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-Seven: The Fallen Angel
Year 296 – Two Hundred Eighty-Five Years After the Curse
The angel in the west had wandered for two hundred eighty-five years.
Not literally—she was only seventy-two. But she had wandered as if she had been cast out of heaven for centuries. Every day. Every night. Every prayer of every kind.
She believed she could challenge the queen.
She believed she could win.
She believed she could kill her.
Her name was Seraphiel—another echo, another coincidence. She was old now, her wings broken, her halo dimmed, her eyes still burning.
She had seen many things in her long exile.
She had heard many prayers.
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 Seraphiel had found something.
A feather.
An ancient feather, plucked from the wing of the archangel Michael himself, imbued with the power to pierce any darkness, any evil, any queen.
She had hidden it for centuries.
She had protected it for centuries.
She was ready.
This is it, she thought.
This is the answer.
This is how I pierce her darkness.
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 Ruins – Morning
Seraphiel walked through the ruins, as she always did.
The walls were broken. The floors were cracked. The air was cold.
Life is hard, she thought.
Life is cruel.
Life is short.
But I am not short.
I am fallen.
I am eternal.
Or I was.
Until I was cast out.
Until I failed.
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 fifty-one 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 angel.
She is fallen, they said. She is broken. She is dangerous.
She has a feather. An ancient feather. Plucked from the wing of the archangel Michael.
It can pierce any darkness.
Any evil.
Any queen.
She believes she can pierce your darkness.
She believes she can win.
She believes she can kill you.
Liora's smile widened.
An angel, she thought.
Fallen. Broken. Dangerous.
A feather from the archangel Michael.
It can pierce any darkness.
Any evil.
Any queen.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
But I am not darkness.
I am not evil.
I am eternal.
And no feather—
No angel—
No archangel—
Can pierce eternity.
She stood up.
She walked down the steps.
The shadows followed.
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The Western Ruins – Night
Seraphiel prepared for her journey.
She held the feather.
It glowed in her hand.
It was cold.
It was alive.
It was piercing.
Tomorrow, she thought.
Tomorrow I go to the ruins.
Tomorrow I face the queen.
Tomorrow I pierce her darkness.
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 Ruins
Liora appeared in the shadows.
White dress. Black eyes. Pale skin.
"You're here," she said.
Seraphiel looked up.
"Who—"
"I am the queen."
"The queen?"
"Yes."
"Please—"
"Shh."
Seraphiel raised the feather.
Liora moved.
Faster than Seraphiel could follow. Faster than she could react.
Her hand closed around the angel's wrist.
"You won't need that."
"Let go of me."
"No."
Seraphiel 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 – Seraphiel
Liora reached into the angel's mind.
She tried to resist.
She was fallen. Broken. Dangerous.
But she was stronger.
She pushed past her defenses.
She found her memories.
...the fall...
...the exile...
...the hope ...
...that she could be the one...
...that she could stop her...
...that she could pierce her darkness...
She pulled.
The memories flowed into her.
The fall.
The exile.
The soul.
Delicious, she thought.
More.
She pulled again.
Seraphiel gasped.
Her body convulsed.
Her eyes rolled back.
She pulled again.
Seraphiel went limp.
She withdrew from her mind.
She looked down at her.
Still breathing. Still alive. But empty.
The angel was no more.
Just a shell.
Another victim.
Another name for the list.
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The Feather
Liora picked up the feather.
It glowed in her hand.
It was cold.
It was alive.
It was piercing.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
She raised the feather.
She looked at its reflection in her eyes.
Her eyes were black.
Her skin was pale.
Her smile was wide.
This feather could pierce anything, she thought.
Any darkness.
Any evil.
Any queen.
But I am not darkness.
I am not evil.
I am eternal.
And no feather—
No angel—
No archangel—
Can pierce eternity.
She crushed the feather in her hand.
The glow faded.
The cold died.
The piercing 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 Fifty-Second Sacrifice
She performed the ritual in the ruins, surrounded by shadows and silence.
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 Fifty-Two
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Three million and fifty-two sacrifices. Three million and fifty-two souls. Three million and fifty-two streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
Three million fifty-two, 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.
An angel. Fallen. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
Not even the fallen.
She smiled in the darkness.
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The Disposal
She burned Seraphiel's body in a pyre of holy light.
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 dragon. Ancient. He had been sleeping for centuries, waiting for the right time to wake, to hunt, to feed.
He believed he could challenge the queen.
He believed he could win.
He believed he could kill her.
Liora smiled.
Let him sleep, she thought.
Let him wake.
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-Seven