Chapter 4
Fifteenth year in the life of Ilys of the Veil
Days blurred in a cycle of obedience.
Ilys attended lesson after lesson, her mind drifting as the priestesses droned on about duty and sacrifice.
The ink of The Book of the Veil obscured before her eyes, pressing into her skull like old, raised scars.
When her restless nature truly fattened, she sought out Rowenna, who, if time allowed, indulged her in idle conversation or let her sit in companionable silence.
But more often than not, Rowenna belonged to chores, and Ilys was left with only the hollow ache of solitude.
She’d taken to drawing in Grim’s absence, if only to keep from dying of sheer boredom.
Initially she spent the long, hollow months of his Veilmarch pacing the castle like a caged animal, restless and irritated, snapping at Baron more often than usual.
He had tolerated it, as he always did, before shoving a piece of charcoal into her hand and telling her to go busy herself before she took his head off.
Death called for three executions that winter. The first, the King himself presided over. The last two, however, he could not attend. Instead, Lord Veylen stood beside her, his smirks tarrying like oil on water. How she missed the King’s presence.
Ilys ignored the flicker of darkness that quickened in her when the orders came. Finally, a purpose. Finally, a task to anchor her. Regret always followed the blade’s fall, yet for one breath before it struck, she touched the edge of peace.
She was now five-and-ten years of age. And Grim was late.
Two days past due.
The first thaw of sun broke through the frost, softening the land but not the ache beneath her ribs.
Ilys stood outside, feigning interest in Grim’s old exercises, the movements automatic and her thoughts elsewhere.
Then she heard it, the moored rhythm of hooves on melting ground and her breath caught.
She turned, raptly watching as the gate creaked open. Grim rode through, his broad figure draped in dust and winter’s weariness yet she’d know his gait in sleep. A familial ache unfurled in her chest.
But behind him, cloaked in dusk-black and astride a shadow-dark steed, rode another figure. His presence hit her not like a blow, but like drowning, quiet and all-consuming. The air pressed tighter with every breath. He didn’t need to move. He imbibed everywhere.
Death.
She tried not to flinch, not to step back. Her spine stayed straight, but her skin crawled, his gaze seeming to move not over her body but through it, sorting soul from sinew. Judging. Measuring.
She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin in defiance.
Look all you want. Do your best to intimidate me. You depend on me.
Grim dismounted.
“Big chit,” he noted, voice dry but warm.
“I’ve grown two spans,” Ilys offered.
“I can see that.”
Her gaze flickered past him. “Has he ever followed before?” She nodded toward Death, yards behind him, still silent, still watching.
Grim did not turn, but merely muttered, “No. I imagine he wanted a glimpse of his incoming Veilwalker.”
She hummed, unimpressed. “I imagine he’s disappointed.”
Grim chuckled, low and reluctant, turning back to his saddlebags.
“Shall I tell Baron you’ve arrived?”
“No need for that,” he clipped, tone guarded. “Walk me to my room first. Let me shed this dust before you start your interrogation.”
She nodded but could not help looking again toward Death’s form, still as a specter carved from night. “May I speak to him?”
Grim tilted his head. “You aren’t scared at all?”
“Why should I be scared? We are bound. I to him. He to me.”
Grim turned toward her fully now, weary scrawled across his face. “Is that what they’re teaching you?”
“It’s true.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “He claimed you as Veilwalker. And soon he will claim me.”
Grim shifted his weight, glancing at the guards, lowering his voice. “He’s not one for words.”
She stared longer at Death, dogged in her attention.
“Ilys, come.” Grim’s voice cut through the air, firmer now.
She stared past him, still watching Death. Testing his gaze.
“Ilys,” Grim chided, louder now. Inflexible.
Even as she walked away, she could feel Death watching, like cold fingers tracing the curve of her spine.
Grim set his things down with the practiced efficiency of a man who had lived too long on the road.
He unfastened the straps of his saddlebags, laying out his weapons and provisions one by one.
His movements were slow but precise. Weary.
Familiar. The scent of leather and steel clung to him, softened only slightly by wool and travel dirt.
Ilys hovered in the doorway, arms folded. Watching.
He didn’t look up. “I meant to spend this time alone.”
She stepped further into the room, ignoring his shared sentiment.
Six moons. That’s how long he’d been gone. Six moons of cold routine and colder purpose. Five more choked with commands and names that she longed to forget.
She stopped at the edge of the table, her gaze drifting to the blade he’d placed down.
The handle worn thin and the leather wrap darkened from use.
She used to wonder what it felt like resting in his palm, the burden, the power, the quiet knowledge of what it could take.
Now she knew. Her hands twitched at her sides, calloused fingers brushing against the seam of her cloak. Not idle hands, not anymore.
But now that he was back would the blade pass back to him? What would be left for her in the months to come? This was what she had been made for.
“The executions in the city… they’ll be yours again.” Ilys spoke, statement teasing questioning.
Grim’s hand stilled on the last buckle.
“You’ve grown,” he observed, voice low. Grim spoke not of height.
He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, smoothing his veil and tucking it into his gauntlet. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper now. His shoulders more burdened than before.
“I’ll take them again,” he said finally. “For now.”
“The Consecration Rites are near. Would it not be best if I prepare in any way possible?”
“I will take them, Ilys.” He stood, turning away from her and returning to his work.
Relief entered her mind, reserved and unsure and Ilys turned to the door ready to ignore the thoughts rallying around inside her head.
Ilys itched to recount the day’s events to her confidant.
Rowenna pushed open the wooden door to her small chamber with her hip, stepping inside as Ilys followed, careful to close it behind them.
The room smelled of thistle soap and a small fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the simple but tidy space.
Rowenna set the basket down on the bed and immediately set to work, drawing out a sheet and shaking it with practiced ease. The fabric rippled like a billowing sail before she folded it over itself with sharp, crisp movements.
“Start from the beginning,” she demanded, not bothering to look up.
Ilys leaned against the post of the bed, tracing the wood grain. “Grim arrived just after first light. I heard his horse before I saw him.”
Rowenna’s hands never stopped moving. “And Death?”
“He sat behind him,” Ilys explained, watching as Rowenna smoothed the linen with deft fingers. “On a black steed.”
Rowenna folded the sheet into a perfect square. “That’s how they always describe him,” she muttered. “I have the same chills that comes over me in anEbon Choir sermon.” Rowenna pulled a smaller cloth from the basket, folding with quick, precise gestures. “Could you see his face?”
“No,” Ilys admitted. “His hood was drawn. But I felt him.”
“Felt him?” Rowenna paused, her hands hovering over the next piece of linen.
Before Ilys could reply, the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, the rustle of heavy robes following close behind. The priestesses.
Ilys froze.
“Rowenna.” Came the familiar voice of Mother Inrith.
Without hesitation, Ilys dropped to her knees and ducked beneath the bed, her breath shallow as she pressed herself into the shadows.
The door creaked open. Rowenna remained composed, smoothing the last linen with unhurried precision.
Mother Inrith stood in the doorway, her presence filling the small room. Her dark robes, embroidered with the golden sigil of the Veil, pooled at her feet.
“Rowenna,” she addressed, her tone clipped but not unkind. “You are to attend to the services. We will need you ministering.”
“Yes, Mother,” Rowenna replied, dipping her head in deference.
Ilys remained deathly still beneath the bed, watching the hem of the priestess’s robes shift as she turned. The slow synchronized footsteps of the others, following the Mother’s departure.
The door shut, their previous conversation stretching between the pair.
Rowenna’s fingers traced over the fabric, smoothing out an invisible crease before finally resolving the quiet.
“Continue, Ilys,” Rowenna said, her voice tinged with quiet amusement. “I believe you were just about to tell me how you’ve been feeling Death.” She waggled her eyebrows at the innuendo.
Time slipped by with an unnatural ease now that Grim arrived home.
The days settled into a familiar rhythm of training in the warming air, meals taken side by side, and the occasional evening spent in the dim glow of the hall, where Baron sometimes joined them.
Grim reclaimed his duty over the execution orders after his return. The blade once again rested in his hands, but now, Ilys stood beside him.
Lord Veylen never attended when Grim carried out the King’s justice. Neither did the King himself.
Spring had come, but the air still carried the bite of winter’s gnawing breath.
Now, in the swaying hush of the carriage, she turned to Grim, restless energy twisting beneath her skin.
She needed a distraction, any small act to quiet the slow-building frustration of watching, waiting, existing held from purpose.
“Tell me about the Veilmarch again,” she pried, shifting her balance as the carriage rocked gently over the uneven road.