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 fromboth 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. Sheclenched 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 wordsyou’re just a girlrang 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 formingplease.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.
