Chapter 1
Ninth year in the life of Ilys of the Veil
Ilys did not fear the knife in her hand.
She was too young to understand the permanence of sharp things—how they forged final moments, how they forced bodies still—but not too young to take a life. Such is the nature of a Veilwalker.
Chosen. Obedient. Cleansed by blood.
Birds trilled in the canopy above, the green of spring clawing over every hard surface, swallowing stone and bark alike.
"Above your head, shoulders back." Grim toed the nearest rock, flexing and unflexing his hands.
Ilys lifted her chin in regal defiance, her veil brushing against her cheek like a hand she trusted more than her own. It steadied her. Hid her. Reminded her she was not merely a girl, but sacred.
"On three, you’ll push your will through the hilt. Guide it deep."
She nodded, eager to win Grim’s approval. Eyes shut, she absorbed his counted cadence, driving the knife through the belly of the rabbit at his direction. Blood spattered her black veil, warm and quick, flecking her fingers like paint.
"Now, what do we say, Ilys?"
Wide-eyed, she turned to Grim, uncertain. She knew some of the words, but the orders eluded her.
"Ilys," he chided gently, kneeling before her. "Repeat after me," he instructed, tilting his veiled face toward the sky. His voice carried easily through the clearing, the words practiced and unwavering. "Thy thread is cut."
"Thy thread is cut,” Ilys echoed, guileless and pliant.
"Thy name is lost."
"Thy name is lost," she followed.
"The Veil shall hold."
"The Veil shall hold." She took a breath, then sealed it with the last word of every prayer, her affirmation of faith. "Vasha."
The clearing held its breath, while the blood still steamed in the spring air.
Grim nodded. "Well done." He extended a hand, and she took it, his grip firm as he pulled her back to her feet. "Let's return you to the priestesses, shall we?"
Ilys hesitated, glancing at the rabbit’s fur matted with blood, its stillness unnatural against the forest floor.
"What about that?" she asked.
Grim barely spared it a glance. "Nature will take care of the body."
Ilys frowned. "No. Can we take it back for dinner?"
"Rabbit is for the faithful,” he reminded, amusement twitching at the corners of his mouth as he referenced the common worshippers of the Veil. “It is beneath us."
She tilted her head. "Let me take it to the faithful then."
"No."
"Why?"
"You know why. A Veilwalker does not serve the faithful, nor speak with them beyond what the rites demand.” His tone caged her indignation, but at nine years, testing boundaries was a beloved sport.
"I seek to prevent waste."
Grim sighed, weary of the conversation. "You seek to circumvent Veil law."
Ilys crossed her arms, tone flat yet curious. "You seek to be an ass."
Grim’s head turned toward her, veil concealing his expression, but she could feel the burden of his paternal attention.
“Don’t test your tongue where it’s not welcome.”
“You’ve said much worse to Baron,” she quipped.
Steely silence met her words.
"Waste is a sin," she tried again, juvenile in her stubbornness.
Grim expertly dodged. “Cleverness does not redeem disobedience.”
The path twisted beneath the dense canopy, roots curling from the earth like skeletal fingers.
Sunlight speckled through the leaves, gilding the edges of Grim’s ebony veil.
The trees were old here, their bark knotted like scarred skin.
Somewhere in the distance, a brook sang over stone, its voice barely rising above the rustling of leaves.
Ilys fell into step beside him, matching his pace, sensing their verbal sparring had reached its denouement.
Grim disliked it when she hurried. He disliked it when she lagged.
Earning his favor felt impossible most days.
And as she grew, his distance and irritation only deepened.
She scolded herself for her immaturity, yet she still drove him away with her hunger for life and independence.
She bit the inside of her cheek, words escaping before judgment took its pass.
"You don’t deny it,” she began once more.
Grim exhaled, though whether in amusement or irritation, she could not tell.
"Deny what?"
"That Baron dares to speak to you so. He is one of the Faithful."
His delay in answering extended so long, Ilys was sure he should never speak again. The wind sighed through the branches and from the distant castle on the hill, temple bells rang softly, the sound of the inevitable.
At last, he responded, "He is allowed such liberties."
"By whom?"
Grim turned his veiled face toward her. "By me."
"Why?" The young girl cowed at yet another set of escapee words.
"So curious today. Like a thorn in the ear." He stepped over a fallen branch, boots sinking into the moss-softened earth, glancing back to ensure she was following.
Beyond the trees, the castle loomed in the distance, its spires swallowing the sky.
The sigil of the Veil watched them from above in pale banners that clung to the stone.
The Faithful would be gathering soon, whispering their prayers beneath candlelight, their voices winding through the corridors like mist.
“Shall we play Fox and Geese tomorrow evening?”
Ilys grinned. Grim never offered to play. "Why?"
"By the unbound, you chit. Do you want to play or not?"
"I should like to play. Thank you," she replied primly, proud of such politeness.
"Rest your tongue, and we shall."
The priestesses awaited.
They stood in a quiet line at the Sanctum’s mouth, motionless statues carved to witness the passage of the divine.
Ilys stepped forward on her own.
Grim had already left. He could have stayed, could have followed her to the center of the room where they would have huddled in pious familiarity, but when the duty was hers, he often left.
Not from prohibition, but because it still felt strange to him. Grim was slow to learn how to be with Ilys. So much of what lay between them echoed a father and daughter, yet she belonged to no one. She only existed as a replacement, a successor. One day, all his duties would be her own.
Outside these walls, their relationship would be strange. Men commanded. Women obeyed. And for an unmarried man and girl to speak alone? Unthinkable. They certainly would not spar. Nor travel. Nor any number of the duties she and Grim did without question.
Ilys found Veilwalkers to be anomalies. Outsiders. Strangers to humanity.
The Sanctum yawned before her, its high ceilings lost to the shadows above.
Stone pillars stretched toward the heavens, surfaces carved with the sacred script of The Book of the Veil, each passage a prayer, a command, a truth.
A thousand candles wept light down the walls, their melted bodies hunched in devotion.
Ilys approached the altar, a slab of black stone worn smooth by centuries of bowed foreheads and whispered vows. She pressed her fingers to its cool surface, tracing the etchings beneath her touch. The sigil of the Veil. The barley laurel crest of the King. The carved silhouette of a Veilwalker.
Here stood Annon’s past and present. The country’s beliefs pressed into unyielding rock.
She knelt, cringing at the slate biting through her gown, pressing sharp and cold against bone. The prayer bell tolled, while she fought to get comfortable.
“The King is eternal,” she intoned, voice small in the vast hollow of the chamber.
Ignoring her ungainly positioning, her heart leapt to recite every word.
She loved her King as a veil loves the wind: shaped and defined by it, never needing to see its source.
She wished the King and Grim might trade places. How tenderly the King doted on her.
"His will is law,” she continued, breath undeviating. "The Veil shall hold." She pressed her forehead to the altar in closing. "Vasha."
When she rose, the five priestesses stepped back in perfect unison, parting to allow her passage.
They did not touch her. They did not speak.
They led her through the corridors, each step muffled by the thick hush of the temple halls.
The torches along the walls flickered as they passed, their glow dancing across polished stone, casting shadows that stretched and shivered.
Her chamber’s warmth greeted her entrance. A fire crackled low in the hearth, its scent mingling with the ever-present aroma of temple oils and incense.
The priestesses moved with careful precision, their hands light as they unfastened the clasps of her outer robes.
They guided her through each motion with wordless efficiency, lifting the heavy ceremonial layers and replacing them with softer linens, then pulling thick stockings over her feet so she would not feel the cold of the stone in the night.
Their touch held neither warmth nor chill.
Only detachment. After swathing Ilys in the nightdress, they faded from her reach.
A pause. A breath.
Then, in perfect unison, they turned and filed out of the room. The door closed softly behind them, leaving her alone.
Only then did Ilys reach up and remove her veil.
She removed it tenderly, willfully. It was an old, familiar ritual, more intimate than the prayers, more sacred than the altar itself.
Her veil had been stitched by the consecrated.
Dipped in ashwater. Pressed with the sigil of the Veil before she could walk in it.
The cloth slipped through her fingers like water, cool and silken.
But beneath the softness, the grit of ash clung to the threads.
Ilys folded the veil carefully, the way one might fold a shroud.
The veil had always known better than she did.
It carried her breath, caught her tears, held her silence.
It spared her the burden of beauty. Of shame.
Of being seen before she was ready to be judged.
When she wore it, she was no child.
She was important. She was divine.