WHAT LIVES BENEATH THE VEIL
Book One: The Unblooded Lamb
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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 Thirty-Three: The Eyes of the Castle
Year 9 – Thirty Months After the First Sacrifice
The castle had become a web.
Not a physical web—the stones were the same, the corridors were the same, the rooms were the same. A metaphorical web. A web of fear and secrets and whispered warnings that no one spoke aloud.
Liora was the spider at the center.
She felt everything. Heard everything. Saw everything.
The whispers of her victims had multiplied. Twenty-seven souls now served her, flitting through the shadows, reporting back on everything they witnessed. She knew when the guards changed shifts. She knew when the servants gossiped. She knew when Darian wrote in his journal.
She knew everything.
And she was only getting started.
At thirty sacrifices, the mind expands, the old texts promised.
At forty, you will see through the eyes of others.
At fifty, you will see through the eyes of the dead.
At seventy-five—
She closed the book.
Soon, she thought.
Soon.
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Liora – The Twenty-Eighth Victim
She chose a woman this time.
A laundress from the castle. Her name was Hilda. She was middle-aged, skilled, and invisible. She worked in the laundry, scrubbing clothes and linens for the royal family.
No one would miss her.
Not immediately. The laundry would still get done—there were other laundresses. By the time anyone noticed that Hilda had stopped coming, her body would be ash.
She was perfect.
But this time, Liora did something different.
She used the whispers to learn Hilda's routine.
She works late on Tuesdays, they whispered. She stays after the others leave to finish the king's shirts.
She is alone.
She is vulnerable.
Liora smiled.
Thank you, she thought.
You're so useful.
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Hilda – The Laundry
The laundress worked late, as she did every Tuesday.
The king's shirts needed special care. A special soap. A special rinse. A special ironing that took hours.
She didn't mind.
The work was hard, but it was honest. And the king paid well.
She heard a sound.
Footsteps.
She turned.
A child was standing in the doorway. Small. Pale. Dressed in white.
"Your Highness?"
"Hello, Hilda."
"What are you doing here so late?"
"I came to see you."
Hilda frowned.
"Me?"
"You work so hard. No one appreciates you."
Hilda's frown deepened.
"Your Highness, I don't understand—"
"You don't need to understand."
The princess moved.
Faster than Hilda could follow. Faster than she could react.
Her hand closed around the laundress's wrist.
"You only need to die."
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The Twenty-Eighth Ritual
She performed the ritual in the laundry, surrounded by steam and the smell of soap.
The whispers watched.
They had been waiting for this. Hungry for this. The dark demanded blood, and the dark would have it.
She spoke the words.
She made the cuts.
She collected the blood.
And when it was over—
The darkness growled.
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The Power – Twenty-Eight
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Twenty-eight sacrifices. Twenty-eight souls. Twenty-eight streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming part of her.
She raised her hand.
The shadows answered.
They came faster now. More eagerly. They wrapped around her arms, her throat, her face. She could feel them inside her, in her lungs, in her stomach, in her mind.
More, they whispered. We need more.
Soon, she thought.
Soon.
She released the spell.
The shadows retreated.
She looked at the body.
A laundress. Skilled. Invisible. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
She smiled in the darkness.
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The Disposal
She burned Hilda's body in the laundry fireplace.
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 returned to her chamber as the sun rose, smelling of smoke and blood and darkness.
She washed her face.
She braided her hair.
She chose a white dress.
She practiced her smile.
Eyes wide. Innocence.
Mouth soft. Gentleness.
Head tilted. Curiosity.
Perfect, she thought.
She went down to breakfast.
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Darian – The Journal
Darian added another entry to his journal.
Twenty-eighth victim. Hilda. Laundress. Disappeared last night.
Body not found.
Cause of death unknown.
Suspect: Princess Liora.
He hid the journal beneath the loose stone.
He went down to breakfast.
His sister was already there, smiling, eating porridge.
"Good morning, Darian," she said.
"Good morning, Liora," he said.
Their eyes met.
For a moment—just a moment—he saw something in her gaze.
Not recognition.
Not acknowledgment.
Patience.
She looked away.
She ate her porridge.
She smiled at their mother.
But Darian did not stop watching.
He never stopped watching.
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Finn – The List
Finn added another name to the list in his head.
Hilda. Laundress. Twenty-eight.
He recited the list every night before bed, a dark litany that kept the nightmares at bay.
Twenty-eight names.
Twenty-eight faces.
Twenty-eight souls.
And more coming.
He could feel it.
The princess was not slowing down. She was accelerating. The hunger was driving her, pushing her, making her reckless.
She'll make a mistake, he thought.
She has to.
No one is that perfect.
But she was.
She had been perfect for twenty-eight kills.
Why would she stop now?
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The Vigil Continues
The castle slept.
The guards dozed at their posts. The servants dreamed in their narrow beds. The nobles snored in their silk sheets.
But three people did not sleep.
Darian lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the day's observations in his mind.
Finn lay in his corner, staring at the darkness, reciting the list of names like a prayer.
And Liora—
Liora sat in her chamber, reading by candlelight, the shadows dancing around her like living things.
Twenty-eight, she thought.
Seventy-two more until the curse.
Seventy-two more until forever.
She closed the book.
She looked at her reflection.
The girl in the mirror looked back.
But the girl was fading.
Something else was taking her place.
Something older.
Something hungrier.
Soon, she thought.
Soon.
She smiled.
The darkness smiled with her.
And somewhere in the depths of the castle, in a cellar that no one visited and no one remembered, twenty-eight souls whispered her name.
Liora.
Liora.
Liora.
She heard them.
She always heard them.
They were hers now.
Forever.
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End of Chapter Thirty-Three