Chapter 9 #2
A hand—not warm, not living—slipped between the veil and her lips. Fingers cold as river stone lifted the fabric just enough that air rushed in, sharp and biting, filling her starving lungs. She gasped, trembling, every breath a wound.
“Mine,” a voice claimed, close enough to shake her bones. A voice no man could carry.
His grip steadied her chin, forcing her gaze upward. “Not yet,” he said, quiet enough for only her to hear. His thumb brushed her throat where her pulse stuttered. “Breathe.”
The world gave way again to the cold press of his palm against her cheek, the faintest mockery of comfort.
And the echo of his claim, ringing through her chest like a vow.
Mine.
Ilys woke once more to a world tilted in blurry shapes, flickering candlelight, and the distant crackling of fire.
Pain roared through her body, every limb heavy, every breath raw and strained.
Her ribs ached in a deep, bruising throb beneath the layers of linen bandages wrapped around her.
The fabric of her veil had been loosened, fresh air cooled her sweat-slickened skin.
A gentle touch ghosted over her forehead, smoothing away wet strands of hair.
“Ilys.” The voice was soft, familiar.
Rowenna.
Ilys blinked hard, dragging the room into focus. Rowenna knelt beside her, face pale with worry offering precise, clinical attention. As if she had decided Ilys would live, and made it true.
“You’re awake.” Rowenna breathed, relief softening her voice.
Ilys tried to speak, but her throat felt scraped raw. The words lodged, hefty and unformed.
Before she could try again, footsteps echoed outside the chamber.
The door creaked open as Lord Veylen stepped inside, his presence staining the space like ink spilled over parchment.
His gaze swept over Ilys first, his expression callous, but then, maliciously, his eyes slid to Rowenna.
Ilys did not like the way they lingered.
Even in pain, she noticed. The tilt of his chin.
The claws in his gaze. The gleam of hunger behind his civility.
He smiled. “Ah,” he said, stepping closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone. “The Veilwalker wakes.”
Rowenna stiffened beside her, her hands stilling against the wetted cloth.
“I was so worried when I could not reach you. What a shame it would’ve been to lose you to that chaos. A terror, truly.” He savored her discomfort like a delicacy, before tilting his head. “The King will want to see you soon. Rest while you can.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strolled toward the door, but he paused at the threshold. His gaze slid to Rowenna, measured, amused, and creeping too long, before he turned to leave.
“Ilys. Ilys. Ilys.”
She must have drifted again. A hand pressed to her shoulder, insistent, coaxing her back from the depths.
Her eyes fluttered open. The world swam in strange tones that were soft and muted. As the haze lifted, she saw him, Grim, veiled and broad-shouldered, leaning over her.
He exhaled, relief evident even through the fabric obscuring his face.
“My girl,” he crooned, voice low, rough with emotion. His gloved hand lifted, his thumb brushing across her veil-covered brow in a doting motion, assuring himself of her presence. Ilys blinked up at him, her body sluggish, pain still thrumming through every bone.
“Is it spring already?” she rasped, her voice scratchy and thin.
Grim stilled. His shoulders sank, not much, but enough. The air around him quieted.
“No, chit.”
Realization dawned like ice water pouring over her. “What are you doing here?” The question came out hoarse, edged with disbelief.
Grim’s jaw tensed. He lowered his head, his voice raw and strained. “Death felt it, Ilys. The moment your soul wavered. He was nearly at the threshold.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Truly.” But even she winced at the thin sound of her voice, trembling and too hollow.
Grim shook his head, exhaling through his nose, a sound full of exhaustion and something dangerously close to grief. He knelt beside her, lowering himself until his forehead rested lightly against her hand.
“You are going to rest,” he demanded, his voice resolute. “And when you wake, I will hear everything. Every detail. Each soul will answer. We will bear down and drive them to the Veil.”
Ilys frowned, exhaustion and confusion still muddling her thoughts.
His head lifted, and though she could not see his face beneath the veil, she felt the intensity of his stare.
“Rest, Ilys,” he ordered gently. “I needed to hear your voice, but now it is time to sleep.”
Ilys sat upright, rolling her shoulders as she tested the strength returning to her limbs. Two weeks had passed, and the stiffness in her ribs had lessened. The bruises were dark but no longer tender to the touch.
Grim hunched beside her at the table, idly shifting carved Fox and Geese pieces. He wasn’t paying much attention to the game, but then, neither was she. More ritual than anything, a quiet way to fill the space between them.
Ilys nudged one of her pieces forward. “You’re losing,” she observed.
Grim snorted, “I’m humoring you.”
She smirked, prepared to counter, but the door creaked open.
The moment Lord Veylen stepped inside, Grim stilled. The warmth vanished. The ease between them broke like thin glass and in its place came tension, sharp and sudden.
Grim sprung to his feet, the chair scraping violently against the stone as he strode forward, hand shooting out to seize Veylen by the front of his tunic.
The force sent Veylen stumbling back, crashing into the wall with a dull thud.
Before he could recover, Grim’s dagger danced at his throat, the sharp edge pressing against his pale flesh.
Veylen froze.
Grim’s voice hissed through his lips. “You sent her there knowing those people.” His breath came hot through the veil. “Knowing their hearts. Knowing that if they had the chance they would not hesitate to send a message to the King.”
Veylen tensed, but Grim did not give him room to speak.
“You sent her with little guard. No preparation.” His grip tightened, the blade biting deeper. “And if she had died—” he let out a breath, sharp and lethal, tilting his head—“I would have dragged you to the Veil myself, and delighted in how your soul unspooled like thread.”
Veylen swallowed carefully, his throat pressing against the unforgiving edge of the dagger. His usual smirk transformed, replaced with dark calculation.
Grim pressed in closer, his voice a low snarl. “She is necessary for this Bargain, Yannik,” Grim spat, stripping the title from his voice. “You are not.”
Veylen’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but he did not fight back.
“When you play with her life,” Grim continued, his tone digging an unmarked grave, “you play with all of ours.” The dagger tilted, pressing just enough for a bead of blood to rise against the pale skin of Veylen’s throat.
Grim leaned in. His voice like a blade drawn in close. “Particularly your own.”
Veylen, to his credit, did not flail or plead. Instead, after a long pause, his lips curled ever so, his voice calm despite the blade at his throat. “Are you going to slit my throat here in the Veilwalker’s chambers?”
Grim let the following silence stretch, holding him there a beat longer before stepping back.
Veylen’s breath left him as he adjusted his tunic, and rolled his shoulders, shaking off the threat.
His fingers brushed the shallow cut at his neck, feeling the blood there, his expression unreadable.
He then turned his gaze to Ilys, eyes flicking over her, assessing.
“Your recovery seems to be going well,” he noted, as though Grim had not just nearly gutted him. “The King will be pleased.” With a polite bow of his head, he turned away. The door shut behind him.
Ilys sighed, rolling her head back against the pillow, allowing the moment to settle. Then, she gestured lazily toward the Fox and Geese board.
“Well,” she drawled. “You fold faster than a temple novice.”
He reached for the chair, and missed. “I let you win,” he claimed.
Ilys smirked beneath her veil. “That is what a sore loser would say.”
Grim huffed, but no real fire sparked behind it. He set the piece back onto the board, his fingers pausing, his mind clearly elsewhere.
She studied him before asking, “Does Death still wait outside?”
His fingers twitched, but he nodded, careful not to meet her eyes.
“You need to finish the season, yes?” she pressed.
“In time,” he promised, adjusting her pillow with unnecessary precision. “You are still healing.”
“I am nearly healed, Grim.” He sighed and she continued, “And I worry of the consequences of your dawdling, as much as I like you near.”
“Someone needs to bat Jorrin away.”
“I do not kid, Grim.” Ilys stared at his weary form.
“Neither do I. You are careless with Jorrin. If anyone knew… ” His voice urged.
Ilys frowned, watching him carefully. “Do not change the subject.”
After a pause, Grim lifted his head, his veiled gaze finally meeting hers. “Death is invested in your life,” he said, voice low. “In your health, just as much as I.”
A strange, slow chill curled through her at his words.
Grim considered her longer before leaning back, the tension in his posture painfully blatant.
“But I will bear what you’ve said in mind.”