“I will get us more ale before we begin," he announced, pushing himself up, a little less steady on his feet than before.
Ilys smirked, watching him disappear through the door. He returned moments later, cups in hand, spilling a generous amount of ale as he maneuvered back into the room. She burst into laughter, tipping her head back as he swore under his breath. They laughed, leaning into the warmth of their shared drunkenness, the ease of familiarity pressing against them like a well-worn cloak.
They played, the pieces clicking against the board, each move measured yet playful. Ilys baited him into traps, and hefought against them, determined, furrowing his brows as he strategized.
“Correct me if I’m wrong but it looks like you are in quite acachu hwch.” she said, mangling the words beyond recognition.
Death burst into laughter, accidentally knocking a piece from the board. “So horribly wrong,” he managed between laughs. “And you playdishonorably,” he accused, watching as she trapped his last escape with smug precision.
She smiled sweetly. “You knew that before we started.”
The fire burned low in the hearth and the inn had quieted, the murmurs of late-night drinkers thinning until only the occasional clatter of a dish or the muffled laughter of some unseen patron filled the space. Their cups sat nearly empty, the last traces of foamy ale clinging to the rims.
Death's gaze flickered over her, tarrying. Then, with a resigned sigh, he moved his last piece into her trap.
“You are a menace," he teased, setting his cup down.
She propped her elbow on a knee, resting her chin on her hand, the corners of her lips curving. “I have been told.”
Ilys traced absent circles against a knot in the wood board, eyes half-lidded as she sighed deeply.
Death’s brow furrowed and he asked a question as if it had been weighing on him for some time. “You speak of Baron, but rarely of Grim.”
His question struck the leaden force that had sat heavy on her chest for years. She swallowed, whistling a quiet breath through her teeth, trying to force the ache out with it. Tears pricked the edges of her vision, unbidden and unwelcome.
“You do not hear from him?” Death asked.
“He was tired,” she noted. “I could tell. I could see it.” She stared at the fire, watching the flames twist and writhe. “The way he carried himself, the pause in his duties. He was done with the killing.” She ran a finger over the rim of her cup, voice barelyabove a whisper. “And I imagine he could not forgive me after what I have done.”
Death’s gaze sharpened. “What have you done, Ilys? That he did not ask of you himself?”
She turned her eyes to him, wet and brimming with quiet devastation.
“I killed Baron.”
The words were spoken without hesitation, without embellishment, and yet they rang through the space between them like a knell. The fire cracked, a single ember flaring before turning to ash.
“It was my duty,” she continued, voice flat. “The Fates demanded it. And there are a million other explanations that justify it.” She banished a bitter breath. “But love does not care for details.” Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into the flesh of her palms.
“I killed the man Grim loved. A man I loved.” Her voice wavered, breaking on the edges. “He will never want to lay eyes upon me again. And I understand that.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she let them, setting her cup down as she steadied her breath, pulling herself together piece by piece.
Softly, she asked, “Are you scared to die?”
He hummed, rolling his cup between his fingers, his eyes distant. “I have walked so many souls into the hands of the Fates. There is a part of me that knows what waits.” He tilted his head, considering. “But there is a mortal part, one that did not exist before, that very much wants to live.” He gestured vaguely around them, to the warmth of the fire, to the clatter of dishes in the other room, to her presence beside him. “And to keep feeling this.”
Ilys watched him, a strange tenderness taking root in her chest. The drink lent her courage, or maybe the pull that hadalways lived between them finally demanded to be answered. She shifted, moving onto her knees, crawling closer until she sat just before him. The space between their bodies narrowed and she reached out, pressing her palm against his chest, against the exquisite thrum of his heart.
“This?” she whispered.
His breath hitched, his gaze flicking to where her hand lay. His lips parted, his expression wanton. He nodded, serene, as if her touch had tethered him to this earthly plain.
She hummed, her thumb brushing absently against the fabric of his tunic, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath. Her eyes roamed his face, memorizing him in the dim firelight, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips parted as though to speak.
She bent toward him until her lips found the small rise above his brow. When she pulled away, his eyes were on her, charcoal and searching.
“Ilys,” he breathed, his voice quieter than she had ever heard it. Unsure.
