Chapter 42: The Eighth Chair
Soul Island—once the heart of mysticism and supernatural heritage—now housed an ugliness that festered beneath its roots. Deep below its sacred forests, hidden behind countless layers of veils, and blood seals, was the Veil Sanctum—a lair carved from forgotten catacombs and anchored in cursed ley lines.
It was here, amid the smell of burnt incense, ancient chalk sigils, and slowly swirling death-wards, that eight figures sat in a circle carved of petrified bone and obsidian.
Where once there had been nine, now only eight thrones remained lit with soulfire.
At the empty chair, a single black flame crackled weakly—flickering, unstable.
Cirth the Black King was gone.
Killed. Utterly. No corpse. No lingering aura. Not even soul embers to collect.
The one who'd boasted of immortality, whose skin could turn blades and whose aura could choke cities, had been incinerated—by Rose Ikemba, the Red Sovereign.
The silence was thick.
Then a voice broke it. Cold. Feminine. Coated in restrained fury.
> "We should have acted together. Cirth was reckless, but he was ours."
—Lira, the Wraithbinder, said, her mask shifting with spectral mist.
Across from her, a knight in cracked armor sat with arms folded—his helmet lined with glowing runes. His voice grated like rust on iron.
> "He was a fool. He rushed in, and he burned for it. Good riddance."
—Voth, the Hollow Knight.
Sariah, cloaked in black petals and ash, flicked her fingers idly. The smoke wreathing her body pulsed with irritation.
Another of the nine—or now eight—a young boy with black veins and white eyes, whispered:
> "Let's go now. Let's take her. Twist her. Break her."
—Nyel, the Corpse Child, who sat cross-legged atop a mountain of writhing flesh.
The air shifted.
A ripple of deeper silence descended.
And then came the voice none dared interrupt. Cold. Methodical. It was like a whisper from the bottom of a deep grave:
> "No."
—Mirex the Shrouded, the leader of the Veil.
The others froze.
He stood slowly, his body swathed in layers of smoke and mourning silk. No face visible beneath the hood. No eyes, no lips. Just a jagged, shifting shadow, like something that forgot how to be human.
> "Let me think."
He turned toward the burning remnant of Cirth's throne. It sputtered once, then died entirely.
> "Karen… she has potential. Enough that even Rose interfered...she could replace Cirth."
> "You want her to join us?" Sariah's voice coiled with amusement.
> "Or be destroyed. Either path satisfies the design."
Mirex's hands raised, forming a slow ritual sign.
> "We will watch her. We will guide her toward our fire. Rose may train her, yes… but the girl is still human despite awakened. Humans break. Especially the ones with light in them."
A few chuckled.
> "Let her think she's safe. Let them all think that. We will haunt her steps. Study her fears. We will not rush as Cirth did."
Mirex's voice dropped low, so low it echoed inside each of their skulls.
> "We are the Veil. We do not charge—we corrupt."
He pointed toward the surface of the black mirror in the center of their chamber. It shimmered to life, showing Karen—asleep under soft lights, unaware of the gaze fixed on her.
Mirex watched her image for a long moment.
> "You will take his place… or you will feed our fire."
And with that, the circle of eight began to chant. The flames around the chamber grew taller—eight shadows, one purpose.
The Veil had lost a king.
But now, they set their sights on a queen.
Or a pyre.