Page 20 of Orc's Veil

I nod. Kneel in the black soil. Pull the ritual knife from my belt—the ancient blade that’s been cutting memories free for generations.

And I begin.

I start with the father.

He flinches when I press my fingers to his temples, but he doesn’t pull away. His heartbeat thunders under my touch. The memory surfaces quickly—a summer song, something half-remembered from his own childhood, the kind of tune you hum without knowing why. Bright and simple and entirely replaceable.

I take it. The Veil drinks.

The mother is harder. She clutches her children even as I work, her eyes never leaving their faces. What I find in her is the memory of the younger one’s first steps—the child tottering across a flagstone floor, arms windmilling, face brilliant with the shock of his own balance. The mother doesn’t know I’ve taken it until it’s already gone, already feeding the boundary. Her expression doesn’t change. She’ll never know why that memory of him feels distant now, slightly out of reach, like a word she can’t quite find.

I take it anyway. I’m sorry. The Veil drinks.

The children are easiest—shallow roots, small losses. A birthday with a sugared cake. An afternoon chasing river-beetles through the mud behind a barn. Gone before they can register the absence. The younger one yawns when I finish with him, already forgetting he was frightened.

The Veil settles. The boundary hums. Satisfied, the way it never quite is when I feed it my own blood alone.

The family lives.

“Follow the path east.”I point toward a gap between the stones, a safe route away from the boundary. “Stay away from the shadows. Don’t stop until you reach the ridge—the Veil’s influence ends there.”

The father hesitates. His hand moves toward his belt, and for a moment I think he’s reaching for his knife—but no. He’s pulling out a coin. A small copper piece, worn smooth with handling.

“It’s not much.” He holds it out to me. “But it’s all I have to offer.”

I close his fingers back around the coin. “Keep it. Buy your children something sweet when you reach the next village. Let them have a new memory to replace the ones they lost.”

His eyes shine. Grief or gratitude—I can’t tell which. “The stories about you. They’re not—they don’t?—”

“Go.” I turn away before he can finish. Before he can say I’m not the monster he expected. Before his gratitude can make me feel like I deserve anything other than the execution waiting for me at dawn. “The shadows are getting restless.”

The family leaves. I watch them go—four figures disappearing into the dim haze, moving toward safety, toward life, toward a future they’ll never know I gave them.

The stolen memories settle in my chest. The father’s song. The mother’s kiss. The children’s small joys. They’ll fade eventually—absorbed by the Veil, digested, forgotten—but for now they’re mine. Another family’s warmth to carry alongside all the others.

I’m so tired.

“This is why they want you dead.”

The voice comes from behind me. Deep. Rough. Familiar in a way that sends heat prickling across my skin.

I don’t turn around. “How long have you been watching?”

“Long enough.” Footsteps in the black soil. He’s moving closer, his massive presence pressing against my awareness like heat from a forge. “I saw you take the memories. Saw the family stumble away, alive but diminished. Watched you commit the crime you’ve been sentenced to die for.”

Now I turn. Face the executioner, spine straight. If he’s going to kill me for this, I want him to see exactly what he’s destroying.

“Yes.” I meet his burning gaze without flinching. “This is why they want me dead. And this is why I’m still alive.”

FOURTEEN

EIRENE

Varkhul stands at the edge of the stone circle, silhouetted against the darkened sky. The bandage on his arm—the one I wrapped after our blood mixed—is dark with old stains. His armor gleams dully in the moonlight, and his hand rests on the hilt of his execution blade.

He doesn’t draw it. Doesn’t move toward me with violence in his posture. He just… watches. Studies me with that molten stare, conflict and curiosity warring in the harsh planes of his face.

His jaw tightens. I’m pushing—I know I’m pushing—but I can’t stop. The exhaustion and the stolen memories and the hours ticking down toward my death have stripped away my caution, left me raw and reckless and spoiling for a fight I can’t win.