WHAT LIVES BENEATH THE VEIL
Book Six: The Eternal Empire
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CONTENT WARNING: This series contains explicit sexual violence, human sacrifice, psychological torture, murder of innocent characters (including children and family members), ritualistic killing, and extreme horror. No character is safe. Read at your own risk.
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Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Six: The Priest's Last Prayer
Year 165 – One Hundred Fifty-Four Years After the Curse
The priest in the west had prayed for one hundred fifty-four years.
Not literally—he was only thirty-nine. But he had prayed as if he had been begging for a century and a half. Every day. Every night. Every moment of every hour.
He believed his god would answer.
He believed his god would save them.
He believed his god would end the darkness.
His name was Marcus—another echo, another coincidence. He was young, faithful, and devoted. He had a chapel. A congregation. A purpose.
He had heard the stories.
The legends.
The fear.
He believed them.
He knew the queen was powerful. Immortal. Invincible.
But he also knew that no one was beyond the reach of his god.
Everyone could be saved.
Everyone could be redeemed.
Everyone could be forgiven.
He just had to pray hard enough.
But something had changed.
The whispers had grown louder.
The shadows had grown deeper.
The darkness had grown hungrier.
He had begun to doubt.
Not his god—never his god. His own faith. His own worth. His own ability to be heard.
What if I'm not good enough? he thought.
What if I'm not pure enough?
What if I'm not worthy?
He fell to his knees.
He prayed harder.
He begged louder.
Please, he thought.
Please save us.
Please stop her.
Please end this.
He did not see the shadows gathering.
He did not hear the whispers growing louder.
He did not feel the darkness closing in.
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The Western Chapel – Morning
Marcus prayed at his altar, as he always did.
The candles were lit. The incense was burning. The silence was sacred.
Life is short, he thought.
Life is fragile.
Life is precious.
He did not see the shadows.
He did not hear the whispers.
He did not feel the darkness watching.
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The Ruins – Morning
Liora sat on the throne, listening to the whispers.
One hundred thousand and twenty souls now served her. They flitted through the shadows, invisible to all but her, reporting on everything they saw and heard.
They told her about the priest.
He is faithful, they said. He is devoted. He is dangerous.
But he is also doubtful.
He questions his worth.
He questions his purity.
He questions his ability to be heard.
He is vulnerable.
He is ready.
Liora smiled.
Let him doubt, she thought.
Let him question.
Let him beg.
I have time.
I have forever.
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The Western Chapel – Night
Marcus prayed late into the night.
He had been praying for years, begging his god to save them, to stop the queen, to end the darkness.
His god had not answered.
Not yet.
But he still prayed.
He still believed.
Please, he thought.
Please save us.
Please stop her.
Please end this.
He did not see the shadows gathering.
He did not hear the whispers growing louder.
He did not feel the darkness closing in.
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The Chapel
Liora appeared in the doorway.
White dress. Black eyes. Pale skin.
"You're here," she said.
Marcus looked up.
"Who—"
"I am the queen."
"The queen?"
"Yes."
"Please—"
"Shh."
She walked toward him.
He tried to stand.
He could not.
His legs would not move.
His arms would not lift.
His mouth would not speak.
"What—" he tried to say.
"You are paralyzed," she said. "Not by me. By your own fear. Your own doubt. Your own unworthiness."
"That's not—"
"It is. You have been praying for years. Begging for an answer. And none has come."
"God works in mysterious—"
"God is not listening."
Marcus's face went pale.
"God is always—"
"God is dead."
"No."
"God died a long time ago. When the first soul was consumed. When the first prayer went unanswered. When the first innocent was taken."
"That's not—"
"It is."
She knelt beside him.
She touched his face.
"Close your eyes."
"No."
"Close your eyes."
He closed his eyes.
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The Feeding – Marcus
Liora reached into the priest's mind.
He tried to resist.
He was faithful. Devoted. Hopeful.
But she was stronger.
She pushed past his defenses.
She found his memories.
...the prayers...
...the hopes...
...the faith ...
...that his god would save them...
...that his god would stop her...
...that his god would answer ...
She pulled.
The memories flowed into her.
The faith.
The devotion.
The soul.
Delicious, she thought.
More.
She pulled again.
He gasped.
His body convulsed.
His eyes rolled back.
She pulled again.
He went limp.
She withdrew from his mind.
She looked down at him.
Still breathing. Still alive. But empty.
The priest was no more.
Just a shell.
Another victim.
Another name for the list.
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The Congregation
The congregation watched in horror.
"She killed him."
"She drained him."
"We have to run."
"We have to fight."
Liora turned to face them.
"Who's next?"
They screamed.
They ran.
They fled.
She let them go.
They were not worth her time.
Not worth her hunger.
But she marked them.
The whispers followed them.
The shadows watched them.
They would never be safe.
None of them would ever be safe.
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The One Hundred Thousand Twenty-First Sacrifice
She performed the ritual in the chapel, surrounded by candles and silence.
The whispers watched.
She spoke the words.
She made the cuts.
She collected the blood.
And when it was over—
The darkness wept.
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The Power – One Hundred Thousand Twenty-One
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
One hundred thousand and twenty-one sacrifices. One hundred thousand and twenty-one souls. One hundred thousand and twenty-one streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
One hundred thousand twenty-one, she thought.
The hunger is quieter now.
But it will return.
It always returns.
She released the spell.
The shadows retreated.
She looked at the body.
A priest. Faithful. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
Not even the faithful.
She smiled in the darkness.
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The Disposal
She burned Marcus's body in the chapel's brazier.
The fire was hot. The smoke was thick. She worked quickly, efficiently, scattering the ashes before dawn.
No one saw her.
No one ever saw her.
She walked back to the ruins as the sun rose, smelling of smoke and blood and darkness.
She washed her face in a broken fountain.
She braided her hair with her fingers.
She wore a white dress she had found in a forgotten wardrobe.
She practiced her smile.
Eyes wide. Innocence.
Mouth soft. Gentleness.
Head tilted. Curiosity.
Perfect, she thought.
She sat on the throne.
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The Empty Throne
The throne room was open to the sky.
No walls. No roof. No protection.
Just Liora.
And the whispers.
You are alone, they said.
Yes, she thought.
But I am not lonely.
I have you.
I have all of you.
Forever.
She closed her eyes.
She listened to the whispers.
They told her about the world.
The new kings. The new heroes. The new legends.
They told her about a young woman in the north. A warrior. Determined. She had been training for years, preparing for the day when she would face the queen.
She believed she was ready.
She believed she could win.
She believed she could kill her.
But she was wrong.
They were all wrong.
There was no killing the queen.
There was only feeding her.
Liora smiled.
Let them come, she thought.
Let them try.
Let them fail.
I have time.
I have forever.
And when they come—
I will feed.
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End of Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Six