Page 8 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

We’ve been riding far too long. Every muscle in my body aches, but besides that, it shouldn’t take so long to get wherever we’re going.

Tiriana isn’t so vast, and yet, the sky hasn’t cleared.

The trees of this forest are the same species that borders my village.

I don’t know exactly where I am, but I know we’re not as far as we should be.

"Is there a reason you’re steering your hell-beast in circles?"

Cindermaw chuffs in what I assume is agreement.

The king’s voice thrums through his body and into mine. I’ve been leaning against him fully for the last several hours, my own muscles refusing to keep me upright any longer. "I healed your superficial wounds, but you’re not well enough to travel the usual way, not twice in the same day."

"And what is the usual way?"

He sighs. "I think you know, Amara."

He’s right. I do, but I want him to say it.

"I only know what my mother taught me, and you yourself said that was lacking. "

The demon lord says nothing further.

"And anyway, I don’t see how keeping me on your giant demon horse until my muscles scream in protest helps me become well enough to travel the usual way."

Darkness, soft as velvet and unnervingly alive, curls around me, brushing against my skin like something waiting to be known.

It sinks into every aching muscle, deep into the burn in my thighs and the fatigue in my back and abdomen.

The tension unravels in slow deliberate pulses, leaving me weightless and weak, as though the relief itself hollowed me out.

A groan slips from my lips, unbidden and raw.

In front of me, the demon king’s chuckle is low and warm, a strand of molten gold vibrating through the darkness of his magic.

Sharp and intimate, it snakes under my skin, and my breath hitches.

The darkness lingers a moment longer, a faint caress along my ribs, before retreating, leaving me feeling oddly bare and unsettled.

I think about thanking him but decide better of it. He enjoyed it far too much to have earned gratitude.

"If you can do that, why not just make me well enough to travel, then?"

His back tightens. He doesn’t like the question or is unprepared to answer it. "It’s a matter of too much magic in too little time for your frail body to handle. The only cure is time, not more magic."

I stay quiet, mulling over his words. The implication.

Degrees of magic? Small, lesser magic, like healing superficial injuries and fatigue and evidently keeping me warm, wasn’t costly to him or me. But traveling by the blade, that was?

Why?

How?

But I don’t ask those questions. "Why do you care if I’m strong enough to travel? Don’t you want all us Maiden potentials dead? Who cares how it comes about?" There’s no dryness in my tone. I ask genuinely.

"Is that what they teach you in your blightfields of ice?"

I don’t bother responding, and he doesn’t elaborate, so I sit on top of his beastly horse and continue counting trees.

I don’t know when I dozed off, but I wake with a painful ache in my eyes. Stinging, almost burning pain keeps me from opening them, and where there’s usually blackness behind my lids, now it’s tinged red-orange. Like the world’s ablaze and the only thing between me and the inferno is my eyelids.

"What’s wrong?" the demon king asks, voice low with menace.

"I-I don’t know. My eyes…hurt badly, and I?—"

" By the shattered realm." He pulls the horse to a neighing stop and dismounts, pulling me off with him. Fortunately, my thighs don’t protest, and I’m able to stand on my own as he sets me on my feet.

I feel him step closer and reach around me. I tense, raising my fists, prepared to blindly punch whatever direction feels right should I need to.

But I don’t.

Because the demon king does nothing but pull the hood of his cloak over my head, tugging it forward enough to block whatever caused the burning in my eyes.

"Is that better?" he asks.

I nod, blinking into the dimness. He’s watching me, face unreadable—almost. There’s a flicker he doesn’t catch in time.

Concern.

There was concern for me on the demon king’s face.

"Yes. Thank you. "

He nods, stepping away. My hand goes to my chest as I see what his large frame had been blocking.

"Dama’s blessed hand," I whisper, the words slipping out on a breath I can’t seem to catch.

Blue flowers rise defiantly from the snowy forest floor. Same trees, the same familiar branches heavy with snow, but everything is brighter, sharper. The green needles glimmer in the sunlight like the green jewels Mother told us of—emerald? And the flowers…gods, the flowers.

"This is the edge of the spell that has your land encased in ice," he says, voice quiet but resonant as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile beauty of this place. "I thought you’d like to see it."

For once, my gaze doesn’t fall to him. It’s pulled upward, to the bluest sky I’ve ever seen.

A color so rich and endless, it makes my chest ache.

It takes my breath away. No thick gray haze.

No clouds. Just pure, ridiculous blue. It’s both comical and cruel.

How dare the world be so beautiful? How dare the Frozen King keep something so magnificent hidden?

"Is this what the world truly looks like?" My voice trembles, caught between awe and fury.

The king smiles. "Oh no, Amara. It’s so much more than filthy snow and clear horizons. Just wait. When the radiant mists rise and the opal skies burn open, you’ll understand."

I wake in a bed more comfortable than I’ve ever known. The linens are soft and clean, scented with sweet, unfamiliar things I don’t have names for. The warmth settles deep, not just in my skin but in my bones—something I hadn’t realized I’d been missing .

I run my thumbs along my fingertips, marveling at the clarity of sensation. As though the cold that always dulled my edges has vanished. Gently, I press at my lip, bracing for pain. There’s none. No torn flesh, no swelling.

I blink.

I was certain there would be?—

…No. I must be remembering wrong. I check my lashes next. All there. No soreness.

The guard who’d abused me also must have healed me.

What a complicated bastard.

My eyes flutter open to take in my surroundings.

The bed is impossibly large. Who would ever need all this room? I could roll three or four times and still have room. The covers are dark and shift color from purple to deep wine red in the light.

I throw the linens aside and hop down, noting how far it is to the ground only to find my bare toes—perfectly healthy without a spot of frost or blackened decay—sinking into the most plush, warm fur.

I half think I’d buried my feet in the hide of a sleeping animal until I see the deep red textile is perfectly circular. Just like the room.

There are no corners, or clear edges, just walls that sweep upward and around into a vast ceiling that’s so high, so distant, I can’t be certain it exists at all. Along with no corners, there are also no windows, which is…

Unsettling.

I approach the wall next to the bed, laying a hand on the smooth polished stone surface to find it surprisingly warm, as though it keeps heat from some unseen source.

At my touch, the wall glows. Faint symbols or designs I can’t decipher flare to life each time I look away and disappear when I look back .

The effect is so jarring, I put it from my mind and focus on the furniture instead.

A writing desk sits opposite the bed, mostly wood with smooth glass inlaid into the top. I approach, to find it’s not glass. It can’t be.

Not when the material glows faintly blue and purple when I hover my hand close.

Beside the writing desk is a fireplace, stoked and piled high with more wood than seems reasonable.

Next to that stands a wardrobe of the matching wood and same inlaid material as the desk.

I don’t check to see if it glows. Instead, a doorway draws my gaze.

Impossibly arched and tall, framed in chunks of glittering black stone so sharp I’m certain it would draw blood if touched.

As I approach, it’s clear someone carved the door from a single slab of stone. Small outcroppings of clustered geodes, just as sharp as the frame, keep me from pushing it open.

Finally, I’m back where I started, the bed, which I hadn’t noticed sits atop four slender, claw-like posts.

The headboard, carved from some alchemy of wood or metal—I cannot tell which—depicts twisting, monstrous forms. I don’t look at it long, not without the unsettling notion that I’m being watched overwhelming me.

"Oh good! You’re awake," an unfamiliar feminine voice cheers softly from the doorway. "I was hoping you’d wake today."

My arms cross over my breasts, and I’m suddenly aware that all I’m wearing is a thin shift. My gaze darts about for an outer dress or a robe or even a coat, but there’s nothing.

"Today?" I ask, as I rip a shimmering blanket from the bed and wrap it around myself. "How long have I been asleep?"

She’s a wisp of a thing, hardly taller than my shoulder, but her presence is far more substantial.

She watches as I cover myself but doesn’t comment, thankfully.

"It’s been three days. You had a hard journey, from what I hear.

" She gives me a single nod, orange curls bobbing in an unruly cascade.

Her features, narrow jawline, petite nose, and wide sparkling eyes that shift from gold to green, depending on how the shadows fall, all hint at a not entirely human lineage.

I nod. The guard said traveling the proper way would be hard for me. But three days of sleep?