Page 21 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

I suck in a breath, at once overwhelmed with the beauty, the sounds and scents of this place, and utterly devastated by it. My heart aches, swelling in my chest, as if it means to break free of its bone cage.

A night bird sings in a nearby tree, and as I track the sound, my gaze lands on a patch of ghostly white flowers a few yards ahead.

Quietly, as though at any moment I might be caught, I step off the stone patio and into the soft, dewy moss. Puffs of aethermagic rise in my footsteps, glowing in the moonlight.

No, not moonlight. There is no moon out tonight, only stars. The puffs of wild magic glow on their own, rising in silvery clouds with every foot fall until I reach those strange white flowers .

Skeletal thin white petals cluster and build to a point. I reach to brush a fingertip along them, watching as they bend under my touch.

Asphodel blooms—the flower of the dead.

They smell light and floral until I get closer and put my nose right in the center of one.

Beneath that light, sweet note, is a darker one. Too sweet, too pungent. Almost like rot.

I stand rooted in that plot of flowers, the warm breeze stirring my hair, the night bird singing softly, and watch the stars march lazily across the sky.

This world…

It feels unreal—so beautiful it shouldn’t exist, so unfamiliar it can’t be mine.

A low, smooth voice cuts through the stillness.

"What are you doing out here?"

The warmth in my chest ices over. My hand drops from the petals, and I don’t have to turn to know.

I’d know that voice anywhere. Not merely by the sound—anyone can tell one voice from another. But by the texture, the weight of it, the way it slides under my skin and settles like smoke in my bones.

“Shouldn’t you be kissing more fingertips?” I ask lightly, back still to him.

His soft chuckle fills the night-warmed air. “The presentation is over.”

Have I been out here that long?

“I ask again, and for the last time. What are you doing out here, Amara?”

"I mistook it for the privy."

He gives nothing away. He might be angry or amused or apathetic, and I wouldn’t know, not by his voice, anyway.

"I keep this door locked." The slightest fraction of tension teeters in his words. I almost don’t hear it. I might have missed it if I weren’t so perfectly attuned to…

Him.

"It wasn’t. The door opened when I turned the knob, else I wouldn’t be here."

I turn, finally looking at the demon king.

Shadow King.

My lip curls, pulling the rest of my mouth into a frown without my permission.

"That’s the face I have to look at?"

I scoff. "It’s the face you deserve."

He nods, pulling his brows together, playing at seriousness. "Walk me through that logic."

My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I know he registers the sound of rustling fabric. I know he knows what that means, but those coal black mirrors of his never leave mine.

"Where do I begin?"

"The beginning."

I scowl at him.

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for.

All at once, it tumbles out. I have no control over it. It simply spills from me like blood-dark wine from a tipped glass.

"The beginning? You want the genesis of my hatred of you and your kind? Let’s start when your ancestors were first dropped here and instantly decided they were better than us.

How about when you irrevocably changed the face and shape of our world because, what?

You had to have a world that spawned magic.

And let’s not mention the frozen hell you’ve forced my people to live on for the Dama only knows what reason.

Then there’s the hunting of our young women, these stupid bleeding Trials.

Your fucking shadows everywhere, watching me all the time.

Touching me in that gods forsaken chamber.

And you flirting with every potential Maiden who smiles and bows at you.

How about that for a start, King Tarenvyr Vyrenthall?

Is that enough of a reason to grimace at His Highness? "

All of it said in one breath.

I stare up at him, anger rolling off me in waves and notice, for the first time, shadows in my periphery, dancing around the sides of my face and head. They coil and unfurl like smoke caught in the wind, alive in ways I can’t fathom.

He doesn’t look away from my rage. He takes it fully, standing, unflinching.

And somehow, that makes me angrier.

"I can’t speak to the first of us who came. I can’t speak to the dynamic they built. But in time, I hope you’ll come to see things aren’t as they seem." His voice is soft, almost hopeful.

I bat it away like a fly about to land. "What an absolute load of horseshit."

A flash of—something. A dark, massive creature. A horse with a ghostly face.

The image pierces my mind and vanishes, leaving the faint taste of ash on my tongue.

"And what the bleeding realm is wrong with my memory?"

Tyr pauses.

A breath held, a choice made.

And a small smile lifts the corners of his perfectly carved mouth.

A mouth I could languish over for hours.

Stop that.

"The shadows are no more mine than air or sunlight itself," he says, voice still calm though edged with something darker. "I am only their steward. They owe me no allegiance, do no bidding of mine. They have been here far longer than I and will continue on far after I’m gone."

His words swirl around me, waiting to find a place to settle.

And when they do, they feel like the truth.

"Where have you been?" Ashera asks as she tucks her arm into mine.

Emile nods, brows pinched together with concern. "We were worried about you. We couldn’t find you after the presentations."

"I don’t do well with crowds." It’s a simple answer and true, though not nearly the whole of it.

Ashera seems to know that.

"You smell of him," she whispers against my ear. "But I’ll make sure we stay toward the outskirts of the crowds. How’s that?"

I ignore the first comment, undoubtedly made simply to tell me that she knows. "What’s next?"

"Oooh, next is the d—" Emile starts but is quickly cut off by Ashera.

"He’s coming."

The women still, and I do the same. The air shifts, thickening like smoke pressing against my lungs. Moments later, I’m awash in that now all-too-familiar, suffocating power.

"You’d think he’d put it away for parties, wouldn’t you?" I mutter, the quip falling flat to even my own ears.

But Ashera doesn’t hear me. Her face is rapturous. Aglow with divine surrender .

The crowd ahead of us parts suddenly, as if ripped open forcibly. He stands in the center, the god-king whose presence crushed me before, then sent me off to the "false light."

The Shrouded One.

"Majesty," Ashera breathes, clutching her chest and sinking into a deep bow.

Her cheeks flush as if she enjoys the glut of magic he’s bleeding out from all sides.

I step back, bowing a respectable amount, and aim to sink into the shadows.

"Dance with your king, Ashera." Her name rolls off his tongue, and Ashera shudders with delight at the sound of it.

"An honor I don’t take lightly," she murmurs, and I watch as they disappear into the crowd.

Is there even music playing?

Emile closes the distance between us and grasps my arm. "I knew I didn’t have a chance at King Kaelar Vhast. He’s the king of Vestige Veilspire—where Graceborns learn the trade. Ashera has had his attention for quite some time."

Emile gives no indication that she begrudges Ashera. She simply knows her place in the hierarchy.

She looks me up and down. "I doubt I have a shot at any of the kings," she resigns, "but maybe I’ll land a rich noble after the Trials."

I shake my head. She’s so assured she’ll pass. It’s not even a question in her mind. "You make it sound like some sort of marriage market."

She shrugs. "Isn’t that the way you think of it? We were simply trained for it, Ashera and I."

I press my lips together, quelling the urge to regale the story of Tiriana and what my people knew of the Maiden Trials in explicit detail.

It is not Emile’s fault she was born in a vestige that trained her for it, for this, while I was born in one tormented by it.

"In Tiriana, we only know fear. They come, they murder one of us right in front of the rest, and then they leave. We thought they killed us because they didn’t want the Maiden to appear."

She pauses, meeting my eyes, hers wide with disbelief. "You mean the transport blade? They didn’t teach you how it works?"

"They did not."

Emile’s expression shifts, something haunted rising in her eyes. "That must have been awful."

My throat tightens, and I swallow against it.

"Rest assured that while one part of you lies dead, a remaining part moves onward."

I’d worked that out myself. Though, I didn’t know how.

I take a breath, internally shake off the memories and emotions clinging to me and start to probe for more?—

But a noble approaches, smelling of too many perfumed oils and walking like he’s had too many goblets of wine. I recognize him from the banquet earlier.

The drunkard.

Before he’s too close, I pull Emile closer and whisper in her ear. "Nobles who are too liberal with drink are often too liberal with other things."

She nods once quickly, her smile practiced and perfect as she faces him. "Lord Sorrell. A pleasure to see you again."

"May I ha-have this dance on this fine night, Mistress Emile of Graceborn."

Her smile grows broader, more charming as she dips her head low. "I apologize, Lord Sorrell. Tonight is not for us. Perhaps another night."

The lord blushes across his nose before giving her a stiff nod. "Of course, you’re right, Mistress Emile. I’ve forgotten myself."

He stumbles off, back into the fray of demon nobles and humans.

"I’m well aware of Sorrell Vaeth’s proclivities, Amara, but I do sincerely thank you for the warning."

Her hand brushes her neck, a ghost of a memory flickering across her features.

Emile notices my attention. "It’s not what you think."

"I don’t know what to think."