“There are two beds,” he defended.
“Was there only one room available?” she pressed. He cowed.
He faltered, caught. “I—” He searched for the right words. “After all we’ve seen, you would prefer we stay apart?”
“Is someone frightened?” she teased, though the last few days tugged at her as well.
“New as I am to mortal feelings, I have no name for it,” he admitted quietly. “But I should like you near.” He seemed to hear the intimacy in his own words and added quickly, “In case of another attack.”
“So I may save you again?” she needled.
His demeanor immediately changed, face falling. “I am sorry, Ilys. I promised you a clean slate this march.” His pity rankled her.
“You did not ask me to end those men,” she said, looking away as she began to tidy her meager belongings.
“Yes, but—” he started.
“I’m going to bathe.” She cut him off and left him standing there, words caught in his throat.
Steam clung to the air as she sank into the bath. The heat burned her skin, but Ilys welcomed it. She ducked her head under once, holding herself beneath until her ears filled with the hush of the water. No crowd, no screaming, no Death’s pitying voice. Only the muted pound of her heart and the smothered ache in her chest. She surfaced with a gasp, hair plastered to her cheeks, and for a brief respite she felt lighter.
So she did it again.
This time she stayed longer. The water folded around her, drowning sound and shape alike. Her lungs protested, painblooming sharp and hot, but she didn’t move. She wanted that quiet to swallow her whole. Her chest convulsed, her body begging her to breathe, but still, she stayed.
A hand seized her by the shoulder, yanking her violently to the surface.
She coughed and choked, water streaming down her face, her chest heaving as she clutched the stone edge for balance.
“What are you doing?” Death demanded, voice sharper than she’d ever heard it, ragged and near-panicked. His sleeves were soaked, water dripping from his fingers where they gripped her, his own body half-submerged alongside her.
Small and raw, like a child caught in the act, she confessed, “I wanted quiet, just for a moment.”
Death’s face darkened. “Do you think me invincible, Ilys? That I could wrench you back from the Veil itself? Do not play so carelessly with your life.”
Her mouth curled. “It is my wretched existence. I will play with it however I choose.”
His jaw tightened. “Would you spit in the face of what I have sacrificed? Of what I have lost?”
“What are you talking about?” she snapped, anger flaring.
“Why do you think the Fates stripped me of my godhood?” His voice rose, sharp and cutting. “Have you truly no clue?”
She stared at him, blank and mute.
“I am but a collector,” he said, voice suddenly low, dangerous. “But you—” The tendons of his palm flexed. “You forced my hand.”
Her mind reeled, dragging her back to that night: Lord Veylen’s blood, the cell, Owin’s broken body, Death standing over her, saving her.
“This is because—” she started.
“Yes.” His mouth twisted. “Well done, Ilys. After nearly a century, you’ve managed to kill a god in one stroke.”
“I did not ask you to kill Owin,” she said, forcing the words through her throat.
“You did not last a day on your own!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Would you have preferred I left you there? Let them finish what they started?”
“Yes.”
