Page 52 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

We’re the first to arrive in the gleaming-walled fortress.

“What is this place?” I ask, staring up at the round open chamber of smooth gray stone veined with bone white.

In the center of the room stands a long wooden table. Overhead, a simple wooden chandelier.

Tyr ignites it with a flick of his wrist, and the room shimmers with…

I shudder as memory after memory pass through me.

Another me. Another Tyr. Fighting off an army of fae with magic and blades and…

Sex?

I’ll have to ask him about that.

The memory fades into the next. A girl kneels in a field, asphodel flowers in her hair. The ground behind her opens, and I hear the sound of chariot wheels…

The next memory folds over me, and I scream as I watch Tyr crying over my burnt body.

“Amara!” Tyr’s hands on my shoulders pull me back to the present, to this time and place .

I pull in a shuddering breath.

“I’m sorry. I should have known. I should have warned you.”

“What is this place?” I ask when I’m able.

Tyr guides me to the wooden bench along the table and sits me down, conjuring a flask of something warm and strong. I take a long pull and ask again. “What is this place?”

“It’s the Ruined Fortress.”

A shudder runs up my neck and into my skull at the name.

Recognition.

“I’ve kept it sealed in wards and ice. It’s a defensible position between Tiriana and the rest of the north. But it’s also…”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

An altar I didn’t see before stands in the west. Its bowls and platters and candles still gleam with melting ice as they stand empty.

In the east of the room, a window made of brightly colored glass sits behind a throne of the same impossibly bright glass.

The south portion has an indoor garden, shedding its frozen shell and glowing in the light cast through the eastern window.

And in the north…

My throat tightens when I finally see it.

A pile of perfectly round stones lay within a velvet box.

I meet Tyr’s gaze once more, and when I do, the altar and throne and garden and stones vanish.

“How does this place know me? Hold my memories?”

Leather boots crunch on ice, and I can’t help but stiffen at the sound .

“Enter, Captain.”

A demon in full metal armor enters through the main door. He stands several feet before Tyr.

“Report.”

The captain takes off his helmet. He’s a handsome demon, as they all are. Wide black eyes, full lips, square chin. His shaved head and dark skin nearly glow in the candlelight.

“General, we’ve secured the wall and evacuated as many as were willing to come.”

Tyr nods. “And Lorien’s forces?”

The captain’s eyes dart to me, but only for a moment, before answering. “The firecallers are laying waste to the forests surrounding Tiriana. I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do to fight their magic.”

“Did you keep record of those evacuated?” I ask, startling the captain.

“Yes, ma’am, we did.”

“Any DeTiris on record?”

He conjures a raft of papers from the aether. “I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

Tyr rises. “It’s not ma’am, it’s?—”

I put a hand on Tyr’s shoulder. “Ma’am is fine for now. Thank you, Captain.”

The demon nods and then seems torn about what to do next. “Was there anything else, Highness?”

“No. Inform the troops the end is nigh.”

The captain nods once and leaves the circular room.

“Whatever you were going to introduce me as was too risky. The fewer who know I’m here—fewer still who I am and what that means—the better.”

Tyr smiles at me and pulls me to his chest.

“Of course, you’re right,” he says against my head, and I would have been content to stay in his arms a moment longer…

“Ah. Still in the rutting phase, I see.”

The Withered King’s papery voice carries through the room as he enters.

Tyr lets out a single bark of laughter. “And what would you know of it, old man? Do you even know what a rut is, or has your appendage turned to dust with disuse?”

I cover my mouth, shocked Tyr would speak to the Withered King with such open hostility.

But the king offers his own quip in return. “As surprised as I am that yours hasn’t fallen off from chafing.”

I stare at the two kings, mouth agape and entirely unsure what to do next.

They approach one another quickly, and I brace, calling on the shadows…

But they embrace like old brothers.

“I’m glad you’ve found your heart once more,” the Withered King says into Tyr’s shoulder.

“And I’m glad you’re here for it once more.”

Oh.

“Are you…?” I can’t finish the question. I hardly know what I’m asking. “Are you like us?” I ask the Withered King when he releases Tyr.

“In a manner of speaking.”

I shake my head. “No half-truths. We’re at the mouth of this beast, about to draw weapons. Tell me what you know, or you’re of no use to me, Withered King.”

He smiles, the leathery skin of his regal face pulling taut. “We do not keep anything from you with malice, Amara. But we are bound to only acknowledge what you’ve already discerned.”

I glance at Tyr, who nods in agreement .

Two pairs of footsteps draw my attention to the front entrance. Two men stride in, brothers. One has dark, flowing hair and a pale marking on his face. The other has light hair and a dark marking on his face.

“C-Cindermaw?” It’s hardly more than a whisper.

“She’s a quick one, isn’t she,” his brother, Duskreaver, says.

The Withered King hastily moves to the other side of the table, putting as much room between himself and the brothers as possible.

Tyr and the Steedlords embrace, clapping each other’s backs and holding each other tight.

“What the bloodied fuck is happening? Why are your horses people?!”

The Withered King scoffs. “They were never horses, young one. Do you honestly think I’d be afraid of a pair of overgrown donkeys?”

I shrug. “I was.”

“We told you already,” Cinder says. “You were human. You’ve every right to fear us.”

I nod slowly at his word choice.

Were human.

“Am I not now?”

I see it.

This time, I see their jaws tighten, all four of them.

The bindings of whatever law or order they must follow is as clear to me as the veins in the gray stone.

I turn to Tyr. “You told me there’d come a time I’d have to choose.”

“I did.”

“Then, if I had to guess, I’d say I’m not fully either…right? Not fully human, but also not a goddess yet. ”

“I would agree with that statement,” the Withered King rumbles from his side of the table.

I turn to the Steedlords, tapping my fingers along my arm. “You two are a different story, though, right?”

I watch as their jaws seal.

“Different…” I step closer to Cindermaw and give him a sniff.

He lifts a brow at me as I do, but I don’t care.

“You smell only slightly of hay, but there’s something else. Something older.”

I touch his hand, hoping to discern something more, or at least enough to unlock the magic holding their tongues. If I can figure out enough, they should be able to fill in the rest.

A shiver runs through my bones as Cindermaw’s face twists and contorts into another face entirely.

“The Void King,” I whisper with an inhale.

The moment I say it that face and wind-blown black hair disappear.

“How—” My gaze darts from him to his brother. “Are you a king in hiding too? The Shrouded King?”

Duskreaver gives me a tight smile.

But neither of them confirms or denies. Which means I need to figure out more.

“Is this a glamour?” I ask, touching Duskreaver’s cheek.

“H-hello?” I jump at the voice in the entrance. Not because it startled me, but because I recognize it.

“You came.”

Ashera shrugs and holds up her wrist. “When your friend came to see me, I figured out pretty quickly which side of this I wanted to be on.

From behind her steps…

“Selke? ”

She smiles holding up her wrist, also with a wraith of darkness ringing it. Though, I’m more interested in her fingers interlaced in Ashera’s than my shadow bracelets.

“I made it back to Graceborn and told everyone what happened here. How the Trials are rigged for wagering and that girls kept disappearing for no reason. The Graceborn Triune wasn’t happy, to say the least, and they’ll back you in whatever way you need.”

“Same with my vestige,” Selke says with a nod. “We don’t have magic like Graceborn, but we’ve got the best smiths in the continent and can arm your men with the finest should they need.”

Ashera pulls Selke closer.

Not a pairing I would’ve wagered on.

“Who are they?” Ashera asks, nodding toward Cindermaw and Duskreaver. The Steedlords. “And why do they smell like a barn?”

Selke elbows Ashera in the ribs.

Cinder steps forward, extending his hand to Ashera, who looks him up and down, taking in his long mantle of black-dyed hide and burnished chest plate etched with glowing sigils.

She takes his hand, noting the broad leather gauntlets and the array of weapons slung at his waist, curved blades with bone hilts and sheaths bound in scaled hide…

“You may call me Cinder or Cindermaw. I am aligned with Tyr and Amara.”

Ashera crosses her arms over her plain tunic.

I’ve never seen her so unadorned, and yet she still carries herself as though she were dressed in her finest gown.

I smile as the memory of the presentation ball braids into my thoughts. The look on Ashera’s face as she saw me… The hand of friendship she extended but only if I was clever enough to see it for what it was.

“And why should I trust you?” Ashera asks, bluntly.

I glance to Selke, who only gives me a half shrug.

Duskreaver comes beside his brother, boots hitting the stone like hoofbeats. “Why should either of us trust a Graceborn? Isn’t that little more than a glorified prostitute?”

I dart forward, about to tear into the Steedlord for saying something so reductive, but Tyr touches my arm lightly, shaking his head once.

Watch , he mouths to me.

Ashera eyes him the same way she did to his brother, taking in his measure, his worth.

“That’s funny. Coming from”—She leans forward, sniffing the air—“a stable boy, from the smell of it.”

Selke meets my gaze, offering a flick of her eyebrow, as if saying, let them play their games.

In my periphery, the Withered King conjures several carafes of blood-dark wine and seven goblets.

Not silver like the ones in Shadowfell. The carafes are glass, while the goblets are of finely carved wood. He hands me one, and I pour the entire portion down my throat.

The king grunts appreciatively. “Another?”

I decline. I want a clear head for what’s coming.

The Steedlords and Ashera stare at each other in silence.

Ashera lifts a brow.

Duskreaver twists a hand over his gauntlet, making the leather creak like a threat.

“All right, that’s enough,” Selke says finally, hands on her hips. She too, wears a more simple tunic and pants than I’ve seen her in, but they suit her. Especially the bandoleer of vials she has slung between her breasts .

“All potential maidens are whores—and you’re what? A were-horse? Distant cousins to a werewolf or fae that shifts into animals?”

The Withered King watches with an amused smile over his wooden goblet. Next to me, Tyr is completely still.

“Actually,” Duskreaver says casually. “Our mother fucked a horse.”

A gale of frostbitten air sweeps through the still open door. Tyr shuts it with his mind before both Asher and Selke, and Cinder and Duskreaver all burst into laughter.

I shouldn’t laugh. Not with war looming. Not with ghosts and memories still whispering through the stone. But for one sharp moment, I do. We all do.

And in a small way, it feels like our allegiances are made clear.

Cinder regains himself first and pours four goblets of wine, offering the first to Ashera, then Selke, then his brother, before finally taking one for himself.

“To new alliances,” Dusk says, raising his goblet high.

Ashera and Selke raise theirs, and the foursome drinks together.

I pin Tyr with a glance. What was that?

He leans close, whispering against my hair. “Their version of court politics. Taking each other’s measure, testing past wounds and present alignments.”

I shake my head.

I’ve done the same.

But it’s supremely strange to witness from the outside.

“Right. Now that’s settled, what are you two, actually?” Selke asks, wiping her mouth delicately with the edge of her thumb.

Their jaws tighten, and Ashera notices it.

I’d worked out enough for Duskreaver to manage a single declaration. “We were never horses. We were kings—gods, once, before your kind even knew how to fear the dark.”

The Withered King tips back his goblet, finishing it. He sets it down with authority, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Yes. Now that the horses and harlots are done posturing, perhaps we can talk strategy.”