“What?” she asked, smoothing a hand over her face. It struck her suddenly how long she had gone without her veil; how strange, to find she no longer missed it—that life without it had begun to feel like its own kind of normal.
“I am familiar with the intricacies of the soul,” he said, voice quiet. “But I fear there is not enough time to acquaint myself with the mysteries of this body.” He bent and pressed his lips to her swollen bud, then glanced up. He stood already dressed, sleeves rolled, his cloak folded neatly over the chair as if he’d been waiting there for some time.
“I encourage you to do so. Right now,” she said with a laugh. “Time is of the essence.”
His answering growl rumbled low as he laid his face against her stomach, his cheek warm on her skin. “If only.”
He straightened, drinking her in with a hunger that felt almost reverent. “I must commit a grievous sin,” he confessed at last.
Her brows rose. “What?”
“I must dress you now.”
She laughed, breathless, as he knelt and pulled her chemise carefully over her head, mindful of her injury. His hands moved with rare gentleness as he drew the fabric down and laced her dress, tugging each tie into place with practiced precision.
He hoisted her onto Spire’s back with more care than she liked to admit she needed, adjusting her hands on the reins until he was satisfied.
“Where do we head?” she asked, her voice still rough from sleep.
“Dacw is our last stop,” he said, stepping to his own steed’s side.
Ilys tilted her head finding the name unfamiliar. “That’s new.”
His mouth curved, subtle, but there. “I will enjoy showing it to you.” Light stirred his expression as he swung into his saddle. “It’s where I was born.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he nudged his horse forward.
“Come, Veilwalker,” he called over his shoulder, his voice laced with challenge.
Ilys scoffed, narrowing her eyes. He had done it on purpose, dropped the word like bait and left her dangling, questions sharp in her throat.
Such a tease.
She pressed her heels into Spire’s sides, setting her mount into motion, the chase shaking the last remnants of sleep from her bones.
The city of Dacw stretched before them. Death guided his horse through the winding streets, his posture composed, his gaze flicking over each corner and corridor with the casual awareness of a man who had seen it all before. He did not seem surprised by the changes, only watchful, mentally mapping the places that had remained untouched and those that had been reshaped by time.
Ilys followed closely, letting her eyes roam the foreign streets, bustling markets, and the rising scent of the sea carried inland on the breeze. The air carried a deeper warmth than the south ambrosial with the scent of citrus and spice. Market stalls overflowed with unfamiliar fruits, their rinds waxy and their flesh bright as jewels. Fabrics in rich, vibrant hues hung from shop eaves, catching the last of the afternoon light, their gold-threaded edges gleaming.
"You look as though you're seeing ghosts,” she observed.
"I have walked these streets since childhood. I am not surprised by the change, but I notice it all the same." His spoke with a prudent calm, but his gaze lingered on a once-familiardoorway, now bricked over. "This was once a tailor’s shop." He gestured to a bakery, its shutters flung open to the scent of fresh bread. "And this was the home of a man who bred horses. A cruel man, by my recollection."
They rode deeper into the heart of Dacw, past carved stone archways and quiet courtyards draped in climbing ivy. Children wove between the market stalls, shouting in a dialect she did not recognize. Death slowed his horse near the edge of a bridge, its stone darkened with age.
Ilys watched him carefully, his gaze fixed on the water as though it might return the pieces of his past. She did not press him, though curiosity burned on her tongue. They walked the streets on foot now, moving at a leisurely pace, Death guiding her past rows of clay-roofed homes and narrow alleys lined with fruit trees. He spoke little, only to point out places of note: the temple steps where he once loitered, the baker’s stall that had always smelled of honey, the worn path toward the cliffs where the city met the sea. He was not nostalgic, nor sentimental. But he acknowledged these places, greeting an old acquaintance whose presence no longer stirred his heart, but whose company he could not ignore.
Ilys studied him as he moved through the streets. His fingers brushed along a weathered door frame, and his gaze lingered on a carving in the stone worn down by the years. He carried himself differently, in a way she had never seen before. Whether it was the grace of returning home or the quiet surrender of a man outlived by his own past, she couldn’t say.
Death walked beside her, tall and silent, the hood of his cloak pushed back. His hand hovered near hers as they moved, never quite reaching for it, but brushing often enough that she knew it was not by chance.
They moved through a shaded alley where stone steps wound up between stacked homes. He paused, his hand brushing the low wall beside them.
“My brother and I used to slide down these on baking trays.”
She turned toward him, surprised and laughing.
“We had stolen them.”
