Chapter 18
Outside the city square, Ilys had never seen how the Faithful truly lived.
Along the journey, small villages emerged from the autumn-washed landscape, tucked between rolling fields and dense auburn groves.
Smoke curled from the chimneys of flat-roofed dwellings, the scent of burning wood and roasting grain thick in the air.
Men and women moved through the narrow streets with purpose, carrying baskets of goods, exchanging hushed conversations.
Children played in the cobbled paths, their laughter ringing through the crisp air.
This part of the journey, Ilys loved.
Birdsong. The rustling of trees shedding their golden leaves. The sound of life unburdened by duty, by rites, by death.
But, inevitably, they saw her.
A woman, veiled, draped in black atop a white steed. And beside her, Death in all his godlike glory. Today, it seemed, he had decided to ignore her comfort, donning the swirls of darkness and forgoing the striking mortal face.
Parents hurriedly gathered their children, snatching them off the street and pressing them into doorways.
Shopkeepers froze mid-sale, hands tightening over coins or bread loaves, fabric bolts suddenly forgotten.
A murmur swept through the villagers, not loud, not panicked, reverent in its fear.
The Faithful here were not as familiar with the sight as the crowds in the city.
In the capital, the Veilwalkers were an accepted yet hated omen—respected and feared, but known.
Here, in the scattered villages, they were another entity entirely, spoken of in hushed tones over bedtime warnings and prayers whispered into candlelight.
Ilys dreaded the moment of discovery. Some knelt at the sight of Death, pressing their foreheads to the cold ground. Others simply turned away, disappearing into homes and alleyways like smoke curling through cracks.
And then there were the rare ones, the ones who scowled, who stood their ground, who spat at their feet as they passed.
Death did not react. Neither did she.
"The next village is where we will stop,” Death dictated. "We will find him there."
Before she could bite her tongue, the question slipped free. "How do you know this?"
Death turned his head, his gaze settling on her. She could not see his face beneath the shifting darkness of his hood, but his posture, the way the air seemed to still around him, told her he was amused.
“Ahhh, now the questions arrive.”
Ilys scowled, spurring Spire into a faster pace beside him.
They came to the next village, its outline no different from the ones before.
Stone cottages, timbered rooftops, narrow streets.
Each village bore the same bones, but this one felt wrong.
An eerie quiet lay in the cobblestones, thick as fog.
Flies buzzed in dense clusters over forgotten waste, the stench of rot curling through the air.
The few villagers who lingered outside moved like shadows, their eyes downcast, their steps hurried.
“Deeper in,” Death commanded.
They trotted forward, their horses’ hooves echoing against the stones. Beneath the hum of wind and water, Ilys heard life: small, hurried movements behind doors, the occasional dull thump, the scuff of footsteps that vanished before they could be placed.
They turned a corner, following the narrowing path to the end of a lane.
“There,” Death nodded.
The air soured around the house, thick and tainted, pressing into Ilys’s lungs like an oppressive cloth. She swallowed against it, nausea curling low in her stomach. Her horse whinnied, bowing its head from the sight of the dwelling. Her grip on the reins tightened.
Death dismounted and entered without knocking.
Inside, the home held a modest sitting area.
A table sat to the side with untouched plates still set atop it, the contents of a meal long since decayed littering their surfaces.
A small wooden shelf sat against the far wall, its few belongings knocked askew and coated in dust. In the center of the room, a chair had been overturned, a half-burned candle spilled onto the floor beside it.
The noise came suddenly—a dull, rhythmic pounding from above, each strike rattling the beams overhead.
Ilys’s hand instinctively flicked to the hilt at her side.
Death’s dark form angled upward as though he could see through wood and stone.
They climbed the narrow staircase, each step groaning beneath their weight.
At the landing, the air thickened. The smell struck her first: iron and rot, cloying, sour.
The landing opened to a small shuttered room. Scrollwork and runes had been etched into the floorboards, curling in unnatural spirals of ink and ash. Their lines seemed to crawl, as though still alive, and in the center lay horror.
Two women were naked and bound, their skin marred with shallow wounds. Cuts designed not to kill, but to mark. To hurt. Their eyes flicked to Ilys as she entered, wide with terror, though no sound left their lips. They trembled like frightened animals.
But the third figure that made her stomach twist. A waxen-skinned body lay slumped before the scrollwork, her chest unmoving, her gray and glassy eyes open, animated though vacant. She was dead, but not gone.
Death moved first. His vast shadow bent low, a gentleness in his inhuman hands.
“Hush,” he whispered to the body, coaxing an essence unseen. From her parted lips rose a ribbon of smoke, soft and silver, curling upward into his waiting palm. He closed his fingers around it as though soothing a child, and the gray in her eyes faded to stillness.
“What have you done?” Ilys’s voice wavered. “What did you do to her?”
The deity did not look up. “I have restored her soul to the Veil. Whoever wrought this magic dragged her back from peace and tethered her to the husk of her flesh, forcing her into torment.”
The words struck like ice. “She is dead?” Ilys pressed her fingers to the woman’s throat, desperate, searching for a pulse that would not come.
“I restored her peace,” Death bit out, his voice edged with what might have been anger, might have been pity.
Ilys swallowed down her horror, forcing herself toward the living. She dropped to her knees beside the women, hands working the knots that bound them. Their wrists were raw, their bodies shaking under her touch.
“Who has done this?” She tried for an empathetic tone, but the women only cowered, eyes fixed on her with silent dread.
Death’s voice broke through the air, low and resonant. “Whoever wove this has left. I cannot sense their magic here any longer.”
Ilys kept her focus on the women, ignoring the bile in her throat. “You will be safe now. I will see you to your families. Come—”
They stayed rooted, their wide and unblinking gazes locked on her, as if her voice had never reached their ears. She reached for one of them, desperate to ease the tremors in her shoulders.
“You are free,” she promised. “You are safe.”
The woman flinched back, dragging the other with her, and both pressed against the wall, shuddering.
Ilys observed this, unease tightening her posture and confusion swirling in her head.
Death’s command filled the room like thunder. “Come, Ilys. No one seeks the aid of a Veilwalker.”
Her breath caught. She looked at them, at those fearful eyes, the way their bodies shrank from her touch.
A hollowness spread through her chest. She straightened, stepping back.
Without another word, she turned and followed Death from the room, swallowing her guilt and drilling her duty into her skull once more. A million times.
No one sought the aid of a Veilwalker.
She only brought more Death.
Ilys looked back once, the house shrinking to a smudge against the horizon as they rode.
Ahead, Death moved with relentless purpose, tracking the unnatural scent like some otherworldly hound.
The land grew harsher as they pressed on; crags rising out of the earth, hills rolling into one another, the road narrowing to a pale ribbon beneath the dimming sky.
Death never glanced back, never checked if she followed, fatesbent on his mission.
“Death,” she called, her voice cutting against the night air. He did not stir. “Death!” she yelled louder now, a ragged edge in her throat.
Her body ached. Her eyes stung and betrayed her, closing without consent. He had sworn early in their journey that he would guard her mortal needs. Yet now, she faded, her head heavy on Spire’s neck. At last, his shadow stirred, breaking from its trance. He turned, taking in her slumping form.
“We will rest at the next village,” he assured her.
Under the star-shot night, roofs soon rose ahead.
She watched as Death shed his godhood piece by piece, his mortal form appearing, donned for convenience she imagined.
He rode into the dark like any other man.
She supposed he wished to draw less attention.
Yet, with a Veilwalker at his side, there would always be stares.
Before they reached the homes, he dismounted in the shadows of the outskirts.
“Take that off,” he demanded.
Her hands flew instinctively to her veil. “Absolutely not.”
Dread climbed her throat. No. She would not. It was not done.
“You will rest better indoors,” he pressed. “They will not serve a Veilwalker. Do you remember those women’s eyes upon you?” Ilys flinched at the memory, fingers tightening on the fabric.
“It is against Veil law,” she hissed.
“It is inconvenient,” he ground out. “I care for no such laws. Take it off.” He enunciated each syllable, dark gaze bearing into her.
Her blood boiled. A low growl escaped her as she pulled the veil free and tucked it into her satchel. Fear shot through her with the movement, sharp, electric. Was it fear of breaking the law? Of angering the Fates? Or being seen?
Death flinched at the sight of her wide eyes, her pink lips, her squirming as he took in her personage.