Chapter 28
Ilys woke to the muted hush of early morning.
The fire had long since burned down to smoldering coals.
Death had already risen, the bed across from hers made up neatly, as though he had never slept there at all.
She found her veil, left to dry over the back of a chair, stiff from the night’s rain, and the garments she had left hanging still cool to the touch.
She stretched, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders, then glanced at the small game table between their beds.
The board had disappeared.
She frowned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, then turned toward the door, where Death stood adjusting the straps of his pack, punctilious in movement.
"Have you truly been so offended by the game that you’ve tossed it into the fire?" she asked, tilting her head, her voice rough with sleep.
He barely glanced at her. "I have taken it."
"Death,” she chided, pulling her cloak around her shoulders as she stood, "you cannot take that game."
“I am a dying man,” he said simply, fastening his coat. "And I like it. I should have it."
She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off with a dismissive wave. "Hush. I paid the old woman for it."
Ilys scowled, moving to gather her things. He had been up for hours already, she could tell, the room stripped of any sign of their brief stay. She felt rushed again, the way she always did when he forged ahead—ground giving way, tugging her from stillness before she found her footing.
They stepped out into the cold morning, the sky a dull slate gray, brimming with the promise of more rain. A fog clung to the trees beyond the inn, wrapping around the malnourished trees, stretching papery over the distant road.
She followed him to the horses, tightened Spire’s reins, and secured her bags.
Death moved with quiet efficiency beside his own steed, his fingers working the straps with ease, the black leather of his gloves worn from years of use.
His dark coat hung open at the throat, his mortal skin pale against the high collar of his tunic.
Dark hair curled at his temples. Ilys wondered herself capable of capturing that curl, the indolent, endearing spiral that it was.
"Tell me,” Death said finally, "When do you know to press in?"
She turned in the saddle. "Press in?"
"In the game,” he clarified. "The geese. When do you know to move forward?"
"As if I would reveal my secrets to my nemesis,” she said, tilting her chin.
He scoffed, "We are not nemeses."
"No?"
"No."
The word sat between them, heavier than it should have been.
"What do you miss most when you are dragged out here alongside me?" he queried thoughtfully.
She considered the question, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Mor,” she admitted. "I never sleep as well without him."
He furrowed his brows. "How long has Mor been your lover?"
A startled laugh tore from her lips before she could stop it, the sound sharp against the cold air. She should be angry that he asked after her love life. After all, she knew what Death had in store for those loved by Veilwalkers.
"Mor is Morrigan,” she corrected, shaking her head. "My hound."
He leaned back, stretching his neck until it cracked, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "Ah." His gaze flickered toward her then. "Do you have a name for your steed as well?
She tilted her head, watching him. "Of course. She is Spire. Do you?"
"As a god, I… ” he vacillated.
"What?" she pressed.
He seemed to struggle for words, his expression darkening. "There are not many ways to describe it."
She frowned, waiting.
“I did not feel, as a god,” he said finally.
“I knew duty. I knew purpose. But I did not feel emotions as you know them.
" He reached out absentmindedly, fingers brushing over the mare’s neck.
"Now, as a mortal, I look at this creature and I think, by the Unbound, how long have you traveled with me? No other being has accompanied me longer, and I find myself grateful.” He continued, his voice quieter now, “As a god, I was not cognizant of such things. This horse is… otherworldly, in its own way. I do not know that it acknowledges anything beyond its duty.”
“It does.” Ilys assured him.
“How do you know?”
“Even otherworldly creatures are not safe from your arsehole-ness. She surely feels and knows more than duty.”
“Clever.” He nodded, a smile teasing his lips, but just as soon as the amusement arrived it ran. He held a hand up, stopping the pair.
"What?" she asked, her body already tensing. "What is wrong?"
His gaze locked on the rising smoke. “Souls calling for collection,” he said carefully.
“They are calling from battle. It is a war field. Gopin rests on the border of Annon and Tyl,” he noted, eyes scanning the horizon.
“Two nations at odds. Tyl does not hold the patience for Annon’s demands, and Annon has grown fat on their threats. ”
Ilys followed his gaze, watching as the shape of Gopin took form. A river cut through the land just beyond it, the border itself marked by no true wall, just a quiet, ever-shifting line between one people and another.
"Do they actively fight?" she asked.
"There is not much life left,” he admitted.
She turned to look at him then, at the way his jaw set, the flicker of memory old and weary in his gaze.
"You still feel your purpose like this? Can you still collect?" she gestured to his mortal form, to the fragile flesh and bone he was now bound to.
"It is dimmer,” he explained gruffly, "but there."
She did not know if that comforted her or unsettled her more.
"You need not come if you do not wish to,” he offered. "I will find you a safe place nearby."
She let out a sharp breath. "You are mortal,” she snapped.
He blinked at her, confusion flickering across his face. "Yes?"
"You are not Death,” she wryly dictated. "You are an unnamed mortal, very capable of dying."
He sighed, already sensing her direction of thought. "It is not my time to die, Veilwalker."
"It is not,” she agreed, voice cold. "Because I won’t let it be. I will accompany you." She kicked Spire forward, riding ahead of him. "You need a successor before you can end your poisonous reign here."
Death exhaled, long and dilatory, before nudging his own nameless steed forward. "My savior,” he mockingly praised under his breath.
Ilys ignored the unease curling in her stomach, ignored the way the air seemed to mock the closer they drew to the rising smoke.
A slaughter awaited them.
They moved through the fog on foot, their horses tied beneath a grove of leafless trees. Ilys kept low, boots soundless on the gritty earth, her cloak drawn close. Beside her, Death walked with care, no longer weightless. The trees broke and the field stretched before them like a wound.
Bodies lay twisted in the churned mud, caught in the stillness that came after battle. Smoke clung to the ground in heavy coils, rising from a broken pyre that had long since gone cold. Ash drifted like snow through the air. The stink of blood and rot lay rampant across the soil.
And in the distance, movement.
Six figures moved among the dead, clad in the stained remnants of Tyl’s verdant colors.
No banners. No order. One kicked over a corpse and cut free a belt.
Another dragged a sword behind him, letting it scrape just to hear the sound.
One bent to lift a body by the hair, turned the face up to the light, then shoved a blade through the throat.
They were not looters. Not quite. Not soldiers, either. They were men who had remained because no one had told them to go.
Ilys crouched behind a low rise and pulled Death down with her.“Now,” she whispered. “Shift. Do it now.”
Death’s gaze swept the field. She saw him pause, saw the moment he felt the souls still residing, faint as smoke caught in the wind.
“I feel them,” he said.
“Then take them,” she urged. “Before we’re seen.”
He closed his eyes. Drew in a breath. The air bent around them. His outline blurring as it once did at the height of his divinity.
Then it passed. His shoulders slumping and the magic slipping from him like a breath.
“I cannot,” he confessed.
Ilys gripped his sleeve. “Try again.”
“I did.”
She looked toward the field. Too late.
One of the men had turned.“There’s movement on the rise,” he called, voice dull.
The others looked up.
Another said, “Armed?” Boots shifted in the mud.
“Run,” Ilys whispered.
But Death didn’t move. He stood, hands empty and latent.
“Once more,” he growled, but the effort met only silence.
The short one called up to them,“Who do you belong to?” His voice reached the pair unhurried, curious, and confident.
Death raised his chin. “We belong to none. We are here to do the Veil’s work.”
The men paused, amused.
“You speak like a man of Annon,” observed the first, stepping forward. He stood short and broad-shouldered, armor cobbled from rusted scraps. Soot streaked his face, and his beady, vulture-like eyes darted over her.
“You wear no seal,” the man said. “No lord’s colors.” His gaze shifted to Ilys. “She looks like a priest’s dog.”
“You’ve no cause here,” Ilys said. Her voice didn’t rise. “Turn back.” The insolence of it rattled her. Had they no fear of a God? Of the Fates? Yet when Ilys looked at Death, her gaze caught on the vulnerable pulse beating in the strong coils of his neck.
Another spoke behind him, “Anyone left breathing is fair game.”
A third added, “You’ll break just the same.”
They moved as one, wordless.
Death reached for Ilys, but she pulled away, drawing her blade.
“You’ll find I do not break,” she raised.
They came fast, four of them. One hung back, watching, still picking through the corpses. The first lunged at Death.
Ilys stepped between, steel meeting steel in a jolt that rang through her bones. Her sword caught his, deflected just enough. She twisted, slammed her hilt into his jaw. He reeled, and she ducked the return blow, but her feet slipped in the mud. She caught herself. Just barely.