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 Ninety-Six: The Blacksmith's Last Forge
Year 185 – One Hundred Seventy-Four Years After the Curse
The blacksmith in the south had forged for one hundred seventy-four years.
Not literally—he was only fifty-nine. But he had forged as if he had been hammering metal for a century and a half. Every day. Every night. Every swing of every hammer.
He believed the queen was unbeatable.
He believed she was eternal.
He believed she was inevitable.
His name was Torvin—another echo, another coincidence. He was young, strong, and skilled. He had a forge. An anvil. 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 truly invincible.
Everyone had a weakness.
Everyone could be stopped.
Everyone could be killed.
He just had to find it.
And he had found something.
An anvil.
An ancient anvil, forged from the core of a dead world, imbued with the power to shape any metal, any weapon, any darkness.
It had been hidden for centuries, guarded by a secret order of smiths who had dedicated their lives to protecting it.
He had found them.
He had convinced them.
He had taken it.
The anvil hummed beneath his hammer.
It was hot.
It was alive.
It was shaping.
This is it, he thought.
This is the answer.
This is how I forge a weapon to kill her.
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 Southern Forge – Morning
Torvin worked at his forge, as he always did.
The fire was hot. The metal was soft. The hammer was heavy.
Life is hard, he thought.
Life is cruel.
Life is short.
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 forty-six 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 blacksmith.
He is strong, they said. He is skilled. He is determined.
He has found an anvil. An ancient anvil. Forged from the core of a dead world.
It can shape any metal.
Any weapon.
Any darkness.
He believes he can forge a weapon to kill you.
He believes he can stop you.
He believes he can win.
Liora's smile widened.
An anvil, she thought.
Forged from the core of a dead world.
It can shape any metal.
Any weapon.
Any darkness.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
She stood up.
She walked down the steps.
The shadows followed.
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The Southern Forge – Night
Liora traveled south, invisible as always.
The whispers guided her. One hundred thousand and forty-six souls, bound to her, serving her, hungry for more.
He is close, they said. His forge is ahead. He is inside. He is working.
He is perfect.
She found the forge.
It was large, made of stone and brick, filled with fire and metal and heat.
She walked inside.
No one saw her.
No one ever saw her.
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The Forge
Torvin worked at his anvil.
He was forging a weapon. A beautiful weapon. A weapon to kill the queen.
The anvil hummed beneath his hammer.
It was hot.
It was alive.
It was shaping.
Tonight, he thought.
Tonight I finish the weapon.
Tonight I prepare to face her.
Tonight I forge my destiny.
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 Forge
Liora stepped into the light.
The hammer stopped.
Torvin turned.
"Who—"
"I am the queen."
"The queen?"
"Yes."
"Please—"
"Shh."
Torvin raised his hammer.
Liora moved.
Faster than he could follow. Faster than he could react.
Her hand closed around his wrist.
"You won't need that."
"Let go of me."
"No."
Torvin tried to pull away.
He could not.
Liora's grip was like iron.
"What are you?"
"I am what comes next."
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The Feeding – Torvin
Liora reached into the blacksmith's mind.
He tried to resist.
He was strong. Skilled. Determined.
But she was stronger.
She pushed past his defenses.
She found his memories.
...the forges...
...the weapons...
...the hope ...
...that he could be the one...
...that he could stop her...
...that he could kill her...
She pulled.
The memories flowed into her.
The strength.
The skill.
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 blacksmith was no more.
Just a shell.
Another victim.
Another name for the list.
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The Anvil
Liora picked up the anvil.
It hummed in her hands.
It was hot.
It was alive.
It was shaping.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
She raised the anvil.
She looked at its reflection in her eyes.
Her eyes were black.
Her skin was pale.
Her smile was wide.
This anvil could shape anything, she thought.
Any metal.
Any weapon.
Any darkness.
But I have no need for weapons.
I have no need for metal.
I have no need for darkness.
I am the weapon.
I am the metal.
I am the darkness.
She shattered the anvil with her bare hands.
The metal screamed.
The hum stopped.
The heat died.
The shaping ended.
No one will ever use it now, she thought.
No one will ever try again.
I am safe.
I am eternal.
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The One Hundred Thousand Forty-Seventh Sacrifice
She performed the ritual in the forge, surrounded by fire and metal and heat.
The whispers watched.
She spoke the words.
She made the cuts.
She collected the blood.
And when it was over—
The darkness roared.
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The Power – One Hundred Thousand Forty-Seven
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
One hundred thousand and forty-seven sacrifices. One hundred thousand and forty-seven souls. One hundred thousand and forty-seven streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
One hundred thousand forty-seven, 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 blacksmith. Strong. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
Not even the strong.
She smiled in the darkness.
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The Disposal
She burned Torvin's body in his own forge.
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 healer. Compassionate. She had been saving lives for years, hiding in the shadows, avoiding the queen's notice.
She believed she could heal the queen.
She believed she could save her soul.
She believed she could redeem her.
Liora smiled.
Let her heal, she thought.
Let her save.
Let her believe.
I have time.
I have forever.
And when she comes—
I will feed.
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End of Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Six