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-Five: The Berserker's Rage
Year 284 – Two Hundred Seventy-Three Years After the Curse
The berserker in the north had fought for two hundred seventy-three years.
Not literally—he was only sixty. 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, savage, and unstoppable. He had no weapon. No armor. No fear.
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 rage.
An ancient rage, bestowed upon his tribe by a dying god, a promise that his strength would never fail, his fury 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-eight 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 berserker.
He is savage, they said. He is unstoppable. He is dangerous.
He has a rage. An ancient rage. Bestowed upon his tribe by a dying god.
It promises his strength will never fail.
His fury 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 rage, she thought.
Bestowed by a dying god.
It promises his strength will never fail.
His fury 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 rage—
No berserker—
No god—
Can crush 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 roared.
He charged.
Liora moved.
Faster than he could follow. Faster than he could react.
Her hand closed around his throat.
"You are strong," she said.
"But I am stronger."
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The Feeding – Bjorn
Liora reached into the berserker's mind.
He tried to resist.
He was savage. Unstoppable. 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 savagery.
The rage.
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 berserker was no more.
Just a shell.
Another victim.
Another name for the list.
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The Rage
Liora looked at the berserker's body.
The rage still pulsed within him.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
She reached into his chest.
She pulled out the rage.
It glowed in her hand.
It was warm.
It was alive.
It was furious.
This rage could make anyone unstoppable, she thought.
Their strength would never fail.
Their fury would never fade.
Their will would never break.
But I have no need for rage.
I have no need for fury.
I have no need for strength.
I am the rage.
I am the fury.
I am the strength.
She crushed the rage in her hand.
The glow faded.
The warmth died.
The fury 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-Ninth 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-Nine
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Three million and thirty-nine sacrifices. Three million and thirty-nine souls. Three million and thirty-nine streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
Three million thirty-nine, 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 berserker. Savage. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
Not even the savage.
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 warlock. Cunning. She had been making deals with demons for years, trading her soul for power, for secrets, for victory.
She believed she could summon a demon powerful enough to defeat the queen.
She believed she could win.
She believed she was ready.
Liora smiled.
Let her summon, she thought.
Let her trade.
Let her believe.
I have time.
I have forever.
And when her demon comes—
I will feed.
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End of Chapter Two Hundred Seventy-Five