“Yes,” he confirmed. “Once.”
She sat back, considering this. “And then you became what you are.”
He nodded. Gods, she found him infuriating. She urged him to elaborate without her cues. He must have known her curiosity coiled greedily on her tongue.
“How?”
Death’s gaze flickered toward the fire. “I was chosen.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“And yet, it is the only one I will give.”
She scowled. “That’s cruel.”
“You have called me worse.”
She scoffed but could not argue. He simply lifted his cup again, watching her with quiet amusement.
“You were mortal,” she repeated, almost to herself.
“I was.”
“And now you are dying.”
“I am.”
She stared down at the table, pressing her fingertips into the wood. “Then who will drag me to Veilmarch?”
His eyes darkened, shadows flickered in the firelight, catching in the deep creases of his gaze, making him look almost unfamiliar, almost someone else entirely. “That, Veilwalker, remains to be seen.” He shook off whatever had settled in his expression, turning back to his drink, the liquor loosening his tongue. “Tell me, then, what will keep you busy when you return to the Sanctum?”
Ilys turned the cup between her fingers, watching the amber liquid lap against the rim. “I will tame Mor further,” she noted.
His gaze urged her on, expectant. She sighed, thinking of what awaited her in the coming months.
“I will write Rowenna often.” His face opened, pleading for more. She tapped a nail against the wooden table, exhaling sharply.
“And I will draw,” she shrugged, “everything in sight.”
See,she thought. This is what a good conversationalist looks like.
His brows lifted , curiosity flickering in his expression. “You draw?”
She shot him a warning look. “Do not tease me.”
“I do not,” he defended, hands lifting in mock surrender. “I am curious. I have not seen you draw.”
“I do,” she vacillated. “Quite well.”
His lips curled faintly. “Really?”
She nodded, a blush creeping up her neck. She reached for her drink again, the warmth of the ale dulling the edge of her discomfort.
“Draw me,” he demanded suddenly.
She scoffed. “No.”
“Come on then,” he urged, shifting forward in his seat. “There will not be another time. Do it. Draw me. I should like my mortal form remembered somehow.” His smirk turned roguish.“I have seen your scripture. They draw me quite ominously. Someone should remember the good grace of this face.”
