Chapter Twelve: The Edge of the Veil
Elena's breath came shallow as she stared between them — Lucien on his knees, bruised and bound, and Valen standing tall behind him, looking every inch the king of nightmares.
The air inside the Sanctum vibrated with pressure, like the stone itself held its breath.
Valen stepped forward slowly, the crimson chains binding Lucien stretching with a cruel hum. "Your blood brought you here," he said. "Just as it should. The Veil has waited for you, Elena. For her." His gaze flicked toward the altar, then back to her. "Isolde's blood. Her defiance. Her fire."
She gritted her teeth. "You speak like she was yours. She wasn't."
Valen smiled. "Not in the end, no. But she should have been. And you—" he gestured toward her with something like reverence "—you are her reborn, whether you like it or not."
Elena raised the obsidian blade, her fingers tight on the hilt. "Let him go."
Valen sighed, almost pityingly. "You're still thinking like a mortal. One life in exchange for the salvation of all things?" He spread his arms. "Give me your blood. Open the Veil. And I will spare him."
Lucien groaned, trying to rise, but the chains burned with every movement. "Elena… don't."
"You'll kill him anyway," she spat.
Valen tilted his head. "Perhaps. But I'd rather not. After all, he's still useful to me. Still loyal, in his way."
Lucien forced himself upright. "Don't listen to him—he wants the Veil broken. Once it's open, he won't stop until everything is drowned in darkness."
Elena took a step toward the altar.
Valen's eyes lit with expectation. "That's it. Just one drop of blood. That's all it takes."
She raised her blade.
And turned it on herself.
A gasp echoed through the chamber — not Valen's, but the Veil's.
She sliced her palm, blood welling rich and dark. It glowed faintly as it fell — not red, but gold threaded with silver. Ancient. Sacred.
Elena pressed her bleeding hand to the altar.
The chains snapped awake with a scream of metal. The runes lit the chamber with violent light. But instead of opening the Veil, the altar shuddered, as if rejecting her.
"No," Valen whispered, suddenly tense.
A blinding pulse burst outward from the altar, and the chains lashed toward Valen like serpents.
He recoiled, raising his hand to shield himself—but the golden light scorched his skin, and for the first time, Elena saw him afraid.
"You're not the key," she said, voice low and steady. "You're the curse."
And then she turned the blade.
Toward him.
Elena moved faster than she knew she could — blade slashing through air, cutting through the chains binding Lucien in a single stroke. Her blood sang in her ears, ancient words she didn't understand guiding her hand.
Lucien dropped forward, gasping, free.
Valen roared.
The Veil behind them pulsed again, wider this time — but it didn't tear.
It chose.
Golden threads of Elena's blood lifted from the altar and wrapped around her, forming markings along her skin like glowing script. The ground shook. A voice, not hers, rose from her throat:
"I am the Gate.
I am the Chain.
I am the End of Kings."
Valen stepped back.
"Elena," Lucien rasped, "your power—"
But it was too late.
She raised the blade, now wrapped in golden flame, and pointed it at Valen.
"This ends now."