Chapter 12
Twenty-second year in the life of Ilys of the Veil
“You’re back.”
Ilys ran to Grim. When she reached him, her arms wrapped around his neck, holding tight, anchoring herself to solidity after too long at sea.
Grim stiffened but after a breath’s pause, his arms folded around her.
Near her ear, his voice came low, rough from travel. “There’s a name-gift in the saddlebag.”
Ilys swallowed, pressing her forehead briefly against his shoulder, allowing the warmth of his presence to settle over her before pulling back. “You remembered.”
Grim exhaled through his nose, which could have meant “of course” or “don’t make a fuss of it.”
She didn’t. Instead, she let her fingers linger before stepping away, her gaze flicking past him.
Beyond the gate, Death waited. Black smoke curled from his form, trailing from his broad shoulders as his steed shifted beneath him with a slow exhale.
His presence thickened the air, pressing against her skin like a coming storm.
Grim rolled his shoulders, already moving toward the kitchens. “Come,” he muttered. “I’m starving.”
Ilys stood still. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
Grim stopped, glancing back at her. His posture did not shift, but she could feel his scrutiny even from a distance.
“Two-and-twenty," he noted, not unkindly. “And now you think yourself above listening to me.”
“I’ll be but a moment,” Ilys promised. The words were quiet, measured.
He watched her longer before turning, his footsteps fading into the courtyard. She waited until he disappeared. Only then did she turn.
Death lingered where he’d been, his shape merging with the beast beneath him, an absence of light rather than a presence. Ilys approached him with careful steps, like one might approach a wild creature, not out of fear, but to keep from sending it away.
No fear stirred in her chest, only excitement.
And she did not want excitement to be the thing that drove him from her.
“Will you speak to me, Death?” she asked, her voice hushed, carried by the cold night air. “Grim says you do not speak.”
He met her with such characterization.
She lifted her chin. “The King says you are my father. Should you not speak to a daughter?”
A shift. A slow tilting of his head.
You are no daughter of mine.
The voice did not come as a sound, but words she felt, words that pressed against her ribs and curled into her lungs. Hard. Silvery. Weightless and sharp, like the cut of moonlight through frostbitten branches.
You are his lamb for slaughter.
Ilys held her ground, her breath shallow against the sentiment.
“Whose daughter am I then?” she asked, softer now. “What was I born of?”
A pause.
Do I look like a soothsayer? A fortune-teller? His voice cut through her, cold and edged. I am the frost, the night, and the eternities.
Ilys inhaled, slow and deep. The air between them felt thinner now. Standing too close to him unraveled the threads that tethered her to the world.
“Go on then,” she challenged. “Leave. Bring the world to its knees and cease the happiness of another hundred mortal souls.”
Death did not answer. His steed moved, hooves pressing into the earth without sound as he rode away from her, his cloak unfurling like smoke against the wind.
Dissatisfaction clawed at her ribs, whispering its mockery. Answers would never come, nor peace, nor clarity. She’d had her fill of half-truths, of Death’s endless riddles, of the duty that chained her to him.
Ilys found Grim in the kitchen, where Baron had already joined him.
Heat rolled through the air, paunchy with the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread.
Grim sat at the worn wooden table, leaning back in his chair, his veil shadowing his face, but his presence relaxed, settled.
Baron’s gaze flickered to him, watchful, assessing, and his expression softened at every movement Grim made, every tilt of his head, every shift of his fingers.
Grim regaled them with the stories of his time away, some with detail, others noticeably skimmed over. He spoke of roads he had traveled and people he had met, but Ilys could hear the gaps, the places where truth had been pared down into more palatable fables. She did not press him. Not yet.
One day, she would hear them all.
One day, she would find her fingerprints over countless lives, ones she had changed, ones she had ended.
For now, she already saw the shape of her impact, standing in the space Grim had left behind, carrying out Death’s orders in his absence.
Baron reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded parchment. “Ah. I almost forgot.” He tapped the seal. “Ilys, you have a letter.”
Ilys turned the parchment in her hands, breaking the wax seal.
Neat, careful strokes curved across the page in Rowenna’s unmistakable hand.
She skimmed over the first few lines, her quiet home, the longing threaded between words, the space left behind where Ilys should have been. Then, her stomach dropped.
She read the line twice. Then a third time, as if the ink might shift beneath her stare, as if Rowenna’s words would rearrange themselves into something else. But the letters did not move.
Baron, ever watchful, caught the shift in her expression. “What?”
Ilys groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “The fat sod got her pregnant.”
Baron choked on a laugh, leaning back in his chair, amused despite himself. Grim huffed, shaking his head with a low chuckle.
“You will be an auntie,” Grim mused.
Ilys hummed, feigning deep contemplation. “I will swaddle him in my veils.”
Baron made a noise of protest. “That feels sacrilegious.”
“You know nothing,” Ilys shot back.
Grim smirked, though his fingers still toyed absentmindedly with a piece of twine.
Ilys traced the edges of the parchment, her gaze skimming over the words again, even though she already knew what they said.
“Perhaps I will travel to her,” she suggested, keeping her voice casual, light. “Meet the babe.”
She did not miss the way the room shifted. Baron’s amusement dimmed, his jaw tightening. Grim’s hands stilled over the board, his knuckles flexing. They did not need to say it. She already knew their answer.
Ilys smirked, though it did not quite reach her voice. “Yes, well. I knew that, didn’t I?”
Grim spoke first. “Ilys.”
She shook her head. “Hush.” Her fingers curled around the parchment, pressing the creases deeper into the page. “I’m fine,” she said smoothly, her gut twisting at the lie. “So much excitement today. Makes one weary.”
Neither of the men looked convinced, but she did not give them room to protest.
She pushed up from the table, forcing a smirk on her lips. “You two prattle on. Perhaps we’ll find time for a game or a reading later.”
She wiggled her fingers in mock farewell, turning before they could see the way her expression faltered, the way her throat tightened. The emotions curled in her stomach, combative and restless, but she swallowed them down, pressing them deep beneath the surface.
“Ilys.”
A hand shook her awake, firm but gentle.
She groaned, blinking bleary eyes open to find Grim kneeling beside her bed, his face shadowed in the dim candlelight.
“Ilys,” he called again, low and urgent. “There is a beast in the castle. We must run.”
A mass landed on her waist, small but solid.
Still half-dazed with sleep, she frowned. “Grim, my veil,” she requested, reaching groggily for it.
But then she sat up, properly taking in the supposed beast pressing its paws into her stomach.
A pup.
Perched on her bed, dark-furred and scruffy, and looking up at her with bright, young eyes, its tail thumping lazily against her blanket.
Ilys stared. “This,” she deadpanned, “is the beast?”
From the corner, Baron erupted into laughter, his cackling loud enough to shake the walls. Grim spoke through the amused confession of his smile.
Ilys let out a measured breath, willing her heart to quiet. Then, remembering her poise, she pushed a hand through her dark curls and reached for her veil.
She cleared her throat, eyeing the pup with suspicion. “Why do you interrupt my sleep with a monster?”
“This monster,” Grim quipped, his voice laced with humor, “is your own little babe.”
Baron folded his arms, leaning against the post of her bed. “We know it’s been hard without… ”
“Attachments,” Grim finished.
Ilys’s fingers curled over the blanket.
Baron sighed. “We wanted you to have one of your own. A creature to love. As best as a Veilwalker can.”
A warm, wet sensation bloomed against her calf. She inhaled sharply.
“Your attachment,” she muttered dryly, “has just pissed on my leg.”
“The duality of love,” Baron offered, utterly unrepentant.
Grim shook his head, barely restraining a laugh as Ilys scowled down at the pup. Despite herself, she reached forward, brushing her fingers over his fur. Dark, coarse, unruly. The pup blinked up at her, oblivious to her scrutiny.
She hummed, thoughtful. “You are Morrigan.”
“That’s an awful name for a dog.” Baron grimaced.
Ilys’s eyes narrowed. “There was a priestess once. She looked just like him. If you saw her, you’d know it suits him.”
“I’ve seen her.” Grim chuckled under his breath. “It does.”
Ilys ignored him, shifting forward. “Come here, Mors,” she called, testing the name.
The pup wagged his tail.
Her scowl deepened. “He’s just pissed again.”
In the evening, the sound of clashing filled the training yard, a tempo carved from repetition as Ilys and Grim sparred.
She moved quickly, her strikes precise, her footing light.
Grim met her at every turn, his counters fluid, but she could see it now, the drag in his steps, the fraction of a second delay in his movement.
His strength had not faded, not yet, but time had begun to sink into him, pressing at the edges of his endurance.
A year ago, she wouldn’t have landed a hit on him. Today, she did.