into the scent of that fruit.

"Yes," I whisper.

Tyr lifts the fruit to my lips. "Then take a bite." His voice burrows under my skin. "But only if it’s what you truly desire."

I grab his wrist with both hands and sink my teeth into the cool, seedy flesh.

It pops in my mouth—flavors exploding, a riot of taste and texture.

Tyr’s smile turns dark. Ominous.

"And now you belong to me."

The air shifts the moment I step inside.

The Gloaming Room is vast but hushed, like a temple where no gods remain.

Shadows pool thick in the high ceilings, refusing to be chased away by the pale, flickering lanterns suspended from the walls.

The flames burn low—not golden, but a ghostly blue, casting long, wavering silhouettes that seem to breathe against the stone.

Night-dark curtains spill from the domed ceiling, parting just enough to reveal the heavy, curved seating lining the room’s perimeter. Benches carved from the same obsidian as the walls, jut outward, polished smooth as if thousands of women have sat here before.

The silence should be absolute, but it isn’t. There’s a rustling, a shift—like fabric dragging against stone.

No one is moving.

At the center of the room, the floor sinks into a wide, circular depression—an arena, or maybe a stage. It’s inlaid with silver, reflecting the cold firelight, though something about it makes my skin itch. It isn’t decorative. It’s purposeful.

A waiting place. A proving ground. A threshold.

And despite the stillness, despite the silence, this room is watching.

"Kind of a stupid name," a potential across from me whispers. The woman next to her nudges her—a bid for silence, as the room demands.

But she’s right. Gloaming?

"It is a stupid name. What’s it supposed to mean?" I lean forward.

The woman across from me grins—broad, generous.

"It’s an old word for twilight," the woman beside me says, tilting her head to take in the draped ceiling. "A time between. A threshold. "

There’s a quality to her voice—confidence laced with a certain detachment.

"You must be Ashera," I say.

"Must I?"

That tone. That knowing.

"Someone warned me to stay away from you, but I think they were telling me shit to suit their purposes, not mine."

The woman turns to me, slow and deliberate, before slipping her hood back. The first of us to break the unspoken rule.

She’s radiant. Even in this darkness, her sharp gaze twinkles, her cheeks flushed as if she’s just been caught kissing someone she shouldn’t. Her lips—painted deep rose—complete the image of stolen time, stolen kisses.

Now I understand. Sinea wasn’t exaggerating. Ashera is devastating.

I can’t look away.

Instead, I mirror her, lowering my own hood—revealing my face for the first time, as we’re only allowed to do in the company of other potentials.

Ashera nods. "You’re pretty enough. Smile for me?"

I give her a tight-lipped smile.

"With teeth."

I bare them at her more than smile.

She nods, studying me like Mother eyeing her favorite dress—considering whether it will burn long enough, whether it’s worth the sacrifice. "Good teeth. Good smile. Big, expressive gaze. The wardens and nobles will back the king’s chosen favorite, no doubt."

She pauses, waiting for me to rebut, but I have nothing to say.

"Too bad you’ll still lose." Her voice is light, an afterthought .

I almost cross my arms but stop myself. "And what makes you think that?"

Ashera lifts a shoulder. "Because I’m here, obviously."

She says it like a fact. No ego. No malice. As if she’s reporting the weather.

"Hm. Well, if you’re so certain of your status, giving us lesser potentials a few hints should be no issue, right?"

A slow smile curves her lips. Cheeks dimpling. Eyes crinkling.

"All right. Why not?"