The stairs descended into quiet.
Not silence—quiet. A slow, coiling hush that folded around them like velvet soaked in suspicion. With each step down, the air grew cooler, thinner, as though the Veil itself was exhaling something old and bitter.
Verrin was the first to speak.
"Anyone else smell that? It's like burnt truth and broken promises."
Grimpel floated slightly ahead, turning his skull as if sniffing would help. "Can't say. No nose. But if it smells like regret and cheap perfume, it's probably just your ego catching fire."
"That would explain why Selvara's practically glowing," Verrin quipped.
Selvara arched a brow, tossing a look over her shoulder. "Please. I'm the only one here not stitched together from spare emotions and daddy issues."
Nylessa smirked faintly but said nothing.
Clive, as always, said even less.
They stepped into the second layer of the Veil—and the corridor narrowed.
The stone was clean. Unnaturally clean. The path stretched forward in a perfect line, a corridor carved with surgical precision and flanked by mirrored walls that shimmered with faint green light. A single path. No forks. No shadows. Just forward.
"Well, this is ominous," Grimpel muttered.
"Straight lines never end well," Verrin added.
Selvara strode forward a few paces, her voice crisp. "At least this is simple. Walk straight, no tricks. Unlike some people, I don't need moonlight gimmicks or skeleton commentary to hold my own."
Nylessa's eyes flicked to her. Her tone remained light. "You jealous, Selvy? I can teach you how to smirk properly. It starts with having a soul."
Before Selvara could retort, Clive paused.
His voice was low. "The walls... they're humming."
They all turned to listen. He was right. A low vibration thrummed through the corridor, like a heartbeat pressed against glass.
And ahead of them, just visible through the shimmer of the corridor, were shapes.
Bodies.
Scattered along the floor, some slumped against the mirrored walls. Most with blades in their hands. A few with claws. All clearly dead by violence. Many were in pairs. One leaning over the other, weapons embedded in backs, throats, or chests.
Nylessa knelt beside the nearest body. "They killed each other. Close-range. No signs of other threats. Just... each other."
Verrin scratched his chin. "Truth gas. That's what I smelled. Makes people say things they usually keep buried. Mix that with a dash of Veil magic..."
"You get death by confession," Grimpel finished. "Delightful."
Then she appeared.
The General of Envy.
A woman—or at least something shaped like one. Her head was crowned with colorful feathers that shifted and shimmered like oil on water. Her eyes were wide, birdlike, and her fingers ended in curved talons. Her voice was musical, layered with tones that didn't quite belong.
"Ahhh," she trilled, stepping out from the corridor's far end. "More walkers. How rare. How... hopeful."
Clive stepped forward, hand near his blade.
The parrot-woman held up one long-feathered hand. "No tricks, no riddles. No combat. Not here. You want to reach the next layer? Just walk. That's it. One foot in front of the other. Keep going."
"And what's the catch?" Selvara asked, eyes narrowing.
"No catch," she sang. "Just don't stop. Don't turn around. Don't listen too closely to each other. And whatever you do... don't let the little truths crawling up your tongues slip out."
Verrin blinked. "Ah. So it's a metaphorical landmine field. Excellent."
The parrot-woman bowed mockingly. "Good luck."
With that, she vanished, her feathers dispersing into motes of green light.
The corridor pulsed once.
Clive stepped forward.
Then Selvara.
Nylessa followed, walking with deliberate ease.
Grimpel floated between them, muttering, "Truth gas. Really? The Veil couldn't just give us a pit trap and some nice, straightforward death worms?"
Verrin brought up the rear, whistling a low tune, though his eyes were sharp.
They walked.
And the air thickened.
Not with magic. Not with poison. But with something deeper.
Words. Regrets. Thoughts not quite said. Emotions like nails under the skin, wanting to claw out.
Selvara suddenly spoke.
"I could break Nylessa if I wanted."
The corridor quieted.
Clive tensed.
Nylessa looked over, amused. "That's a bold start."
Selvara didn't stop. Her face was rigid, but her voice poured like a confession. "You're just flair. A costume. You weren't built to last. Maedra gave up on you and tried again. I'm that again. I'm what's left after the experiment was refined."
Nylessa smiled, but her eyes sharpened. "Feeling threatened, darling? It suits you."
Behind them, Grimpel muttered, "We're gonna need popcorn for this."
Verrin just said, "Don't stop walking."
Clive said nothing. But his jaw was tight.
And still, they moved.
The corridor seemed longer now. The walls more reflective.
Now, the mirrors showed things. Moments. Possibilities.
Selvara and Nylessa locked in battle.
Clive alone, crowned in bone.
Grimpel aflame, laughing.
Verrin cradling a body with the same mark as his.
The passage fed them visions. Fueled their envy, their longing, their buried truths.
And behind them, though they didn't hear it—the parrot-woman laughed softly to herself in the dark.
"They always do the hard part for me. All I have to do is wait for the envy to take root. And then, they tear each other apart."
She cocked her feathered head.
"Such honest little monsters."
Ahead, the corridor stretched on.
Waiting.