The Veil of Amity The Veil of AmiTy V e r o n i c a a rt e r b u ry The Veil of AmiTy Veronica Arterbury ovi ebooks are available in ovi/ovi ebookshelves pages and they are for free. if somebody tries to sell you an ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 ovi ebookPublications - all material is copyright of the ovi ebooks Publications & the writer C The Veil of Amity The Veil of Amity Veronica Arterbury Veronica Arterbury An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 ovi ebookPublications - all material is copyright of the ovi ebooks Publications & the writer C The Veil of Amity T he silver moon rose high over Eryndor, cast- ing its pale light upon the tranquil forests and glistening spires that stood like sentinels against the night. The great trees whispered secrets in the wind, their branches stretching wide as though to touch the heavens themselves. Beneath their shad- ows, in the heart of the elven kingdom, peace reigned, for now. But peace was a fragile thing, like the faint- est mist upon the morning air, easily disturbed by the slightest breath. The elven city of Letharion, home to the noble lords and ladies of the realm, sat perched atop the cliffs that overlooked the forest below. Its towers rose Veronica Arterbury in elegant defiance against the dark, their silvered edges catching the moonlight, shimmering like the distant stars. Within the walls of the citadel, the air was thick with the scent of incense and the hum of ancient magic, and the faint echo of murmured con- versations drifted from the grand halls. But this night, the halls were empty save for one. Silvaen Drethir, the half-elf noble, stood alone in his father’s study, the flickering firelight casting long shadows upon the walls. His dark eyes, filled with cu- riosity and unease, scanned the room. He had come for a simple matter, one of duty, perhaps but what he found instead would alter the course of his life for- ever. His father, Lord Arandor Drethir, had always been a man of purpose, his decisions swift and without hesitation. A towering figure among the elven lords, he was known for his wisdom and strength. Silvaen had always admired him, though a small part of him had wondered what lay beneath the polished veneer of his father’s calm exterior. Tonight, that question would be answered. The young elf strode forward, his footsteps echoing softly in the stillness. The study was a room of quiet dignity; bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes The Veil of Amity that had weathered the ages, their spines a patchwork of languages both ancient and obscure. The heavy wooden desk at the center of the room was cluttered with scrolls and papers, each one a piece of a careful- ly ordered life. But it was something more mundane, a letter that caught Silvaen’s eye. He had meant only to retrieve a forgotten parch- ment of his own, but as he opened the drawer of his father’s desk, his hand brushed against something that felt out of place. A letter, sealed in dark green wax, lay amidst a stack of correspondence. Silvaen frowned as he lifted it, feeling the weight of its pres- ence, a letter not meant for his eyes. A glance at the wax seal revealed the mark of the high council, a sign of great importance. With trembling fingers, he broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. What he read sent a chill through his veins. To our trusted allies among the Duskborn, The words blurred before his eyes, the elegant script turning to sharp angles as the realization struck him like a blow to the chest. A secret pact, signed in the dark recesses of the elven court, a pact that would break the fragile peace between the elves and the Duskborn, who had roamed the wilds beyond the Veronica Arterbury Greywind Mountains for centuries. The letter spoke of a conspiracy, an alliance forged in shadows, meant to turn the Duskborn’s warlike fury against their own enemies. It was treason. It was betrayal. Silvaen’s breath caught in his throat, his hands shaking as he read further. The names of the con- spirators danced before his eyes, his own kin among them. The signatures at the end of the letter were un- mistakable, and his heart clenched as if struck by an invisible blade. There, scrawled in the elegant hands of several lords he had known since childhood, were the marks of those who had sworn to uphold the peace. “By the stars,” he muttered, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. The peace they had fought so hard to main- tain, this fragile truce that had held for centuries, was a lie. A lie crafted by the very people he had called family. Silvaen stood there, the letter trembling in his hands. The world around him seemed to shift, the walls of the study closing in. He could hear his own heartbeat, loud and relentless in his ears, as the weight of the truth settled upon him. In the stillness of the room, the echo of footsteps The Veil of Amity broke through the silence. Silvaen turned swiftly, his heart leaping in his chest, but it was only Aelw- en, his cousin, who entered, her face alight with cu- riosity. Aelwen was a bright spark among the elves, quick-witted, mischievous, and far too fond of caus- ing trouble. Yet, in this moment, her smile faltered as she took in the sight of Silvaen, standing there, hold- ing the letter like a torch in the night. “What is it, cousin?” she asked her voice light but with an edge of concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Silvaen’s voice was hoarse as he held up the letter. “Aelwen... this is treason. The peace we’ve fought for, the truce with the Duskborn... it’s all a lie.” Aelwen’s eyes narrowed as she crossed the room toward him. “What do you mean?” Silvaen let out a bitter laugh, his hand shaking as he pointed to the signatures at the bottom of the letter. “These are the names of lords from the high coun- cil, from the noble houses. My father is among them. They’ve made a pact with the Duskborn. They intend to break the truce. All of it... to plunge us into war.” Aelwen’s face went pale, her usual confidence slip- Veronica Arterbury ping for a moment. She took a step back, her mind racing. “Your father?” she whispered. “Could it be? Are you certain?” “I’m certain.” Silvaen’s voice cracked as he folded the letter and tucked it into his cloak. “What do I do, Aelwen? If I expose this, I’ll be branded a traitor. If I don’t, if I do nothing, then the war will come, and our people will pay the price.” Aelwen stepped forward, her hand resting on his shoulder. “We’ll find the truth, Silvaen. We’ll uncover who is behind this together. But you must be careful. The council is watching, and your father, he’s not the only one with secrets.” A storm raged in Silvaen’s chest, a tempest of emo- tions that threatened to tear him apart. The weight of his blood, half-elven, half-human, felt heavier now than ever before. Could he betray his own people? Or was it the greater betrayal to stay silent? “I will not let this go unpunished,” Silvaen said, his voice hardening with resolve. “But I cannot do it alone.” Aelwen gave him a sly smile, a glimmer of her old self returning. “Then let us start by being very, very careful.” The Veil of Amity As the two of them slipped from the study, shad- ows growing long in the corridors of the citadel, the moonlight faded, and a new darkness began to rise. The fragile peace between the elves and the Dusk- born had been shattered, and there would be no turning back. Veronica Arterbury I. The hallways of Letharion echoed with the quiet footfalls of Silvaen Drethir, his boots clicking softly against the cool marble floors. His cloak, dark and flowing, whispered like a shadow in the night, as if trying to blend into the ancient stone walls that had witnessed countless secrets. He moved with urgency, his mind a tempest of thoughts and dread. The weight of the letter in his hand felt heavier with each step. It was a thing of treachery, a pact made in shadows by his own kin, his own people, a thing that threatened to rip the fabric of peace between the elves and the Duskborn asunder. The night was still, save for the occasional whisper of wind through the high windows, carrying with it the scent of the ancient forests that surrounded Letharion. But inside the citadel, the peace was an illusion, a fragile veneer over a deeper, darker truth. Silvaen’s heart pounded as he thought of the letter, its The Veil of Amity words, its implications. The fragile truce, so carefully guarded for centuries, was a lie, and the elves were on the cusp of betraying it. “Silvaen, you move like a shadow in the night,” a voice called out from the depths of the hallway. The voice was light, warm, and familiar, laced with the telltale chuckle that Silvaen knew all too well. Silvaen’s breath caught for a moment, his hand tightening around the letter, but as he turned, his tension eased. There, stepping from the shadows, was Aelwen, his cousin, his partner in mischief and the one elf whose presence always seemed to bring both comfort and trouble in equal measure. Aelwen’s silver hair shimmered in the dim light, cascading down her back like a waterfall of moon- light. Her bright green eyes sparkled with the same mischievous gleam they always carried, and her lips curled into a grin that was both playful and knowing. “Trouble again, Silvaen?” she asked, her voice light, yet sharp as a blade. Silvaen returned her smile, though it was tempered by the gravity of the situation. “I wish it were mere trouble,” he said, his voice hoarse with the weight of his discovery. He held out the letter, and Aelwen’s Veronica Arterbury gaze shifted immediately, her smile faltering as she saw the seal. “This,” he continued, “is treachery. A pact to break the truce. If I don’t act, it could lead to war. To war between our people and the Duskborn.” Aelwen’s expression darkened, and her eyes nar- rowed, the gleam of mischief replaced by a sharpness that matched his own. “War,” she repeated softly, as if tasting the word. “With the Duskborn?” Silvaen nodded gravely, his fingers tracing the edg- es of the parchment. “If I reveal it, my own people may turn on me. If I keep it hidden...” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought. The consequences of ei- ther path were too dire to comprehend fully. Aelwen stepped closer, her usually playful demean- our replaced by an air of quiet concern. She regarded him with a steady gaze, her fingers brushing against the edge of his cloak, an unspoken reassurance be- tween them. “Then we’ll have to be careful. War is not a thing to be taken lightly, especially with the Duskborn. Their ways are different from ours, and their warriors know no mercy.” Silvaen met her gaze, the conflict within him clear. “I know,” he said softly. “But I also know that our people have been playing a dangerous game for far The Veil of Amity too long. And now the truth is here, in my hands. The question is, what do I do with it?” Aelwen’s smile returned, but it was laced with something more serious, something darker. “You do what must be done. And you do it with caution.” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as if measuring the weight of his words. “But be wary, Silvaen. There are those who would kill to keep this quiet, and those who would kill to make sure it reaches the Dusk- born.” The last sentence hung in the air like a dark cloud, heavy with the promise of danger. Silvaen looked down at the letter once more, his resolve hardening. “I will not be part of this treachery,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “But neither can I act rashly. If I reveal this now, it will destroy everything we’ve worked for. I need to know more.” Aelwen’s smile grew sharper, her eyes twinkling with that familiar spark of mischief. “Then we’ll gather our information carefully. And we’ll do it in a way that no one can trace back to us.” Silvaen’s brow furrowed, a glimmer of hope rising within him. “How?” Veronica Arterbury Aelwen reached into her belt and pulled out a small vial of silver liquid, which she held up to the light. “A little bit of magic, a little bit of misdirection. I’ve been learning from some of the more... unconventional elves in the court. There are ways to listen without being heard.” The look on Silvaen’s face could only be described as both impressed and slightly wary. “Unconvention- al elves? Aelwen, you are dangerous.” “Of course I am,” she replied with a grin. “But dan- ger is what we need, isn’t it?” Before Silvaen could respond, a sudden noise, a soft cough, barely audible, echoed from the far end of the corridor. Both elves froze, their eyes narrow- ing in suspicion. Silvaen instinctively reached for the dagger at his side, though he didn’t draw it yet. Ael- wen’s hand, too, hovered near the hilt of her slender blade. “Did you hear that?” Silvaen whispered. Aelwen nodded. “I did. And I don’t think it’s a guard.” They both moved quickly, slipping into the shad- ows where the corridors branched off into the deep The Veil of Amity halls of the citadel. They were careful not to make a sound, but the air around them seemed to thrum with tension. Another muffled footstep, closer this time, and then a soft rustling. Someone was coming. Silvaen’s heart raced, and his thoughts turned sharp. “Who is it?” he muttered under his breath, his hand now resting firmly on the hilt of his blade. The only answer was silence, heavy, ominous silence. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sound stopped. The intruder, whoever it was had vanished as quickly as they had come. Aelwen broke the silence with a laugh, though it was tinged with unease. “Perhaps we are not the only ones with secrets in this place.” Silvaen narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on his dagger. “Perhaps,” he muttered. “But I intend to find out who. And why they’re listening.” As the two of them moved further into the shad- ows, the corridors of Letharion seemed to stretch on forever. The citadel, once a place of comfort, now felt like a labyrinth of deception. Everywhere, there were whispers, like the rustle of leaves in the wind, carry- ing with them secrets too dangerous to remain hid- Veronica Arterbury den. The quiet footsteps of their unknown pursuer were a reminder, silence was no longer their ally. The game of shadows had begun, and there would be no easy way out. And somewhere, deep in the heart of the citadel, in the hallowed halls of the council, the whispers of a pact that could shatter Eryndor’s peace were already beginning to echo louder. The Veil of Amity II. The great council hall of Letharion loomed before Silvaen, its ancient stone pillars rising like the silent guardians of forgotten ages. The high ceiling, carved with intricate patterns of stars and leaves, stretched above them, almost dizzying in its grandeur. Gold and emerald banners draped the walls, their colours subdued by the dim light of the hanging lanterns. The chamber, though vast and regal, felt suddenly small, small in the face of the storm that was gather- ing, both outside the citadel walls and within its very heart. Lord Thalion, the High Chancellor of Eryndor, stood at the head of the long oak table, his silver hair flowing like a river of moonlight in the flicker- ing torchlight. He wore the heavy mantle of author- ity, his bearing regal, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s. His voice, when it broke the oppressive silence, was deep, resonant, and filled with the weight of command. Veronica Arterbury “The Duskborn are growing restless,” Lord Thalion began, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder. “Their warbands are on the move. Our scouts have seen them massing on the borderlands, and reports speak of strange gatherings in their sacred groves. We must prepare ourselves for what is to come.” Silvaen sat at the far end of the table, his back straight, his eyes fixed on the High Chancellor, though his thoughts were elsewhere, circling in the dark places of his mind. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table, the cold wood pressing into his palms. He had seen the signs, heard the rumours and none of them pointed to the Duskborn as the true threat. But here, in this hall of highborn lords and ladies, where the air itself seemed to hum with old magic and hidden agendas, silence was a dangerous thing. To speak now would be to draw attention, and attention was a luxury Silvaen could ill afford. Lord Arandor, his father, spoke next, his voice rich with authority and experience. “The Duskborn are a threat, yes, but they are no match for the strength of Eryndor’s armies. We have fought them before and prevailed, and we shall do so again.” Silvaen’s heart clenched at the words. His father’s words, calm and assured, were the very picture of di-