Page 30 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

We don’t talk much the next day.

Not like we used to.

Sev’s quiet in a new way—not the contemplative kind I’ve come to expect. Not guarded.

Just... absent.

We sit in the garden, anyway.

She’s cross-legged in the moss, hunched over a closed bud with streaks of deep violet.

Her touch is too gentle, like she’s afraid it might bruise—or vanish.

"Looks like it’s not ready to open," I offer.

She doesn’t respond.

Then, softly, like she’s somewhere else entirely, she whispers, "They open at dusk. But only if you hum to them."

I blink. "You think it’s musical?"

She doesn’t look up. "No. I just remember my brother doing it when we were little."

The silence swells.

"I didn’t know you had a brother," I say gently. She doesn’t. And Tiriana never had such a flower, only snow. Only ice.

Sev doesn’t answer.

She just keeps touching the bud, like it’s a thread she’s trying to follow back to something real.

Something that’s already gone.

Over the next week, Sevigny’s decline increases. She’s hardly eating. Her face is drawn and pale.

Like her body—her soul—keeps a secret she can’t bear to say aloud.

"Sev," I say as brightly as I can reasonably manage. "Do you think one of these plants is wraithbloom? We could try drying it and see what happens."

She shakes her head, lace veil sliding down the back of her head. "I don’t know."

I take a beat, a breath, and I straighten next to her. "Sevigny," I snap, drawing her gaze to mine. I startled her. Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.

"I don’t know what’s going on, but this is not you. You’re not the kind of person who accepts their fate and marches toward it like it’s already written. You fight and kick and scream, and you kick boys in the balls when it needs doing."

She stares at me a long while. "Do you see them?" she whispers, voice thinning like smoke. "The shadows. They’re always watching now. Whatever is happening here, to us, to-to make one of us the Maiden…" She drifts off, staring at the color-streaked sky.

I take her hand, and she jumps. "Go on, Sev. What were you saying?"

Silence. Her shoulders slouch, mouth pulling downward, until finally she can find the words. "I don’t think we’re meant to survive it. "

She might be right. Might be wrong. And I can think of nothing to say to ease her mind.

“It’s not right,” I murmur low. “Any of this. The demons, what they’ve done to our world, the Trials. It’s all a corruption of what the First Mother intended.”

Sev says nothing. She just stares at the flower, barely breathing.

So we sit in silence and watch the sun track across the sky.

Eventually, I leave Sev in the garden with the closed violet bloom and her ghosts.

The halls are unusually quiet. No drifting laughter, no whisper trails, no distant echoes from the other potentials. Just me, my soft footfalls, and the occasional pulse of aetherlight running through the walls like veins.

I take a left I haven’t before.

I’m not looking for anything—just trying to shake off the feeling clinging to my skin like the air itself turned against me.

Then I hear it.

A low sound. A hum—soft, tuneless.

I round the corner, expecting to find another girl. Maybe Shoreena, maybe one of the potentials.

Actually, it almost sounded like Sevigny’s voice.

But the hallway is empty.

The sound dies instantly.

I wait. Hold my breath.

Nothing.

A sigil on the wall—one I don’t recognize—glows faintly, then fades.

I keep walking.

But I don’t forget the sound.

Because it was familiar .

And I’ve only ever heard one person hum like that.

The following breakfast, Ashera catches my eye, but I ignore her, heading straight for Sevigny. She doesn’t look up when I sit beside her.

Her hands sit folded in her lap, plate untouched. Porridge congealing.

Not even a cup of tea this time.

I wait a beat, searching for words that might finally be the right words. The ones to break her out of this.

I find none.

"It’s going to get cold." I nod toward her porridge.

She shrugs with one shoulder.

I study her face. The soft puff under her eyes. The way her braid’s gone a little loose—like she forgot to pin it, or didn’t care to.

"You slept, right?" I ask, keeping my voice light.

She continues staring at nothing until I’ve finished most of my food.

"I dreamed of roots," she murmurs. "Tangled through the keep. Wrapped around our beds, our ankles. Growing from our spines."

I freeze mid-bite.

She blinks, finally meeting my eyes.

"I think it’s inside us now."

There’s nothing in my mouth, but I chew anyway—like her words lodged somewhere behind my teeth.

No.

No—it’s some part of me pretending this is just another breakfast, hoping that might keep her tethered .

I glance around the dining hall. All the other girls talking. Laughing.

None of them look so hollow. So haunted.

"Hey," I say, reaching for her wrist. "Stay with me."

Her skin is ice.

But she doesn’t pull away.

The next chance I get, which happens right after dinner, I leave Sev in the dining hall. "I’ll find you later, all right?"

She nods, but I’m not certain she truly heard me. I head to the exit, eyes on the silvery sigils.

Ashera steps in front of me, out of nowhere. "You’ve been avoiding me," she drawls smoothly, that perfect smile on her perfectly poised face.

"I’ve not, Ashera." I sidestep her, but she matches it, putting herself in my way once again.

"Then why haven’t we spoken since the first Trial?" she asks sweetly.

I do not have time for this. I need to get to the sigilweave before it automatically sends us back to our rooms.

"What do you want, Ashera?" I ask more pointedly than necessary.

She lifts a brow at me. Pauses. Then that curated smile is back on her lips. "I want to catch up with my friend. I thought we got on well at the Presentation, didn’t we? And now it’s as though you think you’re too good for Emile and me."

I stare her right in her lovely eyes. "Don’t handle me like you handle the kings, Ashera. I don’t think I’m too good for you." I let the pause stretch just long enough for her to feel the shift. "I simply don’t have time for the wrong conversations. "

Before she can say anything, I sweep past her toward the entryway.

I don’t even say his name. I just think of those coal-black eyes and white hair, and the air shifts.

It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the brighter light. Tyr and Lorien stand over an enormous table. A large parchment lays unrolled across the top and both stare at it.

Neither seem to notice I’m here. Or they notice but refuse to acknowledge.

"I’m not ceding any land," Lorien says quietly, smoothing a finger over a line on the parchment.

A map.

"Nor am I," Tyr murmurs, his tone smooth—but the kind of smooth that coats a blade.

Lorien folds his arms, scoffing. "So you’re content with the status quo?"

Tyr straightens, staring across the table at the other king. "I think we both know the lie in those words."

Lorien’s cheek twitches, and for a moment, something flickers in his face. Not fear. Not rage. Something far worse.

The two kings stare at one another, neither blinking. Neither moving and something…

Something about Tyr’s posture, or his steady presence, or maybe the subtle glare he holds Lorien with…

Something about it feels familiar in a way I don’t fully understand.

Lorien breaks first, dropping his gaze only to raise it once again with a smirk. "Are you in the habit of letting potentials wander into your private meetings?"

I stiffen, but Tyr doesn’t react. He answers evenly. "The women here aren’t prisoners, Lorien, despite what some kings might believe. They are free to roam about Shadowfell as they see fit. And if Shadowfell sees fit to offer them its secrets, who am I to interfere with that?"

Lorien has nothing to say to that.

"Now, was there anything else?" Tyr leans forward the slightest fraction.

"I see now why you’ve taken such an interest in this one." Lorien pauses, sharpening that gleaming smile. "Enjoy your secrets, Tyr," he says before exiting the room in a burst of light so bright I have to cover my eyes.

"Dama’s hands! I see why you all call him the False Light," I mumble when he’s gone.

"Is there something I can help you with, Amara?" He says it a little too quick. Too sharp.

I take him in, his posture, the coiled tension in his neck and shoulders.

"You let him under your skin, or is that just for show?"

"What?" He meets my gaze fully. "No."

"Then don’t be sharp with me."

A smirk curves his lips upward, and he asks again, softer, "What can I do for you, Amara?"

"You can start by being a better fucking attendant and telling me what to expect for the next Trial. But since I know you won’t, what if you just tell me why my friend thinks the shadows are going to consume everything?"

His expression stills and it takes me a moment to discern. It’s not surprise or fear. Just...calculation.

"You’re right. I’ve been busy. We need to start preparing."

I nod. "And my friend? She’s not doing well. She thinks she won’t survive this next challenge."

Tyr waves his hand. "No potential has ever died from the Trials. That’s not the goal. "

"She knows that, Tyr. But she’s also certain the Trials will end her."

He glances down as he rolls up the map. "No one dies in the Trials, Amara. Not directly. That’s not the design."

Fine. It’s clear he’s not in the mood to say more on the matter. But perhaps I can come at it from a different angle. "How can we prepare, then?"

He continues cleaning up the maps and markers. "You already know the answer to that," he breathes.

"I certainly do not."

Tyr closes his eyes. "Do not push me on this. Not now, woman."

I circle the table, staring up at him.

"Ah. I see. First girl. Then woman. Why is it you bleeding demons only know how to name us by what’s between our legs?" I take a step closer. "Call me by my name…or not at all, Tarenvyr."

In a flash, he steps into me, grabbing my arms and pulling me to him. I can’t help but flinch at the inhuman speed, at the closeness, at my vulnerability.