She ignored him.
The man’s eyes fluttered, unfocused, struggling to keep hold of the moment. His fingers twitched.
She gripped the hilt tighter. Her hand ached from where she’d slammed it into a man’s jaw less than an hour ago. She inhaled.
“Vasha,” she whispered, driving the blade home.
It ended in a breath. Relief left him first, then everything else. Blood welled up around the blade as she withdrew it, staining the mud beneath him.
“That is not your decision to make.” Death spoke low, edged with warning.
The air around them changed. Ilys turned her head just in time to see him change.
The mortal weight of him faded, his frame stretching, sharpening, settling into a shape not meant for this world. His coat billowed, his features refining into a cold and distant perfection. The space around him warped, the air bending to accommodate what could no longer be called a man.
He kept his eyes on the battlefield, on the bodies, on the souls rising loose from them. Death moved with a reverence that Ilys had never quite understood, a quiet, practiced efficiency that spoke of repetition, done not once or twice but a thousand times over. His steps were mesmeric, as though he could have walked this battlefield blind and still known exactly where to go. He approached each body with the same quiet solemnity, pausing only for a breath before moving on. A transition from life to death, from presence to absence.
Ilys watched, her fingers brushing idly at the air where the souls had passed, her hand following the invisible path of what lingered for only a moment before vanishing.
A soldier lay sprawled across the mud, his face slack, his eyes dull, a deep wound carved through his side. His body reposed, yet Death stopped beside him, tilting his head, listening. Then, he raised a hand, fingers barely moving, and a tide of energy rolled through. The soldier’s body sagged, energy releasing from it, rising in a way that barely caught the light before fading entirely.
Death bowed his head, murmuring words Ilys could not hear.
Then, he moved to the next.
Death knelt beside a woman, her fingers curled in the fabric of her ruined tunic and a streak of dried blood trailing from the corner of her mouth. He lifted his hand just enough to stir, to loosen. Though her lungs no longer worked, the woman sighed, her body slackening as her soul slipped free, disappearing into the air like breath on a cold morning.
His lips moved again in a whisper too soft for Ilys to catch.
Again and again, he repeated this ritual, the same careful movements, the same hushed words. They moved through the twisted bodies of Annon and Tyl alike, through the remnants of a war that had left a gaping wound in its wake.
A dying man groaned softly, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Ilys paused, watching as Death knelt beside him, lowering his head, listening. The man’s lips barely moved, the faintest ghost of speech escaping before his body shuddered and went still.
Death raised his hand, calling on his power. The shift in the air came like a sigh.Finally,it seemed to say.Finally.
Ilys closed her eyes briefly, pressing her fingers to her brow. The last soul slipped free, and the battlefield settled once more.
Death straightened, his dark coat grazing the bloodied earth, his gaze lifting beyond the ruin before him. He inhaled deeply and as he did, the field itself seemed to pull inward. Every body, every lifeless form, what remained within them gave way on a final exhale, a quiet surrender. Vitality drained from flesh, pouring like unseen threads into his embrace, drawn back into whatever lay beyond the Veil.
The bodies, now emptied, seemed somehow less than before, their presence dulled, their fingerprint upon the world diminishing with the last of what had tethered them here.
Death stood at the center of it all, his form unmoved
"Is it done?" she asked, her voice softer than she had intended.
He glanced at her, his dark eyes smooth as still water: reflective, yet withholding.
"Let us leave,” he ordered.
Neither looked back.
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.
