Back in the stall, her body convulsed with a dry sob. She clawed at the dirt, desperate to scrape herself clean, to peel the memory out of her own skin.
“Why?” she pleaded, hoarse and childlike. “Why is this what I was made for?”
At the sight of her tear-streaked face, Death crawled to her, grabbing at her hand. She latched on, clinging without thought, drowning and finding the only solid thing left. The impulse rattled him; he leaned away in surprise, but she only held tighter, grounding herself against his palm.
“Breathe,” he said, low but insistent. “Breathe, Ilys.”
Her breath hitched harder, ragged and shallow. He bent close, their foreheads nearly touching. “Count with me. My breaths—match them.” His voice demanded so tender, but stern.
She tried, her chest stuttering in time with him.
“I know you’re already counting mine,” he teased darkly, mouth curving against her temple. His eyes caught hers, unblinking, pulling her into the rhythm.
One inhale. One exhale.
Again. And again.
His thumb traced pacifying lines against her arm, his heartbeat languorous beneath her ear, a metronome anchoring her to him. “There,” he affirmed, gaze still locked on hers. “Stay with me. Just keep counting.”
He gathered her against him and she folded into his resolute hold. Her cheek pressed to his chest; his heartbeat carried on, infallible. The sobs came again, wet and helpless as they shuddered through her whole frame.
He held her with one arm wrapped around her waist, the other splayed across her shoulders, his thumb sweeping charged lines against her arm. He rocked her gently, unhurried and rhythmic.
His mouth found her forehead and lingered, pinning her to the present. The sounds of war continued, but their bodies betrayed them. Breath by breath, eye to eye, merciful sleep finally crept in.
Ilys woke to the quiet.
Not the peaceful stillness of dawn, nor the fleeting hush before the world stirred awake. But a quiet that teased an absence of life. The horses shifted in their stalls, restless but subdued, as though they, too, sensed what waited beyond the walls.
Death sat beside her, his head tilted, dark eyes distant. Then, without looking at her, he stood, and drew the cloak back over his own shoulders.
She pushed herself upright, brushing straw from her sleeves, watching him instead of speaking.
Death strode to the stable doors, pressing a gloved hand against the aged wood. He listened, then pulled it open enough to peer out.
Ilys waited. Her fingers curled into her palms.
After a moment, he turned back and extended his hand.
She hesitated only for a breath before taking it, letting him guide her into the morning. But she found herself instead guided into a nightmare.
The streets ran red.
Not in the way of battle, where blood flew wild in the clash of steel on steel. This blood pooled. It stained. It dried stratified and dark across dirt and stone.
Bodies littered the roads, contorted where they had fallen, left where they had been struck down. Men in armor, yes, but others too: women clutching at their children, elders with their hands still raised in surrender, merchants in blood-soaked tunics.
Homes had been ripped apart, their doors torn from their hinges, their belongings scattered like careless afterthoughts. A broken chair lay upturned in the street, a wheel from a cart splintered into pieces beside it.
She stepped over the body of a man, his throat torn open, his fingers still curled around the hilt of a rusted dagger. Furtherahead, she saw a woman sprawled in the dust, her long hair tangled in a pool of congealed blood. A deep gash split her back, but the way her arm reached toward the doorway made Ilys stop.
She reached for something—or someone.
Ilys followed the angle of her hand. A small form lay just inside the house. A child. Ilys's breath hitched.
She moved before she could stop herself, stepping over the threshold into the ruined home. A young girl—no older than Hanna—lay twisted on the ground, her small hands clenched, her face locked between fear and pain. Ilys sank beside her, her breath rasping in her own ears. Fingers that held in battle, quivered now as she brushed a tangle of dark curls from the child’s face.
She had Hanna’s curls.
