The Ghost in the Veil

Aethelgard was a beautiful city. That was the first thing Elara noticed when she walked through the southern gates a month later.

Before, she had seen the white cobblestones and the golden spires of the Cathedral of the Dawn as symbols of hope. Now, through eyes that saw the ultraviolet spectrum of the void, she saw the rot.

The city smelled of unwashed bodies and hypocrisy. The "Holy Light" radiating from the cathedral wasn't warm; it was static, an irritating buzz against her skin.

Elara wore a heavy grey cloak and a veil that obscured her face. She walked with a grace that was slightly too fluid for a human, her movements lacking the subtle jerkiness of joints and ligaments.

* It is loud here,* Xylia’s voice whispered in the back of Elara’s mind.

It wasn't just a voice. Elara could feel Xylia’s presence coiled around her spine like a cold snake. It was a heavy, comforting weight. When Elara moved her hand, she felt a phantom tentacle move with it.

"Focus," Elara murmured, stepping into the shadow of an alley. "We have work."

* Hungry,* Xylia purred. *The Ranger is close. I can smell his sweat. It smells like fear.*

"Torian."

Elara navigated the twisting streets toward the lower district. The heroes had returned to a victory parade three weeks ago. They claimed the Saintess had given her life to seal the Abyssal Well. They were mourning her.

Or rather, they were drinking to forget her.

She found the tavern, *The Gilded Tankard*. It was raucous, filled with laughter and the clinking of mugs.

Elara pushed the door open. The noise washed over her.

In the corner booth, surrounded by admirers, sat Torian. The Ranger looked older. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was drinking ale as if it were water.

"To Elara!" a bard shouted, raising a glass. " The purest soul among us!"

Torian flinched. He didn't raise his glass. He stared at the table.

Elara felt a spike of murderous joy in her chest. Or maybe that was Xylia. It was getting hard to tell where the Saintess ended and the Monster began.

She glided across the room. She didn't look like a threat. She looked like a mourner.

"May I sit?" she asked, her voice soft, raspy.

Torian looked up. He didn't recognize her voice. It had changed in the dark. "I'm not in the mood for company, lady."

"I have news from the Well," she said.

Torian froze. The color drained from his face. He waved his friends away. "Leave us."

When they were alone, Elara sat. She didn't lower her veil.

"Who are you?" Torian hissed. "No one returns from the Well."

"Something did," Elara said. Under the table, the shadows stretched. They wrapped around Torian’s ankles, unseen by the rest of the tavern.

* Rip him,* Xylia urged. *Tear the meat from the bone.*

"No," Elara thought back. "He likes poison. He uses it on his arrows. It is fitting."

She reached into her cloak and pulled out a small vial. She slid it across the table.

"She forgives you, Torian," Elara lied. "She sent this. A draft of peace. Drink it, and the nightmares stop."

Torian looked at the vial. He looked at the veiled woman. He was desperate. He was haunted. He wanted to believe in absolution because the alternative was admitting he was a murderer.

He took the vial. "She... she forgives me?"

"She waits for you," Elara said.

Torian uncorked it. He drank it in one swallow.

It wasn't peace. It was liquid necrosis, distilled from Xylia’s blood.

Torian grabbed his throat. His eyes bulged. He tried to scream, but his vocal cords dissolved instantly. He clawed at the table, foaming at the mouth.

Elara watched him die. She didn't look away. She felt Xylia purring in her mind, a deep, vibrating satisfaction that warmed Elara’s cold blood.

"One," Elara whispered.