Chapter 44
The King did not rush toward her. He did not call for his guards to finish what they had started. He was a man who had never once felt the need to hurry. After all, time stretched before him like the vast, undrinkable ocean.
Ilys stood, her breath still coming fast, her body thrumming with the ache of the fight, of the fists that had bruised her ribs, the grip that had wrenched her hair back. Blood—hers, theirs—dampened the front of her gown, but she did not move, did not reach for another blade. Not yet.
The guards parted at his approach, bowing their heads, though none dared turn their backs on her. She still threatened, even with empty hands.
The King stopped a few paces before her, head angled just so, the torchlight glinting along the gold of his mask. He lifted a hand and unfastened it, revealing the face beneath.
The years had been kind to him. The softening lines of age had settled into a quiet regality, patience tempered by understanding. He studied her with a faint smile, not unkind, but appraising, curious.
With an almost amused tilt of his head, he said,"Are you finished, my dear?"
Ilys did not answer.
"You made quite the mess,” he continued, glancing at the guards, some still groaning in pain, clutching wounds that would likely fester by morning if left unattended. "I am not surprised, of course. That is your nature, is it not? A blade in the dark, a hand with no mind of its own, only purpose."
Ilys clenched her jaw, forcing her breath riveted. "I know what I am,” she said.
The King smiled wider. "Do you? Then tell me, Veilwalker, what will you be, now that you have no master? No leash?"
"I will be the end of you,” she promised, recalcitrant and hostile.
He chuckled softly. "Oh, Ilys." His voice poured over, paternal, almost pitying. "I have given you purpose. I have made you holy. Without me, what will you have?"
"A life,” she whispered.
He sighed. "No, my dear. You will have regret."
The King lifted one elegant hand, signaling silently to the guards behind him. They moved swiftly, cautiously, encircling her without hesitation this time, the tension of her threat still hanging heavy in the air.
"Bind her,” the King commanded softly, watching impassively as they closed in.
Ilys did not resist, not now. Her body had spent itself in violence already; to fight further would achieve nothing.
They seized her wrists roughly, shackles clamping down tightly, metal biting into her already bruised flesh.
Her vision swam momentarily, but she forced herself upright, shoulders squared even as chains were locked around her ankles, shortening her stride to a humiliating shuffle.
"Take her to where Grim was held,” he continued, his tone dismissive yet edged with quiet cruelty, as though aiming to break her resolve. "Let her contemplate her choices. Perhaps solitude will teach her what loyalty did not."
She held his gaze, unblinking, until the guards forced her to turn away, pushing her roughly toward the narrow staircase that wound downward, away from the regal corridors and gilded light of the palace.
The air grew colder, stale, as she descended, torches fewer and farther apart until only shadows remained. The dungeons lay beneath layers of stone, ancient walls dense enough to swallow all sound, to bury screams until they turned silent and forgotten.
A cell door creaked open, iron grating against iron, a hollow sound that resonated deep within her bones.
They shoved her inside without ceremony, the chains rattling heavily as she stumbled, catching herself against a rough stone wall.
The door slammed shut, reverberating with brutal finality, the lock sliding into place like a blade driven home.
She stood still, allowing herself to feel the full weight of her imprisonment, the dark pressing in, oppressive and bloody-minded.
Gingerly she knelt down, pressing her hands into the dirt, fingers digging into the grit and grime of the cell floor.
She reached outward, palms flat against the cold stone walls, searching desperately for anything that might remain of him.
"Grim,” she whispered softly, her voice barely audible. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, seeking the echo of his strength, the residue of his defiance.
The door groaned open.
Ilys didn’t move. She remained on the floor of her cell, her back to the door, hands loosely clasped in her lap. The chains around her ankles dragged as she shifted, enough to signal that she was alert. She refused to look.
“I thought you might be more forthcoming after some rest.” The King’s voice was measured, composed, with just enough warmth to suggest civility.
Ilys nestled deeper into the freedom she carved out in her consciousness. Silence had teeth, and she had learned to wield them.
He stepped inside.“I don’t like the dungeons. Too bleak. But they have their uses.” A pause. “Where is the girl?”
Still, she didn’t answer, fixing her gaze on the far wall, studying a crack in the stone.
The King sighed, low and theatrical. “Come now. Where is Hanna?”
That name.
Ilys turned her head, just enough for him to see her profile.
“Did it ever bother you?” she asked, her voice hoarse from disuse. “That even after all your titles, your sermons, your scriptures…your life hinges on a terrified child?”
The King's smile did not falter, but it tightened. Just a hair.
“She is more than a child. She is a symbol. A legacy. She is mine.”
Ilys rose to meet him, the pull of the chains whispering against the floor. “No,” she protested. “That’s the one thing she never was.”
His eyes narrowed.“I offered you sanctity,” he said, voice harder now. “Purpose. I made you divine, Ilys. And this is how you repay me? By hiding the girl? By dragging your broken body through my halls like a martyr who never earned the cross?”
Ilys took a step toward the bars, her smile faint but sharp. “You never made me divine. You made me useful.”
The mask cracked.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the tremor in his hands, the thread of rage held barely in check.
“You do not get to bait me,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You think yourself clever. Brave. But you have never known true suffering, Ilys. You’ve danced at its edges, yes. But I can drag you into the center of it.”
She leaned in, her breath ghosting the space between the bars.
“Then do it,” she whispered. “Break me, if that’s all you know how to do. But if you were half the prophet you pretend to be, you wouldn’t need to ask me where she is.”
The King stared at her, fury boiling just beneath the skin of his composure. Then, quietly, he reached through the bars and placed a single hand against her throat, not tight, not yet, but threatening in its ease.
“I built a kingdom from ash and obedience,” he proudly detailed. “Do you think I will hesitate to build a tomb beside it?”
She did not flinch.“Then dig.”
He released her abruptly, her touch burning. He stepped back, spine straight, expression cold once more.
“Enjoy the silence, Ilys,” he said, already turning away. “In time, even your defiance will wither.”
The door slammed shut behind him and the lock slid home with the finality of a grave.