WHAT LIVES BENEATH THE VEIL
Book Eleven: The Final Darkness
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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 Seventy-Four: The Witch's Power
Year 283 – Two Hundred Seventy-Two Years After the Curse
The witch in the west had practiced the dark arts for two hundred seventy-two years.
Not literally—she was only fifty-nine. But she had practiced as if she had been learning the old magic for centuries. Every day. Every night. Every spell of every kind.
She believed she could match the queen's power.
She believed she was strong enough.
She believed she was ready.
Her name was Morgana—another echo, another coincidence. She was young, dark, and powerful. She had a staff. A grimoire. 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 spell.
An ancient spell, written in the blood of a dead god, imbued with the power to drain any magic, any curse, any darkness.
It had been hidden for centuries, guarded by a secret order of witches who had dedicated their lives to protecting it.
She had found them.
She had convinced them.
She had taken it.
The spell hummed in her mind.
It was cold.
It was alive.
It was draining.
This is it, she thought.
This is the answer.
This is how I drain her power.
She did not see the shadows gathering.
She did not hear the whispers growing louder.
She did not feel the darkness closing in.
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The Western Tower – Morning
Morgana studied in her tower, as she always did.
The books were old. The pages were yellow. The words were fading.
Life is short, she thought.
Life is fragile.
Life is precious.
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 thirty-seven 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 witch.
She is dark, they said. She is powerful. She is dangerous.
She has found a spell. An ancient spell. Written in the blood of a dead god.
It can drain any magic.
Any curse.
Any darkness.
She believes she can drain your power.
She believes she can win.
She believes she can kill you.
Liora's smile widened.
A spell, she thought.
Written in the blood of a dead god.
It can drain any magic.
Any curse.
Any darkness.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
But I am not magic.
I am not a curse.
I am eternal.
And no spell—
No witch—
No god—
Can drain eternity.
She stood up.
She walked down the steps.
The shadows followed.
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The Western Tower – Night
Morgana practiced her spell late into the night.
She held her staff.
It glowed with dark energy.
Tomorrow, she thought.
Tomorrow I go to the ruins.
Tomorrow I face the queen.
Tomorrow I drain her power.
She did not see the shadows gathering.
She did not hear the whispers growing louder.
She did not feel the darkness closing in.
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The Tower
Liora appeared in the doorway.
White dress. Black eyes. Pale skin.
"You're here," she said.
Morgana looked up.
"Who—"
"I am the queen."
"The queen?"
"Yes."
"Please—"
"Shh."
Morgana raised her staff.
Liora moved.
Faster than Morgana could follow. Faster than she could react.
Her hand closed around the witch's wrist.
"You won't need that."
"Let go of me."
"No."
Morgana tried to pull away.
She could not.
Liora's grip was like iron.
"What are you?"
"I am what comes next."
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The Feeding – Morgana
Liora reached into the witch's mind.
She tried to resist.
She was dark. Powerful. Dangerous.
But she was stronger.
She pushed past her defenses.
She found her memories.
...the spells...
...the rituals...
...the hope ...
...that she could be the one...
...that she could stop her...
...that she could drain her power...
She pulled.
The memories flowed into her.
The darkness.
The power.
The soul.
Delicious, she thought.
More.
She pulled again.
Morgana gasped.
Her body convulsed.
Her eyes rolled back.
She pulled again.
Morgana went limp.
She withdrew from her mind.
She looked down at her.
Still breathing. Still alive. But empty.
The witch was no more.
Just a shell.
Another victim.
Another name for the list.
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The Spell
Liora reached into Morgana's mind again.
She found the spell.
It was written in the blood of a dead god.
It could drain any magic.
Any curse.
Any darkness.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
This spell could drain me, she thought.
It could make me vulnerable.
It could make me mortal.
If it were cast.
If I were vulnerable.
If I were weak.
But I am not weak.
I am not vulnerable.
I am eternal.
She erased the spell from Morgana's mind.
The words faded.
The magic dissolved.
The draining 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-Eighth Sacrifice
She performed the ritual in the tower, surrounded by books and darkness.
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 Thirty-Eight
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Three million and thirty-eight sacrifices. Three million and thirty-eight souls. Three million and thirty-eight streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
Three million thirty-eight, 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 witch. Dark. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
Not even the dark.
She smiled in the darkness.
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The Disposal
She burned Morgana's body in the tower'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 man in the north. A berserker. Savage. He had been fighting for years, waging war against anyone who crossed him, building a reputation as the most savage warrior in the land.
He believed he could defeat the queen with his bare hands.
He believed he was strong enough.
He believed he was ready.
Liora smiled.
Let him fight, she thought.
Let him rage.
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 Seventy-Four