Page 18 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

"Amara, so lovely to see this much of you," Ashera says sharply.

The words strike like a whip, biting into my exposed skin, and the heat in my cheeks flares hotter, a sick flush of shame threatening to drown me. The weight of every gaze, every murmur, every leering smirk presses in, caging me in the moment, making it small, making me small.

But then I meet Ashera’s eyes.

Not mocking. Not pitying. Calculating.

She’s baiting me.

The shift is subtle, a flick of her lashes, the faintest curve of her lips, but I see it for what it is—an opening.

I inhale slowly, the burn of humiliation hardening into something sharper, deadlier. I let my lashes lower, let my lips part, and when I smile, it’s slow. Knowing.

"I knew I couldn’t compete with you otherwise," I say, pitching my voice soft, threading it with something dangerously close to reverence.

The air between us changes.

Her perfect mouth quirks, the practiced edge of her smile slipping into something looser, more genuine. Approval, I realize, flickering behind her gaze.

"You flatter me," she murmurs, offering me her arm. "Care to stroll around the room with me?"

I slide my hand into the crook of her elbow, lifting my chin as I turn to the crowd like I meant for all of this—every scandalous inch of it.

"I’d be delighted."

She walks us to the outskirts of the room, not positioning me closest to the wall, not shielding me from sight, but displaying me as if this was the plan all along.

"Thank you," I murmur, gaze drifting to the vaulted ceiling. A painted nightmare of shifting constellations and shadowy figures interwoven with silver threadwork, as if the night sky itself were stitched together and barely holding.

"Don’t thank me. Thank whoever made you that dress."

I scoff. "I’ll be doing something to her. Thanking isn’t it."

Ashera shakes her head. "I would. She’s pushed you to position yourself perfectly."

My turn to shake my head. "What?—"

A pair of nobles crane their necks as they pass us by.

I lower my voice. “What do you mean?”

"I mean, she forced you to prove your mettle. After the Shadow King named you his favored, plenty of potentials from Shadowfell were angling for your throat. But now they see you’re out for blood in a fucking dress like that…

Well, the only better position you could be in is if you were me.

" Her voice is low, rich with something deeper than sound, a weight that brushes against the skin. That lingers.

The flickering light catches the faintest shimmer in her sleeves as she lifts a hand, and even the most subtle motion draws the eye. She doesn’t need finery, jewels, or titles to mark her as different. Power clings to her, settles in the space around her.

And now, by proximity alone, it clings to me, too.

“Has your attendant primed you on the kings?” Ashera asks, her voice smooth as glass, her gaze sweeping the room—not as if she’s merely looking, but weighing, testing.

For power.

Not power as in magic. Power in presence. Power in prestige.

"Sinea has an interesting way of teaching me."

A soft, resonant laugh—low enough that it barely carries beyond us. "What a natural you are. Hedging your answer so skillfully. "

Her grip shifts, her arm tightening around mine, slow, deliberate. Not a squeeze. A command. She adjusts our pace, steering us farther into the ballroom’s edge, where shadows soften the golden light.

"Have no fear, Amara. I won’t report to her anything we’ve spoken of here."

A kindness wrapped in steel. A reassurance meant to remind me who holds the knife.

I nod. Not in thanks, but in understanding. I still won’t say anything about Sinea’s guidance. That would cede too much control. And I plan to be the one who decides how she pays.

“Shall I give you a lay of the courts?”

I meet her gaze just as we pass another gilt mirror—identical to the last, yet…not. This time, I stand taller. My shoulders drawn back, my spine long. But beyond our reflections, something else shifts.

The guests’ stares.

No longer consuming. No longer flaying and mocking. Their whispers have changed texture.

“The nobles both demon and human—” I start to ask but Ashera interrupts.

“Demon nobles are called wardens, Amara.”

I nod and before I can ask my question, she continues.

"If you’d rather I didn’t tell you the names of the different kings…”

"No, no. Thank you," I say smoothly. "I appreciate it very much. But it does beg the question. Why? Why help me before? Why now?"

She pauses mid-step, stilling me with a look. The kind of look that searches—for weakness, for something worth answering.

"Because you inspire great pity. "

I let the words settle. Let her think they landed. Then I lift my chin, tilting my head just so. "If this is how you help those you pity…"

Ashera beams, the corners of her eyes crinkling in genuine delight. A victory for her. A victory for me.

"When I win, Amara, I want to be absolutely certain I did so with no reservations. Not because you were ill-prepared or sabotaged."

We hold the moment. Neither breaking first.

Then, as if nothing had passed between us, we continue circling the hall.

"We’ll be presented to each of the six kings of the continent one at a time," Ashera continues, her voice slipping back into effortless poise. "We’ll meet each individually for a few moments before moving on. You’ll be expected to grasp their hand, bow low, and tell them something about yourself."

Dama’s hand. Sinea didn’t just keep things from me. She’s been undermining me at every turn, stacking the board against me while I wasn’t even looking.

She could have given me something useful—a whisper of insight, a morsel of knowledge. What each king favors. What they despise.

Instead, she gave me a spectacle. A dress that painted me like an offering.

"Is that all?" I say, mild as milk, my voice smooth over raw nerves.

Ashera chuckles, sharp and knowing. "That’s all," she says. But her eyes flick over me, catching the way my words don’t match the weight of what she’s just revealed.

"Boring," I say. "But that’s what we must do."

"Indeed." She shifts the conversation without effort, without care, as if my discomfort isn’t worth lingering on. "King Morvain Duskborne rules Nightfall vestige.”

Easy. Duskborne. Nightfall.

"Then there’s King Varek Thorne of Ebonhold vestige.”

Nothing obvious about that one. I’ll have to muscle it into memory.

"King Sareth Draven, Dreadhaven."

Draven. Dread. Got it.

"And lastly, King Kaelar Vhast of Veilspire. Judging by the banquet, you’re already well acquainted with King Lorien Marosyn and King Tarenvyr Vyrenhall of?—"

"Ashera."

A voice cuts through the conversation, the kind that expects—demands—attention.

I turn my head, and she’s already there.

A potential I haven’t seen before, standing in our path like she was always meant to be. The shimmer of her gown—champagne bubbles catching the light—makes a striking contrast to the rich depth of her skin. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t wait.

Before Ashera can acknowledge her, the woman flings her arms tight around her neck.

"Emile!" Ashera’s voice is lighter, warmer than I’ve ever heard it. "I—I didn’t know you’d been chosen!" She buries her face in the woman’s luxurious curls.

I shift to the side, giving them space.

But as they break apart, Emile turns to me, her gaze sliding over me with idle curiosity—until it sharpens. I recognize that shift. It’s the moment—I’ve learned—a woman stops seeing another as inconsequential.

She takes my hand before I offer it. "Who’s your friend?" she asks. Then, with a slow, knowing wink, she says, "Love the dress. "

"Be nice," Ashera coos. "This is Amara."

The two exchange a look, words unspoken but understood. And then—a shift.

Emile straightens, just slightly. The hum of easy warmth dulls, shifting into something cooler. I’ve been assessed. Registered.

"We were bonds at Graceborn," Ashera says smoothly.

"Oh, how novel." I match Emile’s tone, the polite emptiness of it. "I can leave you two to catch up, if you prefer."

She doesn’t respond. Just watches. Measuring.

Ashera waves a hand. "Nonsense. We’ll simply expand into a threesome." Her tone is light, but her positioning is not.

She guides Emile to her right, me to her left. And I don’t miss the detail—Emile walks closest to the wall.

I file it away.

Who is being positioned for what?

"So, tell me," I say at last, my voice carefully neutral. "What is Graceborn?"

Emile scoffs. It isn’t cruel. It’s incredulous.

"How do you not know?"

"She’s from Tiriana," Ashera answers.

I don’t bother watching the realization dawn in Emile’s deep brown, kohl-rimmed eyes. Or the pity that follows.

"It’s the academy all future King’s Veils attend."

Do I dare ask another question?

Emile doesn’t wait.

"King’s Veils," she continues, gesturing across the ballroom, "are the inevitable end to all this."

"Esteemed guests," an amplified voice booms across the ballroom. Clear, commanding, unmistakable. The woman from the shadow chamber .

A shudder threads down my spine, but I suppress it.

The crowd hushes, eyes snapping to the center of the room.

"Maidens, please make your way to the perimeter of the ballroom. Guests, you’ll be allowed to witness the formal presentation to the continent’s kings this year."

A riot of cheers explodes through the room—loud, sudden, a roar that rattles my bones. I steady against Ashera, and she, graciously, doesn’t comment.

Again, I’m thankful there’s no magic in the demon’s voices.

Someone must have told them to be on their best behavior.

"Yes, yes. It’s very exciting," the woman continues, tone dry with amusement. "The Maiden Council asks that you remain quiet during the formal presentation so that all may hear each potential’s response."

The crowd murmurs—whether in agreement or discontent, I can’t tell.

"We also ask that you refrain from wagering until after all the potentials have been presented."

Wagering. Again.