WHAT LIVES BENEATH THE VEIL
Book Ten: The Eternal Return
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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-Nine: The Barbarian's Fury
Year 278 – Two Hundred Sixty-Seven Years After the Curse
The barbarian in the north had fought for two hundred sixty-seven years.
Not literally—he was only fifty-four. But he had fought as if he had been waging war for centuries. Every day. Every night. Every battle of every season.
He believed he could defeat the queen with his bare hands.
He believed he was strong enough.
He believed he was ready.
His name was Bjorn—another echo, another coincidence. He was young, fierce, and savage. He had an axe. A rage. A purpose.
He had heard the stories.
The legends.
The fear.
He did not believe them.
He could not believe them.
No one was that powerful.
No one was that evil.
No one was that alone.
He was wrong.
But he had found something.
A blessing.
An ancient blessing, bestowed upon his tribe by a dying god, a promise that his strength would never fail, his rage would never fade, his will would never break.
He had believed it.
He had trusted it.
He had relied on it.
This is it, he thought.
This is the answer.
This is how I crush 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 Mountains – Morning
Bjorn trained in the mountains, as he always did.
The snow was cold. The wind was sharp. The air was thin.
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.
Three million and thirty-two 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 barbarian.
He is fierce, they said. He is savage. He is dangerous.
He has a blessing. An ancient blessing. Bestowed upon his tribe by a dying god.
It promises his strength will never fail.
His rage will never fade.
His will will never break.
He believes he can crush you.
He believes he can win.
He believes he can kill you.
Liora's smile widened.
A blessing, she thought.
Bestowed by a dying god.
It promises his strength will never fail.
His rage will never fade.
His will will never break.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
But I am not a god.
I am not dying.
I am eternal.
And no blessing—
No god—
No rage—
Can match eternity.
She stood up.
She walked down the steps.
The shadows followed.
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The Northern Mountains – Night
Bjorn camped in the mountains, alone.
The fire was warm. The stars were bright. The night was quiet.
Tomorrow, he thought.
Tomorrow I go to the ruins.
Tomorrow I face the queen.
Tomorrow I crush 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 Camp
Liora appeared in the firelight.
White dress. Black eyes. Pale skin.
"You're here," she said.
Bjorn woke with a start.
"Who—"
"I am the queen."
"The queen?"
"Yes."
"Please—"
"Shh."
Bjorn raised his axe.
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."
Bjorn 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 – Bjorn
Liora reached into the barbarian's mind.
He tried to resist.
He was fierce. Savage. Dangerous.
But she was stronger.
She pushed past his defenses.
She found his memories.
...the battles...
...the rage...
...the hope ...
...that he could be the one...
...that he could stop her...
...that he could crush her...
She pulled.
The memories flowed into her.
The fierceness.
The savagery.
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 barbarian was no more.
Just a shell.
Another victim.
Another name for the list.
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The Blessing
Liora picked up his axe.
It hummed in her hand.
It was warm.
It was alive.
It was blessed.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
She raised the axe.
She looked at its reflection in her eyes.
Her eyes were black.
Her skin was pale.
Her smile was wide.
This blessing could make anyone strong, she thought.
Their strength would never fail.
Their rage would never fade.
Their will would never break.
But I have no need for strength.
I have no need for rage.
I have no need for will.
I am the strength.
I am the rage.
I am the will.
She snapped the axe in half.
The wood broke.
The hum stopped.
The warmth died.
The blessing 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 Thirty-Third Sacrifice
She performed the ritual in the camp, surrounded by fire and darkness.
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 – Three Million Thirty-Three
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Three million and thirty-three sacrifices. Three million and thirty-three souls. Three million and thirty-three streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
Three million thirty-three, 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 barbarian. Fierce. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
Not even the fierce.
She smiled in the darkness.
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The Disposal
She burned Bjorn's body in his own fire.
The flames were 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 ninja. Silent. She had been training for years, perfecting the art of stealth, of assassination, of death.
She believed she could sneak into the ruins.
She believed she could strike the queen from the shadows.
She believed she could kill her.
Liora smiled.
Let her sneak, she thought.
Let her strike.
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-Nine