Chapter 27 — The Hollow Ones
Rivenhall, Upper Court District: Private Quarters of Lady Vaelith
The fire burned low in the hearth, molten gold spilling over the velvet curtains and the polished obsidian floors. Moonlight pooled like liquid silver on the balcony beyond, softening the harsh silhouettes of the towering city sprawling beneath.
Vaelith turned from the window, her sapphire dress whispering over the marble tile as she paced with slow, deliberate steps. Her brows were drawn tight, her face a mask of unreadable calculation. At the far end of the room, the maid waited near the door—posture rigid, eyes lowered, but restless. Never still for long.
"Are they settled?" Vaelith's voice was quiet but sharp, like a blade sliding through silk.
The maid gave a shallow nod. "Four of them, my lady. They've said nothing. Just sat there… like beaten dogs."
Vaelith's lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a frown.
She moved to the table in the center, where documents were meticulously arranged—contracts sealed with wax, correspondence from the Archives, and hand-copied anatomical schematics so old their edges curled with age.
Her fingertips traced one parchment, a medical sketch of a figure vaguely human but marred by unnatural detail. Its spine was studded with crystalline veins—fractures in glass—that crawled from the back into the base of the skull.
"Silent. Likely mute," Vaelith murmured. "Makes things easier."
"Easier?" The maid blinked, unease flickering in her eyes. "Easier for what, my lady?"
Vaelith tapped the edge of the page. "Fewer questions. Less noise. They won't scream if something goes wrong."
The maid hesitated. "You're certain this will work? That they'll survive?"
Vaelith's gaze sharpened, unwavering. "They have the bodies for it. Strong, young—or at least, not broken. If they don't survive, then the Archive's theories are wrong. Again."
The fire snapped sharply in the hearth.
"You saw the bidding," Vaelith said quietly. "They went for far more than others—the nobles might pretend not to notice, but they smell power like blood in water."
The maid shifted uneasily. "But they aren't Bound naturally, my lady. You said so yourself."
"No," Vaelith replied, eyes gleaming with something cold. "That's exactly why."
She moved to a locked cabinet and drew out a thin case, unsealing it with practiced grace. Inside lay four slender vials, each filled with a swirling black liquid darker than ink. The substance shimmered with an oily sheen—unclean, alive in its pulsing.
The maid flinched. "Those were banned after the last incident."
Vaelith held one vial near the firelight; the room seemed to chill beneath its faint hum.
"No one knows what they truly do," she whispered. "But there's a theory—that if the body is empty—no voice, no fear, no expectations—it can be filled. The essence of a Bound can be forced into flesh, carved like metal into bone."
"And you think these four… are empty?"
"I think they're more than empty," Vaelith said softly. "Hollow. Hollows echo when struck just right."
The maid's eyes widened. "And if it kills them? Or worse—if it works?"
Vaelith slid the vials back into their case and locked it. Her voice was steady, unshaken.
"Then we will possess what no one else in the Dominion dares: weapons without voices. Blades that no one questions. Assassins that no one sees coming."
She turned back to the window, gazing over the city's glowing veins beneath the moon's watchful eye. So much ambition. So much rot beneath silk and stone.
Outside, stars pulsed faintly through the haze—unseen. Unfelt.
Just like the Veil.
Just like what waited beyond.
But Vaelith did not look up.
Not yet afraid.