Page 62 of Shattered Veil
A distant caw echoes across the grounds. My eyes snap open.
Holy shit. I’m floating.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brigid
The distant caw of a raven pierces the air, and suddenly I’m weightless. Darkness swirls around me, threads of shadow wrapping around my body like a snake coiling. I’m not just surrounded by them—Iamthem. I’m part of the darkness itself.A shadow.
I watch my hands dissolve into inky blackness. I should be terrified, but there’s an odd sense of rightness. Like this is all familiar in some way.
“What’s happening?” I whisper, my voice echoing strangely.The shadows throb and twist, merging with my skin. It doesn’t hurt. If anything, it feels incredible—cool and powdery, like a piece of silk.
I close my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me. When I open them again, the world looks different. Sharper. More detailed.Part of me wants to scream. But a deeper, primal part of me embraces it.
The raven calls again, closer this time.
I’m weightless.
I float down from the platform, my body nothing more than a vague form of smoke and shadow. The world around me blurs, edges softening as I descend in uncanny silence. The noise of the Harrowing fades to a dull roar, muffled by the cocoon of darkness enveloping me.
My feet—or what should be my feet—touch the ground without a sound. The shadows ripple and swirl, reforming into something human-shaped. I can see through my own body, translucent and ethereal. It’s fucking terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
I take a step forward, marveling at how my body moves. It’s like gliding through water, each motion fluid and graceful. The darkness flows with me, responding to my will without conscious thought.I am it, and it is me.
It’s only then that I become aware of the crowd, and the silence. Hundreds of eyes are locked on me. No one says anything.
All I see is fear. Their bodies rigid with tension. Some take an involuntary step back, as if my very presence might contaminate them.Even the stoic-faced professors look shaken, their carefully maintained masks of cynical indifference cracking.
A ripple of movement spreads through the crowd as people shake it off and come back to life. They start to whisper to each other.
My gaze finds Fiona, and I falter. She’s not gaping like the others. Her eyes narrow, head tilted as she studies me with unnerving intensity. There’s surprise there, but something more, almost like recognition, tempered with a wariness.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. I need to see a friendly face before I lose my shit completely.
My eyes dart frantically through the sea of chilly faces, searching for those three who make me feel like I’m not alone.“Where are you?” I whisper, desperation clawing at my insides. My breathing is short and shallow.
And then, finally, I spot them. Callen, Tiernan, and Rory stand off to the side, partially obscured by the crowd. Relief floods through me, so intense it’s almost painful.
I take an instinctive step towards them, but stop as reality crashes back. They can’t come to me. Not here, not now. The disappointment is crushing.
Callen catches my eye, and for a heartbeat, his carefully crafted mask slips. He winks, quick and subtle, a glimpse of his usual cocky grin playing at the corners of his mouth. It’s gone in an instant, but it’s enough.
My gaze shifts to Tiernan. His face is impassive as ever, but there’s a slight tightening around his eyes. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod, conveying volumes in that tiny gesture.
And Rory... well, Rory’s beaming like the goddamn sun. His smile is infectious, lighting up his whole face. Anyone else will think he’s just being his usual self, but I can see the worry lurking beneath the brightness.
I can breathe again.
I straighten my spine, drawing strength from their silent support. The fear doesn’t disappear, but it becomes manageable.
That is, until the hairs on my arms stand up and I feel the overwhelming sense of being watched. No, not watched—inspected. Yes, I’m currently being gawked at by a hundred pairs of eyes, but this feels different. I scan the crowd, searching for the source of this unnerving sensation, and my heart nearly stops.
I see who can only be King Cillian.
He sits on the raised dais with the Council, his presence a black hole sucking all the air from the arena. Fuck, he looks so much like Callen it hurts. The same sharp jawline, the same aristocratic nose, same full lips. But where Callen’s eyes dance with playfulness, Cillian’s are cold. Calculating. There’s a cruelty etched into the lines of his face that makes me queasy.
His gaze locks onto mine, and I can’t look away. It’s like being pinned by a predator. Sweat beads on my forehead. Every instinct screams at me to run, to hide, to do anything but stand here under his scrutiny.
