Chapter 2
Eleventh year in the life of Ilys of the Veil
The chamber reeked of tallow and parchment, incense smoke coiling like ghosts through the high rafters.
Candles guttered along the long stone table where the priestesses sat, wax pooling in quiet surrender.
Ilys, now eleven years of age, knelt before them, her knees pressed into cold flagstone, her bored hands resting atop a scroll whose ink shimmered black against the vellum’s pallor.
"The Book of the Veil tells us of a woman’s duty.
” Mother Inrith’s voice flowed smooth and practiced, each syllable worn into shape by decades of ritual recitation.
Her white eyes searched the air, yet her voice found what sight could not.
“She is the keeper of order, the vessel of faith, the pillar upon which the King’s will is upheld. "
Ilys traced her finger along the delicate script, pausing at the curling lines of ink before reading aloud.
"A woman of Annon walks in service.
She does not question the thread, for it is already woven.
She does not crave power, for she cradles it in silence."
The words knelled uniform and adamantine. Ilys liked the structured way they fit together like the unmoving walls of the temple itself.
She sat back, eyes flicking to the next passage.
"A woman is a mother, a wife, a daughter."
Ilys frowned, the words catching strangely in her throat.
“I’m not any of those things.” The realization arrived strangled and hushed.
Mother Inrith’s hands remained folded neatly in her lap. "You are a daughter of faith."
“I have no mother. No father. To whom am I a daughter?”
Mother Inrith’s voice ran ahead, calm and calculated. "That passage does not speak to your path."
Ilys tapped a finger against the parchment. "Then why do I have to learn it?"
"You are learning the ways of all women, not just yourself,” Mother Inrith explained, her voice dry as an old psalm. "You must understand the roles of others, even if you do not share them."
The Mother moved steadily through the scriptorium, white eyes unseeing, but her steps sure. Her gnarled fingers brushed over ritual implements with reverence: an ash-blown reliquary, a vial of yellowing marrow, a faded ribbon once tied to a martyr’s throat.
The Book of the Veil spoke of women in sacred terms; keepers of order, bearers of life, and the gentle hands behind kings and sanctums alike. It spoke of hearth-tenders and cradle-rockers, of those who water gardens and whisper scripture to children with milk-sweet breath.
“The Book says a woman serves her household,” Ilys said at last, bewildered. “I have no household.”
Mother Inrith’s hand stilled on a jar of ceremonial chalk. “You are no woman. You are the Veilwalker—a gift from Annon to Death, a blessed sacrifice.”
She must have sensed the grief moving through Ilys, piecing it together as she steered the conversation elsewhere.
“It’s been some time since we visited the Bargain itself.” The Mother gestured to a priestess working beside her. The woman primly scoured the pages, selected one, and presented it to Ilys.
“And it is told that in the days of unnumbered dead, when pestilence blackened the lungs of children and famine hollowed the bones of kings, Death himself walked the roads of Annon.
Cloaked in shadow, he gathered what was due.
He did not hasten the end, nor strike the living down—Death only carried away those whose thread had unraveled.
Still, the people wept, for his harvest was heavy, and the graves of Annon overflowed.
Then Hiram the Devout, first King of Annon, went out into the frost and met him upon the plain. The King said: “Why must you come at all? If you stayed your hand, let us endure, might we not carry the weight together? Might man not bear what you take from him?”
And Death answered: “The world cannot bear such weight. Grain withers when the field is overgrown. Rivers choke when they are dammed. So too does creation rot when no soul is gathered in its time. If I do not come, the burden breaks all.”
Then the King raised his sword, gleaming in the starlight, and said: “Then let me resist you. Let me keep them still. Let me hold back the hour, though the world should strain beneath it.”
And Death did not flinch, but said: “Raise your blade if you will. But know this: I am inevitable. I do not pass away. Should this body fall, another will take up the mantle. My form may change, my will or voice may alter, yet always there will be a Death walking among you. For though I am not eternal, I am constant.”
Hiram’s hand faltered, and at last he lowered the sword.
He wept, and said: “Then if Death cannot be denied, make me this bargain. Spare my people the plagues that rip through kingdoms. Shield us from famine’s devouring teeth.
If I give you one hand among us, year after year, to do the striking you will not do—then come not for Annon before its appointed time. ”
And Death inclined his head, and answered: “It shall be as you say. Give me one who belongs not to man but to the Veil. Let them sever the threads of those who defy their end, who steal years not theirs to claim. And while their blade is lifted for me, my face shall turn aside from Annon.”
So the covenant was bound: That the King should appoint a Veilwalker, sworn to the Veil and not to life.
That the Veilwalker should have no house, no spouse, no child, for their blood belonged not to man but to Death.
That they should strike those who clung past their hour, whether king or beggar, priest or thief.
And though Death may change his mask, his harvest shall remain.
And while the Bargain is kept, Annon shall endure. ”
Mother Inrith’s gaze did not waver. “Be glad, Ilys, that you are no mere woman. You will be remembered. You are divine.”
“But I am not truly a Veilwalker until Consecration,” Ilys said. “Am I not a girl until then?”
They said a Veilwalker’s true service began with Consecration, though no one spoke of it in detail. Only that it took place in the Hollow Hall, beneath blackstone arches, where Death would weigh the worth of her devotion.
The Mother’s lips curved faintly. “You are like the seed within the fruit: formed, whole, and living, but not yet planted. You grow in a place between.”
“When will my rites come?” Ilys asked.
“Only Death can answer that,” the Mother replied.
Before she could ask another question, a knock at the door interrupted the lesson.
One of the younger priestesses rose to unfasten the latch and Grim stood in the doorway, haloed in the pale corridor light.
His cloak carried a dusting of snowmelt, the scent of frost and pine following him like a whisper from a freer world.
Mother Inrith inclined her head. "Veilwalker."
"Mother,” he greeted in turn.
Grim’s attention swiveled to Ilys, voice materializing even, unburdened. "I’m leaving."
She straightened instinctively. "Five months,” she reiterated from an early conversation. "No longer."
Grim tilted his head. "No longer."
She studied him carefully. "Last year you were three days late,” she pointed out.
"The snow was heavy."
"Will that happen again?"
"Possibly."
She frowned. "Then should you leave sooner?"
Grim huffed a quiet breath that might have been amusement. "Would you like to walk the frozen expanse?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Then neither would I."
She nodded, satisfied with the logic but another thought took root. "If you do not return, will they send someone for you?"
Grim let go of a greedy breath. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because there is no need."
Ilys’ frown returned for a second performance. “Then how will we know what happened to you?”
“You will not,” Grim said, tone final and intonation pitchy.
She padded over to him, swallowing her pride as she wrapped her arms around him.
He stiffened at the contact, but after a moment dropped his hand for a brief, awkward pat on her head, where it lingered before sliding to her fingers and squeezing.
Once. Twice. Three times. Their code. Their language.
It meant he would come back. Ilys liked to think it meant I love you.
“Ilys,” the Mother called, beckoning her back to the lesson.
An itchy, desperate feeling twisted in the girl’s stomach. She pressed her lips together, tasting the question she could not name.
The words of The Book of the Veil waited patiently before her.
When she turned back, the doorway glowered, empty. Grim gone.
Though just two weeks had passed since Grim’s departure, the temple corridors grew ice cold, the stone leeching warmth through the soles of Ilys’s slippers. She stayed near the wall, her breath stirring faint wisps of chilled air.
Rowenna ambled ahead, her arms full of firewood. A twig slipped free, skittering across the floor. She muttered under her breath as she bent to retrieve it. It was this clumsy movement that caught Ilys, more instinct than reason, and she followed before she could question it.
Another twig tumbled free. Rowenna straightened, frustrated.
“You’ll lose the rest,” Ilys called out, “if you don’t tame them now.”
Rowenna startled, spinning. “Oh—” She blinked fast, her eyes catching the Veil sigil on Ilys’s chest. Her tone shifted. “Veilwalker.” Rowenna adjusted the bundle, hugging it tighter. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I’m not meant to be heard.” Ilys shrugged.
Rowenna gave a small, unsure laugh. “Right.” She looked down the corridor, then back. “I should keep going.”
“I could help.”
Rowenna halted, looking on, confused.
“I could carry some. If it’s heavy,” Ilys explained further.
Rowenna stared at her for a beat too long, hands tightening around the bundle. “It’s fine,” she said. “But... thank you.”
Rowenna turned to leave, but after a few steps, she paused and looked back, conflict brewing in her eyes.
“Are you coming?”
Ilys blinked. “What?”
“You followed me. Walk with me, if you’re going to hover.”
“I wasn’t hovering,” Ilys denied.