Page 47 of Orc's Veil

“A chance is more than I deserve.” His voice is hoarse. “I won’t waste it.”

The scream tearsthrough the Veil without warning.

Not a physical sound—not the kind that ears can hear. This is deeper. Primal. A cry of agony that rips through the boundary itself, through the marks seared onto our chests, into the very core of what we’ve become.

Varkhul staggers. I catch him—or try to, my smaller frame doing little to support his massive body. We end up tangled on the floor, both of us gasping, both of us clutching at our chests where the marks are suddenly burning with foreign pain.

“What—” I can’t finish the question. The scream is still echoing, bouncing off the inside of my skull, carrying with it images I don’t want to see.

An orc in iron armor. One of the Veil-warden guards—I recognize the mask, the stance, the careful discipline that marks them as Varkhul’s former brothers. He’s on the road east, a sleeping child slumped across his saddle, putting distance between himself and the boundary. He doesn’t see the shadow until it’s already inside him.

The Sovereign doesn’t attack from outside. It slides through a crack in the Veil—thin as a hair, invisible to anyone not looking for it—and pours itself into the guard’s body like smoke filling an empty room. The orc has one moment of terrible awareness, one second to understand what’s happening, before the entity consumes him from the inside out.

I feel it. Gods help me, I feel every moment of his death.

The guard’s name was Korvax. He had a sister in the Iron Citadel. He collected painted stones—bright colors to offset the gray of the Veilborder. He doubted his commander, suspected treason, but he was loyal to the order above all else.

I know all of this because I feel the Sovereign tear it away.

Memory by memory. Piece by piece. The entity rips Korvax’s life from his mind and devours it, growing stronger with each fragment it consumes. His childhood. His training. His first execution—he was sick afterward, vomited behind the platform while the other guards looked away.

The Sovereign eats it all.

And because I am part of the Veil now—because the claiming has made me a living piece of the boundary—I feel every bite.

“Korvax.” Varkhul’s voice is gutted. He felt it too—I can see it in his face, the horror and grief and helpless rage. “One of my guards. The one who questioned me about the mark.”

“The Sovereign killed him.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “Consumed him. It’s… it’s using his memories now. Adding them to the others.”

I had known since the Sovereign showed me the vision. Knowing and feeling it are different things.

“It’s not your fault.” Varkhul’s hand finds my cheek, turns my face toward his. He felt my realization—felt the guilt crashing through me. “You didn’t know.”

“Does that matter?” I throw his own logic back at him. “Does intention absolve action?”

He doesn’t have an answer. Neither do I.

Outside, the Veil hums with the echo of Korvax’s death. The boundary is stable—our claiming saw to that—but I can feel the Sovereign pressing against it now, stronger than before, bloated with fresh memories and stolen life.

It’s testing us. Testing the new barrier we created. Looking for weaknesses it can exploit.

And it’s patient. It’s been patient for centuries. It can afford to wait until we make a mistake.

The executioner and the witch. How sweet. How tragic. You think your claiming makes you stronger, but all it does is give me more ways to hurt you.

Varkhul’s arms tighten around me. I feel his fury—hot and helpless, a warrior with no enemy he can strike.

I wonder which of you will break first. I do so enjoy watching hope die.

Then silence. Thick and heavy, pressing against the walls of the cottage.

I look at Varkhul. He looks at me. And in the space between us, in the claiming that binds our souls as surely as any chain, I feel a new understanding take shape.

We’re not going to survive this by being good. We’re not going to win by being pure or righteous or morally superior to our enemy.

We’re going to survive by being us. The only executioner who ever broke an order’s claiming. The only boundary witch who turned a monster’s weapon against it. Two people bound by blood and magic and a choice no one in the order’s history has ever made.

Maybe that’s not enough. Maybe we’re too damaged, too compromised, too soaked in the blood of innocents to be anyone’s salvation.