Veil of Kings (Mystics of Mystralos #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

It wasn’t a coincidence.

Gisela Valor knew better than to believe in chance on days like this.

The storm had arrived with the King’s guard, black clouds clawing across the sky, thunder growling its warning. Rain hammered the earth, soaking the roads to muck. It was the gods’ judgment. Their fury exposed. Every drop of rain was a curse, a reminder of what the kingdom had become.

Of what it did to its own.

“Strip down to your undergarments,” King Ravenor’s guard barked, his stare cutting through the crowd, daring anyone to resist. “Eyes forward.”

Rows of young men and women huddled at the village center, arms wrapped around themselves, shivering. Villagers lingered at their windows and doorways, silent, as it happened again.

Gisela peeled her dress over her head, the soaked fabric clinging stubbornly to her skin. There had been a time when this exposure made her want to curl into herself and vanish. Now, she locked her fear away, standing rigid beside her brother as the guard scanned her.

A scream cut through the rain. The kind that silenced everything else. The kind that hollowed the air.

Gisela’s head snapped toward it.

A guard had a woman pinned in the mud, his fist tangled in her hair. She tried to erase the elemental mark on the base of her neck, but it remained.

“Please . . . for the love of the Six, have mercy,” the woman sobbed, her hands clasped in prayer. One moment she was kneeling there, and the next, she lay slumped on the ground as a sword sliced through the air.

They had found a Mystic.

And the gods were watching.

Gisela’s stomach lurched at the sight of the lifeless body, the metallic scent of blood stinging her nose. She forced herself to block it from sight, fighting the scream rising in her throat.

She could stomach the death; she’d been forced to. What she couldn’t bear was the silence.

Mystralos didn’t just execute its Mystics. It trained its people to look away, to accept. She had once felt that same quiet compliance.

But not now. She refused to turn from it.

Her hands flexed at her sides.

Noah stood beside her, posture stiff, flinching as the guards dragged the body away.

“Clear out,” the guard ordered, wiping his blade on the dead woman’s dress.

No one moved until the final bootstep faded and the last of the guards passed through Frosthaven’s gates.

Only then did the air return to their lungs.

Gisela’s muscles still resisted, as though they hadn’t yet thawed from the inspection. She reached for her dress, pulling it on with trembling limbs.

“Another one,” Noah said, tugging up his pants.

“Another one,” she echoed.

Their father, the new Village Lord, waited beneath the archway, his expression carved from stone. The gates groaned shut, and he brought his fingers to his temples before striding away, councilmen trailing at his heels.

“Should we go to him?” Noah asked.

Gisela shook her head. “No. Let him be.”

He had enough on his plate.

They trudged home in silence, shoes squelching in the mud. The sun broke through the clouds as if signaling the departure of the King’s guard, warming her skin, though the chill in her bones lingered.

Gisela rolled her shoulders, trying to shrug off the tarnish of spilled blood that wasn’t on her hands, but on her soul.

Villagers waved, and some bowed, carrying on as though an execution hadn’t happened down the road.

How could life continue so casually after such cruelty?

“I wish they would wave at us like they used to. The bowing makes me feel awkward,” she muttered, watching a villager in tattered clothes nearly lower his head to the ground. “It’s not like we’re royalty now.”

“I think they’re all grateful Cillian isn’t Village Lord anymore,” Noah said with a shrug. “They have hope.”

The villager stumbled up the step to his crooked timber house, sending a box of odds and ends teetering toward the ground.

Gisela darted forward, catching it before it could make contact. She handed it back with a quiet smile.

“Well, I take that back. Not all of them,” he added, nodding toward a group of young men.

Their laughter was jarring after what had happened.

At their center stood Thorne Alderose.

She’d learned how to spot him in a crowd as a child. He was tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair that fell above sharp eyes. His smile was a flash of white but entirely devoid of warmth.

A woman had died, and he laughed.

Something sour coiled in her gut. No matter how many inspections passed, they never stopped feeling like survival was a mistake. For most, these rituals were routine. For Gisela, they were beginning to feel personal.

Thorne’s gaze snapped to hers. The laughter died, extinguished like a flame touched by frost. His smile vanished, replaced by that look she’d grown used to.

Since her family had risen, his stares lingered longer. His words had sharpened as if he wanted her to feel responsible for Cillian Alderose’s fall from power, for every whisper of gratitude at the change.

She met his stare.

Their new home loomed ahead. Stone walls, slate roof, a door that never swelled in the rain.

Gisela slowed, taking in the structure. It was everything she ever wanted. And now, it didn’t make her feel the way she thought it would. The house didn’t feel damp, and rodents weren’t a problem anymore, yet the guilt crept up on her like a draft under the door.

“I’ll meet you at home. I’m going to check in with Elysande,” she said.

“See you there,” Noah called, hand lifted in a lazy wave.

Gisela climbed the front steps of the village scribe’s house, the sound of wind chimes jingling in the breeze. The wood creaked beneath her feet. She raised her fist to knock, but the door opened first.

Elysande gasped. “By the Six, you’re soaked!” She shook her head, ushering Gisela inside. “Come in, dear. I’ve got tea ready.”

Warmth greeted her at the threshold, the scent of parchment and chamomile wrapping around her, familiar and steady. Elysande’s home was a refuge.

Scrolls and worn books lined the walls. A long table stretched across the center of the room with tools and parchment scattered across the top.

“I’m sorry, Ely, I’m all muddy,” Gisela said, easing into one of the kitchen chairs with stiff limbs.

Elysande waved her off. “It’s fine, dear. How was the inspection?” She handed Gisela a towel and set a hot cup of tea in front of her.

“A woman,” Gisela replied, drying herself off. “Vaughn’s older sister. She tried to cut her mark off.”

“Maya?”

Gisela nodded solemnly.

Elysande winced and ran a hand through her ivory-white hair, the furrows in her brow carving deeper.

“It’s impossible to remove the mark of the gods.

No matter how hard you try,” Elysande said.

“There was a time when it was a gift, you know. Not something to hide . . . to be hunted for.” She lowered herself into the chair across from Gisela with a long sigh.

“I was a young girl when King Thraxus was crowned and began the executions. I had hoped once the tyrant croaked, his son would see things differently. But evil doesn’t die easily. It breeds.”

And breed it did. Gisela suspected King Ravenor didn’t have a kind bone in his body.

His mother, Queen Marcella, died in childbirth, leaving King Thraxus alone, though neither was known for benevolence.

Thraxus later died from a heart condition.

Ironically, given what Gisela had read about him, she was surprised he had one at all.

“It’s all about fear,” Gisela said. “Fear of the unknown . . . fear that what happened in Thunderpeak could happen again.”

The Mystic from the Elding bloodline—a family name spoken in hushed tones across the realm.

A crater still scarred the center of their village. Proof, the kingdom claimed, of what Mystics were capable of.

“Yes, that incident . . . it happened at the right time, didn’t it? But it isn’t only fear. There was a prophecy.” Elysande’s face shifted, a shadow of regret crossing her features.

Gisela paused, fingers tightening around her cup. “Prophecy?” Her voice was soft yet demanded an answer.

Elysande sighed, her grip mirroring Gisela’s. “One given to Thraxus. Right before these executions started. But it’s—” She shook her head. “Forget it.”

“What do you mean?” Gisela leaned forward slightly, pulse ticking up.

“Don’t mind the ramblings of an old woman,” Elysande said, waving her off. “My mind isn’t what it used to be.”

Gisela set her cup down. “You never ramble.”

For a beat, Elysande didn’t answer. She swallowed like the words had physical weight. “Forget it, child. Please. Some things are safer unsaid.”

Silence stretched between them.

Gisela wouldn’t pry, though she ached to.

Instead, they turned to safer things. Village gossip, complaints about the new baker’s prices. Gisela let herself soften. Despite the years between them, Elysande had always been more than a neighbor. More than the village scribe.

She’d become a friend.

As a young girl, she sat in this very chair with her feet dangling, watching Elysande work. Her parents trusted Elysande to watch over her when their duties kept them away. Somewhere along the way, Gisela never stopped returning.

“I have to get home for dinner soon,” Gisela said, disappointment lacing her voice.

“Ah, yes, tell your parents I said hello.” Elysande gathered the cups with gentle efficiency. “Not going to Tristan’s?”

She scowled. “No. I didn’t tell you? That’s over.”

A half-dramatic gasp left Ely’s lips. “What happened?”

“Found him in a barn with Elowyn last week.”

Elysande shook her head. “That boy. What a shame.”

Gisela reached for the door, her cold, damp dress still clinging to her body. “I’ll see you at the Imbuing Day celebration?”

Elysande’s smile came easy, but something in her eyes lingered a beat too long. “I wouldn’t miss it.”