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 Eighteen: The Watchers
Year 8 – Nine Months After the Twelfth Sacrifice
The castle had become a place of silence.
Not the peaceful silence of a winter morning or the reverent silence of a temple. A fearful silence. The silence of prey hiding from a predator. The silence of people who had learned that speaking could be dangerous.
The servants moved through their duties with their eyes down and their mouths shut.
The guards stood at their posts with their hands on their weapons.
The nobles gathered in small groups, whispering in voices too low to carry, casting glances over their shoulders.
And in the center of it all—smiling, eating, praying—was Princess Liora.
She had become the sun of this dark solar system.
Everything orbited around her.
Everything feared her.
Everything watched her.
And she watched them back.
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Liora – The Growing Hunger
Twelve sacrifices.
Twelve souls.
Twelve streams of darkness flowing through her veins like a second blood.
She could feel them constantly now. Not as separate entities, but as a chorus. A hundred whispers—no, a thousand—all speaking at once, all saying the same thing.
More.
More.
More.
The hunger was unbearable.
Not for food. Not for sleep. For death. For the moment when a soul left a body and she could reach out and take it. For the power that came with each new sacrifice.
She had tried to resist it.
Not because she wanted to—she didn't. But because the old texts had warned about moving too quickly.
The dark is patient, they said. It does not need to be fed every day. It does not need to be fed every week. It will wait.
But you—
You must be patient too.
If you feed the dark too quickly, it will consume you.
You will become a vessel, not a master.
And vessels break.
Liora did not intend to break.
She intended to rule.
So she waited.
She watched.
She planned.
And the hunger grew.
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Darian – The Investigation
Darian had started keeping a journal.
Not a diary—he had no interest in recording his feelings or the events of his day. A record. Names. Dates. Observations.
He had been watching his sister for three months now.
He had noticed:
· She disappeared at night. Not every night, but often. Sometimes for an hour. Sometimes for longer.
· She returned in the early morning, always before dawn, always smelling of smoke.
· Her dresses were always clean—too clean. As if she had washed them in the middle of the night.
· People had started disappearing from the castle and the lower town. Servants. Travelers. Beggars. A farmer. A knight.
· No one had found any bodies.
He did not know if these things were connected.
But he suspected.
He deeply suspected.
He wrote everything down in his journal, in a code he had invented himself. No one else could read it. No one else would even know it existed.
He hid it beneath a loose stone in his chamber wall.
And he waited.
For proof.
For a mistake.
For anything that would confirm what he was beginning to believe.
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Finn – The Alliance
Finn had decided to trust Darian.
Not completely—he trusted no one completely. But enough. Enough to take a risk.
He had watched the prince for weeks. Watched him watch the princess. Watched him take notes in a small book. Watched him slip through the corridors at night, following the same paths the princess took.
He knows, Finn thought.
Or he's trying to know.
Maybe—
Maybe we can help each other.
He approached Darian in the library, late at night, when the other nobles had gone to bed.
"Prince Darian."
Darian looked up. His eyes were sharp, assessing.
"You're the kitchen boy."
"Yes."
"What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same question."
Darian's eyes narrowed.
"That's not an answer."
"Neither is yours."
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Then Darian said, "What do you want?"
Finn took a breath.
"I want to talk about your sister."
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The Conversation
Darian did not react.
His face remained still. His eyes remained sharp. But something in his posture shifted. He was listening now. Really listening.
"What about her?"
"I think she's hurting people," Finn said. "I think she's been hurting people for a long time. And I think no one knows because no one wants to know."
Darian was silent for a long moment.
Then he said, "Why should I believe you?"
"Because I've been watching her longer than you have. Because I've seen things you haven't. Because I'm not the only one who's afraid."
Darian leaned back in his chair.
"Tell me everything."
Finn told him.
About Mira. About the cellar. About the key. About the disappearances. About the dreams—the ones that showed him the bodies, the ones that showed him the princess standing over them with a knife.
He told him about the smell of smoke in the morning. About the too-clean dresses. About the way the princess looked at people—like they were things.
When he finished, Darian was pale.
"You're sure about this?"
"I'm sure about what I've seen. I'm not sure what it means. But I know something is wrong. And I know she's not going to stop."
Darian nodded slowly.
"Thank you," he said. "For telling me."
"What are you going to do?"
Darian looked at the door.
"I'm going to find out the truth."
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Liora – The Thirteenth Victim
She chose a woman this time.
A seamstress from the lower town. Her name was Mira—not the same Mira, a different Mira. A coincidence that amused Liora.
The seamstress was young, skilled, and invisible. She worked alone in a small shop, taking in mending for the castle servants. No one would miss her. Not immediately. Not until the pile of unreturned clothes grew too large to ignore.
She was perfect.
Liora approached her in the evening, when the shop was empty and the streets were dark.
"Mira?"
The seamstress looked up. Her eyes were tired.
"Yes?"
"I need your help," Liora said. "My dress is torn. My mother—the queen—she's very particular about my appearance. I need it mended tonight."
Mira hesitated.
"The queen?"
"Yes. I'll pay you double."
Liora held up a silver coin.
Mira looked at the coin. Looked at the child. Looked at the coin again.
"Where is the dress?"
"In the castle. I can take you there."
Mira nodded.
"Let me get my sewing box."
Liora smiled.
Thank you, she thought.
You're so kind.
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Mira – The Cellar
The princess led her through the dark corridors of the castle.
Mira had never been inside the castle before. The servants' entrance, yes—the delivery doors, the kitchen. But never the inside. The corridors were grander than she had imagined, hung with tapestries and lit with torches.
Fancy place, she thought.
Too fancy for the likes of me.
The princess stopped at a door. Old. Iron. Locked.
She produced a key.
"The dress is down here," she said. "In my mother's private chambers."
Mira looked at the door. Looked at the princess. Looked at the key in her small, pale hand.
"After you," she said.
The princess shook her head.
"I'm not allowed. My mother would be angry. You go first. I'll follow."
Mira hesitated.
Then she took the key.
She opened the door.
She walked down the steps.
She did not walk back up.
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The Thirteenth Ritual
Liora waited only an hour.
Mira was young, but she was not a fighter. Her screams were desperate, not furious. Her pounding was frantic, not strong.
By the time Liora descended the stairs, the woman was already weeping.
"Please," Mira said. "I have a family. They need me."
Liora set down her lantern.
She opened her book.
"Then you shouldn't have followed a stranger into a cellar."
"Please—"
She was faster.
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The Power – Thirteen
The fire in her veins burned brighter.
Thirteen sacrifices. Thirteen souls. Thirteen 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 seamstress. Young. Skilled. Dead.
No one is safe from me, she thought.
No one.
She smiled in the darkness.
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Darian – The Night
Darian followed her that night.
He had been waiting for weeks for an opportunity. A night when the guards were distracted, when the corridors were empty, when his sister would not expect to be watched.
He followed her from her chamber to the lower town.
He watched her approach a seamstress's shop.
He watched her lead the seamstress back to the castle.
He watched them disappear through a door he had never seen before.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
An hour passed.
The princess emerged alone.
Her dress was white. Her hands were clean. Her face was soft and sweet and completely ordinary.
But Darian saw something else.
Something in her eyes.
A darkness.
Deeper than before. Hungrier than before.
She killed her, he thought.
In there.
In that cellar.
He wanted to follow her. Wanted to see what was down there. Wanted proof.
But he was afraid.
Not of the dark. Not of the cellar.
Of her.
Of what she would do if she caught him.
He waited until she was gone.
Then he approached the door.
It was locked.
He did not have the key.
He stood in the darkness, his heart pounding, his hands shaking.
I have to get in there, he thought.
I have to see.
I have to—
He stopped.
He could not get in.
Not tonight.
But he would.
Soon.
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The Morning After
Darian did not sleep.
He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the night in his mind.
The seamstress. The cellar. The princess emerging alone.
She killed her, he thought.
I know she killed her.
But I don't have proof.
Not yet.
He rose before dawn.
He wrote in his journal.
Thirteenth victim. Seamstress. Name unknown. Disappeared last night.
The princess led her to the cellar.
The princess emerged alone.
The seamstress did not emerge.
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 suspicion.
Not anger.
Amusement.
She knows, he thought.
She knows I was there.
She knows I'm watching.
She doesn't care.
The realization chilled him more than anything else.
She was not afraid of being caught.
Because she knew she would never be caught.
He looked away.
He ate his breakfast.
He kept his mouth shut.
But he did not stop watching.
Neither did she.
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End of Chapter Eighteen