WHAT LIVES BENEATH THE VEIL
Book Three: The Queen of Shadows
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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 Eighty-Four: The Priest's Faith
Year 25 – Thirteen Years After the Curse
The priest in the west had prayed for thirteen years.
Every day. Every night. Every moment of every hour. He begged his god to save them. To stop the queen. To end the darkness.
His god had not answered.
Not once.
Not ever.
But he still prayed.
He still believed.
His name was Marcus. He was old now—his hair had gone gray, his face had wrinkled, his body had weakened. But his faith had not.
It was the only thing keeping him alive.
The only thing keeping him sane.
He had seen the darkness spread.
He had seen the kingdoms fall.
He had seen the heroes die.
And still, he prayed.
Because if he stopped—
If he gave up—
If he lost faith—
Then there was no hope.
And without hope, there was nothing.
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The Western Church – The Gathering
Marcus stood before his congregation.
A handful of faithful. A few believers. A single doubter.
They had come from across the region, drawn by his reputation, drawn by the hope that together, they could succeed where others had failed.
"We know the queen is powerful," Marcus said. "We know she has killed thousands. We know she is immortal."
"Then how do we stop her?" someone asked.
"We pray."
"Prayer hasn't worked."
"Then we pray harder."
"The queen doesn't care about prayer."
"The queen cares about power. And prayer is power. The power of faith. The power of hope. The power of belief."
"Belief hasn't stopped her."
"Then we believe harder."
The doubter stood up.
"I'm leaving," he said.
"Don't."
"I've had enough. Thirteen years of prayer. Thirteen years of hope. Thirteen years of nothing. The queen is still there. The darkness is still spreading. And we are still dying."
"Faith is not about results. Faith is about—"
"Faith is about lies."
The doubter walked out.
The others watched him go.
Marcus closed his eyes.
"God forgive him," he whispered.
"God forgive us all."
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The Castle – Night
Marcus traveled to the castle alone.
He left his congregation behind. His believers. His faithful. They had given up. They had lost hope. They had stopped believing.
He had not.
He could not.
He walked through the forest, his staff in his hand, his holy symbol around his neck.
The shadows watched.
The whispers followed.
And somewhere, deep in the castle, the queen waited.
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The Throne Room
He found her in the throne room.
She was sitting on the throne, her white dress glowing in the darkness, her black eyes shining like pools of oil.
"You're here," she said.
"I am."
"I've been waiting for you."
"You knew I was coming?"
"I know everything."
He stepped forward.
"Your reign of terror ends tonight."
Liora tilted her head.
"Does it?"
"Yes."
She stood up.
She walked down the steps.
She stopped in front of him.
"You're brave," she said. "I'll give you that."
"I'm not brave. I'm faithful."
Liora laughed.
"Faithful. How quaint."
She reached out.
She touched his face.
"Close your eyes."
"No."
"Close your eyes."
He closed his eyes.
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The Feeding – Marcus
Liora reached into the priest's mind.
He did not resist.
He welcomed it.
He believed he was meeting his god.
...the prayers...
...the hope...
...the faith ...
...that his god would save them...
...that his god would stop her...
...that his god would answer ...
She pulled.
The memories flowed into her.
The prayers.
The hope.
The soul.
Delicious, she thought.
More.
She pulled again.
He gasped.
His body convulsed.
His eyes rolled back.
She pulled again.
He went limp.
She withdrew from his mind.
She looked down at him.
Still breathing. Still alive. But empty.
The priest was no more.
Just a shell.
Another victim.
Another name for the list.
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The Four Thousand Eleventh Sacrifice
She performed the ritual in the throne room, surrounded by emptiness and silence.
The whispers watched.
She spoke the words.
She made the cuts.
She collected the blood.
And when it was over—
The darkness wept.
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The Power – Four Thousand Eleven
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Four thousand and eleven sacrifices. Four thousand and eleven souls. Four thousand and eleven streams of darkness flowing into her, merging with her blood, becoming her.
Four thousand eleven, 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.
A priest. Faithful. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
Not even the faithful.
She smiled in the darkness.
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The Disposal
She burned the priest's body in the throne room's brazier.
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 her chamber as the sun rose, smelling of smoke and blood and darkness.
She washed her face in a broken basin.
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 empty.
No servants. No guards. No nobles.
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 woman in the north. A warrior. Determined. She had been training for years, preparing for the day when she would face the queen.
She believed she was ready.
She believed she could win.
She believed she could kill her.
Liora smiled.
Let her train, she thought.
Let her prepare.
Let her believe.
I have time.
I have forever.
And when she comes—
I will feed.
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End of Chapter Eighty-Four