Chapter 13
Ilys dreamed. Great, terrible dreams.
Darkness pressed around her, ardent and endless. She clawed for someone, anyone—Grim, Baron, Rowenna—but always woke alone. Death’s words lingered in her skull, etched deep.
You are his lamb sent for slaughter.
Her breath came sharp and shallow until Mor pushed his nose against her jaw and curled close. His presence steadied her pulse, though the unease never truly left.
At first light she slipped outside. Frost clung to the stones beneath her feet, and the air stung her throat with every inhale.
She settled near the temple wall, parchment spread across her lap, and set her charcoal to the page.
Lines took shape beneath her hand, sharp and urgent, as though drawing might bind the dreams and keep them still.
So when Grim’s voice broke the quiet, she startled.
“Do you remember when you were eight, and the King invited us to that…” He stalled. “That dinner?”
Ilys didn’t turn, still shading the edge of a figure she hadn’t yet named. “Vaguely,” she answered. “Why?”
Grim’s veil tickled against the doorway as he lingered, shifting. “We’ve been called to another. This evening.”
She paused, finally looking up.
“I’ve told Mother Inrith. She’ll help you ready yourself, but I just wanted to… ” He stopped, his fingers tightening over the edge of the doorframe as he mulled over his words.
Ilys narrowed her gaze. “What?”
The veil dulled his voice, but not the strain in it. “These dinners are strange, Ilys.”
She waited.
“You think we have power—” He met her gaze—“and we do,” he relented. “But there are elements we wield no power over.”
Cold crept up her spine. “I haven’t the faintest sense of what you’re trying to say.”
Grim grunted, adjusting his footing, the floor creaking beneath the shift. “Be careful tonight,” he said simply. “Be polite. Above all, be quiet.”
Ilys frowned. Grim, never characterized as timid, faced her, braced in the doorway, seeming so small. He stood vulnerable in a way she had never seen before.
She appraised him, then gave a slow nod. “Of course.”
“Good. Good.” He stepped back. “I’ll see you this evening.” Then he left, and his warning echoed in her mind.
“Put her in the midnight veil. It suits the occasion more. And adorn her with the silver thorned circlet.” Mother Inrith’s voice cut through the low murmurs of the Sanctum, her tone carrying the same authority it always had, though age had softened its edges.
The priestesses obeyed, their hands moving with practiced efficiency as they dressed Ilys for the evening ahead.
Ilys had seen many priestesses come and go over the years. Some stayed long enough to gray, while others disappeared like footprints in the snow, their names lost to time.
Years ago, Ilys witnessed two trees who had merged into one.
Two branches, mangled, reached towards one another, binding in the middle and creating an entirely new entity, reaching now towards the sky.
Mother Inrith and the sanctum mirrored that twisted tree.
One had a hard time separating the two. Interdependent and metonymous.
The years had settled into her bones, carving lines into her face and slowing her steps, but they had not dimmed her formidable spirit.
She still hobbled through the Sanctum with sharp, unrelenting purpose, swatting away offered hands when she stumbled, treating every mundane duty as though its neglect might unravel the world.
Her memory often slipped, her words muddled, yet her will forged on, iron and unbending. Ilys had grown to admire that.
“This will do,” Mother Inrith announced, stepping back to examine her.
Her veil hung heavier than her usual one, its fine embroidery shimmering under the candlelight.
Silver filigree edged its hem, subtle and intricate, meant to signify authority without excess.
The circlet sat atop her head, delicate but barbed, the thorns pressing lightly against her scalp.
Beneath the veil, she wore robes of deep indigo, layered and formal, the high collar stiff against her throat, the sleeves heavy with embroidery.
She looked every bit the Veilwalker, save for the absence of blood on her hands.
A knock hit at the chamber door and Grim entered, dipping his head.
“It’s time.” His voice sounded formal and distant. He turned his attention to the elderly woman beside her, bowing his head in deference. “Mother.”
Mother Inrith inclined her head in approval before shooing the priestesses away with a sharp flick of her wrist. Ilys moved after Grim, her stride composed, her pulse anything but.
Outside, the carriage waited, the horses shifting restlessly in the cold. Baron leaned casually against its side, his usual smirk in place.
“What are you doing here?” Ilys queried as she approached.
Baron smiled, straightening. “You are looking at one of the attendees of honor.”
Grim silently climbed into the carriage, his posture stiff as a board.
Ilys lifted a brow. “Did you finally break the record for most pork legs devoured in one sitting?”
Baron let out a bark of laughter. “Ha ha, you chit.”
“Veilwalker.” Grim’s voice sliced through the air.
The amusement drained from Baron’s face.
Grim’s thrust an inelastic gaze towards the pair. “From here to the castle and back, you will call her Veilwalker.”
Baron’s jaw tightened. A slow flush crept up his neck, his usual lighthearted demeanor rattled. Ilys felt the tension shift like a snapped thread.
Baron dallied, breathing through his nose. “I’ve been asked to bear the sigil.”
An award of valor, the Sigil was given only to those who had proven loyalty in service. It was a mark worn by few, meant to set its bearer apart from the ranks.
After a long beat, he addressed her, “Veilwalker.”
The door shut. Through the stifled travel, Ilys barely noticed the streets sliding past. The city blurred, and in her mind’s eye, the black swirls from her dream began to curl and twist again.
The carriage slowed, the wheels crunching against the gravel of the grand courtyard. Outside, the castle loomed, its towering spires piercing the night sky. Banners of red and silver hung heavy at the gates, the sigil of the Veil gleaming at their heart.
A servant in white and blue robes stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Veilwalkers.” His hands folded in reverence. “Welcome.”
Grim stepped down beside her, silent, veil drawn tight. Baron followed, stiff as iron at her side, his usual smirk absent.
The servant straightened. “The King awaits. Please, follow me.” He turned, gliding through the towering doors of the castle.
He guided them toward the dining hall, pausing only when they passed a group of nobles. One by one, he introduced them; their names and titles Ilys had no interest in remembering, and their faces she had no intention of keeping.
The chamber opened wide, its walls hung with banners and gilded frames.
One painting in particular caught her eye, a portrait of the royal family.
The King sat forward, steady-eyed; the Queen’s hand rested protectively on the shoulder of a boy scarcely ten.
Ilys realized with a start she had never seen them in public.
She found herself admiring the King for it, for shielding them from the ceaseless games and ruthless machinations of court.
Conversation swelled as they entered, overlapping voices pulling at her attention.
“Enough coin has gone to war,” one minister said, pitched loud enough for others to hear. “Plague relief must take priority. And trade—without it, famine will finish what the sickness began.”
Another, older and sharper, cut in, “And still, the treasury is emptied into campaigns we cannot win.”
Assent rippled through the room, soft from some, defiant from others. Politeness cloaked it all, thin as gauze over a wound.
A lady in pale green leaned toward her companion, voice low but urgent. “Did you hear? The eastern ports have closed. No grain from the Lowlands in three weeks.”
Her companion, a young noble with ink-stained cuffs, snorted softly. “Closed, or seized? The sea’s been crawling with rebels and thieves both. Perhaps the Veilwalkers should turn their knives toward that.”
The jest drew a few nervous laughs. Ilys felt their eyes brush her veil like moths against glass.
She tried to look past them, past the gleam of the silver plates and the too-bright chandeliers.
A musician plucked at a lute in the corner, his song thin and mournful.
Ilys’s gaze snagged on the far wall, where a draft stirred one of the banners.
Beneath its folds, she glimpsed the edge of another painting—a battlefield this time, horses rearing, the King astride his steed with sword aloft.
She had seen the same image in a hundred chapels, but here, the paint had darkened.
The sky behind him was the color of ash, and the faces of the dying had been rendered with too much detail.
At the far end, Lord Veylen stood near the throne, leaning so close his lips were brushing the King’s ear. The King did not move, only nodded once, gesturing to a herald.
The bell struck three times.
“Please,” the herald announced, gesturing toward the elongated table. “Be seated.”
Ilys sat near the King, Grim beside her, Baron across. The King lifted his goblet, smiling faintly. “To the Veilwalkers, who keep faith with us.”