Chapter 23 #2
Her wrists twisted sharply, harder than before, skin tearing against the frayed rope.
The binding gave way with a sudden snap.
She lunged, seizing the loose coil and whipping it around Veylen’s throat before he could react.
His eyes widened in shock as she yanked him down, slamming the back of his skull against the stone wall with all her strength.
The impact rang out sickeningly, reverberating through her bones. His body bucked, his hands clawing at the rope as she held it tight, her knees digging into his chest to pin him.
Her breath came in ragged sobs, each one trembling with rage and panic.
And then—
A shadow leaned against the doorframe, half-hidden in the lantern light. A man, ordinary in form, but his presence twisted the air itself. Calm, composed, utterly out of place. His voice was low, measured, familiar as a dirge.
“Veilwalker,” he greeted. “What a strange reunion.”
Ilys’s head snapped up, hair plastered to her face, tears and sweat mingling. Her chest heaved as she choked Veylen tighter, her knuckles white on the rope.
“Dagger,” she panted out, desperation shredding her voice. “Give me your dagger!”
The man stepped into the light, mortal in shape, Death in every shadow at the edges of him. Without hurry, without judgment, he drew a blade from his belt and placed it in her trembling, blood-slick hand.
She nearly dropped it. Her arms were shaking, her grip raw and uneven, but she held the rope fast with one hand, her elbow braced against Veylen’s thrashing shoulder.
Veylen gagged, gasping, spit bubbling from his lips. His nails raked bloody lines across her forearms as he fought for breath, but she only pulled tighter, the rope cutting deeper into his flesh. His eyes rolled, whites stark against the lantern glow.
“Do you need help?” Death asked softly, as though offering assistance with a chore.
“No,” she rasped.
The hilt trembled in her grip as she found her aim.
With a guttural cry, she plunged it into his side, the blade slicing through flesh with a wet sound that turned her stomach.
Warmth gushed over her hand, keen and hot, while Veylen convulsed violently beneath her, his body arching as though to throw her off.
She wrenched the blade free and drove it in again.
This time higher. His breath hitched, a broken wheeze, blood spilling from his lips.
He gargled, choking on it as she twisted the dagger hard.
The rope kept him against her, his throat crushed, his body pinned between her fury and the wall.
His blood soaked her hands, sprayed across her chest, hot against her throat as it poured.
She stabbed again, and again, her breath ragged, her eyes wild.
Finally, his body sagged, spasms weakening into twitches.
The dagger slipped in her grip, her hands slick with red.
She held the rope tight a moment longer, panting, hyperventilating, her vision tunneling until all she could see was his lifeless face.
Then, slowly, she raised her head. Death stood a step away, watching, his mortal face composed.
Ilys trembled, every breath a broken gasp, the dagger clutched in her bloody fist.
Death’s mortal hand reached down, fast and inexorable. She scowled, but let him pull her up. Her legs nearly gave, and for a heartbeat she leaned into him, her forehead brushing the edge of his shoulder. His body was solid, unnervingly warm in this form.
He felt her shaking, her breath breaking against him, and—awkwardly, as though the motion belonged more to memory than instinct—he rubbed her back. A stilted rhythm at first, then firmer, the feel of his palm drawing her closer.
“Shh,” he soothed, the sound rough and uncertain in his throat. “You are safe now. Shhh, shhh.”
The words, so alien in his mouth, stirred her. She had been strong for so long, hard and sharp and unbending, but the gentleness—clumsy, halting—unraveled her. For an instant she let herself collapse into it, clutching at his tunic with bloodied fingers.
Her chest heaved. She pulled away sharply, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand as though she could erase the weakness he had just seen.
Death’s gaze lingered. “Come,” he said at last, his voice low, threaded with urgency. “Before the rest arrive.”
He guided her out the door, his grip firm but not cruel. Ilys barely had time to gather her bearings before a hand seized her arm.
A blade kissed her throat.
Owin. His eyes were red-rimmed and his chest heaved as he held the knife hard enough to nick her skin.
“I’m going to kill you,” he rasped.
Death shifted. His form blurred, shadows curling at the edges, his godhood seeping through like fractures in the air. His voice resonated, deeper, ringing with command.
“Release her,” he thundered.
But Owin only tightened his grip, the knife pressing deeper, a bead of blood blooming on her throat. His voice cracked, raw with anguish. “Give me back my brother!”
The air split with Death’s power, but his voice was grave, stiff. “You ask for something no one can give. No one should give. Would you wrest your brother from his peace?”
Owin’s face contorted, tears streaming as he pressed the blade harder. His sob shook his words. “He never should have died,” he cried out, anguish overtaking him, and in that desperate heartbeat he began to drag the knife across Ilys’s throat.
Death moved faster.
His mortal hand gripped the hilt of his own blade and plunged it deep into Owin’s chest. The sound was wet, final, the force of it staggering them both.
Owin gasped, blood spilling from his lips, the light dimming in his tear-soaked eyes.
He dropped at Ilys’s feet, the knife falling from his grasp with a metallic ring.
But the cost was immediate.
The shadows that wrapped Death began to tear loose, smoke curling and unraveling from him in wild, violent tendrils.
A high, ringing sound pierced the air, vibrating in Ilys’s bones, rattling her skull.
Her ears throbbed with the pulsing, the unnatural hum swelling like the toll of some unseen bell.
Death staggered, his form flickering between god and man, half-shadow and half-flesh.
He roared, the sound shaking the air, rattling through the stones beneath them.
“Ilys—” his voice distorted, “run.”
She stumbled back, shielding her eyes from the storm of smoke. “What is going—”
“I said run, Ilys!”
The roar cracked the air itself, sending her reeling. Through the chaos, through the whirling storm of smoke and sound, she caught only a glimpse of him: his face twisted, his godhood ripping at the edges of his mortal skin.
His voice struck again, louder than the din, ringing like a bell through her skull. “Return to the Sanctum!”
The words hit her like a blow, leaving no room for argument, no room for thought. The Sanctum. Home. Obedience drilled into her bones.
Ilys stumbled into the night air, the salt of the sea clinging to her tongue. Her eyes darted frantically, searching the dark. Spire. She could not return without her. Veylen had taken her; he could have loosed her to the wilds, or worse…
Her pulse spiked. She moved quickly, keeping low and pressing herself into the shadow of buildings.
The dress she had worn for the revel was plain enough, but now it was torn and bloodied; every passerby would notice.
Any glance might become suspicious. She hugged close to the walls, slipping through alleys, ducking behind fish crates and drying nets.
Here, between shuttered shops and dark corners, every sound was sharper; the clatter of boots on cobbles, the shift of doors against salt-wind.
She kept to shadow, her breath sharp, each heartbeat a hammer in her throat.
“Spire,” she whispered once, a prayer more than a call. She froze, listening. Nothing. Just the tide’s hollow drag against the docks.
She forced herself onward, slipping between two leaning sheds where sea-grime coated the stone. Then—there. A faint scrape, the restless shuffle of hooves against cobble. Her head snapped toward it, and she crept closer, crouching low, until at last a pale flank broke through the dark.
Spire.
The mare stood tethered behind a broken cart, reins left to dangle, her coat streaked with salt-dust and grime. Her ears flicked at Ilys’s approach, nostrils flaring, but she did not bolt.
Relief hit Ilys so hard her knees weakened. She pressed her palm against Spire’s warm neck, burying her face briefly in her mane.
“Good girl,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “Quiet now. Quiet.”
She checked the alley and found it still empty, no lantern light cutting her way, no footsteps chasing. With shaking fingers, she loosed the reins. Her bloodied dress caught and tore against the splintered wood as she hauled herself up, her palms raw on the rope, but she scrambled into the saddle.
“Go,” she hissed. Spire lunged forward, hooves striking sparks, the night peeling open before them. Ilys hunched low, guiding her into the deepest dark, skirting light and sound where she could.
The Sanctum. The command rang in her bones, relentless. Return to the Sanctum.