Chapter 7
Grim reached for her wrist, afraid she might vanish if he let go. He made no mention of the scene he had witnessed between her and Jorrin. His grip tighter than usual and hot, almost fevered.
“Grim?” Ilys pulled against him, but his strength overpowered her own.
“It’s time.”
She stumbled to keep up, her veil slipping askew. “Time?”
But she knew. Beneath her ribs her breath coiled, small and frightened, curling in on itself.
No one ever knew when the Consecration Rites would come. The ritual’s power lived in its surprise, its inevitability. Death decides, they said. Not man. Not the King.
They took the long corridor down into the belly of the Sanctum, through the iron doors that groaned like old beasts, and into the deep places carved long ago by hands that never left names.
“The Hollow Hall?” she whispered. Panic clawed its way up her throat.
Baron raised a hand to halt Grim. “Give her a moment.”
He cupped her veiled face, his touch gentle, fatherly. “This is where I leave you. Breathe, darling. It will be no trouble at all.” His smile trembled, and she saw the fight it took for him to turn away. Grim only shook his head, unwilling to indulge such softness.
The great arches of the Hollow Hall rose before her like broken ribs. The stone drank the light, black and sharp with cold while the chill bit at her teeth as she crossed the threshold.
They were waiting. The King stood at the far end of the chamber, cloaked in fur and crimson.
The Ebon Choir lined the edges of the hall with their arms crossed over their chests.
And at the center, unmovable and terrible, stood Death.
He wore no crown, no armor. Only a simple dark robe, his hands bare, his expression unreadable.
The torchlight did not touch him. His presence was its own eclipse.
“Ilys of the Veil,” Death greeted, stonily. The cold timbre echoed through the hall.
A low grinding sound echoed as a hidden mechanism gave way.
The gate on the far wall creaked open, and three men stepped through.
They weren’t monsters. Just men, all pale-skinned, sunken-eyed, and bare-chested beneath linen trousers.
Shackles clanked around their ankles, though no guards followed them.
One looked too young, another too old, and the last had a soldier’s stance—thin but upright.
“Three condemned,” The King announced, plainly. “Each stands in judgment. But if one of them ends you, his life is returned.”
Ilys stared, unblinking. Her heart pounded in her chest.
“A trial,” the King gently clarified, “to prove the one who bears the Veil will not falter beneath it.” His lips curved in a warm, measured smile. “And I know you will not fail.”
Grim’s eyes lingered on her. He had always seen the veil, always understood what it meant, but now fractals of himself reflected back where once there had just been Ilys.
Her image was not the child he’d helped raise, but the weapon she had been shaped into.
A mirror of Grim's own making. His gaze slid toward the condemned men waiting ahead, but memories would not let him go: Ilys small enough to clutch his leg, stubborn enough to demand answers, soft enough to need reassurance.
He remembered the warmth of her hand in his, the silent rhythm he had pressed into her skin.
Once. Twice. Three times. I will come back. I love you.
Now, through the thin barrier of gloves, he found her hand again. The squeeze came steady, deliberate. Once. Twice. Three times. The code rushed through her like a pulse. Once, it meant safety, promise, return. Now, at the threshold of the Hollow Hall, it throbbed with another meaning: farewell.
Her breath snagged in her throat. Her heart pressed hard against her veil, aching to break free.
Then Grim’s hand slipped away.
And Ilys moved into the dark alone.
Her hand slipped to the dagger at her hip. The leather hilt pressed against her palm as she drew it free. The blade slid from its sheath with a low scrape. She bowed to the King, low enough that the veil brushed the cold stone floor.
“My King,” she said, voice clear in the hush. “I serve.”
He solemnly took in her form.
She straightened cautiously, then turned her attention to Death. He stood as though carved from shadow and memory, still and absolute. The air bent inward. Light seemed reluctant to touch him. He was the absence of all else.
Death turned his head toward the King. “Begin it how you please,” he directed.
The King straightened further, his dark, fur robes dragging over the stone like spilled ink. The gaudy gold and jewel toned accents were nowhere to be found in his dress. He raised a single hand, not grandly or theatrically, but with the slow precision of one who has done this many times before.
“The Veil is constant,” he intoned, voice echoing through the Hollow Hall. “The flesh is temporary. By trial of will, blade, and blood, let a Veilwalker’s worth be revealed.”
The King lowered his hand.
And the men rushed her.
No trumpet. No count. No signal beyond the shift of muscle and the scrape of feet against stone. They moved like men emptied of fear, the cost already paid.
The youngest lunged first. Barefoot, fast, and reckless.
He didn’t aim for the dagger, but in a move that surprised her, he aimed to tackle her, to get her under him and break her before the others could reach her.
Ilys twisted out of the way, just barely.
His shoulder clipped her ribs and they both stumbled, but she stayed upright.
He skidded across the stone, elbows scraping raw.
She didn’t get time to breathe.
The older man ran at her, not fast but purposeful, arms out, fingers curled like hooks. His nails were broken and yellowed, one eye nearly swollen shut.
She stepped back, raised her dagger and—
He swung. Not a punch. A full, clumsy backhand that caught her across the cheek and sent her spinning. She hit the ground hard. The stone grated her palms, and the veil half tore from her head. Blood pooled in her mouth from where her teeth had cut her lip.
Footsteps. Behind her.
She rolled just in time to see the third man—the soldier—charging forward, aiming a kick straight at her side. She caught his shin with her elbow. It threw him off balance, and he staggered past, slamming into the wall with a grunt.
She jumped to her feet before he recovered.
The younger one stood again, wild-eyed now, his mouth foaming, screaming something incoherent. He dove for her legs.
She didn’t dodge. She brought the dagger down.
It hit his shoulder first—off-mark, shallow—but it was enough to make him cry out.
She yanked it free, fast and cruel, and drove it again.
This time, lower. The blade met resistance in his stomach, then sank.
She felt the warmth burst over her hands, the wet stutter of his breath as he fell forward onto her, his body convulsing.
She shoved him away; he hit the ground, limbs jerking, fingers raking through empty space.
No time.
The old man approached behind her now, breathing hard, moving like every joint hurt.
She waited until he stepped close enough to smell, then drove the heel of her hand into his nose, eliciting a fustian crunch.
He staggered. Blood poured, but still he swung again, wild.
Ilys ducked, but he caught her veil, yanked hard. Her head snapped back.
She stabbed behind her, blindly, and felt it sink into soft tissue.
A groan. Hot breath on her neck.
She twisted the blade.
He fell like wet meat.
She pulled back, trembling, panting, soaked now in blood that wasn’t hers. Her fingers slipped on the hilt. Only the soldier remained. He watched her, a terrible hush settling through his body—waiting.
Because now she was tired. Now her grip was slick, her breath uneven, her body shaking. Now, he thought, he had the advantage.
He came in close. Fast. He grabbed her wrist. They struggled, elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder. He tried to turn the blade in her hand. Tried to force it back toward her. She bit the meaty flesh of his neck, hard. Deep.
He screamed. Let go.
She drove the blade into his thigh, pulled it out, and dug in again, this time into his gut. He dropped to his knees, trying to clutch at her—to beg, maybe—but she didn’t stop. She stabbed until he didn’t move.
Until her arm shook with the effort.
Until her veil soaked through.
Only her breath remained, thin, ragged, and the blood dripped off her hands onto the stone.
Her lungs dragged in the air around her like she’d been drowning.
A sob ripped loose, cut short by the cloth at her mouth.
She couldn’t stop panting in short, shallow gasps that scraped her throat raw.
Her hands wouldn’t unclench. Her body wouldn’t listen.
Her knees knocked beneath her, and the dagger slipped once, clattering against the stone before she snatched it up again with trembling fingers.
Water fell from the ceiling, diluting the blood staining her hands.
No. Tears, she realized.
“Ilys of the Veil,” Death called, his voice shuddering through the hall. “You have marked your place at my side.”
Ilys swallowed, shakes wreaking havoc on her form. A frenzied energy inside rendered her unable to move of her own accord. She felt the eyes of the room upon her.
The King approached, robes dragging. He spared no glance to the mangled bodies around her, instead holding out a hand to help Ilys to her feet.
“How proud we are, daughter.” The King beamed. Ilys welcomed the flare of content that rose at his praise. “I knew from the moment I saw you what you were made for.”
Ilys took his hand, standing. She urged her body to cooperate.
You are a Veilwalker, she thought. Stop shaking.
A sudden retching noise from the wall ahead stole the attention of the room. A member of the Ebon Choir keeled over, vomiting relentlessly.
“Some are weaker than others.” The King shared a smile with her.
The sound had awoken Ilys’s gaze to the rest of the room. The King in front of her. Death holding court at the top of the hall. And Grim.
Grim’s hands had curled into fists. She knew him well enough to read what lay inside the gesture, even through the veil. Tension. Relief. The fight to stay still. Her chest loosened at the sight of him, a single anchor in the storm.
The King bent to her ear. “Let us finish the rites, my dear. Only your vows wait.”
The King’s hand steadied her shoulders as he guided her forward.
At the far end of the hall, Death rose from his seat.
He moved like smoke given shape, descending the dais with each step more solid, until what stood before her was a man.
Mortal, though not. His eyes fixed on her, cruelly calm.
Hooded eyes, defined facial bones, and tousled midnight hair.
Yes, He looked just as Death should, Ilys thought to herself.
She had the unbidden thought that she would like to draw him.
“Ilys of the Veil,” he greeted. His mortal voice entered scratchy and low.
A ceremonial dagger placed in his palm, he drew a jagged line across the meat of his hand, the blood dark and heavy. He extended the blade to her.
Her fingers trembled as she took it. She tried for strength, but when the edge bit into her skin she gasped, the pain sharper than she expected.
Her blood welled, hot and red, and she pressed her palm to his.
Flesh met flesh, mortal to immortal. The mingled warmth dripped between their joined hands and stained the stones.
“Veilwalker.” The King’s voice dripped with formality. “Speak your vow.”
Her voice wavered, but she forced it steady. “I vow to walk the Veil in your shadow. To carry death where the Fates command it. To give my strength, my sword, and my soul until my body is ash.”
The King’s gaze flicked to Death.
Death’s lips curved, as though the words amused him. His voice echoed, resonant enough to make the stone shiver.
“I vow to guard Annon from ruin. To keep plague at its borders, to hold back atrocities, to preserve what must endure, within my power.” Death went on, quieter now, his gaze fixed on the King.
“And I vow to preserve the breath of its crown until his time is rightly ended. So long as this Bargain holds, he shall not fall by my natural hand.”
Blood ran from their wrists, soaking into the stone like ink scribing an ancient covenant.
Death studied the mingled crimson in his palm, then raised it to his mouth.
He pressed his lips to the wound, sucking it clean, before glancing at her sidelong, his curiosity prickling her skin like an incoming storm.
The King cut the moment short, lifting his arms wide.
“It is done. The Veilwalker is bound, and Annon shall endure.”
The King cradled Ilys’s face in his hands, congratulating her. “My darling, how proud you’ve made me.” The words echoed Baron’s warmth, yet where his pride had once anchored her, the King’s eyes burned with hunger.
He led her away from the blood, the bodies, and the remaining shreds of her innocence laid bare on the floor.