Chapter 23
Ilys sat on the cold stone floor with her wrists bound and ankles loosely tied. The rope had rubbed her skin raw, though she barely felt it anymore. A single oil lantern flickered on a crate, throwing long, skeletal shadows across the walls of the abandoned mercantile hall.
It had been a day, maybe longer, since anyone had come for her.
Her mind kept circling back to how she had come to be here.
The revel’s roar still clung to her ears: fiddles shrieking, boots stamping, drunken voices laughing loud enough to shake the stars.
She had been chasing a glimpse of black through the crowd, Veylen’s cloak cutting like a blade through the blur of bodies.
She remembered her satchel spilling, Owin’s laugh as he stooped to gather it, the way his hand stilled when he pulled the black veil free.
The way his face changed, disbelief curdling into cold hostility.
Then the dagger at her chin, his voice raw with betrayal. Get on your knees, Veilwalker.
The crowd had gone on oblivious—dancing, shouting, drinking—while he dragged her away. To them, he had looked like any drunk man pulling his companion home.
She remembered the side streets slick with mist, the cobblestones glistening under torchlight. His grip on her arm like iron, the press of his blade when she twisted too sharply. Now, here she sat, bound in the dark, the memory gnawing at her.
It had been a day, maybe more. No food, no water, no sign of him.
Her wrists ached, the rope coarse and unrelenting, but she had begun to work at it; tiny twists of her hands made the slightest friction where the fibers had begun to fray.
It was heavy-footed work, maddening work, but above all, a distraction.
Every scrape sent fire through her skin, but she welcomed the pain; it reminded her she was not wholly powerless.
The lock scraped.
Ilys stirred, blinking against the dim flare of lantern light as the door swung inward. Owin stepped inside, closing it behind him with a quiet click. He carried the lantern low, its glow cutting across the floor, painting his face in tired lines. For a long moment, he only looked at her.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said at last, his voice low, rough. “I thought maybe you’d try screaming. Or praying. Anything.”
Owin wheezed, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort. “I keep seeing it. That night in the square. The fire. The screaming. Six men dragged into the light.” His jaw tightened. “My brother among them. My sister’s husband. And you—” His throat bobbed. “You did not hesitate.”
Against her will, the memory rose.
The city square, lit red as a furnace. Smoke choking the sky.
Six men forced to their knees, the crowd pressing at her back like a living wall.
She had lifted her blade with Death’s command burning in her ears, every muscle straining against the will that held her.
Their eyes still haunted her—pleading, furious, broken.
And when the last body had fallen, the mob had surged.
She remembered the first fist slamming into her ribs and the stones hurled at her veiled head.
Hands clawing, teeth snapping, the roar of hatred threatening to rip her limb from limb.
She swallowed hard, blinking the smoke from her eyes even though it was years gone.
“You think I wanted that?” Her voice cracked, harsher than she intended. “You think I long to be the hand of the Bargain I never chose? I nearly killed myself for those deaths. Do you not see? I am bound. A pawn. I carry out the will of a god who delights in cruelty.”
Owin stepped closer, lantern light flaring across his face, twisted with grief. “Pawn or not, you held the blade. You looked at my brother and still slit his throat. Might you not have thought twice? Even for a heartbeat?”
Her chest heaved. “And if I had? What would it have changed? Death’s hand was on mine. His voice in my skull. I am not free to choose.”
His breath hitched, rage twisting with mourning. “You could have spared him a second’s thought. That is all I ask.” His voice dropped, hoarse. “One second.”
Ilys’s hands curled against the rope at her wrists. She forced the words out, raw, “I will kill Death. I swear it. I was always planning to. I want to end this Bargain.”
Owin’s jaw worked, his eyes hard, but suffering wavered at the edges.
“You talk like you’re human,” he rasped at last, his voice breaking. “But all I see is the King’s butcher. No woman. Just a vessel of evil.”
Tears stung, burning tracks down her cheeks. “I am a woman,” she whispered fiercely. “I was a girl, and now I am a woman. I am human. I falter. I fail. Hate me, I understand, but know this: I am not Death.”
The lantern swung with his movement, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls. His hand lingered on the doorframe, his shoulders taut. But he did not speak, turning to leave and pulling the door shut, the lock scraping home.
Later, the lantern had burned low, its wick nearly swallowed, the light a frail, stuttering thing on the crate beside her. Ilys’s head drooped against the wall, eyes half-lidded, her body aching from stillness, her wrists raw from the rope’s constant bite.
The rough drag of the lock pulled her upright.
Her pulse quickened. Owin, she thought. He was back again with more venom, more grief to hurl at her. She braced herself, but the man who stepped through the door was not Owin.
Her breath stopped.
Lord Veylen.
He moved with a casual grace, the lantern he carried held high, throwing sharp shadows across his face. The same face she had seen in the revel, hidden beneath a black cloak, cruel and unforgettable. He closed the door behind him, the lock sliding in with a deliberate click.
“Well,” he drawled, his voice smooth as oil. “So it’s true. I thought perhaps the boy had been mistaken, but no—here you are. The King’s little monster.”
Ilys’s throat tightened. She kept her silence, staring, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reply. Veylen stepped farther into the room, the lantern swinging lazily at his side.
“Do you know how easy it is to buy entry here?” He smiled thinly. “A few coins, a promise or two, and even the sanctity of your prison becomes negotiable.” He tilted his head, watching her carefully. “For enough coin, we’re even allowed to take a turn with you. Did you know that?”
Ilys’s stomach knotted, rage rising hot in her chest. She forced herself to meet his gaze, unflinching.
“Yes,” he went on, as though savoring the words, “that boy loved his brother. What a beautiful way to honor his legacy, don’t you think? Delivering his killer into my hands.”
Her voice cracked as she finally spoke. “Why?”
Veylen raised his brows, mock-surprise flickering across his face. “Why?”
Her jaw clenched. “Why the girls?”
For a baleful moment, words eluded him, but then Veylen smiled—a dragging, joyless smile.
“Because I want to,” he said simply. His voice lowered, intimate and cruel. “Because I can.”
Ilys’s hands curled into fists against the rope at her wrists. The fibers scraped her already-raw skin. She felt the faintest give beneath her fingers. She clung to it, small and secret, even as hatred burned in her chest.
“You’re vile.”
He chuckled. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take moral counsel from the Crown’s executioner.”
Veylen crouched before her, close enough she could smell the faint spice of wine on his breath, the cloying perfume clinging to his cloak. His eyes glinted in the half-light, sharp and merciless.
“You know,” he said softly, “I’ve always admired you. Not for your skill—though you do cut a striking figure—but for your obedience. Your absolute, pitiful obedience. You never flinch. Never question. Not even when you were made to slaughter the innocent.”
Ilys bared her teeth.
He lifted a hand, fingers brushing her cheek. She flinched, jerking away as much as the ropes allowed.
“Don’t,” she hissed.
He laughed, low and amused, tracing the line of her jaw with a featherlight touch before dragging his fingers down to her throat. She struggled, twisting against him, her bound ankles scraping against the stone as she tried to shift away.
“Stop,” she snapped, fury rising sharp and hot in her chest.
His hand lingered, pressing lightly against her pulse. “Ah, there it is,” he whispered. “The fight. The little flame you’ve hidden under all that obedience.”
Her breath shuddered in her chest. She tried to jerk back, but his weight leaned into her, pinning her against the wall. His thumb pressed beneath her chin, tilting her face upward.
“Look at you,” he breathed. “A blade turned inward, cutting yourself long before you cut anyone else.”
She twisted violently, slamming her shoulder against his chest. He only laughed, catching her wrists even though they were already bound, holding her tighter.
“Keep fighting, Veilwalker,” he encouraged. “It makes no difference. Bound or free, you are mine to play with.”
Her teeth clenched, hatred burning her throat raw. “I will kill you.”
Veylen’s smile widened, predatory, dropping her wrists. “Oh, no. Killing is reserved for my arsenal alone. I’ll kill you in a thousand different ways before that day comes. Hurt you. Delight in you. Break you.”
Tears pricked her eyes, hot with fury, fear, and revulsion. But beneath it all, her wrists twisted again, scraping and fraying at the rope. Her only weapon left.
The door groaned.
At first, Ilys thought it was another guard, another tormentor bought with coin. The hinges creaked, the lantern flame guttered with the draft, and Lord Veylen turned his head just slightly, irritation flickering across his face.
That moment was all she needed.