Beyond the temple walls, horns sounded signaling the King’s arrival. She stayed still as they set the last piece, a silver circlet with a single obsidian drop, centered like a third eye.
Mother Inrith stepped forward, inspecting her.
“Rise,” she said. Then, quieter, “Grim bears the mantle for now. But the weight will pass to you. And sooner than you think.” Mother Inrith’s eyes looked beyond her. “Show the Shepherd you will serve him well.”
The great doors opened, and cold wind rushed in, carrying the scent of distant rain. Light poured through the cracks: pale, thin, and lifeless.
And then, he stepped inside.
Like the sun made human, the King glided into the room. His deep red robes, heavy with gold embroidery, swept the floor behind him languidly. His crown sat low on his brow, his beard neatly trimmed, and his presence filled the hall with an unspoken authority.
But his blue eyes softened when they fell upon her.
“Ilys,” he breathed, tasting the word and she smiled.
He had always been good to her. He had given her to the Veil, yes, but he had not done so lightly. He visited when he could, persisting just long enough for her to see his affection, just long enough for her to feel like she was his, if only in a distant, untouchable way.
He stepped forward and took her hand, pressing the silk of her glove between his fingers like a precious artifact. Then, gradually, he knelt.
“My Veilwalker.” His voice reverently balmed.
She studied his expression from beneath the veil. While young, she was no fool; he grieved for her in his way, yes, but he marveled at her, too.
She was his gift to Death. The one no one else could ever have.
“Today is a special day,” he elucidated. “Today, you keep our kingdom safe. Today, you support Grim’s heavy burden and learn what it means to serve the Veil.” He continued in a whisper. “There are those who would tear it apart, if not for your sacrifice.”
He released her hand but did not rise. Instead, he studied her, his crinkled eyes tracing every inch of her form, committing it to memory.
“You are nearly grown,” he observed gently. “It happens too quickly.”
She wanted to tell him she was still small, still learning, still young beneath the burden of the temple. But she did not. She simply watched him, waiting until he released a nostalgic breath and finally stood, shaking his head, clearing a thought from his mind.
“Come.”
She followed. Silent. Obedient. She yearned for his praise like a flower stretching for sunlight.
He guided her to the King’s carriage, gleaming with black-lacquered wood, inlaid with gold filigree. Its doors bore the sigil of the Divine Veil: a thorned circle broken by four piercing lines, like a celestial compass carved in barbs. It marked the boundary between life and death, fragile yet unbending.
Ilys stepped inside, settling onto the velvet seat across from the King. But they were not alone.
Lord Veylen lounged in the shadows, his black robes blending into the dim interior. He wore a silver ring etched with the sacred division between light and dark at his throat, the insignia of the Ebon Choir. It glinted like a warning. Those belonging to the Choir were both priest and inquisitor, men who thundered sermons in temples across Annon and bent thepeople toward obedience. In the city and castle, their council sat close to the King, whispering counsel and delivering judgment with equal authority. They were secretive men, unsettling to behold. To the faithful they were shepherds, and to the guilty, cold judgement.
“Hello, Veilwalker.” His voice rasped against her skin, a sound more felt than heard. “Shall we walk through the ceremony?”
Ilys turned toward the window, silently peering out at the landscape beyond the dead stretch of land. He continued, feigning paired agreement, “Yes, I think we shall. When we arrive, you will not look at the crowd.” Leaning in, his breath coaxed against the fine silk of her veil. “That is beneath a Veilwalker. You will move directly to the dais, demurely, reverently, head held high.” The smoothness of his voice betrayed its artifice. Every word polished, every pause calculated. It needled under her skin. “Grim has shown you what comes next, yes?”
Ilys shrank behind the veil, stomach twisting. She did not like the way his beady eyes fell upon her.
Veylen’s smirk sharpened. “Has someone not paid attention to their lessons?” His fingers tapped idly against the armrest before he resumed, “You will take the blade from the attendant, step to the center of the block, raise it above your head, and drive it into the heart of the naysayer.”
The King’s disappointed gaze flicked toward him.
Veylen’s mouth curled at the edges. “Unbound,” he corrected. “Yes, my apologies. Into the heart of the unbound, the faithless.” His voice dipped to a wry, cutting note. “Our precious Saint Ilys, un-blighting tainted Veyth before our very eyes.”
Veyth, life threads, were said to bind every living thing together. No one owned their own thread; each was part of a greater weave that held the world in balance. The children of theSanctum were taught that when a person lived well, their thread strengthened the skein. When they died, that strength returned to the whole.
But sometimes, a thread could rot. A soul could twist, darken, threaten to unravel what it touched. When that happened, the thread had to be cut before the corruption spread. Better to lose one life than risk the entire weave. That was the mercy they were taught to see in the blade.
