Page 31 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

"Do not refer to me by that name." He whispers the command, and I nod once.

Tyr sets me back on the ground. "Good, now that’s settled," he says in his usual tone, "I’ll refrain from calling you woman."

It takes a moment to gather my wits once more.

The speed, the violence rippling under his skin…

"I should go." The words come out small as I stumble backward, into the table. Tyr says nothing. He simply watches as I find my footing, then tracks me as I exit the room.

I know because I never turned my back to him.

Not once.

You almost forgot.

What he is.

What that costs.

The thought cycles over and over in my head as I soak in the bathing pool later that night. The shadows don’t seem to notice me anymore, and I don’t know if I’m grateful for their absence, or if somehow, in this place, feeling them press close has become a perverse kind of comfort.

A reliable kind of wrong.

I fall asleep to the smolder of Tyr’s anger. The menace in him rich as smoke.

My dreams aren’t kind… Sevigny continuing to waste away, and Vella mourning over an empty grave. Every part of me wants to reach out to my sister, to tell her it’s all right and comfort her, but I can’t.

I’m not in the dream…only watching.

And then suddenly it’s morning, and a bird is screeching a shrill cry at my window. I peel open an eye to glare at it, not surprised to see that stupid green bird shouting into my room.

"Just because you’re awake doesn’t mean the rest of the world has to be."

The bird tilts its head and flies off its branch and onto the windowsill. Then it flies fully into the room.

Before I can shoo it out or even get out from under the covers, the green bird’s feathers spark—flash—and suddenly Sinea is standing in my chamber.

"Get up. Today’s the second Trial."

I suck in a breath, the state of Sinea’s eye quickly outweighing the sinking dread in my bones from her announcement .

"What happened to your face?" I ask without thinking. "Dama’s fucking chains did Tyr do that to you?" I nod toward the purplish bruise on her cheekbone, blooming red and blue under her eye. The tissue so swollen, she can hardly open it.

Sinea takes a moment.

"This is what I earned for putting my potential in danger. Now, hurry along, you must bathe and?—"

"No, wait just a moment." I fold my arms over myself. "What do you mean? And why are you here? And have you always been a fucking bird?"

Sinea takes another moment, another breath, as if she’s auditing her gut response. "We need to get you ready, Amara." She takes my hands in hers, something she’s never done. "This one is important."

I don’t argue as she guides me to the wardrobe.

"Are you a virgin?" she asks as she affixes the lace cloak to my dress. The clothes, same as always, feel softer on my skin today, as though the bath she hurried me through had scrubbed away a layer of skin somehow.

I stare at her in the green-streaked aetherglass. "I don’t see how that’s any of your?—"

"It’s relevant," she says without looking up.

There was someone I’d found comfort in when we could get away from our duties in Tiriana. Someone to take solace in shared breath and body heat, especially when the bitter frozen land was so bleak. So barren.

"I’m not," I answer.

"Good. That will help."

I don’t like how unsettling those words are .

I’d been avoiding thinking what the Trials might eventually ask me to do. To give of myself.

Because Shadowfell had already told me in so many small ways. Veydra’s decadence. The pre-Trial shadows. The women pleasuring one another in the bath on my first conscious day here.

Plus the gilt-rot bridal costumes they force us to wear every day. The veil, the lace. Making it black doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed what Shadowfell has been whispering.

But I didn’t expect it to be at the second official Trial.

"Am I going to have to fuck one of the kings?" I ask plainly.

Sinea’s good eye widens, and she searches for what to say. "It’s not about the physical act as much as everything else, Amara."

I stare at her, astonished she’s still playing vague. "No wonder you failed your Trial. You’re a shit strategist."

Sinea flinches, actually flinches, as if I’d struck her. Her expression hardens.

"And that’s why I took your bloody window." She waves her hand, and the next moment, I’m being pulled away.

The last place I expect the sigilweave to spit me out is the night garden. And the last person I expect to find there is Tyr.

No other potentials, no spectators or other kings. Just Tyr, white hair rustling in the breeze.

A breeze that brings his scent to me. Achingly sweet, with a depth that clings to the air…

As though the world itself mourns its fleeting beauty.

The garden tips on its side, and I stumble forward into the memory.

Heavy leather boots trample the fruits and petals—each tender leaf. My gaze darts to Vella, warning her .

"Your garden?" the demon asks. "And what is this?"

He holds a purple fleshed fruit.

"I don’t know the names. I grow what I like the look of," I say.

Except—I do know. That’s a plum. It’s the same fruit I ate weeks ago at the first Trial.

Just like I now know the demon asking that question in my memory isn’t a faceless guard with a helmet.

My hand flies to my chest—everything slams into focus. I back away from the silken king and the rest of the memory unfolds in my mind.

"It was you! You in the garden. You in that cave. You who told me I couldn’t eat nyrelith and gave me more fucking bread and cheese."

Instead of guilt, instead of anything I’d expect, his features relax for a moment. As if he’d finally let out a long-held breath. "It was," he says simply. "And now that you’ve remembered, I hope this will further your trust in me."

His words conjure a storm, roiling, just under my skin. "Trust? You want me to trust you? Tyr, I don’t even know who the fuck you are."