Page 20 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

Tyr.

Shattered stars, he’s?—

Heat rises through me as I see him fully, possibly for the first time.

The other kings, they display their power, wearing it like great bleeding holes in the world.

But Tyr…

He doesn’t wear his like a trophy or some measure of his worth. It clings to him, precise, restrained. And that—that is a choice.

He could be like them. He has the capacity, the power. But he isn’t.

Why?

A flicker of amusement lingers in his gaze as I stare.

Dama’s chains, his beauty is unrelenting. Ruinous. Every angle of his face, every line of his body speaks of power wrapped in control. I couldn’t see it before. But now…

It simply took standing before reckless, unchecked power to understand how mythic, how god-touched he is .

"Bow."

The word burrows into me, a command wrapped in a caress. Silken threads of power climb my spine, coaxing rather than forcing. It doesn’t insist. Doesn’t threaten.

I oblige, spreading my arms in a graceful line, bowing low. When he releases the command, I hold it a second longer than necessary. A second longer than he asked.

A moment of defiance.

I rise, and his eyes snare mine, hunger pooling in their mirrored depths. Hunger, delight?—

And something else. Something darker.

He inhales, a slow, deliberate breath. I brace for what’s coming.

"Tell me something, Amara."

The words roll from his lips like his own confession. Heavy. Rich with layered meaning.

And as with the Withered King, my answer comes unbidden, pulled from a place I don’t understand. But his magic doesn’t grate the same way.

"I—I know you."

Tyr stills. His fingers grip the armrest of his throne, hard enough to carve grooves into the obsidian.

But his face?

His face doesn’t change. That half-lidded detachment never wavers.

He remains silent.

Until—

A slow smile unfurls.

Dangerous.

Unreadable.

"And I know you."

His gaze tracks the length of my body, that single phrase gaining weight, twisting into something far darker .

And then?—

I’m gone.

I land before the next king, and by the shattered realms, do I wish I hadn’t.

He is wrong .

Something left too long in the sun, decayed but never quite dying.

Blind, unblinking.

A thin black shroud covers the empty sockets where his eyes should be.

And yet?—

I feel him watching me.

His is the power that choked the room earlier. That suffocating, oppressive force thickening the air like a sky about to storm.

I drop my gaze and lower into a bow, hoping—praying—that when I rise, he’ll have contained himself.

Hope is a funny thing.

You never have more of it than just before you’re disappointed.

The king’s power presses harder.

I fight to breathe, lungs refusing to take in the thickened air.

"I’m Amara, Majesty," I heave, voice tight.

A pause.

A long, suffocating paused.

And then?—

"Be gone. To the False Light with you."

The air seems sweeter as it drags over my throat, and I can’t tell if it’s simply from being without or because of the king before me.

"I’m Amara, Majesty." I bow low, as low as the rest, but there’s no instinctive need to do so. No, Lorien’s grand smile and sparkling gaze don’t demand subjugation.

They ask for it.

So I give it freely. Graciously.

When I rise, I offer him my hand, and he takes it, bending my wrist to place a soft kiss against my skin. His lips are warm, smooth, and when his gaze lifts to mine?—

I am undone.

Not by power. Not by the weight of eternity or the certainty of my own death.

None of that.

For the first time in my life, I feel singular.

As in this moment, to him, I am the only thing that exists.

And worse?—

I feel worthy of it.

But the moment stretches, and something in it lingers a hair too long. Like a note held just past its beauty, into something strained.

"Tell me something, sweet Amara."

I pause.

It’s not a command, but?—

Something is off.

I see a crack.

A fraction in the perfection of his poise, his presence—marred, if only for an instant.

Sweet.

No one—not Mother, not Father, not even Vella—has ever used that word for me.

It doesn’t belong here. Doesn’t belong on his tongue.

I should like it. But I don’t.

"If you think I’m sweet, then you haven’t been looking," I say flatly .

His smile doesn’t falter. "Then I’d love to discover more of who you truly are."

Smooth. Effortless.

He almost has me convinced.

Almost.

He releases my hand and reaches for the button at his neck. "Please, take my cloak. Cover yourself."

Before I can decide if that was a kindness or condescension?—

I’m gone.

And I’m face to face with a statue king.

Beauty, carved with impossible precision. A god’s perfection.

He does not shift, does not move, does not blink. Everything about him is still—except for his mane of black hair stirring in the breathless ballroom air.

I lower my head before he decides I’ve seen my fill and sink into my final bow.

"I am Amara, Majesty," I say as I rise.

He extends a hand from the carved arm of his throne—the movement deliberate, precise.

I reach to meet it?—

And suck in a breath, resisting the urge to pull away.

I expected the cold touch of stone or marble.

But he feels like flesh, like warmth, like life.

Except something in him is empty.

Something is missing.

A thing that should be there but isn’t.

The feeling burns all the way up my spine.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

"Don’t worry about that, little flame. I am the King of Voids. The King of Forgotten Things."

His admission doesn’t make me feel better. At all.

"Tell me something, little flame."

It took the second time for me to hear it, to register.

And when I do?—

It rips a hole in me.

Gaping, bleeding. For a moment, I can’t catch my breath.

"My—" My voice breaks on the first word. "My father used to call me that."

And I’m back in the crowd. In the inner circle of nobles and wardens. Watching the next potential.

My fists tremble in the folds of my skirts, clenched so tight my forearms ache. I take a breath, forcing my body to still. I have to stay calm—at least on the outside.

A flash of my father’s face sears through me, sharp as lightning. My throat tightens. I shove it down—the rising sorrow, the tears.

I haven’t thought of that pet name in years.

A muffled sob lodges in my throat.

Pull yourself together.

I bite the inside of my cheeks, grounding myself in the sharp sting, and straighten my spine. Shoulders back, head high.

A bright flash from the dais, and the potential moves to the next king. She bows low, offering her hand.

"My name is Sevigny, Highness."

My breath hitches, shallow and ragged. The name slices through me.

Sevigny.

The crowd falls away, the cloying perfumes and roasted meat vanishing from my senses. My chest aches, my fingers go numb.

Sevigny.

The last one taken from my village .

Before me.

The girl who defended Vella when I couldn’t.

The woman I haven’t spared a single thought for—until now.

She’s alive. She looks lovely, well-kept at least, though her gown—long, fitted, deep purple—clashes against her coloring. That’s the point, I think. A contrast meant to make her stand out.

Relief and guilt churn in my chest, twisting together until I can’t tell one from the other.

"Tell me something, Sevigny," the king commands.

The noblewoman beside me leans forward, straining to hear her answer.

And I cough into my hand. Quiet, polite, but loud enough to drown out Sevigny’s reply.

But I hear it.

"I miss my home."

She says it so simply, so plainly?—

My heart breaks. For her. For me. For all of us.

And then my father is there again, in my mind’s eye, smiling down at me.

"Here, little flame." He presses the iron poker into my hands. Heavy, cold, too big for me to manage. "You’re in charge of tending the fire."

He pats my head before heading out to gather the day’s wood.

I blink hard, forcing the memory back. Sevigny has already moved on.

To Tyr.

I watch her bow. My heart races as I struggle to breathe.

The crowd closes in, bodies pressing from all sides, choking me with their weight and that pungent floral perfume. I try to step away, but there’s no room. Nowhere to go.

"What’s your name, lovely thing?"

Tyr’s words are a slap. Sharp and bitter. The way he smiles at her, the way his voice drips with that same dangerous allure—it’s no different from how he spoke to me.

My cheeks flush hot. The ballroom feels impossibly small.

A raw, piercing scream cuts through my mind.

My mother’s.

I know what comes next.

I squeeze my eyes against it, but it comes, anyway.

My father’s lifeless eyes, staring eternally at the gray sky, blood fanning in icy lace across his face.

I bite my tongue until iron fills my mouth.

Tyr takes Sevigny’s hand, lifting it between his. He kisses each fingertip, deliberate, intimate.

The room goes silent but for the roar in my ears.

"Tell me something," he coos, soft as silk.

I—

I can’t be here.

I can’t fall apart. Not here.

"Pardon me," I say to the noblewoman beside me. My voice is steady, my steps measured as I weave through the crowd.

One foot in front of the other. Gracefully. Like nothing is wrong.

Because nothing is.

I simply need to relieve myself.

The door I thought led to the privy—where I’d planned to splash water on my face and stare at myself until I calmed down—was actually a door to a patio.

But the effect?—

It’s the same.

My hand goes to my chest.

I stand, not in front of a mirror and basin, but before the deepest blue sky. A midnight sky, so dark and rich with textures, I’m tempted to reach up and stroke it.

Velvet night?—

Studded with glimmering sequins of starlight.

Nights in Tiriana were always strange and bright. Light reflecting off ever-present snow and the thick haze between us and the sky.

The night air—something I’ve only ever known as bitter and punishing—sweeps gentle and warm across my cheek. Branches don’t knock together with hollow, echoing thuds. They sway, lush green leaves rustling in their own simple song.