Chapter Thirty-Four
Hundreds of black dots haloed in red light hang overhead.
The ceiling of the ritual sanctum lies dark stories above, the stained glass dome impossible to discern against the darkened night sky beyond. The cold and unyielding obsidian beneath me proves a less than comfortable place to lie, even with the padding of my armor.
Ryc appears beside me, taking my hand in his.
“I’ll be right here the whole time,” he says, trying to hide the concern in his voice but failing.
His words, the timbre of his voice, wrap around my heart and my ribs tighten. I braid my fingers into his.
Dying isn’t anything new.
But dying beside someone I love is.
It makes all of this harder. Much harder than it should be. The possibility of dying—legitimately dying—sits heavy on my chest.
I spent centuries yearning for death. Now here it sits upon my doorstep and I’m reluctant to answer. Even if I survive, who I am now, in this moment, will not.
Eve and Cyran appear on either side of Ryc. Cyran nods, his jaw clenching. Eve offers me a weak smile.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t run off,” she teases quietly and Ryc scoffs quietly.
“You have your bloodstone?” I ask, scanning her hip and holster.
She’s well armed, wearing both the bloodstone dagger I gave her as well as the throwing knives supplied by Cenviri. A small wash of relief trickles through my veins.
“Do not trust your eyes,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Cenviri’s voice floats into the ritual space from the doorway. He’s likely giving similar instructions to his Generals.
“Do not listen to the call. Do not follow the pull. And if a Death Bringer appears, do not hesitate,” I say, giving each of them a firm stare.
Because my siblings won’t hesitate.
We’re taught not to.
If any of our names are on a reaping list, I want whatever sibling Vaelyn sends to earn his wrath.
“This better work,” Eve says in Malbolge, her voice growing tight. “I’m not bringing you flowers.”
I scoff a laugh as tears sting behind my eyes. “Keep your mortal traditions far from me,” I reply.
“It’s time,” Cenviri says, appearing on my right. Zirzol takes his place beside him. “If you would step back from the altar.”
With reluctant, departing glances, Eve and Cyran vanish from my sight and I force myself to stare at the candles.
Ryc pitches over me, placing his brow against mine. “This will work,” he says softly.
He claims my lips and my hand races to his hair, locking him against me.
“You’ll survive, I promise,” his voice rings in my mind as he breaks our kiss, his lips lingering over mine. “Eternity awaits us, little love.”
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze as he straightens himself and unweaves his fingers from mine. In a few backward steps, he vanishes, and once again, I force myself to stare above.
“Ready, il-akiv?” Cenviri asks gently.
I nod.
“Have faith,” he says in Malbolge, placing a cold hand over mine. “In Fate. There’s reason you’re the half she’s chosen. More than that…” his eyes lock with mine. “Have faith in yourself, Vestaris. Light take your enemies,” he says, relieving me of his icy touch.
“Shadows keep you safe,” I say, taking a small comfort in the familiarity of the exchange.
Shadows keep them all safe.
Let them all return from the veil unharmed.
With a nod to Zirzol, Cenviri steps away from the altar and out of sight.
Rolling up his long robe sleeves, Zirzol exposes his arms. They’re littered with hundreds of small scars—runes, I realize.
Carved into his skin as if his body were a canvas, they’re scars left from the repeated use of a magic not meant to be wielded by the living.
Withdrawing the dagger at his hip, I remain deathly still as Zirzol brings it to my collar. He cuts away at my shirt and tosses the material aside with little care, exposing my throat.
The point of his dagger meets my skin and I tense, clenching my jaw.
The flash of pain is not as sharp as I expected.
With a swift and steady hand, he cuts runes into the skin at my collar, and my fingers curl into tight fists against the pain.
Instinctively, my lungs fill the instant he sets the dagger aside.
“In Death find comfort,” he says in low hushed tones. “In Death find peace.”
Ice explodes in my chest, gripping my heart—seizing it.
A choked cry escapes my throat as my lungs refuse to expand, leaving me gasping.
Ryc’s shout is lost to the loud ringing in my ears, and my vision grows dark.
Green vines cut through the dark above me and blue light grows blinding before I plummet backward into icy darkness.
?????????????
Cold.
It’s so incredibly cold.
I open my eyes and a small, snowy clearing turned upon its side greets me. This isn’t the veil—if it is, it’s not a version of the veil I know.
Struggling with both confusion and the effort it takes to push myself upright, my hands sink into the soft, frigid snow. It clings to my hair, melts against my skin, and sets my teeth chattering.
My fingers fly to my collar, finding silver, but no runes.
And no heartbeat.
It feels wrong.
Everything feels wrong.
No sun, but bright sunlight bearing no warmth. No singing birds, no drifting wind, no rustling of animals in or below the branches of the snow-draped evergreens—there’s no sound.
None aside from that which I produce.
And it smells wrong.
I’ve awoken in a pristine and remote landscape left undisturbed—I should smell the trees, the crisp snow, the frozen water nearby. Yet I don’t. I smell death.
Out of curiosity, I reach for the bond between Ryc and me.
It’s nowhere to be found—the golden thread connecting us has vanished. With no heartbeat and no bond, my chest feels hollow. My fingers fly to my forearm, feeling for the ridges of the life tether beneath my sleeve. I heave a sigh of relief—we’re still connected in one way at least.
Pulling myself to my feet, I turn, gaining a better understanding of where I might be. If this is the veil, it’s mimicking somewhere in the living realm, though where I couldn’t say. It could be anywhere in northern Eldoterra, were I to guess.
A gentle warble sends my head whirling.
The white raven sits upon one of the hell-bowed branches, near invisible against the snow. Even at this distance, it’s easy to see its blood-red eye pin against me.
“You,” I breathe, pointing an accusing finger as I take a few steps forward. My boots sink and snow meets my calves. “You’ve done this. Where in the hells am I?”
“Veil,” The creature cries and I freeze. It cries three more times. “Your veil. Your veil. Your veil.”
I don’t understand.
Nor do I grasp how I understand the raven.
It’s never spoken before.
Yet in the grand scheme of all the things I’ve seen and experienced throughout my existence, a talking raven isn’t the most unsettling.
“Who are you?” I dare to ask.
“Silvermist.” The raven’s head bobs as it flares its wings with a cry.
A showy little thing it seems.
Silvermist… an interesting name for the creature.
“Not an elder god?” I ask, not taking my sight away from the bird.
“Serve Aether,” it cries. “Aether’s eyes.”
Not an elder god then, but the eyes of one.
The night the creature died—its wounds—I knew it couldn’t have been the crows who caused them. Something else didn’t want an elder god’s eyes watching. And that something could have been in either the living realm or the veil, this raven is capable of traversing both.
Snow cascades to the ground from branches as the ground vibrates. It’s a quick, low rumble and the raven hops to a higher branch.
“Must go. Must meet,” it cries in a series of sharp barks. “Mend veil.”
Green skitters across the snow, racing in my direction. As I step back, a vine shoots forward, unfurling itself at my feet. It’s a flowerless thing, more rope-like than veilflower vine.
“It’s time we meet.” The sound of my cold voice rings in my head. But the words, the thoughts, they’re not mine. “I must meet the monstrosity Netharis created.”
Monstrosity?
Netharis?
The vine darts at me and I stumble backward, the snow catching my heel. As I careen backward, the vine snatches my throat, wrapping itself tight. With little care and great speed, the snow rushes to meet me as I’m yoked onto my back.
Cold white snow surges over my head and shoulders as I’m dragged through the drifts, gasping as I grapple to free myself. I claw at the vine, tearing away at the green flesh with my nails—bearing little impact. It tightens in retaliation.
The first of the evergreen boughs appear above, blocking out the sunless blue sky. And by the divine grace of the gods, my shoulder meets the base of a tree—filling my ears with a gut-wrenching crack.
White hot pain sears down my arm, tingling my fingers, and races up my neck, rendering my left hand weak and my vision blurry. Clutching my arm, the vine chokes my cries as it continues to drag me along the forest floor. Each vibration sends waves of finger-numbing pain through my left arm.
Gritting my teeth, I adjust my arm, and discover a nauseating, grinding sensation I both feel and hear.
I snake my wrist through my lowered cowl, turning it into a poor makeshift sling—it’s hardly enough to keep my arm secured against my chest. I have to reach my dagger.
I have to sever this vine and reset my shoulder—if it’s not shattered.
Snow becomes dirt and evergreen needles, the ground jostling my back and tearing at my armor. Fabric rips and my black cloak behind, torn from its shoulder studs.
The thick evergreen branches above grow sparse, giving me glimpses of a boundless night sky. Gone is the blue sky. Instead, a dark void hangs overhead filled with countless stars. A blanket of deep violets, striking magentas, and darkened navy grows as the trees fall away.
As I reach for the dagger strapped to my thigh, the dirt becomes tall grass whipping at my face and eyes. Stifling the cry in my throat, I swing the black blade overhead and skitter to a halt.