WHAT LIVES BENEATH THE VEIL
Book Nine: The Age of Desolation
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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 Sixty: The Priest's Last Prayer
Year 269 – Two Hundred Fifty-Eight Years After the Curse
The priest in the north had prayed for two hundred fifty-eight years.
Not literally—he was only forty-five. But he had prayed as if he had been begging for centuries. 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.
And he had found something.
A scripture.
An ancient scripture, written in the blood of a dead saint, imbued with the power to call down divine intervention, to smite any darkness, to end any evil.
It had been hidden for centuries, guarded by a secret order of priests who had dedicated their lives to protecting it.
He had found them.
He had convinced them.
He had taken it.
The scripture hummed in his hands.
It was cold.
It was alive.
It was divine.
This is it, he thought.
This is the answer.
This is how I smite 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 Northern 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.
Three million and twenty-four 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.
He has found a scripture. An ancient scripture. Written in the blood of a dead saint.
It can call down divine intervention.
Smite any darkness.
End any evil.
He believes his god will save them.
He believes his god will stop you.
He believes his god will end you.
Liora's smile widened.
A scripture, she thought.
Written in the blood of a dead saint.
It can call down divine intervention.
Smite any darkness.
End any evil.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
She stood up.
She walked down the steps.
The shadows followed.
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The Northern Chapel – Night
Marcus prayed late into the night.
He held the scripture.
It hummed in his hands.
It was cold.
It was alive.
It was divine.
Tomorrow, he thought.
Tomorrow I read the scripture.
Tomorrow I call down divine intervention.
Tomorrow I smite 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 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."
Marcus raised the scripture.
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."
Marcus 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 – 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 Scripture
Liora picked up the scripture.
It hummed in her hands.
It was cold.
It was alive.
It was divine.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
She opened the scripture.
The words glowed.
They were ancient.
They were powerful.
They were dangerous.
This scripture could call down divine intervention, she thought.
It could smite any darkness.
It could end any evil.
But I am not evil.
I am not darkness.
I am eternal.
And no god—
No saint—
No divine intervention—
Can smite me.
She burned the scripture in the chapel's brazier.
The pages curled.
The words faded.
The divine died.
No one will ever read it now, she thought.
No one will ever try again.
I am safe.
I am eternal.
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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.
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The Three Million Twenty-Fifth 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 – Three Million Twenty-Five
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Three million and twenty-five sacrifices. Three million and twenty-five souls. Three million and twenty-five streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
Three million twenty-five, 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 south. A rogue. Cunning. She had been stealing from the rich for years, hiding in the shadows, avoiding the queen's notice.
She believed she could sneak into the ruins.
She believed she could steal the queen's secrets.
She believed she could survive.
Liora smiled.
Let her sneak, she thought.
Let her steal.
Let her believe.
I have time.
I have forever.
And when she comes—
I will feed.
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End of Chapter Two Hundred Sixty
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END OF BOOK NINE: THE AGE OF DESOLATION