Chapter 24
Ilys spoke no word of Lord Veylen.
Not when she returned to the Sanctum, mud and blood stiff in the hem of her plain dress. Not when the King summoned her, his gaze sharp, searching for truths she would not give. She held her tongue.
At first, Lord Veylen’s absence drew little notice. The court was accustomed to his disappearances, his secretive errands carried out beyond the palace walls. But when the next summons came, and the herald called his name before the gathered lords, no Veylen stepped forward.
The murmur that followed spread like an ambling fire through the chamber.
Within days, the King’s herald stood in the courtyard and read aloud the decree: a warrant for Lord Veylen’s arrest. He was to be taken alive if possible, slain if not.
Treason, it was called. Betrayal of crown and faith alike.
Ilys listened from the shadows, her hands folded, her veil hiding her face.
Her secret pressed hard against her chest, a truth she could neither speak nor swallow.
She knew the truth; he could never be arrested, never brought in chains before the throne, for she had already driven the dagger into him. And still, she did not speak.
Veylen’s death, and the foulness that had clung to his deeds, had left her with incertitude lodged beneath her skin. Doubt. The men who preached from gilded pulpits, who raised their hands as if the Fates themselves spoke through them, they were not divine. They were fallible. Oh, so fallible.
Her eyes lingered on the Ebon Choir with suspicion. Her voice faltered in prayer. Even the rites felt hollow on her tongue. A wariness had rooted itself in her bones, and though she tried to bury it, it grew, unsettling her with every passing day.
It was in this state of unease that she dined with the King.
The chamber was dim but warm, the table set with silver and heavy plates, and the scent of roasted venison and herbs hung fervid in the air.
Ilys sat across from him, her veil in place, the cloth pulled low over her mouth.
She ate as she always had, lifting morsels delicately, slipping food beneath the folds with practiced precision.
Veilwalkers were taught to make even this graceless act seem ritual, dignified.
The King spoke idly at first, praising the preparation of the meal, remarking on the crispness of the greens, the tenderness of the meat. His voice was light, almost kind, as though they dined as father and daughter rather than sovereign and executioner.
Then, as he set down his goblet, his tone shifted. “Death has sent word,” he said.
Ilys stilled, her fingers pausing at the edge of her plate.
“He tends to the Fates. The Bargain is intact,” the King continued, his voice carrying across the table like judgment dressed in silk.
“But he will not return to finish the Veilmarch. He says only that he will send word when he plans to return.” The King gave a low, amused laugh, shaking his head slightly as though at some private jest. “Have you unsettled him, my dear? I have never known Death to be unreliable.”
Ilys let the words wash over her, but she did not let the event leave her mouth. She did not tell him of Veylen. She did not tell him of the blood in the shadows, of Death’s unraveling. She was not sure why the truth lodged in her throat like a stone.
The King prattled on about the wine, about the difficulty of securing venison this late in the season, the color of the figs. She sipped her drink in silence, nodding where politeness was required, the veil concealing her expression.
Then, abruptly, he set down his cup. “With the time you’ve been given back, I have thought long and hard,” he said. “I think you should choose a successor.”
Ilys blinked, her voice level though her chest tightened. “A successor? I am able-bodied. I am young. Is there a need?”
The King’s lips pulled faintly downward, a frown tugging at his full mouth. His gaze lingered on her, studying her as if he might peel back the veil itself.
“Where is the reverent girl from years past?” he asked.
The King chewed his venison, his teeth working the meat before his face twisted with displeasure. He spat the gristled tissue into his napkin, grimacing.
“The Fates ask it,” he said finally. His voice hardened, stripped of warmth.
“It will be done.” He dabbed his mouth, then rose, adjusting the folds of his heavy robe.
His eyes lingered on her one last time, cold and expectant.
“Mother Inrith will walk you through the process. See it done by the next moon, Ilys.”
He stood, pushing the plate away. “I think we are done, yes?”
She mirrored his stance, smoothing the veil down with collected hands. “Yes, my shepherd.”
The next day, when Mother Inrith summoned her, Ilys went without protest.
They sat across from one another at a narrow table, a single candle guttering between them. Inrith’s presence filled the chamber, her veil dark as mourning cloth.
“There is a ritual, of course,” Mother Inrith directed. The candlelight traced the deep lines of her face. “The Bargain was sealed in blood, and so blood must guide the choice.”
“You will drink,” Mother Inrith continued, her dark eyes fixed upon her. “As it was in the first days, so it is now. The blood of the first Bargain, passed from Veilwalker to Veilwalker, unbroken until the end of all things.”
Her stomach twisted. “And then?”
“You will enter the chamber,” Mother Inrith explained, lifting her cup as though in illustration, though she did not drink.
“It is a narrow room, bare stone, with a single wall shared with the adjoining hall. On the other side, the faithful will gather. One at a time, they will be led in to stand against that wall while you wait in silence.”
Her voice lowered, even, ritualistic. “You will not see them. They will not see you. That is the order of things. You are the hand of the Fates, not the judge of men. You will listen. You will wait. When the Fates stir within you—when the warmth fills your marrow, when your bones know what your mind cannot—you will strike the wall three times.” She raised her hand, rapping her knuckles softly on the table. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“That is the signal. The attendants will remove that one and bring them to the altar. No sight, no question, no hesitation. You feel. You know. You choose.”
Ilys’s chest tightened. “And if I feel nothing?”
Mother Inrith’s expression did not waver. “You will feel it. All Veilwalkers have. Grim before you. His master before him. The Fates are mysterious, yes, but they are constant in their ways.” She leaned back. “It is not yours to decide, child. It is only yours to obey.”
When the moon rose to its mark, the Sanctum stirred to ceremony.
And so she stood at the altar, the cup before her, dark as the void between stars. The liquid inside swished, laced with spice, but she knew what it meant to symbolize. The first blood spilled in the Bargain. The first sacrifice. The first Veilwalker who had drunk and been chosen.
It was strange, walking a path so carefully paved and feeling no wonder for where it led. Her fingers brushed the cup; hesitation answered, low and animal in her chest.
The faithful watched from below the altar, submissive in attentiveness. Their faces blurred together into a single faceless entity, encouraging Ilys to shut her eyes.
Let it be done, she prayed. Let the Fates see. Let them guide my hand.
The liquid burned against her tongue, rich and too old, carrying centuries within it. It settled into her stomach with warmth that felt more like a stone than any sanctitude. She swallowed, and lowered the cup.
The ceremony had begun.
The chamber unfurled compact and dim. Ilys sat cross-legged on the floor, the cool surface numbing her legs, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Beyond the wall, in the adjoining room, the faithful gathered. She could not see them. She was not meant to.
Mother Inrith’s voice echoed in her memory: When the Fates stir within you, you will know. Rap the wall three times. No sight, no hesitation. Only certainty.
The first knock came, hollow against the wood.
Ilys held her breath. She waited for a feeling—for warmth in her marrow, for the stirring Mother Inrith had promised—but the emptiness only deepened. Just her pulse clanging in her ear.
A pause. The door opened, then shut again.
The next knock.
Still nothing.
Another. And another.
They came in waves, each presence behind the wall waiting and Ilys sat in the silence, every breath heavier, the oil-thick air stinging her throat.
And so it went for days. Ilys sitting numb on the stone for hours, knocks like a metronome rattling her thoughts as she felt a complete and terrifying nothing.
It was a blur of waiting. Waiting and preparing.
The rites were whispered to her again and again until they pressed against her skull like a brand.
Each night she lay awake, hearing the words over and over: You will feel it. You will know. You will obey.
What if I never feel it? the thought whispered. What if the Fates do not speak? What if I choose wrong?
Another knock.
She pressed her palms against her knees, forcing herself to still. Trust in the Fates, she told herself. Trust in them.
Knock.
Nothing.
Knock.
Trust in them.
And then—A thrum. Or perhaps not. Was it real, or just the ache of sitting too long, the pull of her own desperate need to decide?
Her breath hitched and she lifted her hand, hesitated, then rapped against the wall. Once. Twice. Thrice. The sound rang hollow, definitive.
The door opened on the other side and footsteps carried the chosen one away.
Ilys’s pulse thundered, doubts gnawing her insides. Had she truly felt the Fates? Or had she convinced herself there was a difference, eager to end the silence, the waiting?
Had she chosen right?
Had she felt it?
She closed her eyes, pressing the words into her own skull like emulsion to a wall.
Trust in the Fates.
Trust in them.
Ilys stepped from the chamber, palms sweaty within her sleeves. Mother Inrith stood waiting, her unshrouded face severe, one hand resting on the shoulder of a small-framed figure.
A child.
Ilys had presumed her successor would be young, but this was too young. The girl could not have seen more than five summers. She was delicate as all children were, her small fists gripped her tunic, her dark curls unruly from nervous fidgeting, and her green eyes canny.
None of Ily's preparations or lessons equipped her for the tightening in her chest at the sight of this child. The girl swallowed, before speaking in a careful, fragile voice.
“My name is Hanna.”
Mother Inrith frowned and squeezed her hand.
“That is not your name. Not any longer. You belong to the Veil. The Fates themselves will rename you.” She gestured toward Ilys. “Come. We’ll settle the rites.”
A priestess guided Hanna to kneel before the dais, and Ilys knelt beside her, struck by the vast difference in their size. The awe festered. This was to be her successor?
“Ilys.” Mother Inrith’s voice cut sharp. “Begin the claiming rite.”
“Through shadow and silence…” Ilys paused, looking to the girl. Had she not been taught what to say? Was Ilys meant to guide her?
Hanna blinked, lips parting in confusion. Ilys lowered her voice, gentler. “Say it with me, little one. Through shadow and silence.”
“Sh—shadow and silence,” Hanna whispered, stumbling but eager to please.
Ilys squeezed her hand. “I claim you.”
“I… claim you.” Her chest tightened. She pressed on, though the words felt cruel on her tongue.
“Through blood and burden, I keep you.” The child frowned, struggling. Ilys slowed her speech, breaking the vow into pieces.
“Through blood… and burden.”
“Through blood… and bur-den.”
“I keep you.”
“I keep you.”
Their voices barely held together, Hanna’s uncertain, Ilys’s quaking beneath the veil.
At last, Ilys guided her through the final binding.
“Through fate and beyond…”
“Through… fate and beyond…”
“We walk as one.”
“We walk as… one.”
When the last words faded, the priestess pressed the heavy book between their joined hands, her tone low and reverent.
“And the Veil bears witness,” declared Mother Inrith. “Now, take her hand. Read from the pages and press upon her a new name, one of the Veil.”
Ilys’s heart pounded. Her thoughts betrayed her, circling the question she had long ago buried: What had my name been? It prickled at the back of her mind, unreachable. I am not Ilys, she thought, not truly. The child’s hand tightened in hers.
Ilys turned the pages with her free hand. Names spilled before her eyes. None belonged to this child. None fit. Why me? she thought. Should it not be the King’s right to name her?
But when she looked again at the girl, she saw only Hanna. A name as rooted as the child herself. A name that could not be erased.
“Hanna,” Ilys announced, voice firming.
Mother Inrith’s head tilted, her mouth a thin line. “That name does not belong to the Veil, Ilys.” She lingered on Ilys’s name like a lash, her voice a harsh whisper.
“Hanna,” Ilys repeated, louder, surer. “The Fates whispered it to me themselves.”
The girl squealed with delight. “I am Hanna!” She pressed close to the veiled figure without fear.
Mother Inrith snapped the book shut. “Hanna, then.” She turned to the priestesses. “Tend to the girl.” As she swept past Ilys, her skirts brushed the floor, her voice low and warning near the veil. “Careful, little Veilwalker.”