Chapter 40
Ilys could not hear the wind. She could not feel the cold bite of winter on her skin nor her own body as Death pulled her from the Veil’s threshold. Her limbs felt distant, untethered, like they belonged to someone else. She did not move, did not speak, did not breathe.
Grim was gone.
Her lungs seized. Air refused her. The ringing built until it swallowed everything—the Veil’s hum, the wind’s cry, the voice still reaching for her.
Hollow grief hollowed deeper.
The journey back through the sacred glade passed in a blur.
She did not recall Death leading her away, nor the way his hands tightened around her arms, steadying her when she swayed.
The moss and grass that once pulsed beneath her feet were only earth now, dull and lifeless.
The trees no longer whispered as they passed.
She did not hear Death shift back into his mortal form. She did not register the way his jaw tightened, nor notice when his shoulders curled inward from his own burden pressing heavily upon him.
Only when he stopped did she realize they had left the forest.
The green ended abruptly, severed by winter’s reach. Spire and Death’s black mare stood where they had left them, their breath curling into the cold air. The sight of them felt impossibly distant, a scene in a life that no longer belonged to her.
A hand closed around her wrist. "Ilys."
She did not react.
"Ilys,” he said again, more forceful now, his grip tightening, shaking her once.
The numbness swallowed her whole.
Death exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against her arm before he released her.
Without a word, he lifted her onto his horse.
One hand stayed at her waist, not just to keep her upright, but to trace circles over her ribs, coaxing her breath back into rhythm.
Her pulse fluttered weakly beneath his palm, a faint reminder that she still lived, even as her mind drifted far from the present.
Then he looped Spire’s reins to his own and mounted behind her, spurring the ride.
She barely noticed the motion, the sway of the horse beneath her, the rhythmic thudding of hooves against frostbitten earth. Time moved without her. The road stretched on in endless miles, the sky above melting into a dull gray, shifting from afternoon into evening.
Somewhere along the way, her body slumped against him.
She barely registered the warmth of him, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the grip of his hands at her waist. The inn appeared like a mirage, the glow of its lanterns flickering in the distance.
She did not stir when he pulled the horses to a stop, nor when he slid from the saddle and caught her in his arms.
The innkeeper did not question them. Perhaps it was the look on Death’s face, or the glassy, hollow emptiness in Ilys’s eyes. He offered the room in silence, unwilling to disturb the ruin they carried in with them.
She did not notice when Death lowered her onto the bed, nor when he pulled off her gloves, setting them beside her. He hesitated, then reached for her boots, loosening the laces with careful, deliberate hands.
Still, she did not move.
Death sat beside her for a long moment, his gaze heavy and indecipherable as he rubbed a hand down his face.
"You will rest,” he ordered though she gave no indication she had heard him.
Without another word, he stood and stepped away.
Ilys woke curled into herself, her body wound so tightly that every joint ached; her fingers were pressing into her arms as though she could keep herself from unraveling. Her breath came shallow, uneven. Her pulse was a frantic, fluttering thing beneath her ribs.
The room was dim, the candle on the table having long since burned down to a stub, its wax pooled in a stagnant drip. No light crept in from the night outside. The air smelled of old wood and damp fabric, the faintest traces of the stew and ale from the evening before floating in the quiet corners.
She did not know how long she laid there, staring at the wall, her mind replaying every second, every breath, every moment from the Veil.
Grim’s hands, warm against her cheeks.
His voice, fond despite the truth, unraveled before her.
The way his gaze softened as he spoke her name.
The way he had held her, kissed her tears away, whispered promises he could not keep.
The way he had walked through the doorway.
Gone.
Her breath caught in her throat, ripping through her chest and spreading like ice in her veins. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it away, willing all of it away, but it only settled deeper, sinking into her marrow.
The creak of a floorboard snapped her eyes open.
Death stood in the doorway.
The sight of him made her stomach twist violently, nausea curling up her throat. He was mortal again. His godhood had been shed in the return journey, leaving behind only the man. The liar. The one who had known.
"Get out." Her voice came hoarse, raw from sleep and grief, but the venom in it was unmistakable.
Death’s brows furrowed. "Ilys.”
“Get out.” She pushed herself upright, arms trembling under her own body, but she did not falter.
Her blood burned with a fury that scraped against her ribs like jagged bone.
“You lied to me,” she hissed, breath sharp and uneven.
“You knew. You knew and you let me…” Her voice fractured, but she swallowed the wretched sound rising in her throat.
Death took a careful step forward, scrutinizing her every tendon, every breath. "Ilys, please.”
"GET OUT."
She launched the nearest object at him, a tin cup left on the nightstand. It hit the doorframe with a sharp clang, missing him by inches.
"GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!" Her screams rang through the room, through the walls, sharp and unrelenting. She reached for whatever was near: a pillow, the candlestick, a book, anything to throw, anything to drive him away.
“I was bound by blood, Ilys!” he shouted. It was so rare to hear him raise his voice, it rattled her. “I was bound. He sought to protect you through my silence. So you did not have to feel what he felt. Act as he did.”
“You should have found a way,” she ground out.
“This will not solve anything.”
She wrenched against his hold, desperate to escape, desperate to strike again.
“You think you are judgment,” she spat, her voice hoarse with grief, with fury.
“You are nothing more than a stupid dog, heeding commands without question, without thought. You cannot audit your instincts, cannot challenge what has been whispered into your ear since the dawn of time.”
She shook, her body trembling. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her vision blurred.
“I implore you,” she whispered, raw and aching, “beg you, to have a conscience. I know you can feel love. I know you can feel empathy. You foolish, foolish man. Help me kill him.”
“When you kill him,” he said finally, voice low, even, “what do you think will happen? A new government will rise? Fair and loving? The world will be just? That is a fantasy, Veilwalker.”
Her breath hitched. She wrenched at his hold again, but he did not yield.
“Live your life,” he said. “Do not waste it in this way.”
The sob tore from her, sudden, violent. “I want to die.”
His grip faltered. Just enough. Moisture shimmered along his lashes as he bent to her.
“Anwyl Vyth. Anwyl Veth.” The language of gods spilled from him: soft, aching, and urging. Ilys flung the litany from her mind.
“My whole life,” she whispered, shaking, “I have murdered. I did not blink. I did not hesitate. I killed innocents in the name of an evil man who has lied and stolen and hungered for centuries. And I called it duty.”
“What does it matter,” he asked, “if it is the Fates or a mortal man? You killed, yes. But it was not your will either way.”
“I killed them,” she sobbed.
He only held her, rooted, unmoving, as she slumped forward against him, the fight leaving her in one exhale.
His arms curled around her, cradling her against his chest. His breath paced laggard and measured against her temple, his body solid beneath her shaking form.
“Sleep,” he directed. “Sleep, and we will talk in the morning.”
Ilys woke to stale dried tears on her pillow, her face tight and swollen.
Her throat ached, raw from sobs she barely remembered, from words torn out of her in desperation.
Her body felt different, lighter in some ways, emptied in others.
She did not feel grief, not now. Not in the quiet hush of the morning.
She felt focused.
Ilys dressed swiftly, then paused once at the doorway, her gaze on Death's quiet form. A gentle pang stirred within her chest, unexpected yet familiar. She turned away sharply, letting the feeling pass like a shadow slipping beneath her feet.
Outside, the inn's yard was cloaked in fog, pale tendrils clinging stubbornly to the chilled earth.
She saddled her horse quickly, movements automatic, a comforting ritual in uncertain times.
Her mount shifted beneath her with familiar patience, sensing the urgency in her tightened grip on the reins.
With one last glance back toward the darkened windows of the inn, she set her jaw and nudged the horse forward.
Towards the Sanctum.