Chapter 29
The closer they came to Marrai, the city neighboring Gopin, the more people they passed. Families, merchants, and travelers all grabbed what they could and moved with the urgency of those who had seen a power they could not fight.
She turned to Death, expecting some kind of reaction. But the god beside her did not acknowledge the exodus around them. Not in the way she did. He did not look at the frightened expressions, the hurried steps. He appeared angry—furious, even—in a manner so human it surprised her.
Annon soldiers already filled the streets of Marrai, their armor glinting as they moved between barricades and vantage points. The air carried the metallic bite of readying for more battle.
The distant sound of hooves breaking sounded through the square, escalating the urgency camped amongst the crowd.
A low, rolling thunder of approaching riders.
War horns rang out, their eerie, hollow wail carrying across the town, coming from both sides of the river.
Ilys’s limbs shuddered at the sound. Death’s expression darkened further.
He turned sharply, veering down an alleyway, peering out at the approaching mass of soldiers cresting the hills on either side. The banners of Tyl snapped in the wind, and even from a distance, the gleam of steel caught the dull, overcast light.
He cursed under his breath, staring out at the oncoming tide of men and their war. Looking all around for any exit, charcoal eyes glazed with unease.
Ilys guided Spire closer, her pulse thrumming in her ears. “What now?” she hissed.
“We leave,” he said simply.
She shot him a glare. “Through that?” She gestured toward the mass of soldiers closing in. They had entered Marrai planning to stay the night, but now the city found itself surrounded, Annon’s forces bracing for the clash.
He turned to her then, his expression void, his eyes dark as the river before a storm. “Would you rather stay and be crushed beneath it?”
Ilys didn’t answer. Instead, she sheathed her sword, dismounted, stepped past him, and guided Spire toward the cover of the stable ahead, running through the alley as her heart hammered against her ribs. Death followed without a word, but she felt his menace. He disapproved.
Outside, men screamed. Hooves pounded against the packed earth. Steel clashed, and the wet, sickening sound of a blade meeting flesh followed.
Ilys pressed herself against the wooden wall, Death beside her, his body contouring her own. Juxtaposing the quiet of the stable and the banal scent of hay, war raged just beyond the walls.
The building shook as impact rattled the wooden beams, dust falling from the rafters, settling onto her shoulders. She clenched her fists, willing herself to breathe evenly, even as the battle pressed closer.
At some point, Death shifted beside her, tilting his head, listening beyond the immediate chaos.
“This will not end quickly,” he ground out.
Ilys exhaled through her nose, fingers flexing at her sides. “No.”
He turned toward her fully then, his presence weighty in the dim light, reiterating, “We should have left.”
“We would not have made it through them,” she argued, angry and tired and soaked in blood.
Death hushed her, leading the horses deeper into the stable, tucking them into the farthest stalls, hidden from sight.
At some point, exhaustion overtook the tension. Ilys sat first, resting her back against the wooden wall, tilting her head. Her limbs ached. Her body complained from too many days in the saddle. She had been trained to endure, but battle, even when outside the fray, bore differently.
Death sat beside her eventually, lowering himself with the kind of unhurried grace that made her want to strike him. Solid. Untouched.
For a long while, neither of them spoke.
Outside, the hours stretched. The sharp cries of wounded men carried through the walls, along with the wet clang of swords, the ugly thunder of retreat and charge.
The sound crawled under her skin. Her stays felt too tight, her lungs caged.
Each metallic clash outside pressed harder against her ribs until she could no longer get air.
Her eyes locked on the bloodstains drying on her skirts and her hands.
The veil scratched across her cheek, unbearable.
She ripped it away, sucking in shallow, frantic breaths.
“Ilys?” Death questioned, wary and alert.
She surged to her feet. The stall shrank too small.
The walls were closing in. Sweat slicked her skin.
The stink of rot, the copper of blood, the distant cries of dying men; it all pressed down until she could taste bile.
Her fingers tore at her bodice, yanking until the seams gave way.
The black fabric fell from her shoulders, and the unfettered air allayed her testy, bare skin.
Silent tears streaked her face as she kicked at her skirts, clawing at the hem.
Away. Away. Get it off. Get all of it off!
“Ilys,” he hissed, eyes ripe with worry.
She collapsed against the ground, the hay scratching at her exposed back and the thin chemise. Her chest heaved as if she had been running.
And then a man’s body slammed her down, knife flashing, ribs shrieking as she held him off. Another came, faster, stronger. The words you’re just a girl rang in her skull before she shoved her blade up under his jaw.
The other memory struck next, sharper than the first.
The man in the mud, intestines spilling through his fingers. Steam rising from him in the cold. His hand reached toward her, lips forming please. She’d knelt, unsheathed her blade. Death had said her name, but she had ignored him.
Vasha, she had said, and pressed the blade down.
Back in the stall, her body convulsed with a dry sob. She clawed at the dirt, desperate to scrape herself clean, to peel the memory out of her own skin.
“Why?” she pleaded, hoarse and childlike. “Why is this what I was made for?”
At the sight of her tear-streaked face, Death crawled to her, grabbing at her hand. She latched on, clinging without thought, drowning and finding the only solid thing left. The impulse rattled him; he leaned away in surprise, but she only held tighter, grounding herself against his palm.
“Breathe,” he said, low but insistent. “Breathe, Ilys.”
Her breath hitched harder, ragged and shallow. He bent close, their foreheads nearly touching. “Count with me. My breaths—match them.” His voice demanded so tender, but stern.
She tried, her chest stuttering in time with him.
“I know you’re already counting mine,” he teased darkly, mouth curving against her temple. His eyes caught hers, unblinking, pulling her into the rhythm.
One inhale. One exhale.
Again. And again.
His thumb traced pacifying lines against her arm, his heartbeat languorous beneath her ear, a metronome anchoring her to him. “There,” he affirmed, gaze still locked on hers. “Stay with me. Just keep counting.”
He gathered her against him and she folded into his resolute hold. Her cheek pressed to his chest; his heartbeat carried on, infallible. The sobs came again, wet and helpless as they shuddered through her whole frame.
He held her with one arm wrapped around her waist, the other splayed across her shoulders, his thumb sweeping charged lines against her arm. He rocked her gently, unhurried and rhythmic.
His mouth found her forehead and lingered, pinning her to the present. The sounds of war continued, but their bodies betrayed them. Breath by breath, eye to eye, merciful sleep finally crept in.
Ilys woke to the quiet.
Not the peaceful stillness of dawn, nor the fleeting hush before the world stirred awake. But a quiet that teased an absence of life. The horses shifted in their stalls, restless but subdued, as though they, too, sensed what waited beyond the walls.
Death sat beside her, his head tilted, dark eyes distant. Then, without looking at her, he stood, and drew the cloak back over his own shoulders.
She pushed herself upright, brushing straw from her sleeves, watching him instead of speaking.
Death strode to the stable doors, pressing a gloved hand against the aged wood. He listened, then pulled it open enough to peer out.
Ilys waited. Her fingers curled into her palms.
After a moment, he turned back and extended his hand.
She hesitated only for a breath before taking it, letting him guide her into the morning. But she found herself instead guided into a nightmare.
The streets ran red.
Not in the way of battle, where blood flew wild in the clash of steel on steel. This blood pooled. It stained. It dried stratified and dark across dirt and stone.
Bodies littered the roads, contorted where they had fallen, left where they had been struck down. Men in armor, yes, but others too: women clutching at their children, elders with their hands still raised in surrender, merchants in blood-soaked tunics.
Homes had been ripped apart, their doors torn from their hinges, their belongings scattered like careless afterthoughts. A broken chair lay upturned in the street, a wheel from a cart splintered into pieces beside it.
She stepped over the body of a man, his throat torn open, his fingers still curled around the hilt of a rusted dagger.
Further ahead, she saw a woman sprawled in the dust, her long hair tangled in a pool of congealed blood.
A deep gash split her back, but the way her arm reached toward the doorway made Ilys stop.
She reached for something—or someone.
Ilys followed the angle of her hand. A small form lay just inside the house. A child. Ilys's breath hitched.
She moved before she could stop herself, stepping over the threshold into the ruined home.
A young girl—no older than Hanna—lay twisted on the ground, her small hands clenched, her face locked between fear and pain.
Ilys sank beside her, her breath rasping in her own ears.
Fingers that held in battle, quivered now as she brushed a tangle of dark curls from the child’s face.
She had Hanna’s curls.