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-Five: The Witch's Coven
Year 294 – Two Hundred Eighty-Three Years After the Curse
The witch in the north had practiced the dark arts for two hundred eighty-three years.
Not literally—she was only seventy. 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 old now, her hair white, her face wrinkled, her eyes still sharp.
She had seen many things in her long life.
She had cast many spells.
She had failed many times.
But she had never faced anything like the queen.
The queen was different.
The queen was darkness.
The queen was eternity.
But Morgana had found something.
A coven.
A powerful coven of witches, bound to her by blood and magic, willing to fight for her, to die for her, to kill for her.
They were strong.
They were dark.
They were hungry.
This is it, she thought.
This is the answer.
This is how I match 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 Northern 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 forty-nine 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 old, they said. She is powerful. She is dangerous.
She has a coven. A powerful coven of witches.
Bound to her by blood and magic.
Willing to fight for her.
To die for her.
To kill for her.
She believes she can match your power.
She believes she can win.
She believes she can kill you.
Liora's smile widened.
A witch, she thought.
A coven.
Bound by blood and magic.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
But covens can be broken.
Magic can be shattered.
And no witch—
No coven—
No spell—
Can match eternity.
She stood up.
She walked down the steps.
The shadows followed.
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The Northern Tower – Night
Morgana gathered her coven.
The moon was full.
The candles were lit.
The ritual was beginning.
Tonight, she thought.
Tonight we go to the ruins.
Tonight we face the queen.
Tonight we match 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 center of the coven.
White dress. Black eyes. Pale skin.
Dozens of witches saw her.
Dozens of witches feared her.
Dozens of witches 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 magic.
Their power.
Their hunger.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Until none were left but Morgana.
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The Leader – Morgana
Morgana watched in horror.
"My coven," she whispered.
"Gone."
"All gone."
Liora turned to face her.
"Your coven was powerful."
"Your coven was dark."
"But your coven was mortal."
"You, however..."
"Your soul is worth something."
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 are powerful," she said.
"But I am more powerful."
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The Feeding – Morgana
Liora reached into the witch's mind.
She tried to resist.
She was old. Powerful. Dangerous.
But she was stronger.
She pushed past her defenses.
She found her memories.
...the spells...
...the coven...
...the hope ...
...that she could be the one...
...that she could stop her...
...that she could match her power...
She pulled.
The memories flowed into her.
The magic.
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 Coven Bond
Liora looked at the coven bond.
It was strong.
It was ancient.
It was magical.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
This coven bond could create power.
It could create magic.
It could create family.
But I have no need for bonds.
I have no need for magic.
I have no need for family.
I am the bond.
I am the magic.
I am the family.
She shattered the coven bond.
The connection broke.
The magic 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 Fiftieth Sacrifice
She performed the ritual in the tower, surrounded by the bodies of the coven.
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 Fifty
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Three million and fifty sacrifices. Three million and fifty souls. Three million and fifty streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
Three million fifty, 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 witch. A coven. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
Not even the powerful.
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 south. A demon. Fallen. He had been cast out of hell for his rebellion, forced to wander the earth, to feed on the souls of the living, to survive.
He believed he could challenge the queen.
He believed he could win.
He believed he could kill her.
Liora smiled.
Let him wander, she thought.
Let him feed.
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-Five