At the horses, he swung her carefully into the saddle. The motion tore at her side and she hissed through her teeth, clamping a hand to the wound.
“Hold on,” he said shortly, mounting behind her. His arm bracketed her ribs as he dug his heels into Spire’s flanks. They rode hard out of town, past the lantern light and into the empty road, his mare following behind. The fields on either side blurred in the dark. Each hoofbeat sent another jolt through her body. Each jolt felt like a white-hot blade twisting deeper.
“How far?” she asked finally, her voice tight, her breath coming sharp. He didn’t answer right away, only pressed her closer to him, keeping her upright.
Rain began to fall, a thin, cold drizzle that soon soaked through her dress and plastered her hair to her face.
At last, he swore under his breath. “We will not make it to the next town,” he bit out, reining Spire toward a side road. “I must tend to you now.”
She gritted her teeth. “We could have stopped there.”
“Yes,” he said darkly, “I’m sure they would love tending to the woman who just attempted to murder one of their own.”
She twisted her head toward him, fury sparking even through the pain. “How am I in the wrong?”
“You are not,” he said simply, voice grim. “But nonetheless, we must stop.”
He guided Spire off the road, into the shadow of an abandoned chapel half-hidden by trees. They found the roof caved in, the bell long gone, the stone steps slick with moss. He dismounted and lifted her down carefully, his cloak already soaked through. Inside, the altar still stood, and just enough shelter existed to keep the fire he struck alive. The flames crackled, casting jagged shadows up the chapel’s crumbling walls. Rain slipped through the holes in the roof, pattering against the stone floor.
Ilys sat propped against the altar, one boot discarded, the other half-untied. Death sat across from her, his cloak open and streaked with mud, one knee drawn up, his hands dangling loose. He hadn’t stopped watching her since they’d arrived.
“You breathe like the pain’s setting in,” he said finally, voice quiet.
“It’s been in.” Her tone was flat.
He nodded once. “You should let me see it.”
“Why? So you can scold the wound?”
The corner of his mouth tugged. “No. I have salve and bandages.”
She glanced at him, the faintest turn of her head. “And hands that shake when you reach for your power. Tell me, do they steady when you dress wounds?”
He didn’t flinch. “You could find out.”
Her jaw flexed. Then, without a word, she peeled down her bodice and bared the wound.
Death rose and crossed to her, quiet as the wind through the ruined rafters. He knelt, dipped two fingers into the tin of salve, and worked it gently over the worst of the cut. His touch bore a careful reverence.
She hissed softly when it bit at the raw edges.
“I warned you,” he noted.
“You didn’t.”
“I meant to.”
He held his tongue while cleaning the rest of the blood from her side, rinsing the cloth in the rainwater basin. When he finished, he didn’t step back immediately. His shadow still stretched over her.
“What was the point of that?” he asked, referring to the violent encounter.
Ilys’s eyes flicked toward the fire. “I am tired of violence. Of cruelty. I wanted him to taste it just as potent.”
“Through more violence?” He queried, measured, but a hidden steel beneath it.
“Do you see some alternative?” Her head snapped toward him. “Was there a magic spell I forgot? A ritual in which everyone will drop their weapons and cease hurting one another?”
His jaw worked, but a response cheated him.
