Chapter 13 #2
A chorus of,“to the Veilwalkers,” echoed, though not all voices met the toast with conviction.
Crystal clinked like distant bells. Servants emerged from the shadows, bearing silver dishes that steamed in the candlelight.
The smell of roasted pheasant mingled with sweet cloves and the faint iron tang of wine.
Platters of honeyed carrots and dark bread passed from hand to hand while golden sauces gleamed like liquid fire beneath the chandeliers.
Ilys reached for none of it. The smell turned her stomach.
She kept her hands folded in her lap, veil falling like a curtain between her and the others.
Across the hall, laughter broke from another table, thin and rehearsed.
The King’s counselors leaned toward one another, voices low and serpentine.
Ilys caught the name Westmarch, followed by accusations, and the sound of a chair scraping roughly against the stone.
She focused instead on her plate, untouched.
The silver caught her reflection, a ghostly shape mocking her.
“Eat,” Grim directed without looking at her. “It’s expected.”
She obeyed, taking a bite of the bread. As she chewed, her gaze drifted down the table.
Jewels flickered in candlelight like tiny suns.
Laughter rose and fell, but the current sounded much too rehearsed.
They glanced, they assessed, they performed.
Ilys had once thought she might envy this, the crowded rooms, voices overlapping, a hundred souls pressed close enough to feel human again.
But here, among them, she saw only performance and restraint.
These were not free people. They were bound by silk and custom, shackled by politeness and fear.
It struck her then how different this was from her own small world.
The long evenings in the Sanctum when Grim and Baron would argue over the placement of a blade on the game board, Rowenna humming while she mended the same torn hem for the third time.
Those moments had felt ordinary then, almost dull.
Now, they seemed impossibly rich. Honest.
And then the King rose.
At first, no one noticed his rise. The courteous scrape of his chair was the kind of sound that would normally go unheard beneath the clatter of plates. But one by one, voices faltered. A servant froze mid-pour. The low hum of the hall collapsed into stillness.
The King stood at the head of the table, his goblet still in hand, the candles glinting off the silver embroidery of his robe. He looked from face to face—ministers, nobles, the Veilwalkers—until the silence grew taut, expectant.
The King’s voice filled the hall, low and steady, more priest than monarch. “It is written that no man may serve two masters, for a heart divided is a heart already lost. Where loyalty strays, rot follows. From one unfaithful oath, a kingdom may fall.”
A murmur moved through the hall but he did not pause. His gaze swept over them, unhurried, almost tender.
“I have learned,” he continued, “that the truest test of faith is not in abundance, but in adversity. A man may stand firm when praised, yet crumble when tried.” He let the phrase hang, the echo of scripture heavy in the air.
He paced a step, the train of his robe whispering against the marble. “There are those among us who believed they could divide their hearts and offer one half to the crown. The other to rebellion. But the Veil does not divide. The Veil is whole, or it is nothing.”
Silence deepened. Someone at the far end coughed, and the sound seemed almost profane. The firelight wavered across his face, golden and cold.
“These men have been weighed,” he said, and his voice grew firmer. “Their allegiance was not whole. They pledged their faith to crown and cause, to obedience and rebellion. A choice divided is no choice at all. And so, though my soul recoils, I must speak the names that Death himself has weighed.”
He stopped speaking. The silence that followed was total. Slowly, deliberately, his eyes moved from one end of the table to the other through the ranks of ministers, the soldiers, the servants pressed to the wall, until they came to rest upon the Veilwalkers.
“Lord Cestel of Westmarch,” he said at last, the name falling like a bell-tone.
Voices shouted, chairs scraped. One man surged half to his feet, only to be shoved down by a guard’s mailed hand.
“Minister Deyrin of the Treasury.” A woman wailed, cut short when a hand clamped over her mouth.
“And—” His voice faltered, just for a heartbeat. His gaze flicked briefly toward Baron, whose expression had gone perfectly still.
“Baron Madog of the Guard.”
The ministers clamored over each other in outrage, but the King lifted his hand, and his guards pressed the crowd back into order with spears.
Ilys did not move. She could not. The sound of Baron’s name rang through her skull like a hollow bell.
She remembered—absurdly—the way Lord Veylen had once toyed with her skirts, how she had gone rigid, unable to breathe, unable to think.
And now that same paralysis gripped her, holding her fast in the hall while time unraveled around her.
How strange, she thought over and over. How strange.
Grim erupted from his seat, hands clamping to the table so fiercely the wood groaned and splintered beneath his grip.
His veil hung askew, his breath sharp and ragged, his voice breaking as he fought against the guards who swarmed him.
The entire demonstration raw, unrestrained, and alien from the man she knew.
Ilys stared, frozen, as if the ground itself had tilted. She had never seen him so undone.
Then the King’s hand closed over hers, importunate, pulling her attention away.
“My daughter,” he said, stepping close, his voice dropping low, intimate, as though there were only the two of them. He took her hands, warm and heavy, into his own. “Think not that I wish this. Would that I could turn Death’s face aside, yet the Bargain binds us. The Veil demands it.”
His eyes shone as he pleaded, soft enough for only her to hear.
“Think of the children who cough themselves to dust in the alleys. Think of the mothers with nothing left to feed their babes. Famine waits. Plague devours. If we do not hold to the covenant, if we do not pay the price, what hope remains?” He leaned closer, his voice urgent, trembling.
“It is you and me, my daughter. Only you and me, upholding what must be. Help me bear it. Help me make them understand.”
The room still battled in disarray. Protests swimming across the table. Guards forcing order into the chaos.
Then Lord Veylen’s voice cut through. “This is a moment to show loyalty to the Veil,” he declared, sharp and unrelenting. “Be careful, lest Death catch your name in his mouth.”
Obedience rippled outward. Heads bent. Backs straightened. Fear sealed every tongue.
The King turned to her, his voice gentle, coaxing. “Go on, my girl. Let us carry this together.”
Her breath faltered, but her feet moved, slow and heavy, carrying her down the length of the hall. Every eye followed as she approached the three kneeling figures at the dais, their hands bound, shoulders braced for what waited ahead.
The first man—Lord Cestel of Westmarch—trembled as she drew near. She spoke the blessing with a voice that shook as she raised the blade. The sound of the strike echoed against the dining hall. His body folded, lifeless.
She lingered there, trembling, her throat raw, until the King’s voice urged her softly again. Only then did she force herself onward.
Minister Deyrin met her eyes only briefly, a flicker of defiance quickly crushed beneath the guards’ grip. Her own gaze blurred as she spoke the words. She swung once more. Blood spilled.
But when she reached the third, her steps faltered.
Baron.
He knelt as though in quiet repose, the same man who had once sprawled in her chair with a book in hand, laughing at his own irreverence. Strands of auburn fell loose across his brow, his hazel eyes on her.
“Ilys, no!” Grim’s voice ripped through the chamber, ragged and wild.
Guards strained against his thrashing, dragging him back, his veil hanging loose, his face bare and undone.
“Do not touch him! Ilys!” His voice cracked with desperation.
He bucked and shoved, splintering more wood beneath his heels as he fought. “Baron!”
The guards forced him through the doors, his cries echoing until they faded with distance.
The King’s hand settled light against her shoulder, his voice low in her ear.
“The hardest trials always come to the most faithful,” he said. “I have learned by experience that the greatest good is born from the deepest suffering. Our people will thank us, though they have no idea how cruel the god is we must tithe to. You are strong, Ilys.”
She shuddered, throat closing. Stepped away from the King, towards Baron.
Baron lifted his head, his smile faint but consoling. His voice came hoarse, but warm—always warm. “It’s okay, Ilys. It’s no trouble at all.”
Tears streaked her cheeks. She shook her head violently.
“My little darling,” Baron whispered, eyes never leaving hers. “I love you.”
Her sobs broke loose, her chest heaving as the world around her faded into blur.
But his gaze held her, calm, heartening, and unafraid.
His eyes—those eyes she had grown up with, the ones she had sketched a thousand times in a thousand expressions—were dull now, half-lidded with exhaustion.
His voice, strangled with emotion, still reached her.
“It’s okay, Ilys. It’s okay.”
Her throat locked. She could not.
“You have to,” Baron urged, reading her mind. “Say the blessing. Nice and slow. I love the way you say it. One could fall asleep.”
Her vision blurred with tears. She shook her head harder, with the humility and denial of a young child.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, muted but moored. “Please, Ilys.”
She gasped, sobbed, tried to breathe.
His words guided her, soft, reverent even now. “Thy thread is cut.” He watched her flounder, waited for her to follow. “Come now.”
Her lips trembled. The words were coals on her tongue, but still, she followed, “Thy thread is cut.”
His head tilted faintly, urging her on. “Thy name is lost.”
Her throat seized, but his gaze held her fast. She choked the words out, “Thy name is lost.”
He inhaled, shallow but calm, and still he smiled.
“The Veil shall hold.”
Her body shook. “The Veil shall hold.”
His eyes flickered, faint as a candle flame guttering low. When she didn’t move, his bound hands rose until his fingers found hers on the hilt. The guards shifted but did not stop him. His grip closed over hers, riveted and instructive.
“Together, then,” he steered.
Her breath hitched. He guided her hand forward, guiding the blade toward his heart, their knuckles pressed close. She could feel his pulse beneath her fingers—fast, alive, terrified—and still, he smiled.
“Vasha,” he whispered, one last time.
The sword slid in.
His breath left him in a single, broken sigh, his body folded to the stone. Blood spilled slow and red, baptizing the ground.
The hall had gone deathly still. No cries, no protests, only the shuffle of guards and the distant flicker of candlelight. Grim’s voice faded down the corridor with his struggle, yet its echo still clawed at her ears.
Slowly, she turned her gaze to the King. His hands settled firm on her trembling shoulders. He turned her gently, guiding her away from the kneeling dead.
“Oh, my dear,” he consoled paternally. “Well done.”
She could not look back.
He steered her from the place of death, his hand anchoring her as the chamber remained bowed, and she let herself be carried, numb, away from what she had left behind.