Page 25 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

The sigilweave—as I now know it’s called—dumps me into a hallway I’ve never seen. Not underground. Not the guest dorms hall. Certainly not the same hall as my bedchamber.

No, this hallway is too long, stretching farther than should be possible, the shadows curling at the edges like fingers reaching from the dark. There’s a heavy stillness, as if the walls themselves are waiting, listening. The floor wavers underfoot, like something shifting beneath the stone.

Shadowfell has always unsettled me. But this?

This seems purposeful. Like the castle wants me to react.

Faint, faded portraits line the walls—figures who might’ve been people once, but now their faces are barely discernible, swallowed by age and time.

The paint and even some frames are cracked, fractured and peeling in places, like the memories of who they were.

The air smells of something old and forgotten, of dust and the tang of iron that never quite leaves a place.

No. Not iron .

Blood.

The air is thick with it. Like the halls are bleeding.

Like the world is.

I rub my hands down the lace cloak, as if the scent of blood might cling to me indefinitely.

And yet I move forward.

The walls lean too close, pressing down on the narrow path. Somewhere deep in the stone, a low hum resonates, not quite a sound, but a vibration—something that settles at the base of my skull and pulls at my thoughts. Someone—something—is watching. Waiting.

Tyr. It’s got to be.

He denies it, but what else?

I flip the wall a vulgar finger and move onward.

And while that dissipates some of the tension in the air, the inevitability of his final words to me circle in my mind, wrapping around my flesh like fine silver chains.

Present, cool against my skin, but thin enough I know I could break them.

Break through the weight of the words to the meaning.

A sound—low, dragging—pulls my gaze forward. A door, slightly ajar. It yawns open, inching outward, its hinges groaning like something stirring from sleep.

The dim light that trickles through the gap only deepens the shadows around it, offering no clue to what’s beyond.

I waste no time thinking.

I know whatever is behind that door, I’m meant to find it.

My footfalls quicken, the echoes wrong, broken. I push the disquiet down and march to the door, stepping inside the room.

It sighs as I enter .

The room is empty. Not abandoned. Empty. As if something is waiting to take form.

I shift my weight back, turning to leave when another door appears, sliding to the left to reveal not another hidden room.

An alcove.

Deep enough to display—My breath catches.

I step closer.

A figure stands within. Carved from—something I cannot name. Parts of her might be bone. Others shift and glimmer, trailing luminous streaks of smoke embedded within crystalline material.

It reminds me of aetherglass, only raw, jagged, as if this was its true form.

The craftsmanship isn’t of this place. It’s surely not human made. I doubt it’s even demon made.

A relic.

And she’s beautiful.

A bone goblet in one hand, a faint smile on her lips, full breasts bared, but for the curtain of her flowing hair.

I reach out, daring to touch her.

But something stops me.

I exhale, slow, burnishing her in my mind.

"What the in the shattered stars are you doing here?"

Sinae’s voice cuts through the moment, as she’s so brilliant at doing.

"I’ve been looking for you everywhere."

I turn slowly, an echo of Tyr’s voice suddenly filling my head.

Steady, unshaken.

"Knowing won’t change what’s coming. It never does."

Sinea’s grip clamps around my wrist—tighter than I expect—before she yanks me from the roo m

"You’re not supposed to be here!"

She’s surprisingly strong for a tiny part-fae woman.

"It’s not my fault the sigilweave is actually chaos magic. Blame it."

Sinea halts so sharply, momentum jerks me forward. Her grip tightens, steadying me as her head snaps around, eyes wide. "You used the sigilweave to get here on your own?"

I nod.

"Did the silver glow? Like in the Gloaming Room?"

"Glow? No. You told me I could use to?—"

"I said in time you’d learn how! For Dama’s sake, girl! You could have—" She swears under her breath, yanking me forward.

Again, incredibly strong for such a small woman.

"Shadowfell is dangerous, Amara. You might think you understand how things work, but trust that you absolutely do not. Don’t let the king’s attention go to that head of yours."

At the first silver-sigiled threshold she sees, Sinea pushes me toward it. "Go. Go back to your room."

And I’m gone.

Standing in my bedchamber—everything exactly as I left it.

The lock hums behind me, sealing the door.

I turn sharply. No handle. No visible keyhole. Just the jagged edged obsidian door, sealed like a tomb.

And the window—gone. Not boarded, not draped in velvet like so much else in this place. Just a stretch of blank wall, as if it had never been there at all.

I am trapped.

The air here is still. Heavy. Trapped as well. The chamber swallows sound, leaving only the weight of silence .

I pull at the lace of my veil, yanking it from my head. Then the cloak. Then the heavy lacing of my gown. Everything suddenly too much, too tight, too stifling. The garments pool at my feet, warm where they brush against my ankles, the only touch left in this sealed room.

Standing there, focused on breathing and not on the ever-shrinking walls, I center myself. Ground myself in the certainty that I am fine.

I’m not suffocating.

There’s plenty of air.

After quite some time, body decides it agrees with me, and slows my heart and I put my clothes back on.

A ripple of light fractures through the aetherglass on the desk, like something stirring beneath its surface.

A plate appears at the center. No attendant, just a quiet offering from something unseen.

I don’t move.

It feels like a trap.

From where I stand, I evaluate the offering. The food is delicate, artful—polished silver, linen napkins, each piece arranged with an almost reverent precision. A meal befitting a Maiden, or a prisoner dressed for sacrifice.

A choke of laughter catches in my throat. Sinea knows I can’t eat these fine cuts of meat doused in sweet, savory sauce. Or the richly buttered vegetables.

She expects me to make myself sick on this and suffer alone?

Fuck her.

I leave the meal where it is, untouched.

Who knows how much time has passed when the second plate appears. Sitting at the edge of the bed, I press my fingers into the lace of my gown, idly tracing the patterns, the texture. I tell myself I’m thinking, that I’m strategizing, but I’m not.

I’m waiting.

This time, I don’t hesitate. I cross to the desk and eat.

The bread is soft, spiced with something faintly sweet, like a taste from a childhood I never had.

The broth—rich, too rich, thick with marrow and something I can’t name.

Hunger brings the spoon to my lips, anyway.

With the first mouthful, my stomach lurches.

The second is easier. By the third, I don’t register the discomfort.

It’s fuel, something to fill the emptiness inside me.

A goblet sits beside the plate, filled with something dark, richer than wine, silkier than blood. The scent alone is intoxicating—deep, spiced, like spiced meat on a goddess’s altar.

I hesitate, but the first sip blooms warm in my chest, unfurling through my limbs like liquid gold. It lingers, velvet-soft on my lips, but rich and dark, like black fruits split open and bleeding syrup.

The flavor settles on my tongue like something half-remembered, half-lost.

When the meager sip reaches my stomach, the world blurs, just slightly, as if the floor is farther away than it was before. A weightless euphoria creeps in, threading through my thoughts, lightening them, untethering them. It’s freeing.

Pleasant.

I set the goblet down.

I do not drink again.

The silence thickens.

There is no sound but my own breath. The walls press close—closer than ever. The air hums, but it is not the aetherglass this time. It is something else.

Something watching.

Tyr.

Or whatever puppets he has scattered through this place.

I don’t look for them. If they want to watch, let them.

I close my eyes, listening to the silence. The weight of everything bears down.

The Trial is coming.

No one has bothered to tell me what it is, and I have no illusions that the secrecy is anything but deliberate.

I shift, pressing my fingers to my pulse. It’s steady. Measured. I will not let them see me rattled.

I will not be rattled.

A whisper cuts through the stillness. Not words—just pressure, settling against my skin like unseen hands pressing me forward.

I go rigid.

The air bends?—

And a shimmer of silver sigilweave blooms beneath me, cold and final.

The Trial has come.