Chapter 39: The Veil of Lust

Authors pov

The hotel called itself The Velvet Veil, and it shimmered like a dream woven from candlelight, perfume, and laughter that never truly ended. A week had passed, or so Clive guessed. Time was strange here. It bled through the cracks in their resolve, replaced by indulgence and fogged minds.

Selvara lounged daily by pools of wine and silk, her once-stern gaze dulled by pleasure. She drifted from hot baths to steamy massages, her face ever-flushed with wine and warmth. She would hum old battle chants in between flirty sighs, and more than once Clive saw her flirting with a handsome elven attendant who wore nothing but golden cuffs. The woman who had once sliced through monsters with cool precision now sank into pillows and moaned about the luxury of waking up without aching limbs.

Nylessa had taken to the game halls, charming fortunes out of strangers and watching them break. She wore gowns spun from moonlight and laughter, drank cocktails named after forbidden things, and laughed until tears streaked her mascara. She whispered to Clive once, "This place finally gets me. I never want to leave."

Even Grimpel had vanished into pleasure. Clive caught glimpses of the dwarf in a silk smoking jacket, lounging with four courtesans, telling grand tales that grew wilder with every hour. Grimpel hosted drinking contests in a side lounge that somehow always smelled like honey and cinnamon. He had a favorite booth, deep in the jazz bar, where he conducted a running bet about how many cherries he could eat before passing out.

Verrin? The silent blade, always standing in shadows? Even he seemed relaxed, though his idea of pleasure was sitting in the dim meditation garden, surrounded by sweet incense and softly humming waterfalls, blindfolded and breathing deeply. Clive once saw him smile—a real one—and it unnerved him more than a battlefield.

Even Clive, for a time, was happy.

He allowed himself to laugh at Nylessa's jokes. Let Selvara pull him into the wine pool once, and though he hated the warmth, he remembered how her laughter made something stir in his chest. He drank from goblets made of rose quartz, kissed a girl in a hallway who might've been made of dreams, and for a few heartbeats, he allowed himself to think maybe—just maybe—they could rest. Just a little longer.

But that dream cracked.

Because Lena came to him in dreams.

Not the sweet kind. Not the warm ghost of a child's embrace. She stood in the ruins of his old house, flames licking her hair like a crown, eyes hollow. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her mouthing words he couldn't hear. Sometimes, her fingers dripped with blood. Sometimes, she pointed behind him.

"They're feeding, Clive," she'd whispered last night. "On your friends."

He hadn't slept since.

So he watched. Wandered. Waited.

Tonight, in the third hour past dusk, he noticed something. A woman—not staff, not a guest. She wore no perfume, spoke to no one. She moved too smoothly, gliding through velvet halls like a whisper. Clive followed.

Down spiral stairs. Through halls he didn't remember existing. Past a mural of a weeping moon that bled red from its eyes. Into a narrow corridor that pulsed with magic.

He heard the voices before he saw them.

"—hooked on it. That blonde is nearly drained. The other one keeps playing the same table expecting to win. It's working. Another few days and they'll be shadows."

"And the man?"

"Resistant. We'll try again."

Clive gripped the hilt of his blade. He'd heard enough.

He turned and ran.

Back to the grand ballroom, to the echo of laughter that had once felt like joy but now sounded like chains. He had to find Selvara. Or Nylessa. Or even Grimpel, wherever the bastard had vanished to this time.

He burst into the room, chest heaving.

And stopped.

They were dancing. Twirling, laughing, lost.

They looked at him like he was the stranger.

Clive stepped forward, shouting, "We're being fed on! This place—it's a trap! They're using lust, gambling, indulgence to—"

Nylessa laughed.

"Darling, you need a drink."

Selvara tilted her head, frowning. "Or a slap. Clive, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm telling you this place is the next Veil! It's feeding on us. We're losing ourselves."

Nylessa crossed her arms, her smile fading. "Gods, you're doing it again. You always do this. We find a sliver of peace, and you can't stand it. You push it away. You self-sabotage because you think suffering is the only way to be real."

"That's not—"

"Yes," Selvara cut in. "It is. You look for rot even in roses. You can't stand being happy. Maybe it's not the Veil, Clive. Maybe it's you."

He stood there, shaking, while the music swelled and the dancers spun, and the smile of the woman from the hallway flickered at the edge of his vision.

He clenched his fists.

He would find a way to break the spell.

Even if it meant burning the hotel to the ground.