I Am Here for the Dead - Behind the Scenes: Plot Summary &…

The wardstone didn’t just crack—it screamed when Vera touched it. Vibrating with Nareth’s last breath, trapped in its fissures. The blood soaking it? Not hers.

Dark. Thick. Dried into the split like a wound that never healed.

That’s when Vera stopped pretending.

She’d spent her whole life locked away—gnawing on wet nurses, laughing in blood, surviving on raw meat and sheep’s screams while the world called her monster. Only Nareth ever reached her. Only Nareth named her. Only Nareth taught her to hold back her teeth—not out of love for others, but because Vera mattered more than their pain.

I Am Here for the Dead - Introduction

Then Nareth left—carrying Vera’s own blood-carved wardstone—and vanished into the palace as Sainted Concord, the kingdom’s gentle oracle.

Less than a year later? A mourning decree. A gold-sealed writ. A story about sacrifice, honor, and a soul returned “beyond the veil.”

Vera knew better.

I Am Here for the Dead - Introduction

Quick Info

• Platform: ShortMax
• Genre: Revenge, Dark Fantasy, Tragedy, Sisterhood, Mystery

She walked in wearing Nareth’s face—and no one blinked

Crowds chanted “Oracle, have mercy!” as Vera rode through the capital. They bowed. They wept. They believed every word of the lie.

But inside the Oracle House—the spotless, perfumed, moon-blossom-scented rooms where Nareth supposedly lived and died—Vera smelled it: blood. Not fresh. Not spilled. Soaked. Into floorboards. Into tapestries. Into the silence between hymns.

She cut her finger. Drew the sigil. Dragged blood across her eyes.

And the house unspooled.

Gouges in the bedpost. Ash in the alchemical brazier. And there—in the corner, faint as a sigh—Nareth’s final message, carved in her own blood.

I Am Here for the Dead - She walked in wearing Nareth’s face—and no one blinked

The first person who summoned her wasn’t grieving. She was testing.

Lady Mirel—soft-featured, pale-lipped, wrist wrapped in a bracelet of blood glass—asked Vera to bless the very chamber Nareth tended before she died.

Polite words. Cold eyes.

No mention of grief. No tears. Just timing—too precise. Too hungry.

Then there’s Rowan Caldreck, the High King. Watching Vera lift her veil for the first time… and saying only: “You have her face.”

Not surprise. Not suspicion. Recognition.

Like he’d been waiting.
Like he already knew what Vera was hiding beneath the veil—not just Nareth’s face, but the truth:
Saints don’t bleed this dark unless someone holds them down.

So who held the knife?
Who held the crown while it fell?
And why does Vera’s tongue still taste like moon-blossom petals—and something far older, far hungrier—every time she licks the blood from her fingertip?

Swipe in.
The veil’s already lifted.
The first lie is bleeding through.