Chapter 6
Eighteenth year in the life of Ilys of the Veil
“Hello, Jorrin.”
Ilys let the words drip from her tongue, mimicking the sultry tone of a lady who had once visited the castle, a woman wrapped in silks and whispers, who had drawn men toward her like moths to a lantern.
She stepped carefully over a fresh pile of muck in the stables, tilting her veiled head just so, as she had seen noblewomen do.
“Veilwalker,” he greeted, dipping his head. No hesitation or awe in his tone.
She waved a hand dismissively, the gesture more hurried than she intended. “Enough of that,” she said, her voice softening at the edges. “I tire of titles.”
Once, the castle’s inhabitants had treated her as something other, something divine.
Now, many still treated her with quiet respect, but others, like Jorrin, had ceased to flinch.
They had adjusted to her. It left her unsure of where she stood in their world, an eternal shadow, too distant to be understood but too near to be ignored.
She had grown up here, among them, living in a space between untouchable and inescapable. And in that close proximity, some had come to see the cracks in the divine image she was meant to uphold. The human parts of her. Her fallibility.
And youth. Above all, they gawked at her youth.
Jorrin had been one of those who had grown alongside her, had seen her at her smallest, her most uncertain, her most mortal. Perhaps that was why instead of fear there was only quiet amusement in his face now.
“Ilys.” He said her name plainly, without hesitation, and she found she rather liked it.
He had grown into his adult body well, broad shoulders, solid frame. The softness of youth had receded, leaving sharp lines and a trace of boyish warmth that refused to vanish. He wasn’t much older than her, yet he bore himself as if time had favored him first.
He studied her, tilting his head. “What age marks you now?”
Ilys paused. No one had asked her that in some time. “Eight and ten,” she said, pleased that it sounded more mature than it felt.
Jorrin nodded, thoughtful.
She moved to sit demurely on a hay bale, aiming for effortless grace, but misjudged the length of her veil. The fabric caught beneath her, yanking her head back with an undignified jolt.
Jorrin coughed to mask his laugh.
Ilys straightened stiffly, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her cloak. “All is well,” she declared, “I merely wondered if you might like to dine together.”
Jorrin took a slow breath, his gaze unreadable.
“Is that lawful?”
Ilys lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug, though she was hyper-aware of the way her own pulse had quickened.
“I don’t see Death around to forbid such acts.
” She chuckled, but the sound did not come out quite as she intended, too sharp, too unnatural.
Flirtation, she realized, was an art she had not yet mastered.
Jorrin looked unsure, his lips pressing into a thoughtful line.
Emboldened, she leaned forward, sealing the deal. “Meet me in my chambers at the eighth bell.”
Then, before Jorrin could reply, she turned on her heel and strode from the stable, boots crunching over the fresh snowfall outside.
And promptly ran straight into Rowenna.
“By the Unbound, Ilys,” Rowenna breathed, clutching her chest.
“What?” Ilys frowned.
Rowenna shook her head, eyes alight with barely contained laughter. “Put a blade in me before I ever have to bear witness to such a tragedy again.”
Ilys huffed. “Hush.”
But Rowenna doubled over, laughter spilling from her lips. “Torturous,” she gasped between giggles. “Absolutely torturous.”
Ilys shoved her, sending her stumbling into a snowdrift. Rowenna shrieked, flailing as she tumbled into the powdery cold, her cloak billowing up around her.
Ilys smirked down at her. “Still tortured?”
Rowenna sat up, shaking snow from her hair, cheeks flushed from both cold and amusement. “Oh, without question.”
She stood, dusting flakes from her skirts, before falling into step beside Ilys, their boots crunching over the frost-kissed ground.
“I do hope he shows up,” Rowenna mused, glancing over her shoulder toward the stable, where Jorrin’s silhouette still lingered in the dim light.
Ilys scoffed, adjusting the folds of her veil. “You’re insufferable.”
“Mm,” Rowenna hummed, clearly pleased with herself. Then, her tone shifted. “Have you heard from Grim?”
Ilys shook her head. “Not since a moon ago.”
Rowenna winced, knowing how Ilys loathed his absence. She drew in a long, dramatic breath. “I have news. You won’t like it. In fact, I recommend you hold your breath for at least five seconds after I say it.”
Ilys narrowed her eyes. “Why do I feel a trap is being laid?”
Rowenna smirked, devoid of humor. “Agree to my terms, Veilwalker.”
Ilys studied her friend carefully, then nodded once, the lines around her eyes still tight.
Rowenna inhaled deeply. “Mother Inrith has found me a match.”
Ilys felt the words strike her like a blow to the chest. “A match?” The question entered the world strangled, crying.
Rowenna squared her shoulders. “Yes, a match.”
A million questions battered at Ilys, pressing against her skull, but she swatted them away, forcing herself to focus. Ilys pictured Rowenna in someone else’s house, wearing someone else’s name, her laughter caged behind unfamiliar walls.
“To whom?” Her voice rang pitchy to her ears. Heart pounding loudly in her chest.
Rowenna hesitated just enough for Ilys to see the crack in her resolve. That hesitation alone drained some of the heat from Ilys’s anger, leaving only unease in its place.
“You have no idea.” Ilys realized.
“Mother Inrith wants what is best for me,” Rowenna said carefully. “I trust her.”
Ilys snorted, sharp and bitter. “Mother Inrith cannot differentiate between a babe and a hobbled old man. The woman’s mind is gone.”
“Our courtship will last three years. I’ll be able to discern for myself in that time.”
“Three years?” Ilys spat. “That feels irregular.”
Rowenna picked at the dry skin beneath her nail beds. “He needs the time to pay my bridal tithe.”
“Gods,” Ilys muttered with a grimace. “Fattening you up before the slaughter.”
Rowenna’s face darkened, her posture stiffening. “I won’t have any better paths to walk, Ilys.”
Ilys grimaced. “There are a million other paths, and you know it.”
Rowenna let out a short, tired laugh. “I know you think yourself married and chained to a grim, horrible fate, Ilys. But there is freedom in your duty. You are owed respect and choice at so many crossroads I am not.”
Rowenna’s comment soured in Ilys’s stomach, sitting heavy and unmoving.
Rowenna turned and stalked away, her dark cloak billowing behind her. At the last moment, she glanced back, expression ineligible.
“I hope you and Jorrin have a lovely evening,” she said, voice light but strained at the edges. And with that, Rowenna strode away, leaving Ilys standing alone in the cold.
Ilys had never prepared for a guest before.
Not in any real way. Grim did not count; his presence in her chambers had never required thought.
And Rowenna was more prone to invading than visiting.
But now, with Jorrin expected, she found herself staring at her own space, seeing it for the first time as a place meant to be presentable.
Modest by the castle’s standards, the chamber still felt wholly her own.
The hearth lit, the glow flickering against the stone walls, casting long shadows.
She had tidied in an absent-minded sort of way, straightening the furs on the bench by the window, brushing off the small wooden table, adjusting the simple plates and cups that she had set for them.
She had even taken the trouble of setting a pitcher of mulled wine beside the meal that had been brought to her.
And yet, standing in the middle of it all, Ilys felt a sudden, absurd wave of panic.
What did people do at these sorts of events? Should she be charming? Did one play games over dinner? Should she have practiced being more… alluring? She had tried in the stables and had nearly throttled herself with her own veil.
Ilys paced the chamber, hands clenched at her sides, her mind a restless tide of second-guessing. She practiced opening lines. Discarded them. Tried again.
Everything sounded wrong. Too stiff. Too formal. Too casual.
Then the eighth bell tolled, and Jorrin was nowhere to be found.
She glared at the door, willing sheer force to summon him. All the rules. All the lessons. Veilwalkers were not meant for attachments. Jorrin would not come. Rowenna would leave. Grim would retire. She would be cursed to walk all her days with only Death as her companion.
She blew out a breath and collapsed onto the bed, her arms flung out as she stared at the ceiling, frustration curling in her chest.
Just as she had resigned herself to her fate, a knock kissed the door.
Ilys shot up. She smoothed her veil, straightened her shoulders, and strode to the door, opening it with as much indifference as she could muster.
“You’re late,” she noted, tilting her head.
Jorrin lingered in the doorway, shifting awkwardly. “I debated coming at all.” His gaze darted over her veiled form before he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I revisited Veil Law.” He gestured vaguely to the room. “This… would be frowned upon.”
He hesitated only a moment before crossing the threshold, the door clicking softly shut behind him. The table waited for two, a modest spread of food and a pitcher of wine waiting between them.
Jorrin’s eyes flicked to the meal, then back to her.
Ilys crossed her arms. “Not another word of boring Veil Law. I am a Veilwalker. I, above all, know what Death dictates and what the Shepherd allows.”
Jorrin exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so.
She gestured awkwardly to the meal. “You’re here now. Let’s enjoy this.”
He eyed her for a long moment before stepping forward, pulling out a chair. She did the same, sitting opposite him, watching as he surveyed the food with wary amusement.
She rushed to fill the pause before it turned awkward. “Tell me about your day.”
Jorrin blinked. “That eager to hear about the riveting life of an aspiring soldier?”
“Desperately.” She grabbed the pitcher and poured him a glass of wine, pushing it toward him.
Jorrin took a sip of wine, rolling the cup between his fingers before giving her a knowing look. “I will be dragged across the yard for this.”
Ilys arched a brow beneath her veil. “Dragged? That’s dramatic. You’ll get a mild scolding, at worst.”
“By Grim?” Jorrin scoffed. “He does not deal in mild scoldings. He looks at one like he’s already planning your funeral.”
“That is just his face.” She smirked, reaching for the bread, tearing off a piece.
Jorrin shook his head, grinning. “I swear he’s caught me looking at you before.”
Ilys stilled, fingers curling around the crust of the bread. “Looking at me?”
Jorrin oscillated, then leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “You are the most terrifying creature in the castle. That demands attention.”
She let out a short laugh. “Flattery. You should be more careful. I might start thinking you enjoy my company.”
Jorrin animatedly shook his head. “Well, I must, considering I ignored every piece of sense in my body and came here.”
“You debated coming,” she corrected, lifting her cup. “But curiosity won in the end.”
Jorrin tilted his head, watching her. “And why invite me? What great curiosity drove you?”
Ilys stilled. For a breath, she considered the truth.
The real, unvarnished, wholly terrible truth that she wanted him.
His voice settled in her skin. When he smiled—honest and unguarded—divinity bloomed beneath her ribs, owing itself to him alone, not fate.
His hands were calloused and sure, and she had imagined them on her.
At her waist. In her hair. Between her thighs.
She had never been kissed, not truly, but she’d dreamed of it in stolen moments; a soft and slow, teeth grazing, lips desperate kiss. She’d dreamed of him.
She wanted to be touched.
To be tasted.
To be known.
Now, as Jorrin watched her across the table, Baron’s story pressed against her skin like cold sweat.
She loved her King. She did. She loved the shape of her duty, the architecture of obedience. She loved the quiet reverence of a world in order, the sacred path she had been born to walk. It had been poured into her like oil. She had been forged for it, bled for it, blessed for it.
But gods—gods—how she wanted this instead, wanted him. The solid line of his shoulders. The balanced calm in his gaze. The thought of him above her, breath caught, eyes full of need.
She had never prepared for this kind of hunger, and now it ached in her bones.
She didn’t tell him the story of the Veilwalker who’d died with his hands tangled in love and the scent of another on his skin. Instead, she looked at Jorrin, and her voice came out softer than she meant, almost a plea. “I wanted to remember what it means to choose.”
“Have you ever had a choice?” he queried.
“Not remember then—discover what it felt like to choose,” Ilys corrected.
Jorrin reached across the table, sympathy crinkling his eyes as he grasped for her gloved hand. “How lucky am I to be your first choice?”
She told him about Grim’s worst defeat at Fox and Geese and how he still denied its existence.
They argued over the best pastries in the castle kitchens, and Jorrin gasped in exaggerated horror when she admitted she did not care for apple tarts.
They shared secrets, and loves, and hates, and all the crumbs of humanity they had to give.
Then a sharp rap attacked the door.
Ilys frowned. She ignored it.
Another knock followed, more insistent. She let out a slow sigh, turning toward the door.
“I am busy,” she called.
A pause.
Then Baron’s voice, exasperated, sighed, “Ilys.”
Followed by the unmistakable sound of the door latch turning.
Jorrin tensed just as Baron stepped inside, the flickering firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. He took in the scene, the two of them seated at the small table, the half-empty pitcher of wine between them, the unmistakable ease in their postures.
He simply stared. Jorrin opened his mouth, possibly to stammer some defense, but Baron only looked at Ilys, his usual humor faded into soberness.
She had almost let the story slip from her mind—until now. Until Baron’s voice, the scrape of the latch, his solemn face. The same expression he’d worn years ago, when he told her of the Veilwalker who loved and found themself undone for the sin of it.
And behind him came Grim, veiled and breathless, shadowing Baron’s step.
Death calls. Just like he did then. The warmth drained from the room. Ilys inhaled, setting down her cup.
Reality had returned.