Chapter 29 — Thorns in Silk
Vaelith sat alone beneath the high arch of her private study, a single oil-lamp flickering beside her. Its golden light clung to the edges of her robes and scattered shadows across the piles of parchment, half-burnt correspondence, and old tomes opened to forbidden pages. A velvet hush blanketed the room, but her mind was far from still.
A mirror stood against the far wall, draped in silk. She hadn't uncovered it in days. She didn't want to look at herself.
Not yet.
The scroll before her was inked in cramped, ancient lettering—a copy of a translation from a text older than the throne itself. She traced a line with her finger, lips pursed in thought. The formula was simple in theory, horrifying in practice. A vial. A chamber. Twelve days of absence. Then a coin toss between power… and oblivion.
It wasn't supposed to be done this way.
The Calling was meant to choose.
Not her.
But Vaelith had never been chosen for anything.
That was the problem.
She leaned back in her chair, the silk of her gown rustling like dry leaves. The cold stone floor beneath her bare feet grounded her, reminded her of the knife's edge she lived on.
Twelve siblings remained.
Four were already Bound—true Bound, Called by the Veil before they turned sixteen, each having returned from their Trials changed and stronger. Untouchable. Their strength wasn't just a symbol. It was proof. Proof of favor. Proof of survival.
Two others had not returned. She didn't speak their names anymore. They had been Called, just like the rest. Their eyes had rolled back, their bodies gone still, and then days later—weeks, in one case—only silence returned.
The first time it happened, Vaelith had screamed when the nurse came in with the news. The second time, she had barely flinched. Their deaths hadn't meant anything to the court. No grand funerals. No mourning. Just more space between her and the throne.
Six siblings remained. Six, including herself.
And she was the weakest of them all.
No bound strength. No armies. No signature magic. Just a noble name, a few loyal servants, and a thin web of influence that frayed with every passing season. In court, she was treated like a porcelain vase—delicate, easily ignored, and ultimately disposable.
She knew what would happen to the ones who didn't win.
The victor's first act would be to prune the tree—cut off the roots, burn the branches. There would be no mercy for the others. Not when power came soaked in blood.
So she had made a decision.
If the Veil would not choose her, she would take what it denied her.
Artificial Binding.
The words were never spoken aloud in court. Not officially. But they echoed in the hidden corners of the palace, in the books stored behind false panels and vaults sealed with blood and oath. Rituals smuggled in from across the sea, refined in silence by scholars who vanished soon after. It was a heresy of necessity, and she had made herself its patron.
But the process was brutal.
The vial alone was volatile. Extracted from the dormant marrow of those who had returned from Trials—purchased at great cost, or stolen in silence. Consuming it began the severance. The veil wouldn't notice, not right away, but it would respond. It always did.
Then came the chamber. A coffin without death.
A vessel of silence, where every sense was stripped away—sight, sound, touch, even the passage of time. A sensory abyss. Twelve days without anchor, without self, drifting in a blank nothingness until the Veil took notice.
And when it did, the Trial would come. Harsh. Unforgiving. Twisted.
It was not natural.
But then again, neither was survival in the palace.
Vaelith closed the book. Her fingers trembled, but she steadied them. She would not show fear. Not even to herself.
There was no training. No strategy. No mercy.
The Trial didn't care who you were before. It remade you. Or it ended you.
Vaelith rose from her seat and walked to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain.
Far below, the city pulsed with faint lights—torches, lanterns, burning braziers on balconies and guard towers. The palace cast a long shadow even in the dark.
Her siblings lived in other wings of the capital compound, each with their loyalists, their own Bound champions, their own plots. She had seen one of them—a brother, the youngest of the Bound—split a man's skull with a flick of his hand. Not with a weapon. Just his hand.
She remembered the crunch of bone. The smile that followed.
She had smiled back, of course. That was what one did. She had applauded.
But inside, she had been hollow.
That boy had been Bound naturally. The Veil had chosen him before his fifteenth year. His Trial had been savage, he'd told her once, with laughing eyes and bloodstained boots. He hadn't flinched when describing how he'd lost three fingers and regrown them.
"You'll never understand it," he had said, almost kindly. "You don't have it in you."
He was wrong.
She did have it in her.
Not in the way the Veil preferred. Not by fate or divine whim. But by force.
She had scraped and bled and bribed and studied. Every step a fight. Every breath a rebellion. And she would keep going, until the Veil listened.
Even if it meant sending another one in.
Even if none came back.
She turned from the window, the city's light retreating behind her. Her expression was still. Composed. But her hands bore ink stains. Her sleeves smelled faintly of fire.
Soon, the next subject would be prepared.
She couldn't afford to wait.
If she didn't crown herself, she would be buried with the others.
The Trial didn't ask for permission.
Neither would she.