Chapter 14
Ilys woke with a start, her breath catching against the pillow as though the sobs of the night before still pressed on her chest. Gray light pressed against the curtains. She sat up, veil caught at her throat, fingers cramped from the hold she’d kept on the blankets.
Baron’s voice lingered in her ears—It’s no trouble, my girl—and she nearly choked on the memory. She pressed her palm hard against her sternum, as though she could force the image down, bury it deep enough to breathe again.
She tried, uselessly, to piece the night together.
She remembered Grim’s struggle, the way he fought like a madman to reach Baron as guards were dragging him back, his voice raw as he shouted her name.
She remembered, too, the King’s hands upon her shoulders, his low murmur in her ear, oh, my dear.
Well done. And then everything blurred. The throne hall dissolved into shadows, her grief a tide pulling her under.
She had been guided away by the King, who placed her into the carriage as though she were a child.
Elspeth had been waiting back at the Sanctum, her eyes wide but demeanor collected. She had pressed a cup to Ilys’s lips, a sleeping draft that tasted faintly of bitter herbs and honey. After that, darkness.
And now she awoke to a world without Baron.
She rose, her feet rickety, and drifted through the quiet halls. Her steps carried her toward Grim’s quarters without thought, a child’s instinct seeking the only tether she had left.
She rapped once and entered. The bed was stripped, the hearth gone cold, the game board cleared of its pieces. Only a single veil hung there still, black and frayed, swaying from its hook beside the bed.
Her throat closed. She reached for it without thought, fingers curling tight around the familiar cloth. It smelled faintly of smoke, sweat, and cedar. She pressed it once against her chest, then folded it and tucked it beneath her arm before leaving the chamber behind.
She found Mother Inrith in the antechamber of the temple, robes gathered neatly around her, her dark eyes lifting from a ledger as Ilys entered.
“Where is he?” Ilys’s voice cracked against the stone. “Where is Grim?”
Mother Inrith regarded her with measured calm. “He has been released from service. His vows fulfilled, his burden complete. He has retired, as he has long prepared to do.”
The words sliced cleanly, too easily. Ilys clenched the veil tighter beneath her arm.
“Released? Without farewell?”
“He is one of the faithful now,” Mother Inrith said, closing the ledger with care. “His silence is part of his devotion. He may not speak with you. Nor you with him.”
Ilys shook her head. “No,” she denied. “No, I cannot allow that to happen.”
“You presume much, child.”
“I presume nothing,” Ilys countered, forcing her voice even.
She stood straighter, folding her grief into the posture they had drilled into her since girlhood.
“If I am to stand where he stood, if I am to take up the rites and bear their weight, I must be prepared. You say Grim’s silence serves the Veil, but my ignorance serves no one. ”
Mother Inrith’s eyes narrowed. “You are not ignorant. You have been trained.”
“Not wholly.” Ilys’s tone sharpened. “I need not speak to him socially. I seek no comfort. Only answers. If you would see me fail, deny me. If not—” she held the Mother’s gaze—“then grant me what I ask.”
At last, Mother Inrith inclined her head, long in the tooth. “I will inquire whether such a meeting can be permitted. But you would do well to remember, Ilys, that Grim is not yours. He is not even himself. He belongs wholly to the Veil now.”
Ilys’s jaw tightened. She forced a shallow bow, her fingers burning where they pressed Grim’s veil against her ribs.
“Then let the Veil answer me through him,” she said.
The answer came days later, while Elspeth led Ilys to the stables. She introduced her to a striking white horse; a proud, elegant creature that Morrigan immediately tried, and failed, to herd.
Grim had taught her to ride, though she had never owned a horse herself. She had never needed one. But now she was the Veilwalker. She would see the world at Death’s side, and a horse was no longer a luxury but a necessity.
Ilys mounted awkwardly, cringing at the unfamiliar ache in her hips. Leaning forward, she patted the horse’s neck.
“I shall call you Spire.”
Elspeth tilted her head. “What an unusual name.”
“It’s descriptive,” Ilys said dryly. “Mounting him feels like I’ve got one up my arse.”
Elspeth blanched. Ilys held her stare.
“You are used to Grim. I imagine you’ll dislike attending me.”
“I am merely happy to serve,” Elspeth said quickly.
To serve. Those fickle words.
A voice cut through the air behind them. Both women startled.
Mother Inrith stood in the stable doors, her shadow stretching long. “I have your answer, Veilwalker.”
Ilys straightened in the saddle.
“He will not see you,” Mother Inrith said flatly. “You must find other ways to supplement your… lacking knowledge.”
Ilys’s jaw clenched. She thought of Grim, gone without a goodbye, and of Baron, stolen in a single breath. How a day could strip a life away, burn it down, and leave nothing but ash.
Grief hollowed Ilys. She drifted like a wraith through the Sanctum, her body frail, her gaze empty, her days measured only by hunger. She carried Baron’s sketches to the places she had drawn him, pressing charcoal ghosts against the stone as though the past might breathe again.
He was here. Now he was not. Over and over she practiced the exercise. Her mind could not reconcile the two.
She cursed Grim. She missed him. She needed him. And yet, deep down, she knew why he had gone. He could never forgive her for what she had done. Not Baron. Not like that.
At night, in dreams, she saw only their departures. Every face she loved turning away from her, and always, Death stood behind them, silent and watchful.
You are no one’s daughter.
She despised him. What did Death know of loyalty, humor, or tenderness? He had not known Baron’s softness, nor his wit. No divine will had demanded this, only Death’s cruelty.
Her thoughts circled the Bargain. She replayed it again and again: the King raising his sword, Death’s voice answering like stone.
One will always take my place. I am constant, though my will and voice may change.
And she understood. Death was no single god at all. It was but a role. Each Death bore his own will, his own cruelties, his own voice, and when one fell, another rose to carry the Bargain forward. The world did not end. It endured, bound to the pact.
The knowledge burned through her veins. So he could fall. He could fall.
And this Death, with his faulted, wicked agenda, expected her to kneel beside him? To play the puppet at his side?
Her grief curdled into fury. The one who ruined her, who spoiled her, who murdered Baron for daring to love—he was not eternal. He was replaceable.
She would inherit Grim’s march, yes. She would walk beside this hollow tyrant, veil to veil. But not as his puppet.
As his undoing.
Her mind settled, cold and certain. She would put a blade through Death. Through the creature who thought himself inevitable.
She would find a way to kill him.