Page 36 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

It’s another two weeks before I can go down the same hall as the garden. It was an accident. I wasn’t paying attention, but still…

I hadn’t been as vigilant about making sure I wouldn’t end up there.

I don’t touch the door or even look out the small window. Instead, I find the closest sigilweave, and it takes me where I go the most without me asking.

On the other side of the mirror is a round table with four women. I only recognize one. Shoreena. They all wear deep blue cloaks, just like hers, and all but Shoreena have their faces obscured by the edges of their hoods.

"We expected at least one," says the woman to Shoreena’s right. Her voice is low, craggy, like time and hard drink has aged her throat.

"Certainly, but never so quickly," replies the woman directly across from her, grasping the fabric at her chest. Her nails and fingertips are painted, no—dyed—a deep blue to match her robe.

"The variant isn’t responding the way we anticipated," the third one says. Her voice is pitched high, sweet, unlike the others.

"They never do," Shoreena says on an exhaled breath.

"At least the others are holding."

The first one agrees. "Yes, and with only days left until the next Trial, we’ve got a good showing this season."

There it is. The tidbit I’d been hoping for, waiting for every day. I lean in, wanting more. Hoping they’ll say more about it. What it is. How to win it.

But that’s unlikely. All I truly need is something to give me an edge.

"Exactly. What do you project our cut of the winnings will be?"

I sink deep into my heels as those words ring in my ears.

Winnings.

So the Maiden Council isn’t an overseeing entity. They aren’t making sure the potentials are treated fairly—humanely.

Not arbiters.

They’re the fucking profiteers. The ledger holders.

The picture settles into place. Not with heat. Not with rage or balled fists.

Something I don’t have a name for.

I know it should anger me—should split me open. But I just…stand there. Absorbing it. Letting the truth settle into my bones like demon-forged metal instead of shattering them.

I wait in front of that mirror for two days, only leaving when my body demands. On the second night, on my way back to my chamber, I spot her before she sees me .

Perched on the stone balustrade, ankles crossed, veil gone. Hair swept into something far too elegant for someone who "just happened" to end up in my path.

"You’ve been quiet." Ashera says it like a peace offering, but her smile is all teeth.

"Is that your concern now?" I don’t stop walking.

"It should be. We’re the last ones left with any chance of making it through."

She falls into step beside me, uninvited.

I say nothing.

I’ve learned silence unnerves her more than sarcasm.

"You know they’re watching us," she says after a beat. "Not just the kings. The Council. Everyone. Every word we say, every step we take. It’s all part of the calculation."

I stop. Look her in the eye.

"Then you’d better start walking prettier."

It lands exactly how I meant it.

Her throat moves like she might say something crueler—but then she just…smiles again.

"I liked you better in lace," she says softly.

"I didn’t," I reply. And keep walking.

That night I sleep and have no dreams. I haven’t had a single one since the second Trial.

In the morning, the aetherglass makes a new outfit for me before I ask.

Dark fabric, structured and strong—not a dress. Not the veil-trimmed lace they gave me before. This is weight and wind and war. I don’t know what to call it. I just know it feels true.

I walk.

Back to the mirror.

Except down the first hall, I’m pulled to the outer terrace that overlooks a wide stone courtyard .

I don’t know why. But I follow that pull.

The sky is brilliant with morning. No bells. No summons. Just the slow churn of daybreak leaking across Shadowfell.

And then I see her.

A potential I don’t know. Kneeling in the center of the courtyard stones. Her hands are in her lap. Her head bowed. Shoulders shaking.

She could be praying.

I know she’s not.

She’s trying to hold herself together.

The sob that slips from her throat is barely a sound—more breath than voice. But it cuts through me like a blade drawn from another life.

Something like pity, but not quite.

Something older.

Something deeper.

My body reacts before my mind does.

The tilt of my spine, the heat behind my ribs, the ache that rushes down my limbs like it’s been waiting.

I know this grief.

I’ve knelt in that same position—just not here.

Not in this life.

The image flashes behind my eyes unbidden?—

A battlefield.

A woman floating above it, touching the broken, the dying, not to save them, but to witness.

And she looks like me. Not my face. But my shape. My bearing.

That ache rises again. Not for myself. For everyone.

For every life thrown to the slaughter, every name erased for the sake of legacy.

I almost move .

Almost step forward.

Almost offer a hand, a word, a piece of myself to the potential below.

But I don’t.

I turn my back—not to be cruel.

But because comfort won’t unmake the blade.

And this game won’t be won by tending the wounded.

Only by burning the board.

In front of the mirror once more, shadows ringing my wrists and ankles, I wait.

"Show me something," I command it softly, but the mirror only shows what it’s meant to.

I wait until my legs ache and my mind wanders.

"What are you doing?" I didn’t hear the door open, and I don’t bother turning around.

The familiar feminine voice braids idle curiosity and self-satisfied smugness so delicately, even if I didn’t recognize the sound, I’d know that signature double-intent tone anywhere.

"I’m preening, Ashera. What else could I be doing in front of a mirror?"

I shake my head at her in the mirror. "Dama’s hand, didn’t your Graceborn schooling teach you anything more than how to talk pleasingly to men?"

I catch a glint of anger in her deep eyes. Her chin rises, and for just a moment, she stiffens before collecting herself.

"I’ve been trained to ruin men." Ashera’s voice glides like silk over a blade. "I can arch my back just so, and they forget their own names. I know how to walk, how to smile, how to make them think the wanting is their idea."

She steps closer, eyes gleaming with venomous pride.

"I’ve crushed kings with a look. Shattered stronger men than Tyr just by pretending I didn’t notice them. "

Her lips curl into a vicious smile.

"They’d beg to be broken. And I’d do it with a sigh and a flick of my wrist—and then they’d thank me for the ruin."

I turn, meeting her gaze as the shadows part to reveal me entirely. "Mm. All that and you still can’t help following me around?"

But Ashera’s gaze isn’t on me. It’s on my clothes. The wide billowing pants.

The tunic that brushes my hips, and the long, structured coat that glides along the floor with every step.

All made in the same color as my second Trial dress. Bloodrich red.

She steps back, half out the doorway. "Where did you… Why are you wearing Widow’s Regalia?"

I look down at myself, unfamiliar with the term. The aetherglass had been dressing me, each day adding a new component.

I look her dead in the eyes. "Because lace makes me fucking itch."

Ashera shakes her head. "That—that’s for?—"

"I don’t much care what it’s for. It’s on my body, so it’s for me."

Ashera stares, stunned to silence. A first, I presume.

Slowly, she backs out of the room, wordless, watching me with a renewed wariness in her gaze.

The shadows shut the door behind her.

And I go back to watching.

"Show me something better," I say, and still, the mirror only gives me my own reflection.

It’s been two days since I learned the next Trial was "a few days away." I don’t have time to allow the mirror to show me what it wants, when it wants.

I press my fingertips to the mirror, shadows trailing behind, aurelime aetherlight pooling on the glass behind each finger.

Show me.

The shadows rise, swirling over the mirror, encasing it entirely for a moment before retreating back to the ground.

Before me stands Shoreena and the Maggot King, Lorien, though he’s wearing his pretty face today.

"You must do something," he murmurs, stepping close—intimately close.

Shoreena tips her head back, relishing the king’s undivided attention, the warmth of his golden glow.

She can’t see the wrongness of it.

"Highness, you know I can only—" Her words cut off, eyes rolling and lids fluttering as Lorien snakes his hand under her robes.

A soft moan leaves Shoreena’s parted lips.

"You know what you must do," Lorien whispers against her hair, but Shoreena, flushed with need, pushes him away, stepping back.

"Excuse me, but you know her lineage. You know she was always meant to?—"

The image dissolves, and a new one doesn’t reappear.

Not that day. Not the day after. And not the following.

I wake with the low hum of knowing in my gut.

Today is the third Trial.

I eat. Bathe. The aetherglass provides more Widow’s Regalia. All before dawn.

Sitting in my newest conjuration—a wide red settee that allows me to lounge comfortably instead of the straight-backed chair at my desk—there’s a knock at my door .

"Enter."

Tyr pauses in the doorway, taking me in. His expression gives nothing away, only the slight hesitation—the lingering.

"You’re late," I say.

"Oh?" The corners of his lips raise. "And why would you think that?"

"Because today is the third Trial, and since you’ve fired my attendant…"

"Yes, well…" He steps into my chamber and throws fabric at my lap. "Change into this."

I don’t have to look at it to know what it is.

"I won’t."

He looks down at me, lounging, sprawled like a contented feline. "You will."

I lean forward the smallest bit. "If you want those clothes on me, you’ll have to put me in them yourself."

Tyr smirks, but his tone is cold. "That can be arranged, Amara. But trust me when I say you don’t want my hands on you. Not until you understand what they’d take."

I stare at him. The fire in his black gaze. The set of his jaw and mouth. And I believe him.

But I’m still not putting that fucking costume on. I cock an eyebrow at him, content to wait him out.

"Amara, I realize your friend’s death?—"

I shoot out of the lounge, barreling toward him, finger aimed at his chest like a weapon.

"Don’t you sully her name by putting it in your filthy mouth. Don’t you ever say her name. Don’t you even think it."

Tyr’s gaze is steady, holding mine before he reaches around me and pulls me close, wrapping me in his arms—his scent.

I push against his chest, but he holds firm, keeping me locked in.

"Get your filthy fucking hands off me, you foul?—"

"Two ‘filthys’ in a minute. I’m honored. You must truly mean it," he whispers as I struggle against his chest.

"I do!"

"Then are you going to put on the Maiden garb?"

"I won’t." I squirm against him, willing strength I simply do not possess into this body.

"Then you’ve condemned yourself to suffer a hug from me."

It’s ridiculous, I know. But I also know I do not want Tyr hugging me. "Get your f?—"

"Filthy?"

"Fucking! Get your fucking hands off me, you sorry excuse for a demon, or I’ll rip off your prick and shove it down your throat so far you’ll taste your grandchildren."

In a blur, he spins me around, my back to his front. One arm belts across my middle, the other across my chest, pinning both my arms to my sides. He squeezes tight.

To contain me—yes. But also…

I see it in the wardrobe aetherglass. The neutral expression. The bracing stance. Both failing to hide the flickering pain, anger in his eyes.

"I’m sorry you lost your friend," he murmurs.

I suck in a staggering breath.

It’s a precision strike. A single tap that undoes me.

Tears slide down my cheeks. My shoulders shudder, but I don’t let a single sound past my lips.

I can’t.

I won’t let him be that for me.

I won’t absolve his pain by propping myself against it—letting my grief crash into his sturdiness .

I refuse.

So I stand. Crying silently. Shaking, but I don’t move.

I don’t give him that.

Slowly, Tyr releases me. We don’t separate. I stay pressed to him as he stays the solid weight behind me.

"Are you ready to get dressed?"