Chapter 3
That evening, Mother Inrith’s measured voice rang through the hall. “Put her in ceremonial dress. The King will arrive shortly.”
The priestesses bowed their heads in silent acknowledgment before rising to carry out her order.
Mother Inrith turned to Ilys. “You must be still,” she enjoined. “The King values reverence.”
Ilys fought to sit as the priestesses worked, but her body hummed with excitement.
The King! How she adored him.
Swift and practiced hands pulled layers of black muslin over her shoulders, fastening the silver clasps at her throat, pious in their grazing of skin.
“Your hands, Veilwalker,” one ushered. She obeyed.
They slid the gloves over her fingers, their fabric black as night, embroidered in thread so fine it shimmered when it caught the light. The Veilwalker’s hands must rarely be seen, The Book dictated. To look upon them is to look upon Death’s judgment itself.
Beyond the temple walls, horns sounded signaling the King’s arrival. She stayed still as they set the last piece, a silver circlet with a single obsidian drop, centered like a third eye.
Mother Inrith stepped forward, inspecting her.
“Rise,” she said. Then, quieter, “Grim bears the mantle for now. But the weight will pass to you. And sooner than you think.” Mother Inrith’s eyes looked beyond her. “Show the Shepherd you will serve him well.”
The great doors opened, and cold wind rushed in, carrying the scent of distant rain. Light poured through the cracks: pale, thin, and lifeless.
And then, he stepped inside.
Like the sun made human, the King glided into the room. His deep red robes, heavy with gold embroidery, swept the floor behind him languidly. His crown sat low on his brow, his beard neatly trimmed, and his presence filled the hall with an unspoken authority.
But his blue eyes softened when they fell upon her.
“Ilys,” he breathed, tasting the word and she smiled.
He had always been good to her. He had given her to the Veil, yes, but he had not done so lightly. He visited when he could, persisting just long enough for her to see his affection, just long enough for her to feel like she was his, if only in a distant, untouchable way.
He stepped forward and took her hand, pressing the silk of her glove between his fingers like a precious artifact. Then, gradually, he knelt.
“My Veilwalker.” His voice reverently balmed.
She studied his expression from beneath the veil. While young, she was no fool; he grieved for her in his way, yes, but he marveled at her, too.
She was his gift to Death. The one no one else could ever have.
“Today is a special day,” he elucidated. “Today, you keep our kingdom safe. Today, you support Grim’s heavy burden and learn what it means to serve the Veil.” He continued in a whisper. “There are those who would tear it apart, if not for your sacrifice.”
He released her hand but did not rise. Instead, he studied her, his crinkled eyes tracing every inch of her form, committing it to memory.
“You are nearly grown,” he observed gently. “It happens too quickly.”
She wanted to tell him she was still small, still learning, still young beneath the burden of the temple. But she did not. She simply watched him, waiting until he released a nostalgic breath and finally stood, shaking his head, clearing a thought from his mind.
“Come.”
She followed. Silent. Obedient. She yearned for his praise like a flower stretching for sunlight.
He guided her to the King’s carriage, gleaming with black-lacquered wood, inlaid with gold filigree.
Its doors bore the sigil of the Divine Veil: a thorned circle broken by four piercing lines, like a celestial compass carved in barbs.
It marked the boundary between life and death, fragile yet unbending.
Ilys stepped inside, settling onto the velvet seat across from the King. But they were not alone.
Lord Veylen lounged in the shadows, his black robes blending into the dim interior.
He wore a silver ring etched with the sacred division between light and dark at his throat, the insignia of the Ebon Choir.
It glinted like a warning. Those belonging to the Choir were both priest and inquisitor, men who thundered sermons in temples across Annon and bent the people toward obedience.
In the city and castle, their council sat close to the King, whispering counsel and delivering judgment with equal authority.
They were secretive men, unsettling to behold.
To the faithful they were shepherds, and to the guilty, cold judgement.
“Hello, Veilwalker.” His voice rasped against her skin, a sound more felt than heard. “Shall we walk through the ceremony?”
Ilys turned toward the window, silently peering out at the landscape beyond the dead stretch of land.
He continued, feigning paired agreement, “Yes, I think we shall. When we arrive, you will not look at the crowd.” Leaning in, his breath coaxed against the fine silk of her veil.
“That is beneath a Veilwalker. You will move directly to the dais, demurely, reverently, head held high.” The smoothness of his voice betrayed its artifice.
Every word polished, every pause calculated.
It needled under her skin. “Grim has shown you what comes next, yes?”
Ilys shrank behind the veil, stomach twisting. She did not like the way his beady eyes fell upon her.
Veylen’s smirk sharpened. “Has someone not paid attention to their lessons?” His fingers tapped idly against the armrest before he resumed, “You will take the blade from the attendant, step to the center of the block, raise it above your head, and drive it into the heart of the naysayer.”
The King’s disappointed gaze flicked toward him.
Veylen’s mouth curled at the edges. “Unbound,” he corrected. “Yes, my apologies. Into the heart of the unbound, the faithless.” His voice dipped to a wry, cutting note. “Our precious Saint Ilys, un-blighting tainted Veyth before our very eyes.”
Veyth, life threads, were said to bind every living thing together.
No one owned their own thread; each was part of a greater weave that held the world in balance.
The children of the Sanctum were taught that when a person lived well, their thread strengthened the skein.
When they died, that strength returned to the whole.
But sometimes, a thread could rot. A soul could twist, darken, threaten to unravel what it touched. When that happened, the thread had to be cut before the corruption spread. Better to lose one life than risk the entire weave. That was the mercy they were taught to see in the blade.
The King ignored him, turning his attention back to Ilys. He reached for her hand, his fingers settling over hers in a careful grip.
“You are my greatest treasure. My most hated sacrifice.” His thumb swept the silk of her glove. “You will make Annon proud.”
Unsure of a response, she merely nodded.
His head tilted, disapproval flashing. “Yes?”
“Yes, my shepherd.”
He smiled, pleased. “Good girl.” A gentle pat to her hand, and then he withdrew, returning his gaze to the window. The city square loomed ahead.
When the doors opened she clumsily stepped from the carriage, wind tearing at her veil, dragging fabric against her skin, while icy spray lashed against the black muslin of her gloves. Snowflakes clung to the heavy folds of her dress, melting against the warmth of her body.
Lord Veylen extended a hand to help her down. One she dared not refuse. His brief touch polluted the air between them, an unspoken trespass. No one but the King and the priestesses were meant to lay a hand on the Veilwalker.
The square stretched wide before her, but the gathered crowd pressed close, their forms hunched against the cold.
Ilys fought the urge to look at them, to take them in.
She had never been this close to the world beyond the temple walls.
She could feel them. Their stares. Their unease. Their fascination.
They had not expected someone so young. So small.
But she held herself as she had been taught, poised and pious.
The dais loomed ahead, stark against the pale wash of the sky.
She walked toward it with careful steps, her movements fighting against the wind.
A body lay sprawled atop the polished black stone of the executioner’s block, familiar as the obsidian altar she knelt before in prayer.
His wrists and ankles were bound, his clothes threadbare.
As she approached, the details sharpened.
Dark eyes, weary and watchful. Cuts along his arms, wounds fresh and clumsy.
Lines around his mouth, deepened by exhaustion. He was near Grim’s age.
Probably a father, unlike Grim.
A thousand thoughts converged, tangled, and pulled at her mind. The rhythm of the ritual pressed against her. Take the sword, Ilys. Look into his eyes, Ilys. Raise the blade, Ilys. But another thought surfaced, quiet and disobedient, what is his name?
Her arm wavered. Only once. Beneath her veil, her eyes flicked to the King.
And the blade fell.
The world suspended.
He inhaled. She exhaled.
Steel met flesh, slipping through that fickle place between the ribs, where the blood lives. Where life lives. Where Ilys would now take it away.
A sharp gasp. A body stiffening. The crowd baying like wolves.
Quick and encompassing, akin to lightning her stomach roiled. She had forgotten the blessing.
No one would know. The veil hid her face. The crowd devoured her voice.
But she knew.
The black stone glistened, so much like the Sanctum altar she knew, but there were no prayers here. Only blood.
She turned, her movements prudent, her steps careful. The King’s steady eyes met hers, warm in their depths. Banked low like a hearth fire, she saw his praise. The recognition was a sacred, secret joy she clung to, even as the blood on her gloves began to chill.