Page 5 of Orc's Veil

And somewhere in the Shadow Court, an intelligence begins to plan.

I collapse against the central stone, bleeding, trembling, terror clawing at my throat. The Veil is weaker than it’s ever been. The boundary is failing. And whatever lurks in the Shadow Court?—

It knows my name.

The moons hang overhead, cold and distant. The purple sky offers no comfort. And in the darkness, I feel the presence watching, waiting, certain of plans I’m too exhausted and terrified to guess.

But danger will come. Soon. I feel it in my bones, in the hollows of my stolen memories, in the wound that refuses to heal no matter how much blood I give.

The executioner is coming.

I don’t know why the thought rises, unbidden and certain, in the same moment the thing in the Shadow Court speaks my name. But I feel it—a second presence at the edge of my awareness, distant but approaching. Dark and dangerous and inevitable.

The Veil-wardens have been watching me for years. I’ve known that. Felt their eyes on me during the rare occasions travelers bring word from the outside world. Heard the whispers about the border witch who cheats death, who steals memories, who practices magic the order outlawed centuries ago.

They call it treason. I call it keeping the damn barrier intact.

But the order doesn’t care about results. They care about control. About obedience. About making sure that everyone bleeds exactly the way they’re told to bleed, in exactly the places they’re told to bleed.

Someone sent to end me.

I pull myself upright. Force my shaking legs to hold. Press my bleeding palms against the stone one more time and whisper promises to the boundary—that I’ll keep feeding it, keep bleeding, keep holding the darkness back for as long as I can.

The Veil doesn’t answer. But it steadies. Just slightly. Just enough.

I turn my back on the wound in reality and walk toward my cottage, where a stolen child sleeps and an executioner’s blade waits somewhere in the darkness.

Tomorrow, I’ll have to face whatever the shadow-realm has awakened.

Tonight, I have one more duty.

I check on the boy. Adjust his blanket. Watch his chest rise and fall with the steady rhythm of dreamless sleep. He doesn’t stir when I brush the hair back from his forehead. Doesn’t react when I whisper an apology he’ll never remember receiving.

“I’ll get you home,” I tell him. “I promise.”

Another debt. Another promise. Another piece of myself given to someone who won’t remember to thank me.

I sink into the chair by the cold hearth and close my eyes.

Sleep doesn’t come. It never does, anymore. But I pretend anyway, counting the phantom beats of songs I’ve stolen, remembering griefs that don’t belong to me, waiting for whatever dawn will bring.

The Veil hums against the edge of my consciousness, hungry, watchful.

Then, in the moment before sleep can take me, something cuts through the haze—distant but real. The sound of horses on the ridge.

FOUR

VARKHUL

The Veil hates me before I even reach the stones.

I feel it the moment we crest the final ridge—a visceral recoil, the boundary shuddering away from my presence with unmistakable revulsion. The sensation crawls across my skin, settles into my bones, reminds me of what I am. What my ancestors did.

The Veil-warden encampment lies a day’s ride behind us now—iron and bone and warded banners snapping in winds that shouldn’t exist. I left before the other executioners woke, took only my most trusted guards, moved fast and quiet toward the boundary. This execution is mine. I want no complications.

Traitor blood. Oathbreaker lineage. The Veil remembers the original sin even if I don’t.

Behind me, six iron-masked guards march in formation, their boots crunching against the black soil in perfect unison. Each one carries the Veil-warden sigil on their chest—a torn curtain stitched with thorns. Each one has sworn the same oaths I have. Kill without hesitation. Judge without mercy. Execute without doubt.