WHAT LIVES BENEATH THE VEIL
Book Zero: The First 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 Three: The Early Years
Year 550 Before the Curse – The Age of Magic
Mordred was born on a summer night, in a small village far from the great cities of the kingdom.
His mother was a healer. His father was a farmer. They were poor, but they were happy.
They loved him.
They cherished him.
They protected him.
But Mordred was different.
From his first breath, something was missing.
He did not cry when he was born.
He did not smile when his mother held him.
He did not feel when his father kissed his forehead.
He was empty.
Always empty.
Forever empty.
His mother noticed.
She was a healer. She knew when something was wrong.
But she could not fix this.
She could not fill the emptiness inside her son.
She tried.
She held him. She sang to him. She begged him to feel.
But he did not.
He could not.
He was empty.
And he would always be empty.
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Age 5 – The First Sign
When Mordred was five years old, he killed his first animal.
A rabbit.
It was soft. White. Innocent.
He found it in the forest, caught in a trap.
It was scared. It was suffering.
He should have freed it.
He should have helped it.
Instead, he watched.
He watched it struggle.
He watched it bleed.
He watched it die.
And he felt nothing.
Not sadness.
Not guilt.
Not remorse.
Just emptiness.
The same emptiness he had always felt.
He left the rabbit in the trap.
He walked home.
His mother asked him where he had been.
"In the forest," he said.
"What were you doing?"
"Watching."
"Watching what?"
"A rabbit."
"Did you help it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it was already dead."
His mother stared at him.
She wanted to believe him.
She needed to believe him.
But she knew he was lying.
She knew something was wrong.
She did not know what to do.
So she did nothing.
And Mordred learned a valuable lesson:
No one will stop me.
No one will notice.
No one will care.
I am free.
I am empty.
I am alone.
And that is fine.
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Age 7 – The First Human
When Mordred was seven years old, he killed his first human.
A beggar.
A man who lived in the streets of the village, forgotten by everyone, loved by no one.
Mordred found him in an alley, sleeping on a pile of rags.
He was old. He was weak. He was alone.
No one would miss him.
No one would notice.
No one would care.
Mordred knelt beside him.
He touched the man's face.
The man woke up.
"Who—"
"Shh."
Mordred reached into the man's mind.
He found his memories.
His wife. His children. His life.
He pulled.
The man gasped.
His body convulsed.
His eyes rolled back.
He pulled again.
The man went limp.
Mordred withdrew from his mind.
He looked down at the body.
He felt nothing.
Not excitement.
Not satisfaction.
Not hunger.
Just emptiness.
The same emptiness he had always felt.
He left the body in the alley.
He walked home.
No one saw him.
No one ever saw him.
And Mordred learned another valuable lesson:
I can kill.
I can consume.
I can take.
And no one will ever know.
Because no one is watching.
Because no one cares.
Because I am invisible.
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Age 10 – The Hunger Begins
When Mordred was ten years old, he began to feel something new.
Hunger.
Not for food.
For souls.
He had killed three more people since the beggar.
A traveler. A merchant. A priest.
Each time, he had taken something from them.
Not just their memories.
Their essence.
Their life.
Their soul.
And each time, he had felt something.
Not satisfaction.
Not pleasure.
Hunger.
He wanted more.
He needed more.
He would have more.
He began to seek out victims.
Not randomly.
Deliberately.
He looked for people who would not be missed.
The lonely. The forgotten. The desperate.
He killed them.
He consumed them.
He grew stronger.
And the hunger grew deeper.
This is who I am, he thought.
This is what I am.
This is what I was born to be.
A predator.
A consumer.
A god.
He smiled.
The darkness smiled with him.
And somewhere, in the depths of the universe, the watcher stirred.
"A darkness is growing," it whispered.
"A hunger is awakening.
A monster is being born.
I will watch.
I will wait.
I will hope.
Because he is worth it.
He is worth everything."
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Age 15 – The Study of Magic
When Mordred was fifteen years old, he discovered magic.
Not the simple magic of the village healers.
Dark magic.
The kind that required blood.
The kind that required sacrifice.
The kind that required souls.
He found an old book in the attic of his family's home.
It was bound in leather, written in a language he did not recognize.
But he could feel it.
The power.
The hunger.
The darkness.
He studied it every night.
He learned the words.
He learned the rituals.
He learned the secrets.
And he practiced.
On animals.
On people.
On anyone he could find.
He grew stronger.
The hunger grew deeper.
He wanted more.
He needed more.
He would have more.
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Age 18 – The First Ritual
When Mordred was eighteen years old, he performed his first ritual.
He had found the instructions in the old book.
A way to transfer power from one person to another.
A way to consume a soul completely.
Not just the memories.
The essence.
The life.
The everything.
He needed a victim.
A willing victim.
Someone who would not fight back.
Someone who would trust him.
He chose a girl from the village.
Her name was Elara.
She was young. Beautiful. Kind.
She had a crush on him.
She would do anything for him.
She would trust him.
He led her to the forest.
"I want to show you something," he said.
"What?"
"A secret."
"A magic secret."
She followed.
They always followed.
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The Ritual
He drew a circle in the dirt.
He lit candles.
He burned incense.
"Close your eyes," he said.
She closed her eyes.
He spoke the words.
The circle glowed.
The candles flickered.
The incense smoked.
He reached into her mind.
He found her memories.
Her parents. Her friends. Her dreams.
He pulled.
She gasped.
Her body convulsed.
Her eyes rolled back.
He pulled again.
She went limp.
He withdrew from her mind.
He looked down at her.
She was still breathing.
Still alive.
But empty.
He performed the ritual.
He spoke the words.
He made the cuts.
He collected the blood.
And when it was over—
The darkness screamed.
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The Power
The power flooded into him.
Not just her soul.
Her essence.
Her life.
Her everything.
He felt it filling the emptiness inside him.
Not completely.
Never completely.
But enough.
Enough to satisfy the hunger.
For a little while.
He looked at the body.
He felt nothing.
Not guilt.
Not remorse.
Not satisfaction.
Just emptiness.
The same emptiness he had always felt.
But now, he knew how to fill it.
Temporarily.
Partially.
Enough.
He burned the body.
He scattered the ashes.
No one saw him.
No one ever saw him.
He returned home.
He studied the book.
He planned.
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The Years – The Descent
Mordred killed again.
And again.
And again.
He killed travelers.
He killed merchants.
He killed priests.
He killed anyone he could find.
Anyone who would not be missed.
Anyone who would not be noticed.
Each kill made him stronger.
Each ritual made him more powerful.
Each sacrifice made the hunger deeper.
He wanted more.
He needed more.
He would have more.
He stopped counting the souls.
There were too many.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
He lost track.
He stopped caring.
He was empty.
He was hungry.
He was dark.
And he was alone.
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The Tower – The Isolation
When Mordred was twenty-five years old, he left the village.
He built a tower in the mountains.
Black stone. High walls. Impenetrable.
He lived there alone.
No friends. No family. No lovers.
He had only his books, his spells, and his hunger.
He studied the old texts.
He learned the old secrets.
He perfected his rituals.
And he waited.
For what, he did not know.
Something.
Anything.
Someone who could fill the emptiness.
Someone who could understand him.
Someone who could love him.
He waited for decades.
Centuries.
Eons.
No one came.
No one ever came.
He was alone.
He was empty.
He was eternal.
And then, he found it.
The ritual.
The one that would make him immortal.
The one that would make him a god.
One hundred sacrifices.
One hundred souls.
One hundred deaths.
But not just any deaths.
The deaths of the innocent.
Children.
He did not hesitate.
He had killed before.
He would kill again.
And when it was over, he would be eternal.
He would be a god.
He would be whole.
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To Be Continued in Chapter Four: The Hundred Victims
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End of Chapter Three