Page 16 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

None of the other potentials lift their veiling hoods, but every one of them leans forward, hungry for whatever kernels of wisdom Ashera is about to loose.

She takes her time. Draws out the moment. Then?—

"If my training as a Graceborn taught me anything, it’s this: every interaction, every conversation, every moment is a dance. Power and control. Who has it. Who doesn’t. Who wants it. Learn to read those cues, and you’ll be set."

I tilt my head. "Sure, but everyone knows that."

When she doesn’t offer more, I push. "No, sorry, Ashera. We want something practical."

She exhales, as if debating whether to humor me. Then?—

"They say the Trials are about finding the Maiden. But they’re not."

The whole room tenses. Hangs on her words.

"It’s about becoming her. Relinquishing control to embody her fully, completely, entirely."

I have no idea what that means.

"Demons want the woman who will bring them back to their full power." She leans in just slightly. "And I aim to be the woman who’ll do that. "

I glance toward the other potentials, trying to gauge their reactions.

Their veils give nothing away.

I should have kept mine up, too.

Demons aren’t out to destroy the Maiden, they want to facilitate her birth. Does that mean she can’t end the Frozen King’s hold on Tiriana?

I chew on the inside of my mouth as silence falls once more, cold and monotonous.

I could use some wraithbloom.

Instead of focusing on everything I don’t know, I pass the time by counting the lanterns.

Ten.

Then the panels of fabric.

Forty-three, though some seams are harder to spot than others.

Whatever Ashera meant, if there was anything useful buried beneath her mystic horseshit, I’m sure I’ll figure it out once I’m in the Trial chamber.

And if not, then she isn’t as grand as she was made out to be.

But what piques my interest most isn’t the Trial itself, but why it even exists. Whatever I’m about to face—whatever this unsanctioned test is—it’s only for the Shadowfell potentials.

And that means it serves a purpose.

But whose?

And speaking of Tyr…

What the shattered realms was that display with the nyrelith fruit?

You belong to me now.

The way he said it, as if simply saying it made it true …

He can get fucked right back to whatever forsaken realm his gods threw him out of.

"Potentials, the time has come."

The voice comes from behind a curtain I’d mistaken for a solid wall. A woman steps through, pushing the fabric aside to reveal a hidden doorway and another obsidian corridor stretching beyond.

We stand in unison.

"Please step toward the center of the room," she instructs.

"Here we go," Ashera murmurs beside me.

"Oh, for the love of the Priestess, put your hoods up, veils down.”

Ashera and I exchange a glance before doing as we’re told.

"Now, place your right foot on the silver inscriptions."

I’m the only one who hesitates.

"It’s like a nether transit bay," someone murmurs. "It’ll take us where we’re going. Instant travel."

Fantastic. My favorite.

I press the tip of my slippered toe to the inlaid silver.

"Now the left foot."

"See you on the other side," Ashera says—then vanishes.

One by one, the other potentials follow, disappearing soundlessly. Until it’s just me and the woman left in the Gloaming Room.

"Go on, Amara." Her voice is gentler now, but no less firm. "Wasting time won’t make it any easier."

I swallow around the pit lodged in my throat, ball my fists in my robe, and step forward.

The sensation isn’t what I expect.

Not a pull. Not a tug. Not even the vaguest sense of motion .

One breath, I’m in the Gloaming Room.

And then—I’m somewhere else.

The dim blue haze is gone.

The light here is different—low and golden, almost amber, emanating from the glowing veins laced through the walls. Shadows stretch long, thick against the stone, clinging to every surface.

I scan the space, cataloging everything. The door. The lack of windows. The absence of aetherglass—no way to conjure anything useful.

No furniture.

No obvious exit.

Nothing but me and the room.

And the shadows.

They move.

No. Not move. Shift. Settle. Rearrange themselves in a way that makes my skin prickle.

I stretch out a hand—and they even swallow that.

What am I supposed to do here?

I’m missing something.

I must be.

My gaze flicks from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, searching for the answer—searching for anything. But the room is empty.

No doors. No hidden mechanisms. Nothing to decipher or unlock.

The trial has already begun.

Shadows swirl at my ankles, brushing against my skin like breath. I swear I feel it, a ghost of sensation curling around my calf—a whispered touch, a kiss tracing a path up my leg.

My heart kicks, hard.

The shadow tightens .

A sharp squeeze, painful, deliberate.

I stumble backward, trying to shake it off, kick it away—but the shadows don’t let go. They cling, twist, pull.

Panic spears through me.

How in the bleeding dark do you fight a shadow?

I try to conjure Ashera’s words—becoming the Maiden—but it made no sense then, just as it doesn’t now.

My chest constricts, gripping me with fear unlike I’ve ever known.

Not seeing women murdered before me.

Not watching my father die.

Not even standing before my first demon, his coal-dark eyes, his white hair ? —

The memory tilts, shifts. And then it’s gone.

The shadow winds higher, a crushing spiral. It shouldn’t scare me more than any of those things—but my body reacts like it’s trying to filet me alive.

What is this?

I drag in a breath. Another. Then another, forcing my heartbeat down.

The shadow loosens to a glide, curling over my leg in smooth, effortless sweeps.

Not pleasant. But no longer crushing.

It’s reacting to me.

Amplifying what I feel.

Feeding off of it.

It twists around my knee, faster now, lighter, a featherlight touch, like fingers tracing skin.

Are the shadows some kind of mirror? A test to see if I can control my emotions?

It seems plausible. But that doesn’t fit.

Not when the first thing I thought was that it felt intimate .

It circles my thigh now, stroking the skin. Slow. Intentional.

My stomach drops. A heavy, sinking realization settles in my bones.

I know what this shadow wants.

Claws dig in, biting deep.

Pain lances through me, and I yelp, stumbling—but the shadows hold fast.

I suck in a breath. Try again. Another. Steady, steady, steady. But it’s not so easy when the pain is blinding.

Figure it out, Amara. You have to get through this trial.

A tune tumbles from my lips, soft, familiar—a melody Mother used to hum to Vella and me when we were sick.

"Da da dum da da," I whisper, the notes barely more than breath. "Da da da dum dum."

I repeat it.

"Da da dum da da. Da da da dum dum."

The words are lost to time, but the tune does what it’s meant to

It slows my breathing, anchoring me in the quiet stillness of that frozen, desolate place.

The shadows shudder, and the claws retract, smoothing over the skin they had just abused.

"Dama’s hand," I whisper with a shudder of relief.

But the moment doesn’t last.

More shadows coil around me. My wrists. My waist. My throat.

I keep humming. Keep the tune alive inside my head, letting it settle in my breath, my body.

The shadows skim my flesh, pulling, coaxing, darkness tugging at me, cool and whisper-soft. The touches now featherlight, soothing, almost comforting.

A false comfort .

I know how quickly gentleness turns brutal.

But I don’t think about that. I can’t.

I have to live inside this moment. Let the shadows believe I am still, pliant, open.

They skim over me, over every inch, and suddenly?—

I’m not standing anymore.

I’m floating.

Suspended, held, supported entirely by the shadows pressing into my skin.

And that…

That excites me.

And the shadows notice .

Their touch deepens.

A slow, deliberate drag down my arms, pooling at my elbows before curling around my waist. Warm, cool, electric all at once.

I inhale, sharp and shallow.

And they press closer.

I don’t move, don’t breathe too deeply.

A slow, circling touch along my thigh.

My pulse slams against my ribs.

It’s a mistake, reacting. I know that now. But I can hardly control that.

The shadows pulse in response. Tighter. Bolder. A teasing stroke up my leg, a slow, lingering drag across my stomach. Not chaotic. Purposeful. Curious. As if they’re learning me. A sharp tug at my waist, and I gasp?—

The shadows tighten to the brink of pain, just brushing that line.

I shudder.

It shouldn’t feel good. It shouldn’t.

But heat rushes low in my body, pooling deep. I feel it in my pulse, my fingertips, the back of my knees—everywhere .

They sense it.

They like it.

The shadows explore, stroke, coax. Light as breath one moment, firm and insistent the next.

My breath drags out of me, sharp and jagged shudders cresting with each new sensation.

I should fight it. I should fear it.

But I don’t move. I don’t pull away.

I don’t want to.

I press my thighs together—another mistake.

The shadows notice instantly and adjust.

A cool glide along my collarbone. A slow, deliberate drag down my spine. Pressure at the curve of my waist, my hip, the inside of my thigh.

I inhale sharply.

They tighten, sharpen , threading pain through pleasure like a perfectly knotted snare, coaxing a ripple of sensation—of building tension and pressure. It spills through me, sinking deep, wrapping around my ribs.

This isn’t happening.

It can’t be happening.

I try to step back, to shake them off?—

But the shadows won’t let me go.

They wind higher, biting, coaxing. A slow, circling stroke around my throat. A teasing pull at my bodice—lace splits, the sharp rip cutting through the quiet.

I choke down a sound—fear, frustration, something else I won’t name.

The shadows react to that, too.

They know.

They can feel it, sense it. My heartbeat, my breath, the heat rushing under my skin.

I press my lips together. Lock it down. Suppress whatever they’re looking for.

But that only makes them hungrier.

A shadow tugs at my wrists. Another at my hips. Cool air on my now-exposed flesh.

And now I know.

The shadows aren’t just testing.

They’re playing.

They want me to react.

The realization sends heat rolling through me, deep and treacherous. And my own body betrays me with a shudder I can’t control and a sharp inhale that gives me away.

And the shadows tighten, claws biting deep in response.

I go still.

Not because I want this.

Not because I accept it.

Because to win, I have to understand it.

The shadows sense the change immediately.

Their grip shifts—less force, less raking, more lure. Their touch turns lazy, indulgent. The barest hint of pressure where they know I’ll feel it most.

A sound slips from me before I can catch it, and the shadows shudder in response.

They tighten in that exquisite, torturous way—like a velvet noose drawing ever closer, promising ruin with a whisper.

Heat licks up my spine, slow and merciless, like ink bleeding through paper—sinking in, staining deep, impossible to take back.

My heartbeat stumbles. My breath catches.

And the shadows tighten once more, needy, greedy.

A pulse of sensation spills through me, shivering over my skin. I don’t know if it’s pain or pleasure, only that it’s too much.

And not enough.

I gasp .

That’s all it takes.

The shadows press closer, heavier. They know.

They know.

A slow stroke along my ribs. A teasing pull at my waist, my thighs, the fragile edges of control I have left.

They want more.

They want everything.

And I…

I don’t stop them.