Page 33 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

Because, no. It’s not the horse. It’s the proof that Tyr, for all his demon king horseshit, for all this godsdamned ritual, cares about?—

Well, at least his horse.

He kept me warm. He healed me.

And the instant I let myself melt into those feelings—well, I can’t allow that.

I won’t.

"So, I was important enough to keep from dying. Are you trying to show me something besides what a pawn I am to you? Because from where I sit, you wouldn’t have to work so hard to prove anything if you hadn’t stolen the memory to begin with."

I let that land with as much venom as the thought itself conjures.

Tyr doesn’t flinch. He simply nods, then takes a slow deep breath. "I didn’t take the memory, Amara."

I tilt my head, lips pursed. "Really? Some other demon took it, then? The guard you killed, maybe? Does magic even work like that? Does power still hold after the creator is dead?"

His face goes still.

"You’d be surprised how long some curses last."

A strange chill moves the air between us. Shadows stir in my periphery. Blooms shudder once more.

Honestly, it’s getting tiresome.

"Now you must offer a memory."

"Oh, must I?" I ask, rubbing my chilled arms.

Tyr simply nods as he takes off his cloak and wraps it around me. "Yes, that is how this Trial must be."

I fold my arms beneath the cloak, keeping the delicious warmth—and his scent that melts like wine into my blood—hidden behind a steady expression.

"And just what are the other potentials doing for their second Trial, hm? There aren’t enough demon kings to go around, and I’m certain all of?—"

"Why do you concern yourselves with them?" he interrupts, brow pinched, as though he truly can’t understand why I would ask.

I answer plainly. "Because I’m a fucking human, Tyr, and despite my efforts otherwise, I care about the women you’ve kidnapped."

He scoffs. "Don’t give me that. You want to know what they’re doing to better your hand and potentially use the information for gain."

I lean forward. "Obviously. That’s how you play a stupid game like this, isn’t it?"

He leans just as close until I can scent the sweet wine on his breath. "Give me a memory, Amara."

I shake my head. "No."

And suddenly, he’s there, sitting before me, mirrored eyes peering into mine, but he’s also at the gate of my mind .

Standing.

Waiting.

The shadows stir around me, and fire ignites in the demon king’s gaze.

Music, like the night of the Presentation Ball, plays somewhere unseen, and I’m awash in Tyr’s presence.

The stillness, the depth…

I almost lean in, almost curve myself around the shape of that endless void of depth?—

"You want a memory?" I ask bitterly as I shove the hardest truth I ever had to learn at him.

I watch with him, through the eye of my memory…

Father’s lifeless upward gaze, blood crystalizing down his chin. Mother’s bleating wail.

Before Vella steps out of the house, I smash another memory into his mind.

Mother, sleeping upright, lips blue, hands cracked and red from the cold. I give her my sleeping fur and cuddle closer to ? —

Another.

Spots of red seep through the ice crusting my boots. The pain in my chest wraps clear to my back as I cough through another punishing day of collecting pine straw.

"That was the third time I had lung fever," I say. "That year."

His gaze softens.

Too soft?—

The cracking sound of heavy boots on ice replaces it, and with it, the bone-deep fear of what those boots mean.

Whose death they bring.

Before the image of the silhouetted demon appears in our single window, I force the next memory down his throat …

The wailing cries of Sevigny’s mother as she hangs limp in the executioner’s arm.

"Is that enough?" I ask, voice ragged, panting.

But I decide it’s not and push one more through.

I almost choose another.

But, no?—

He needs to feel what was stolen.

"Daddy, please!"

Mother blows on my small hands, cupped in hers, but all I see is Father walking toward the pine forest.

All I can feel is the ache that a little girl feels when her father leaves, and she doesn’t understand why.

"Daddy, please don’t go!" I yell with my small voice.

He turns, smiling at me, that wide beautiful smile that made me feel like I was the most loved girl in the whole of Tiriana. "I must, little flame. I have to keep us warm." The ax on his back swings as he turns.

"There, there, Amara." Mother pats my face with the hem of her skirt as she tucks us back inside. "Father will be home before you know it."

"Why?" I ask. "Why does he leave us?"

"Because he must collect wood and straw for us to stay warm."

"Why is it so cold here?"

Mother lets loose a heavy sigh but doesn’t answer.

"Why?" I ask again.

"Because the Frozen King deems it so."

"Then I hate him. I hate the Frozen King for taking Father."

I pull myself out of Tyr’s mind and stare at him.

He’s still—stiller than I’ve ever seen.

Ghost-pale .

"Yes. That’s what life in Tiriana is like. That’s what your revered Frozen King does to us. Every bloody day."

His jaw works as he tries to effort a swallow. "Amara, I…"

"Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want your fucking pity, Tyr. I want you to fix it."

"I’m sorry, Amara, but I cannot."

I lean back on the bench, away from him. "Of course you can’t. Stay here and play out your little ritual with your fun shadow friends. Who cares about real people truly suffering?"

"Amara, you do not understand."

I don’t answer. I just let the daggers in my gaze draw blood.

It’s several moments before Tyr speaks again. "I need you to hear me, Amara. I can’t unfreeze Tiriana because?—"

"What? What, Tyr? Do you think the Frozen King is beyond you when he rots in the capital like a dead god on a throne?"

Another ridiculous pause.

And then?—

"Amara, I am the Frozen King."