Chapter 1 #2
She unsheathed her blade, peeking at her reflection in the glint of the metal: round hooded eyes, tawny skin, and gaunt cheeks.
“Hello face,” she whispered, not unkindly.
She slid the blade away and abandoned her makeshift mirror. Ilys climbed into bed, the heavy blankets swallowing her small frame. Through the high window, the night sky stretched endless and dark, stars pulsing against the void like distant embers.
“Vasha,” she hummed to herself, closing her eyes.
A tether. A truth. And then, she slept.
Grim ate like he always did, efficiently and without ceremony. He tore off a piece of bread with his teeth, chewing as he spoke. “I will leave in three weeks' time.”
Ilys froze, melancholy dragging a pointed finger up her spine.
Attachment, ugly and adolescent, crept where it didn’t belong, and she knew better than to let it linger.
She lifted her veil, scooping another bite of venison broth into her mouth and urging the warmth to smooth the unwelcome prickle at the base of her neck.
“We have three weeks to prepare,” he continued. “Death has duties for you while I’m away this time.”
Her spoon stilled against the bowl’s rim. “What sort of duties?”
“Whatever duties he sees fit.”
“What use is preparation if the duties remain unknown?”
Grim sighed, shaking his head. “I know the nature of them. They are the nature of all Veilwalkers.”
“Can I not learn alongside you?” she offered. “Travel with you?”
She didn’t hunger for the work, only the time between it, the quiet spans where he might see her, not overlook her.
Whatever might have been said withered before it reached the air. She bit back a sigh, staring at the bowl; the broth lay still and cooling.
Grim stood, his chair grating against the stone as he nodded to the meal in front of her. “Meet me in the yard when you finish.”
Grim stood near the weapons rack, rolling his shoulders, testing the grip of a simple dagger. He trained with the real thing. No dulled edges. No blunted tips.
He tossed one to her.
She caught it, though barely.
“That grip will get you killed,” he remarked, not brusquely. But not softly either.
“I caught it,” she pointed out.
He ignored her. “Show me.”
Ilys adjusted her stance, raising the blade into a semblance of readiness.
Grim studied her for a long moment, his fingers tapping absently against his thigh. He stepped forward, reaching for her wrist and she barely had time to react before he knocked the dagger from her hand, sending it skidding across the dirt.
“Stop holding it so tight,” he demanded. “It makes you slow.”
Ilys flexed her fingers, irritation pricking at the back of her throat. She retrieved the dagger, resetting her stance. Grim watched, waiting.
She lunged.
He caught her wrist. Too slow.
She tried again, twisting to strike from the side, but Grim deflected easily, guiding her own momentum off course until she staggered.
Her breath came faster. Her feet slipped in the ground.
She hated this. She hated the smallness that crept in. The way slowness felt like shame. The unreadiness felt like failure.
Grim stepped back, watching her carefully. “Again.”
They fell into the rhythm. Strike. Parry. Misdirection. Counter.
Slower this time. More calculated. She feinted right, then shifted her weight, aiming lower. Grim sidestepped at the last moment, catching her by the arm.
She grit her teeth, cursing Grim’s stringent routines and bare-boned demeanor. She wanted to swim. She wanted to play. She wanted Grim for once to be pleased and satisfied and to let her be.
“Again.”
The pattern continued. Over and over.
Strike. Parry. Misdirection. Counter.
Her veil clung to her sticky skin. The hidden pins at her temple and neck tugging with every motion.
She couldn’t see well around its edge. The world narrowed to the blade in her palm, the rhythm of her own breath, the feeling of the ground beneath her boots.
She could feel the ache settling into her limbs, the stiffness creeping into her fingers.
Finally and mercifully, Grim stepped back. “Enough.”
He always stopped just before she broke. Never a second sooner.
Ilys rolled her sore shoulders, veil swaying and wetted with sweat. The morning air no longer felt cold.
Grim watched her, unreadable. Then, softer, he added, “Better.”
Not praise. Not exactly. But coming from Grim, it felt close to a miracle.
Boots on stone broke the quiet.
Ilys turned as Baron, Captain of the Guard, strode into the courtyard. He wore plain dark leather with steel set at the shoulders, marking his role as a soldier. His sword hung easy at his hip, but tension still held his spine. He greeted her with a dim smile, then looked to Grim.
"Grim,” Baron addressed, his grin teasing wider at the sight of him.
"Baron,” Grim replied, wiping the sweat from his palms against his tunic. His body denied the enthusiasm that sparked in his eyes at the Captain’s arrival.
Ilys adjusted her grip on the dagger. The fight had cooled in her muscles, but she still felt the training clinging to her skin, clammy and familiar.
Grim turned to her. "Go."
She hesitated. She liked when Baron came around. But Grim never missed a chance to ruin her fun and send her away.
"Ilys." His voice left no room for argument.
She bowed her head. Stepped away. Baron wiggled his eyebrows at her, mocking Grim’s sour and dowdy tone.
At the threshold, she lingered, half-hidden behind the stone archway and desperate to hear. Grim and Baron spoke in low voices, their words hushed beneath the wind threading through the courtyard.
“You’ll be leaving soon,” Baron said, tucking the stray folds of Grim’s tunic back under his belt.
“Three weeks.”
Baron’s gaze shifted, sorrow in his eyes, his fingers tapping once against the hilt of his sword. “It’s not long.”
A pause.
Ilys turned away before either man noticed her listening.
The temple gardens were a favorite escape of Ilys’s. Vines curled against the stone walls, their leaves stretching toward the weak sunlight filtering through the lattice overhead.
She wandered without purpose, hands tucked behind her back, the ends of her sleeves damp where she had idly traced them along the well stones.
Near the western edge of the garden, by a patch of freshly turned soil, she spotted one of the priestesses’ girls; Rowenna, Ilys had heard them call her.
The girl knelt in the dirt, fingers sinking deep into the earth, coaxing stubborn roots free with slow, practiced care.
Loose strands of flaxen hair clung to her forehead, darkened with sweat and soil.
Ilys stepped closer, heart racing. She felt sure of her place in this world and of the power she carried, yet her influence still felt new, her confidence tentative, and her presence beside others was a discipline she had not yet mastered.
"What are you doing?"
The girl startled, her eyes flicking up to Ilys’s veil before dropping quickly to her hands and bowing her head.
"Vasha,” Rowenna greeted.
Ilys ignored the reverence in her tone, stepping forward until her shadow stretched over the small patch of earth. "What are you doing?"
The girl swallowed before answering. "Gardening. The frost killed some of the plants."
Ilys crouched beside her, peering at the fragile green shoots pushing through the dirt. They were thin, weak-looking. Insignificant.
"They don’t look like much,” she observed.
"Not yet."
The girl pressed her fingers into the soil, careful, methodical.
She uncovered the base of a small stem, brushing away the loose dirt that clung to it.
Rowenna’s fingers worked with a patience Ilys didn’t understand.
Her own hands were made for rituals and leather-bound hilts, not coaxing life from buried things.
Ilys tilted her head. "I killed a rabbit yesterday."
The girl stilled, fingers tightening around the trowel she had been using.
Ilys traced a pattern in the dirt beside her. "Do you enjoy the sinew of rabbit?"
The girl blinked, uncertain. "The… sinew?"
“I wanted to bring you a rabbit. I heard the Faithful love it,” Ilys said, brushing soil from her fingertips. “But my father said no.”
She cringed at the practiced fall of that paternal word. She knew he wasn’t her father, but she’d taken a liking to using it. It made her just like all the others to say she had a father, and in many ways, Grim might as well have been.
The girl’s lips parted, a response flickering and fading before it found a voice. She lowered her gaze. “I… think I like rabbit stew.”
Ilys hummed, "I wouldn’t know. I am not allowed to eat it."
The girl resumed her tending, sifting dirt through her fingers, and Ilys watched, drawn to the steady rhythm of her hands. So much care in a gesture so small. Nothing in her life ever allowed such softness.
A shadow stretched across the dirt.
"Ilys."
She turned to find Grim at the garden’s edge, arms crossed, his veil cast in morning shadow. His stance said he’d been watching for some time.
"Come,” he directed. "You have more training."
Ilys dithered. Her eyes flicked back to the girl, but she had already returned to her work, head bent over the soil, pretending the conversation had never happened.
Ilys stood and without another word, she followed Grim out of the garden. As they turned the corner toward the training grounds, Grim spoke.
"I am not your father, Ilys. You have none."