Page 44 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

I don’t sleep in Tyr’s chamber that night, but in the comfort of my own.

I don’t know why, only that I need space to think about what comes next, not whatever lingers between the Frozen King and me.

That’s far too much to think about.

The shadows curl around me as I lie in the bed I once thought so large. So monstrous.

I fall asleep with him still on my lips and wake before the sun the next day.

In the bath, I decide I need to see Ashera and Selke. If they’re still in Shadowfell, they need to leave.

And the Withered King.

If Lorien starts shoring up his allies, I want at least one of them to hear my version of events.

Three tendrils of darkness break off from the shadows clinging to the walls. They twist around each other for a moment before curling off, leaving the bathing suite.

Now all that’s left is to wait .

I dress simply. No lace. No shadowsilk.

A black wrap tunic and soft boots—quiet clothing, meant for walking. Watching. Whispering warnings in dark corners.

The castle feels different in the morning light. As if even the stone doesn’t know what to make of me now. I pass a warden in the hall, and he bows—not deep, but enough. Enough to notice.

The attendants don’t meet my eye. One drops a bundle of cloth while trying to get out of my way.

Good.

They should be afraid.

I find Ashera and Selke in a sunroom I’ve never seen before. Strange, that such a thing exists in Shadowfell at all. The light doesn’t reach far, but it’s warm. Almost kind.

Selke sits curled in a high-backed chair, eyes shadowed, fingers fidgeting in her lap. Ashera stands behind her, arms crossed, watching the sky like it might blink first.

They don’t look at me when I enter. But they don’t need to.

“I’m not here to talk about what happened,” I say. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Selke doesn’t speak. Ashera turns, raises one brow. “Then why come? Why summon us with your new little pets?” She nods toward the shadow still ringing her wrist like a bracelet.

I barely think the thought before it comes back to me.

“Because you need to leave,” I say. “Both of you. Today, if you can.”

That gets their attention.

“Lorien won’t let us,” Ashera says. “And Shoreena?—”

“Won’t stop me,” I cut in. “They’re regrouping. Planning. But they won’t strike at me directly. Not yet. Which means they’ll use anyone they think I care about to draw blood.”

Selke finally speaks, voice barely audible. “You don’t care about me.”

I crouch in front of her, meeting her gaze. “False. And I don’t want to see what the shadows might take from you a second time.”

She flinches. But doesn’t look away.

Ashera steps forward, expression unreadable. “And if we don’t leave?”

I straighten. “Then you’d better be ready. Because what comes next won’t be survivable by accident.”

I leave Selke and Ashera in the sun-lit room and return to the shadowed halls.

My words were enough.

They have to be.

They won’t be caught in whatever comes next.

In the hall—darkness clings to the walls, floating with me as I move—I can’t help but notice that strange sense of being watched returns.

Like eyes on the back of my neck.

I turn to make sure I’m alone.

A small shiver runs down my spine, and I keep walking.

Thinking.

Letting my mind wander where it wants, for the first time since last night.

I don’t want him

Not really. Not truly.

I want to know why his words settle under my skin. Why some part of him calls to some part of me.

A part that’s feral.

Wordless .

Wordless as the now-quiet screaming of the shadows, the women trapped in the magic of this world.

I keep walking, keep tracking that feeling of being watched. Noticed.

Like the walls themselves, or the rot beneath them, answers me.

No.

Like I’m a part of it.

Or it’s a part of me now.

That’s it. The rot. The watching shadows, everything eerie and other about this godsforsake keep…

It’s whatever remains of every slaughtered potential.

Watching, waiting.Ω

I take a breath, center myself, and reach for the new ache in my middle.

Not with hands. With my mind.

I stretch my awareness toward that new darkness, the place where the shadows and voices live.

It wasn’t there yesterday.

Or maybe it was, and I hadn’t noticed, hadn’t felt it.

The shadows seem to respond to my instinct, not true thought or commands, so I hadn’t thought to search for their origin in me.

But when I woke this morning, a new hollowness ached—pulsing low in my ribs like a second heartbeat.

So I reach for it. Carefully.

Just the barest kiss of my consciousness.

The women scream in my mind, and I’m overcome with their memories, emotions.

The pain and fear and Dama’s chains, the torment at knowing they didn’t have a choice but had to put on a lovely face.

Had to smile and play their part and wear their lace .

My palms sting as my nails dig in deep. And a new plan forms.

Because I can’t trust them.

Any of them

Especially not him.

Not fully. Not at all.

But my body doesn’t care.

So he can please me.

Lay me out on his altar of sheets and worship me like one of the dead gods he was carved to kneel for.

I’ll take that much for myself.

And then…

Then he can burn with the rest.

Yes. A voice rings out over the rest in my head. And then the shadows quiet.

A spiraling ribbon of darkness breaks off from the wall, twisting down the hall in the opposite direction, and I continue on my way.

No destination. I’m letting the shadows lead.

And they lead down. Past the potential chambers and the guest chambers. Past the lower floors Sevigny and I explored together.

Farther than memory. Farther than fear.

Until the walls seem they’ve forgotten what light is.

All the way to the bottom of the keep.

It’s damp and smells like wet rot. A rat skitters across my foot, baring its teeth at me before scampering away.

The stone here is worn, less aetherlight veins through it. Dust hangs in the air like ash. I push through the only door at the bottom of the winding stairs and find shelves of decaying books, their spines sagging under their own weight .

The shelves aren’t wood or metal but carved right into the walls.

The opposite wall also has compartments carved into them. But they’re not for books.

And this isn’t a library.

It’s an ossuary and those square holes dug into the walls hold remains.

Urns.

Plain, unornamented stone. No names. No flowers. Only decay.

I turn my back to them, focusing on the books. Most are in a language I don’t know. But some, some are written in the common tongue.

I pull one off the shelf, opening it to the middle.

The page bleeds red in the crease, spreading slowly under the text.

It’s not a story. Not a poetic myth told in rhyme.

It’s a ledger. With four columns.

Name. Date of arrival. Date of Death. Earnings.

But under the name column sit only numbers, just like the other columns.

I put the ledger back on its shelf, nodding to myself.

This is where the Council keeps their gambling records. Where they can see, should they choose, how much a woman’s life is worth.

And the wall at my back?

The women’s remains.

Shadows shudder and twist around me, sensing my fury.

A rat, scurries onto my boot and without hesitation, bites my ankle.

Before I can even call out, a lash of darkness whips out and breaks the creature’s neck .

It leaves the body next to my foot.

“I did not ask you to do that,” I whisper, but the words feel thin in the air.

Not because they’re untrue.

But because a part of me isn’t certain. Did I ask, even for a moment, perhaps with the baser part of my instinctive mind?

The darkness blooms outward before wrapping around me like battle armor. Speaking in gesture, not words.

It’s protection.

Protecting me.

And I don’t know what to make of that in the least.

The shadows aren’t here to obey me.

They don’t react to my thoughts or instincts.

They’re here to protect.

I glance at the wall again. The urns. No names. Just numbers. The Council keeps better track of our deaths than our lives.

My hand goes to the wall. Not the hollow, but the stone beneath it.

It’s warm.

And I’m reminded of my first conscious day in the keep.

The walls were warm then, too, and I’d assumed it was some manner of heat retention—fireplaces warming the very structure instead of the air.

But now…

Now it feels less like idle warmth and more like…

Like body heat.

Like the keep is a living thing, and I’m waking it. No. That’s not it.

The thought feels hollow and wrong. I don’t know why the walls are warm, but I leave the room with its dust and decay behind and walk the halls upward. Unsettled .

But better armed.

At the first bit of silver I spy on a threshold, I get as far away from the dank place as quickly as possible.

“Take me to my chambers,” I breathe.

But the sigilweave doesn’t take me back to the room that I’ve slept in for the last weeks.

Instead, I stand on the threshold of a large room, bigger than the ballroom. But this room isn’t meant for dancing.

It’s made for fighting.

Thick mats lie in circles around the space. Weapons line the walls. Every wall. Some are metal. Some wooden. Some are a material I don’t understand, like aetherglass fused with stone.

Some mats still have the splatter of dried blood.

Is this what the Trials used to be? Physical? Fighting? Is this where countless dead women honed skills they didn’t know they had? Earned muscles they didn’t want? Scars they didn’t ask for?

Or is this something else?

I go to the first wall, full of glinting silver weapons. Swords and knives and daggers.

I pick up a small dagger and its identical mate. The weight is nice, balanced, and I hear that’s especially good for daggers.

The handle fits easily in my hand—fingers clasping it naturally.

But I know these weapons aren’t for me. No matter how well-made. How sculpted to the feminine hand they might be.

I don’t need a weapon like this.

And the truth of that statement curls under my skin like bloomrot.

Like marrow remembering the shape of a blade .

I don’t need weapons.

Because I am the weapon.

Blades back in their rightful places, I turn and find the Withered King standing in the doorway, watching me with that deep set silver gaze.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been summoned by darkness before,” he says with a dry smile, nodding toward the wisps of shadow circling his arm.

I return the smile. “Can’t say I’ve ever had shadows do my bidding without asking.”

He pauses, head tilting as if he’s about to speak before reconsidering and continuing with the pleasantries. “Well then, Amara, what can I do for you?”

I step toward him, linking his ancient arm in mine and lead him back to the hallway. “I think better in motion,” I say quietly.

“As do I. Fewer ways to eavesdrop if you keep moving.”

I hadn’t thought of that.

“I scent him on you,” the king says after a pause. There’s no judgment. Nothing untoward, either. Just a statement.

He’d noticed.

“You know that’s strange, right? Smelling people. Smelling people on other people?”

The ancient king laughs—a strange coughing sound, like part of his voice may crumble with it.

“When you’ve lived as long as I have, most things you do seem strange to those with more in front of them than behind.”

That settles deep. Something about it rings loud and clear within me—like a truth spoken from farther down the road.

I let it land. And I don’t speak again until the moment feels right .

“Lorien will move soon,” I say as we pass the ballroom where the kings and I first met.

“He already has. I just came from a meeting with him.”

“Is that so?”

He nods. “He’s collecting allies against you and Tyr.”

“And since you’re here…”

“You may assume his efforts did not impress me.”

I nod. “Who do I need to worry about?”

“Varek.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t Varek side against me? I embarrassed him at the second Trial.

“Who else?”

“Kaelar has already seen the end of this iteration and won’t take sides.”

Kaelar.

Which king is Kaelar?

“The Shrouded One,” the king answers my silent question.

“Are you in my head again, Withered One?”

He smirks. “You would know it if I were, young one.”

“All right. What about the last king? The Void King?”

“Do you have pet names for all of us?”

We pass a cluster of attendants, all carrying stacks of black lace— fresh potential outfits.

I breathe through the heat building in my chest.

“I do,” I say when my voice comes back steady.

The king smiles again, this time fully. “The Void King doesn’t care for Lorien or any of this. He collects lost things. He will not get in our way. But don’t count on him.”

I nod slowly. “Can I count on you? When the time comes?” I ask softly.

“You can count on the fact that I hate Lorien.”

“That’s all I need. ”

We walk a few more paces in amicable silence before parting ways at a fork in the hall.

The Withered King glances back over his shoulder as he heads down the corridor. “Careful, Amara. The Council won’t strike first. They’ll make you beg for the blow.”