Page 17 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

Their touch lingers.

Even now, in my too-quiet bedchamber, with too much and not enough air, I can feel them.

What did I just do?

My mind flashes to that place, the feeling of being lowered, the shadows peeling away, slowly, lingering.

A lover’s reluctance.

The cold floor seeps into my fevered flesh.

I don’t know how long I lay on that stone, nude, shuddering.

A pile of used up flesh wondering what she ever did to incite such a strange horror.

A horror that made her want more and more—so much more it broke her open, screaming and gasping.

Writhing like a desperate, crazed thing.

A shrill chirrup brings me crashing back—that stupid green bird watching me from the windowsill.

I flinch under its gaze, yanking torn lace over myself before stumbling to the wardrobe.

As I move, gaze tracking the stilled shadows clinging to the edges where furniture meets concave wall, I can’t help but feel the wrongness in this place.

As if I’d ignored it until now, only marking the most notable oddities—breathing shadows, watchful lights, spying mirrors.

Nothing in this place feels right—feels safe.

I shudder and yank the sleeping clothes onto my body.

My mind spins, trying to suppress and relive all at once.

Hands help me off the floor, guiding me. Putting my slippered foot on the silver markings—and then I’m instantly in my room, like waking up without having ever slept.

Shattered fucking realms, what did I do?

What did I allow them to do to me?

No. Not them.

Him.

Yes.

I latch on to that face, that smile, that silvery scar. I dig in deep. He did this. His castle. His shadows.

Ice splinters my veins, seizing in my chest as I consider what that means.

What if they were his shadows? What if it was him? Actually Tyr. He’s the king of bleeding Shadowfell for Dama’s sake.

But even if they weren’t his shadows, what if he watched?

What if he did nothing?

I pull the festering thought in deep, letting it rot in me. Because this venom, this wrath, is easier than the guilt.

My thighs still quiver with what they— he —did, and my mind flashes to that final moment. When the shadows took what I had only ever given freely to one other. Stroking and coaxing and stealing .

I never knew anything could feel so good…

And thinking that feels like a deeper violation.

"I see you survived." Sinea’s causal tone rips me from the memory .

I spin around, meeting her gaze. "Get. Out." It’s a snarl, a command. A feeble attempt at regaining some amount of control.

I know it. She does, too.

"Sorry, lovely. I have to get your ready for the presentation ball."

Presentation…

But that was supposed to be later this evening.

How long had I been in that chamber? With those shadows?

I step back. "There’s no way. I’m not—I can’t." I take a breath, filling my lungs completely and focus on the concern in Sinea’s shimmering gaze. "I cannot endure more eyes on me. Not after what that chamber..."

She nods, a sad smile lifting her lips. "I know. It’s why that one matters so much. Why I kept it secret. If you can gather your strength and wits and let me shine you up for the ball… If you can show them their paltry little test didn’t break you, you’ll already be on the winning road."

I scan her face, searching…

For the first time since meeting her, Sinea tells me the truth, unabridged. Unmarred by her own motives.

I glance down at my clothes, the torn scraps of lace still gripped in my fist like some vestige of dignity and give her a single nod. "What do I do?"

After another bath and Sinea insisting I put a chilled vegetable on my eyes to "depuff" them, she looks at me in the wardrobe mirror, hands on her hips, appraising her handiwork .

"Well, that’s the best I can do for now," she says of the pile of curls cascading down my back.

"How am I supposed to wear the hooded veil on top of this?"

"You’re not.” She makes a show of fluffing the bottom curls. "Tonight is the one time outside of an official Trial that potentials from every vestige will be in public unveiled."

"Seems arbitrary."

Sinea stops finessing my hair. "Does it? What sense does a presentation make if all the potentials look the same behind a veil?"

I nod, pushing down the twinge of worry taking root in my gut. I’d taken solace and strength from being unperceived. Faceless.

"Now, the dress." Sinea heaves dramatically and knocks on the aetherglass.

"While you’re in there, you think you can find me something else to wear besides sleeping garments and panels of lace?"

She ignores me, pulling out a long, sweeping gown of the oddest material.

"It’s called shadow-silk." Her whisper is almost as soft as the rustling fabric. "It’s only made in Shadowfell. Let’s get it on so you can see the full effect."

Sinea lets the gown pool on the floor, something I wouldn’t have the nerve to do, and waits for me to step into it. She shimmies it up my body.

"What do you think?" she asks as she zips it up the back.

It’s far more fabric than I was expecting—high neck cradling my jaw and chin—black lace caressing the skin just below my cheekbones.

The sleeves hug my arms tight, coming to a sharp point at the back of my hands and palms. But what snares my gaze is the dark silver threadwork tracing patterns down my arms, my sides—I turn—and my spine.

The gown isn’t as tightly tailored as the potential dress, only cinching at the waist before flaring out into a full, layered skirt of midnight blue, purple, and the deepest black.

It’s beautiful. Regal even.

"Let them look," I say.

Sinea’s gaze flicks up to meet mine in the mirror, and a wide smile splits her face in two. "Now that you’ve passed the preliminary Trial," she says, ushering me to the door, "more of the keep is open to you."

She lifts my hand and waves it in front of the chamber door. It swings open.

She points to the threshold.

"Was that always there?" I ask of the inlaid silver script along the stone floor. It matches the script in the Gloaming Room. And…

The threadwork on my sleeves.

"In time you’ll learn how to tell it where you want to go, but for now, if the script appears shimmery like it is now, it’s the keep telling you where you need to be."

“Shadowfell wants me at the ball?"

Sinea shrugs. "In a manner of speaking. Go on, step on the script, and you’ll appear in the center of the ball."

I put a toe on the shimmering silver and pause. "You’re not coming?"

She smiles at me. Sweet and wide. "No lovely. This moment is all yours."

She nudges me forward, my other foot brushing the symbols, and before I fully register the shift in Sinea’s features, I’m already dead center in a crowded ballroom .

Chandeliers sparkle overhead, heavy with drops of obsidian and quartz. Their spiked crystal formations catch the candlelight, refracting jagged edges of gold and violet across the polished floors.

Lining the far wall, towering arched windows stretch toward the domed ceiling, their dark panes rippling with the aether-lit sky beyond. The mist clings in restless ribbons, glowing softly in shades of pale and deep blue.

And despite the view, I still feel every eye on me.

Heat spreads under my skin, prickling, tightening, until my dress feels too thin, my flesh too bare. My breath catches—too many people, too many greedy gazes gobbling me up like I’m the feast.

I scan the crowd, searching for other potentials. For hoods and veils. It would be just like Sinea to undercut me by weaving a convincing story about not needing a veil.

I swallow hard, tucking my hands in my skirts before they give me away.

I’m not seeing any familiar faces, just demanding, unnerving stares of demon and human nobles.

Finally, I spot Ashera, her face uncovered, standing in the distance like an unshaken pillar.

Relief rushes in, loosening my spine. I let out a slow breath, squashing the unfounded fear. If Ashera is bare-faced, then it must be allowed.

I snag her attention, and her gaze goes wide. It’s only for a moment and then she’s on the move. Toward me.

Dama’s bloodied chains, she moves like a secret whispered between gods.

Where the other gowns obscure, hers seems to command attention, the rich red fabric flowing around her like it was forged of flame and memories.

The way she carries herself—spine long, shoulders poised—isn’t just confidence, it’s certainty.

She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter. Every step is purposeful, like the world shifts around her instead of the other way around.

Something catches the corner of my eye, a trick of the light against my skirt—too bright, too sharp. It’s gone before I turn my head, so I step out of the silver ring to meet Ashera.

A muffled laugh snares my attention. Not for any reason I could name—only that it felt aimed at me. I ignore the instinct, telling myself it’s nerves. And I believe it. Until I catch a leering stare from a noble.

Then another.

And then the pursed lips and judgmental up and down stare of another potential.

I lock eyes with Ashera—still making her way through the crowd—asking. She answers by tilting her head slightly left.

I follow her gaze to an enormous gilt mirror propped along the closest wall. No one stands between me and it, so I can clearly see all the dark-as-night fabric of the dress I fancied as armor, more protective than the veil, is entirely sheer under the ballroom lights.

I’m on display. Breasts, nipples, even the patch of hair between my thighs—all presented between two embroidered hands, cupping my sides.

Like I’m some befouled offering of flesh.

A sickened heat rolls through me, crawling up my throat. My stomach clenches, twisting tight, as if rejecting the sight before me. My hands twitch at my sides, aching to claw the fabric off my body, to cover myself?—

But I don’t. I can’t.

Sinea.

She knew.

The change I sensed just before arriving here .

When I see that loathsome little fae?—