WHAT LIVES BENEATH THE VEIL
Book Eight: The Eternal Night
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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 Two Hundred Forty-Three: The Shaman's Vision
Year 252 – Two Hundred Forty-One Years After the Curse
The shaman in the far north had communed with the spirits for two hundred forty-one years.
Not literally—she was only thirty. But she had communed as if she had been seeking wisdom for centuries. Every day. Every night. Every trance of every season.
She believed she had found a way to break the curse.
She believed she could free the souls.
She believed she could end the queen.
Her name was Anya. She was young, powerful, and determined. She had a staff. A totem. A purpose.
She had heard the stories.
The legends.
The fear.
She believed them.
She knew the queen was powerful. Immortal. Invincible.
But she also knew that no one was truly invincible.
Everyone had a weakness.
Everyone could be stopped.
Everyone could be killed.
She just had to find it.
And she had found something.
A vision.
An ancient vision, gifted to her by the spirits of her ancestors, showing her the queen's origin, her curse, her weakness.
She had seen the child born without a cry.
She had seen the girl with the knife in the cellar.
She had seen the woman cursed to hunger forever.
She had seen the first soul.
The one who had cursed her.
The one who had bound her.
The one who could unbind her.
The first soul is not gone, the spirits whispered. It is trapped. Imprisoned within the queen. Waiting to be freed.
If you free it—
The queen will be vulnerable.
For a moment.
One moment.
That is when you strike.
Anya opened her eyes.
"The first soul," she whispered.
"I have to find it."
"I have to free it."
"I have to strike."
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The Northern Tundra – Morning
Anya walked through the tundra, as she always did.
The snow was cold. The wind was sharp. The air was thin.
Life is hard, she thought.
Life is cruel.
Life is short.
She did not see the shadows.
She did not hear the whispers.
She did not feel the darkness watching.
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The Ruins – Morning
Liora sat on the throne, listening to the whispers.
Three million and five 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 shaman.
She is powerful, they said. She is determined. She is dangerous.
She has had a vision. An ancient vision. Gifted to her by the spirits of her ancestors.
She has seen your origin.
Your curse.
Your weakness.
She knows about the first soul.
She knows it can free her.
She knows it can destroy you.
Liora's smile faded.
A shaman, she thought.
With a vision.
She knows too much.
She must be stopped.
She stood up.
She walked down the steps.
The shadows followed.
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The Northern Tundra – Night
Liora traveled north, invisible as always.
The whispers guided her. Three million and five souls, bound to her, serving her, hungry for more.
She is close, they said. Her tent is ahead. She is inside. She is meditating.
She is dangerous.
She found the tent.
It was small, made of fur and leather, surrounded by the bones of ancient beasts.
She walked inside.
No one saw her.
No one ever saw her.
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The Tent
Anya sat in the center of the tent, her eyes closed, her staff in her hands.
She was meditating.
She was communing.
She did not see the figure standing behind her.
She did not hear the whisper in her ear.
She did not feel the hand on her shoulder.
"Hello, Anya."
She opened her eyes.
"Who—"
"I am the queen."
"The queen?"
"Yes."
"Please—"
"Shh."
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The Feeding – Anya
Liora reached into the shaman's mind.
She tried to resist.
She was powerful. Determined. Communing.
But she was stronger.
She pushed past her defenses.
She found her memories.
...the visions...
...the spirits...
...the hope ...
...that she could be the one...
...that she could stop her...
...that she could free the souls...
She pulled.
The memories flowed into her.
The power.
The determination.
The soul.
Delicious, she thought.
More.
She pulled again.
Anya gasped.
Her body convulsed.
Her eyes rolled back.
She pulled again.
Anya went limp.
She withdrew from her mind.
She looked down at her.
Still breathing. Still alive. But empty.
The shaman was no more.
Just a shell.
Another victim.
Another name for the list.
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The Totem
Liora picked up the totem.
It hummed in her hand.
It was cold.
It was alive.
It was communing.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
She raised the totem.
She looked at its reflection in her eyes.
Her eyes were black.
Her skin was pale.
Her smile was wide.
This totem could commune with anything, she thought.
Any spirit.
Any ancestor.
Any god.
But I have no need for communing.
I have no need for spirits.
I have no need for ancestors.
I am the spirit.
I am the ancestor.
I am the god.
She crushed the totem in her hand.
The wood splintered.
The hum stopped.
The cold died.
The communing 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 Three Million Sixth Sacrifice
She performed the ritual in the tent, surrounded by fur and leather and bones.
The whispers watched.
She spoke the words.
She made the cuts.
She collected the blood.
And when it was over—
The darkness purred.
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The Power – Three Million Six
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Three million and six sacrifices. Three million and six souls. Three million and six streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
Three million six, 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 shaman. Powerful. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
Not even the powerful.
She smiled in the darkness.
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The Disposal
She burned Anya's body in the tent.
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 man in the east. A monk. Disciplined. He had been training in martial arts for years, perfecting his body, his mind, his spirit.
He believed he could defeat the queen with his bare hands.
He believed he was powerful enough.
He believed he was ready.
Liora smiled.
Let him train, she thought.
Let him perfect.
Let him believe.
I have time.
I have forever.
And when he comes—
I will feed.
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End of Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Three