She pressed her fingers lightly against the cold brow, closing her eyes."Vasha."
She moved to the next, repeating the words until they hummed in the earth, sang in the streams, and sang in the wind.
The air shimmered and curled around Death, reaching and unfurling.
And then, they came.
The light caught their edges, pale and flickering, as they moved toward him like wisps of breath on cold air. They did not resist. Death raised a hand, gloved fingers barely tilting, and the souls—drawn to him—responded, moving in graceful currents as though carried by a tide unseen. Not violent. Not unkind.
The Veil awaited them, and they went willingly.
A shepherd leading his flock to the place beyond knowing.
One by one, the spirits faded, their forms dissolving into the hush of twilight. No cries. No struggle. Just a fading, a release.
The last soul slipped from sight, the air settling once more as the Veil closed behind them like a door gently drawn shut.
She looked to Death, breath ragged and wet, and saw him as he was made to be.
Chapter 30
“We are bound to receive attention now,” Death said.
Ilys knew he spoke of her chemise, but she could not and would not don her bloodied dress. Death’s robes did a fine job of covering her. Except now, astride Spire, she looked down and it occurred to her that her nipples peeked through the sheer white of her chemise.
“More so than when I am veiled in all my divine regalia?” she questioned, quirking an eyebrow. His gaze caught on her pink buds clinging stubbornly to the cotton, lingering just long enough to make her stomach clench with heat.
“Yes, I presume so,” he affirmed, forcing his gaze forward.
She cursed the sudden, treacherous warmth pooling low in her belly. Did his mortal form notice such things? The thought made her burn hotter, and yet—gods help her—it was almost welcome. It cut through the guilt and self-disgust coiled tight in her chest. Her thoughts spiraled, turning sharp and self-deprecating, until Death’s voice cut through them.
“Ilys?” His tone sharply asked, snapping her back to herself. “Did you hear what I said?”
She blinked, dazed. “What?”
“There’s lodging up ahead. We’ll stop and get a warm meal, yes?”
“That sounds fine.”
He studied her, worry etched across his brow, then turned away without pressing further.
Before the last two years, Ilys had never stepped foot outside the Sanctum, and now the exchange of coin for a night’s lodging barely made her pause. She leaned against the wall, waiting while Death made arrangements. Her fingers combed through her hair, cringing at the stiff, crusted texture.
When he finished, she slipped up beside him and addressed the woman behind the desk. “Is there a river or stream nearby where I might bathe?”
The woman glanced at her with a faintly puzzled expression. “You wouldn’t want to, dear.”
Ilys frowned, but the woman turned back to her ledger.
“Waste, Ilys,” Death explained near her ear, his voice low and wry. “The rivers here are filled with it.”
The woman looked up again, satisfied with her work. “There’s a bathhouse next door. I’ll take you there once we’ve gotten your rooms settled.” Ilys had never heard the term, but her body betrayed her begging and cowing at the word bath. It cared not what form it came in.
The woman guided them up the stairs, to their room. Ilys realized she had not heard the discussion of their actual arrangements. It was a room with two beds once more.
“Sharing?” Ilys queried.
The woman smiled at the disdain in Ilys’ voice, quietly leaving the pair.
