Chapter 35
Ilys woke to Death leaning over her.
“Wake,” he urged softly. “I am a dying man.”
Her eyes fluttered open, bleary with sleep.
“I think I have died,” she groaned.
He pressed a needy kiss to the swell of her breast. “That’s in poor taste,” he observed, the dryness undoing any real reprimand.
He sat back on his heels, inspecting the bandage at her shoulder. The wound had begun to knit, yet his frown lingered—thoughtful, near worried. As he studied her, his fingers moved in slow, absent circles over her breast, his gaze intense enough to make her squirm.
“What?” she asked, smoothing a hand over her face. It struck her suddenly how long she had gone without her veil; how strange, to find she no longer missed it—that life without it had begun to feel like its own kind of normal.
“I am familiar with the intricacies of the soul,” he said, voice quiet.
“But I fear there is not enough time to acquaint myself with the mysteries of this body.” He bent and pressed his lips to her swollen bud, then glanced up.
He stood already dressed, sleeves rolled, his cloak folded neatly over the chair as if he’d been waiting there for some time.
“I encourage you to do so. Right now,” she said with a laugh. “Time is of the essence.”
His answering growl rumbled low as he laid his face against her stomach, his cheek warm on her skin. “If only.”
He straightened, drinking her in with a hunger that felt almost reverent. “I must commit a grievous sin,” he confessed at last.
Her brows rose. “What?”
“I must dress you now.”
She laughed, breathless, as he knelt and pulled her chemise carefully over her head, mindful of her injury. His hands moved with rare gentleness as he drew the fabric down and laced her dress, tugging each tie into place with practiced precision.
He hoisted her onto Spire’s back with more care than she liked to admit she needed, adjusting her hands on the reins until he was satisfied.
“Where do we head?” she asked, her voice still rough from sleep.
“Dacw is our last stop,” he said, stepping to his own steed’s side.
Ilys tilted her head finding the name unfamiliar. “That’s new.”
His mouth curved, subtle, but there. “I will enjoy showing it to you.” Light stirred his expression as he swung into his saddle. “It’s where I was born.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he nudged his horse forward.
“Come, Veilwalker,” he called over his shoulder, his voice laced with challenge.
Ilys scoffed, narrowing her eyes. He had done it on purpose, dropped the word like bait and left her dangling, questions sharp in her throat.
Such a tease.
She pressed her heels into Spire’s sides, setting her mount into motion, the chase shaking the last remnants of sleep from her bones.
The city of Dacw stretched before them. Death guided his horse through the winding streets, his posture composed, his gaze flicking over each corner and corridor with the casual awareness of a man who had seen it all before.
He did not seem surprised by the changes, only watchful, mentally mapping the places that had remained untouched and those that had been reshaped by time.
Ilys followed closely, letting her eyes roam the foreign streets, bustling markets, and the rising scent of the sea carried inland on the breeze.
The air carried a deeper warmth than the south ambrosial with the scent of citrus and spice.
Market stalls overflowed with unfamiliar fruits, their rinds waxy and their flesh bright as jewels.
Fabrics in rich, vibrant hues hung from shop eaves, catching the last of the afternoon light, their gold-threaded edges gleaming.
"You look as though you're seeing ghosts,” she observed.
"I have walked these streets since childhood.
I am not surprised by the change, but I notice it all the same.
" His spoke with a prudent calm, but his gaze lingered on a once-familiar doorway, now bricked over.
"This was once a tailor’s shop." He gestured to a bakery, its shutters flung open to the scent of fresh bread.
"And this was the home of a man who bred horses. A cruel man, by my recollection."
They rode deeper into the heart of Dacw, past carved stone archways and quiet courtyards draped in climbing ivy. Children wove between the market stalls, shouting in a dialect she did not recognize. Death slowed his horse near the edge of a bridge, its stone darkened with age.
Ilys watched him carefully, his gaze fixed on the water as though it might return the pieces of his past. She did not press him, though curiosity burned on her tongue.
They walked the streets on foot now, moving at a leisurely pace, Death guiding her past rows of clay-roofed homes and narrow alleys lined with fruit trees.
He spoke little, only to point out places of note: the temple steps where he once loitered, the baker’s stall that had always smelled of honey, the worn path toward the cliffs where the city met the sea.
He was not nostalgic, nor sentimental. But he acknowledged these places, greeting an old acquaintance whose presence no longer stirred his heart, but whose company he could not ignore.
Ilys studied him as he moved through the streets.
His fingers brushed along a weathered door frame, and his gaze lingered on a carving in the stone worn down by the years.
He carried himself differently, in a way she had never seen before.
Whether it was the grace of returning home or the quiet surrender of a man outlived by his own past, she couldn’t say.
Death walked beside her, tall and silent, the hood of his cloak pushed back. His hand hovered near hers as they moved, never quite reaching for it, but brushing often enough that she knew it was not by chance.
They moved through a shaded alley where stone steps wound up between stacked homes. He paused, his hand brushing the low wall beside them.
“My brother and I used to slide down these on baking trays.”
She turned toward him, surprised and laughing.
“We had stolen them.”
His fingers ghosted along the stone as they continued walking.
She stopped near a low wall tangled in ivy and leaned against it, the breeze lifting her hair.
He moved in close, standing just before her.
His hand came up without thinking, fingers sweeping her hair behind her ear again, knuckles grazing her jaw.
“You’re warmer here,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze rested on her mouth.
“I wasn’t always Death,” he said.
Her throat tightened. “Often the gloom sticks to you. You are so much lovelier in this little town.”
He stepped into her space fully, pressing her gently back against the wall. One hand came to rest at her waist. The other braced against the stone by her head.
His voice dropped, low and close. “I can be so very lovely.”
Then he kissed her. Not careful. Not timid.
He kissed her like he remembered it. Like he’d done it before in another life and meant to do it again.
His hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her to him.
Her fingers caught the front of his cloak, anchoring herself.
The stone at her back held its chill, but his warmth pressed through it—through her—until she felt only the shape of him, the absence of all else.
He broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against hers, breathing her in and her hands moved beneath his shirt, splaying across his chest.
He drew her into the shadow of an alcove, tucking them out of sight like a secret. There, with his mouth on hers again, he melted, silent and open, tasting the air between them like it belonged to him.
The sky deepened into dusk, and they made their way to the outskirts of the city, where the land sloped toward the cliffs.
The wind carried the scent of salt and earth, and the sea stretched before them, vast and endless.
Ilys stood at the edge, the cliffside beneath her boots crumbling, wind tangling in her hair. Death stood beside her.
"You said you wanted to show me this place.” She asked, "Did it give you what you wanted?"
With his gaze fixed on the horizon he answered. "No."
She turned to him. "And what did you want?"
He looked at her then, mournful. "To belong to it again." A wry smile touched his lips, almost self-mocking.
Without thinking, she reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. He did not pull away.
The water lapped gently at the sides of the tub, steam curling in the air between them.
Ilys sat across from Death, one knee bent, her foot propped against his shoulder, toes just brushing the curve of his neck.
Her movement looked effortless, but intention lived in every inch of it.
A silent trust unfolding as she gave herself to him, one breath at a time.
Her posture remained regal, even as the bath’s heat melted the tension from her spine. She watched him, head tilted , studying the way his broad shoulders curved against the rim of the tub, his inky hair curling at the ends.
His hands moved with care, lathering a soft cloth with scented soap and running it along the length of her leg, from the arch of her foot down the curve of her calf. Her chest ached at the sight.
“We are friends, yes?” she asked, her voice soft but certain.
Death laughed, leaning back , mimicking her proper posture with exaggerated seriousness. “I suppose we are.”
She watched him a moment longer, then, after a beat, “Tell me how you became a god.”
His gaze drifted toward the ceiling before returning to hers, eyes clouded, peering through the veil of time itself. “It is not a nice story.”
“And yet a girl raised to kill is lovely,” she countered, stretching her arms along the rim of the tub, her fingers idly tracing the worn wooden edge.
He huffed a quiet laugh, but it did not reach his eyes.
“There was a war. Annon was not yet a country. It would not be for some time. I was leading men, taking back land that had once been ours. Land we needed to survive, to feed, to hold against those who sought to strip it from us. There were men above me, men who called the attacks, who made the decisions. I was their hands, their blade. I executed. I led men to their deaths for reasons I did not fully understand.”
She watched the way his fingers swirled the water idly, the way his jaw tightened before he forced himself to relax.
“I was not well for a time,” he continued. “Worn thin by war, weakened in body and mind. I had fought, killed, bled for something larger than myself, and yet I felt… lost. It was then she came to me.”
“Who?”
“A woman. In mortal form. A visitor with an offer. Though, in truth, it had already been accepted for me long before breath was given to the Fates.” He shrugged, a half-smile flickering and dying before it could mean anything. “The middle part is fuzzy.”
“Being a god?” she prompted.
He nodded. “It leaves me more and more every day.”
Ilys regarded him carefully, her gaze trailing over the way the candlelight flickered against the sharp angles of his face and how the hollows of his collarbones gleamed with beads of water.
“Have you named a successor?”
Death stilled, his fingers swirling the water once more, slower this time, thoughtful. One hand remained at her ankle, where it rested lightly on his shoulder. His thumb swept gentle arcs just above the bone.
“I think you would make an excellent Death,” he said, voice low and sure, like he wasn’t trying to convince her, only telling the truth.
Ilys scoffed, narrowing her eyes as she scooped a handful of warm water and flicked it at his face. Droplets scattered in the candlelight like tiny stars, landing soft and shining across his skin.
“Absolutely not.”
He blinked through the splash, unbothered, a smile beginning to play at his lips.
She shifted, her leg brushing against his chest, the movement casual, but intimate.
And then, quietly, without drama, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her ankle. Her breath caught. Another kiss, a little higher, his lips brushing the delicate curve of her shin. Then another. A trail of warmth in his wake.
She splashed him harder this time, laughing through the heat rising in her throat. “Do not distract me.”
Death sputtered, shaking the water from his hair as a rare, unguarded laugh slipped free. But it faded as quickly as it had come. He leaned back against the tub, his fingers trailing idly through the water.
"There is a successor." He pared his voice down to its edge. "I understand the woman better now. It is not a choice I make. Rather, it happens. It is taken care of."
Ilys stilled, watching him, searching his face for an answer he did not give her.
His gaze lost in the flickering glow of the dimly lit room.
She wanted to pry, to dig into the cryptic way he spoke, to make him say the things he always left buried beneath half-answers.
But the way his mouth pressed into a thin line, the way his fingers moved slower through the water, told her to leave it be.
Instead, she shifted, pushing off the edges of the tub, sliding toward him. The water rippled, sloshing against the worn wooden frame as she came to settle in his lap, her knees bracketing his hips. Her fingers found the charcoal curls at the nape of his neck, twisting idly as she tilted her head.
His hands hovered, hesitant, uncertain, before settling at the curve of her waist, his fingers pressing against slick skin. She leaned in, pressing her lips to his shoulder. Her teeth grazed the skin before biting down, not enough to bruise, but enough to mark in a sharp, quiet claim.
"Vicious thing,” he remarked against the shell of her ear, his voice dipping low, dark amusement curling at the edges.
Ilys only hummed, pressing another bite lower, her lips trailing lazily along his shoulder.