“More than Death.”
“Perhaps even more than Death. Tell me about your people,” she urged. He had a mortal name, most likely a storied mortal history. A million questions plucked at her tongue, but she chided her mind.
“It is my turn,” he argued.
“Do not be so uptight for once. Talk with me. Tell me of your people.”
“Now you, too, have chosen a depressing subject,” he poked.
“Teach me how to say something in your people’s tongue then. You’re always saying strange things under your breath.”
He hummed, considering. “Most of what I remember are curses.”
“Perfect,” she said brightly.
He laughed. “You would choose profanity as your first lesson.”
“I’m nothing if not practical.”
“Fine.” He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear. “Cachu hwch.”
She frowned, trying to shape it. “Kah-hoo... hook?”
He snorted. “Not even close.”
“Well, what does it mean?”
“Pig’s mess. Or,” he added thoughtfully, “utter disaster. It applies to most of your decisions.”
Ilys barked out a laugh. “Pigs mess? That is hardly profanity.”
“It loses something in translation,” he claimed, chuckling, but soon after his tone grew serious. “Rither’s Hollow is just ahead.”
Ilys tilted her head slightly, catching the faint glimmer of lamplight in the distance. “And there we stop?”
“Yes.” His tone allowed no debate. “You need rest.”
The road widened into a narrow main street, flanked by shuttered shops and houses with thatched roofs. Here and there, candles still burned behind windows, and a single inn sat squarely at the center, its sign swinging gently in the night breeze. Death swung down from the saddle first, then offered her a hand. Inside, the inn smelled of smoke and cider. The few remaining patrons barely glanced up as Death approached the counter. He peered back at Ilys, emotive and warm, before speaking, his hand flexing and his voice strained.
“We should like separate rooms, if you have them.”
The innkeeper gave him a long look, then snorted. “If I have them.” He took the offered coin and tucked it into his apron. “End of the hall.”
Death nodded once and turned, already moving toward the stairs. Their rooms stood opposite each other, identical in their plainness. Sturdy wooden furniture, a single narrow window, a basin tucked into the corner. Death’s door stood jar when she stepped into her own space, dropping her pack onto the bed. She sat, fingers tracing the edge of the mattress.
Dinner offered no surprises—stale bread, watered ale, the din of strangers pretending at comfort. The same rough-hewn table, the same dimly lit room. The same malty ale, dark as ink, set down with the same disinterest this time by the innkeeper's wife. What set this apart was their nearness now—the roadbehind them, the silences they’d learned to share, the words both chose to swallow.
Death took a provocative sip of his drink, setting the mug down with measured ease. Ilys watched him carefully, expecting the same grimace of disgust he had worn the last time she watched him drink, but it never came.
“You can hold your drink now,” she noted.
He glanced at her, unimpressed. “I am adjusting.”
She took a sip herself, immediately regretting it. “That’s unfortunate.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “It is a skill like any other.”
She rolled the mug between her hands, studying him. “You teased that you were mortal once.”
