Chapter 40: Unraveling the Veil

Author's POV

The Velvet Veil had its grip on them.

Clive saw it now, more clearly than ever. It wasn't a hotel. It wasn't even a place. It was a living thing—a hungry, silken parasite draped in music and warmth. The air itself whispered with temptation, perfumed with addiction. Every hallway pulsed like a vein.

And his friends? They were drifting deeper into its stomach with each passing hour.

Nylessa still ruled the gambling halls like a crowned temptress, coaxing fortunes and secrets out of wealthy guests with a wink and a smirk. Her laughter, once sharp and knowing, now rang hollow and far away, like it belonged to someone else.

Selvara rarely left her suite anymore. Her strong, battle-scarred frame was now almost always wrapped in golden robes, her eyes half-lidded with wine and bliss. She barely reacted when Clive tried to speak to her. "Later," she'd murmur, "we can talk later."

And Grimpel—the floating skull who once howled riddles and laughed at death—now floated drunkenly through smoke lounges, reclining in midair like a tipsy spirit lord. He'd somehow convinced the courtesans to dress him in a tiny velvet crown and a fur-lined collar, and whenever Clive tried to speak with him, the skull just muttered something about "floating on pleasure, baby" and whirled away in a lazy spin.

But Verrin hadn't smiled in two days.

That was how Clive knew he was awake too.

They sat now in the hotel's coldest corner: a glass conservatory forgotten by time. The music didn't reach here. The perfume faded to dust. And above them, stars blinked in a false sky—painted light on an illusion too perfect to be real.

"You know," Verrin said, sipping something dark and violent-smelling, "I've survived plague, war, and that time I got swallowed by a lava eel. But this place?" He tilted his head. "This place might be the first thing to make me wish I had died."

Clive chuckled under his breath, though nothing about this was funny. "So, you're clear now?"

Verrin tapped his temple. "Clear as spring piss." He eyed Clive, narrowing his eyes. "You too, I assume. Which means we're the last two left with working brains. Joy."

Clive nodded, eyes locked on the flickering edge of the enchanted glass above them. "It's not just magic. It's something worse. The Veil… it's feeding on them. On all of us."

"Obviously," Verrin drawled. "I figured that out after I watched Grimpel attempt to flirt with a statue. Twice."

Clive frowned. "I heard them last night—those creatures behind the Veil. They're talking like they've already won. Like it's just a matter of time."

"Well, it is," Verrin said flatly. "They have everything they need: a place no one wants to leave, food and wine that dulls the will, sex and music to fog the senses. Hell, if I wasn't such an unlovable bastard, I'd still be in their thrall."

Clive stared ahead. "They said Selvara's almost drained. That Nylessa's trapped in a loop—gambling the same table every day, thinking she's winning."

Verrin's fingers tightened around his glass. "Then we're out of time."

Clive nodded. "We need to wake them up."

"Oh, yes," Verrin said, his voice oozing sarcasm. "Because nothing brings people back from magical mind control like a good motivational speech. Let me go fetch the inspirational music."

Clive raised an eyebrow. "You have a better idea?"

"Yes," Verrin said. "Burn it all."

"…The hotel?"

"No," Verrin hissed. "The illusion. Find the core of the Veil, whatever's keeping the spell alive, and break it. Shatter the heart, free the meat puppets."

Clive leaned back, the ghost of Lena's voice still echoing in his ears.

They're feeding, Clive.

"There's a hidden wing," he said. "Below the wine pools. I followed someone through it the other night. It's not on the map. They were talking about draining us, calling it 'progress.'"

Verrin stood up. "Then that's where we go. Tonight."

Clive rose too, reaching for the sword he hadn't unsheathed in a week. It felt heavier now. Older. But still real.

"We'll need a distraction," he murmured.

"I'll find Grimpel," Verrin said. "He owes me a favor. Or several. And if I shake him hard enough, something useful might fall out."

Clive smirked. "Think he'll be on our side?"

"Who knows?" Verrin said, walking toward the exit. "He's a floating skull addicted to honey liquor and vague threats. He might just set the whole place on fire for fun."

Clive stepped into the shadows of the corridor, the warmth behind him replaced by growing cold. The illusion still pulsed, still invited. But he was done pretending.

He had a plan. He had an ally.

And if they failed—well.

He'd rather die clawing his way out of a lie than drown smiling in it.