WHAT LIVES BENEATH THE VEIL
Book Twelve: The Eternal Cycle
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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 Eighty-Three: The Werewolf's Pack
Year 292 – Two Hundred Eighty-One Years After the Curse
The werewolf in the west had led her pack for two hundred eighty-one years.
Not literally—she was only sixty-eight. But she had led as if she had been fighting for centuries. Every day. Every night. Every hunt of every season.
She believed she could challenge the queen.
She believed she could win.
She believed she could kill her.
Her name was Lyra—another echo, another coincidence. She was old now, her hair gray, her face scarred, her eyes still fierce.
She had seen many things in her long life.
She had fought many battles.
She had lost many packmates.
But she had never faced anything like the queen.
The queen was different.
The queen was darkness.
The queen was eternity.
But Lyra had found something.
A pack.
A loyal pack of werewolves, bound to her by blood and loyalty, willing to fight for her, to die for her, to kill for her.
They were strong.
They were fierce.
They were hungry.
This is it, she thought.
This is the answer.
This is how I overwhelm her.
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 Forest – Morning
Lyra ran through the forest, as she always did.
The trees were tall. The shadows were deep. The silence was heavy.
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 forty-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 werewolf.
She is fierce, they said. She is old. She is dangerous.
She has a pack. A loyal pack of werewolves.
Bound to her by blood and loyalty.
Willing to fight for her.
To die for her.
To kill for her.
She believes she can overwhelm you.
She believes she can win.
She believes she can kill you.
Liora's smile widened.
A werewolf, she thought.
A pack.
Bound by blood and loyalty.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
But packs can be broken.
Loyalty can be shattered.
And no werewolf—
No pack—
No blood—
Can overwhelm eternity.
She stood up.
She walked down the steps.
The shadows followed.
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The Western Forest – Night
Lyra gathered her pack.
The moon was full.
The air was cold.
The hunt was beginning.
Tonight, she thought.
Tonight we go to the ruins.
Tonight we face the queen.
Tonight we overwhelm her.
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 Camp
Liora appeared in the center of the camp.
White dress. Black eyes. Pale skin.
Dozens of werewolves saw her.
Dozens of werewolves feared her.
Dozens of werewolves died.
She moved through them like a shadow, like a nightmare.
She touched them, one by one, and they fell.
Empty.
Hollow.
Useless.
She fed on their souls.
Their strength.
Their loyalty.
Their hunger.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Until none were left but Lyra.
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The Leader – Lyra
Lyra watched in horror.
"My pack," she whispered.
"Gone."
"All gone."
Liora turned to face her.
"Your pack was loyal."
"Your pack was strong."
"But your pack was mortal."
"You, however..."
"Your soul is worth something."
Lyra bared her claws.
Liora moved.
Faster than Lyra could follow. Faster than she could react.
Her hand closed around the werewolf's throat.
"You are fierce," she said.
"But I am fiercer."
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The Feeding – Lyra
Liora reached into the werewolf's mind.
She tried to resist.
She was fierce. Old. Dangerous.
But she was stronger.
She pushed past her defenses.
She found her memories.
...the hunts...
...the pack...
...the hope ...
...that she could be the one...
...that she could stop her...
...that she could overwhelm her...
She pulled.
The memories flowed into her.
The fierceness.
The loyalty.
The soul.
Delicious, she thought.
More.
She pulled again.
Lyra gasped.
Her body convulsed.
Her eyes rolled back.
She pulled again.
Lyra went limp.
She withdrew from her mind.
She looked down at her.
Still breathing. Still alive. But empty.
The werewolf was no more.
Just a shell.
Another victim.
Another name for the list.
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The Pack Bond
Liora looked at the pack bond.
It was strong.
It was ancient.
It was loyal.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
This pack bond could create loyalty.
It could create strength.
It could create family.
But I have no need for loyalty.
I have no need for family.
I have no need for strength.
I am the loyalty.
I am the family.
I am the strength.
She shattered the pack bond.
The connection broke.
The loyalty faded.
The family 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 Forty-Eighth Sacrifice
She performed the ritual in the camp, surrounded by the bodies of the pack.
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 Forty-Eight
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Three million and forty-eight sacrifices. Three million and forty-eight souls. Three million and forty-eight streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
Three million forty-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 bodies.
A werewolf. A pack. 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 the bodies in a massive pyre.
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 ghost. Restless. He had been wandering the earth for centuries, unable to move on, unable to find peace, unable to die.
He believed the queen could help him.
He believed she could free him.
He believed she could end his suffering.
Liora smiled.
Let him wander, she thought.
Let him seek.
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 Eighty-Three