Page 55 of Orc's Veil

“You can’t force me to bleed for you.”

The words come out calm. Certain. The Sovereign’s stolen smile flickers—just for an instant, just enough for me to see that I’ve hit a nerve.

“Blood magic doesn’t work that way.” I take a step forward, and the Sovereign—ancient, powerful, terrifying—actually retreats. “The Veil only accepts willing sacrifice. The boundary only responds to freely given blood. You can torture me. You can break me. You can kill everyone I’ve ever loved. But you can’t make my blood do what you need it to do unless I choose to give it.”

Clever girl.The Sovereign’s voice has gone cold.You’ve studied the old texts. Learned the limits of your power. But you’ve forgotten one thing, blood-keeper.

“What’s that?”

I can’t force you to bleed for me.The smile returns—wider, crueler, filled with centuries of patient malice.But I can make you want to.

The brand over my heart explodes with pain.

THIRTY-ONE

EIRENE

Varkhul screams.

I feel it in my chest—not just hear it, feel it. His agony tears through me like a blade, doubling me over, driving the breath from my lungs. The Sovereign is tearing at him. Hurting him in ways I can’t see but can’t escape.

The brand sears against my skin. Not with the warm pulse I’ve grown used to—this is vicious, savage, as if someone is pressing a heated iron to my soul. I can feel the Sovereign’s claws digging into our link, trying to tear it apart, trying to sever what binds us.

If it succeeds—if it breaks Varkhul—I’ll feel every moment of it. Every shred of his mind being ripped away. Every fragment of his soul being consumed.

“Stop.” I’m on my knees again, hands pressed to my chest, trying to hold onto him through sheer force of will. “Stop, please?—”

Another scream rips through our link. This one is worse—higher, more desperate, the sound of a man being broken piece by piece.

I can see it. Through whatever remains of our link, I can see glimpses of what the Sovereign is doing to him. Varkhulsuspended in darkness, chains of shadow wrapped around his limbs, his face twisted in agony as the entity forces him to relive every execution he’s ever performed. The blade rising. The blood spraying. The light dying in eyes that begged for mercy.

He’s being tortured with his own guilt. His own sins. The very crimes I struggled to forgive him for—now used as weapons against him.

Surrender.The Sovereign’s voice is almost gentle.End his suffering. All you have to do is say yes.

I look at the tear in the Veil. At the Shadow Court beyond—glimpses of walls built from stolen memories, floors paved with grief, a throne room made of everything the boundary has consumed. At the darkness no human has ever entered and survived.

I think about the boy whose mother’s lullaby I stole. The farmer who can’t remember his daughter’s infant face. The young woman who lost her first kiss to pay for her passage through the gate.

I think about Varkhul. His hands, scarred from executions, but so careful when they traced the scars on my arms. His eyes, watching me without judgment even after I saw every sin he’d committed. The rumble of his voice against my ear when he claimed me, when he pressed inside me and made me forget everything except the feel of him.

I think about waking up in his arms, still slick with sweat and blood, his tusks grazing my temple as he pulled me closer. The way his chest rose and fell beneath my cheek, steady as a heartbeat. The first time I’d felt safe in eight years.

I think about the brand over my heart—the claim that binds us, that makes his pain my pain, that turned two monsters into one impossible thing.

The Sovereign wants me to choose between the world and the man I love. It thinks I’ll sacrifice everything to save him. Itthinks I’m weak, sentimental, easily manipulated by threats to the executioner I’ve claimed.

It’s wrong.

I’m not going to choose.

I’m going to take everything.

I reach for my knife.

The Sovereign’s stolen faces shift—confusion flickering across the surface of its form. It expected tears. Begging. A broken witch pleading for her lover’s life.

It didn’t expect me to draw a blade.