The King ignored him, turning his attention back to Ilys. He reached for her hand, his fingers settling over hers in a careful grip.
“You are my greatest treasure. My most hated sacrifice.” His thumb swept the silk of her glove. “You will make Annon proud.”
Unsure of a response, she merely nodded.
His head tilted, disapproval flashing. “Yes?”
“Yes, my shepherd.”
He smiled, pleased. “Good girl.” A gentle pat to her hand, and then he withdrew, returning his gaze to the window. The city square loomed ahead.
When the doors opened she clumsily stepped from the carriage, wind tearing at her veil, dragging fabric against her skin, while icy spray lashed against the black muslin of her gloves. Snowflakes clung to the heavy folds of her dress, melting against the warmth of her body.
Lord Veylen extended a hand to help her down. One she dared not refuse. His brief touch polluted the air between them, an unspoken trespass. No one but the King and the priestesses were meant to lay a hand on the Veilwalker.
The square stretched wide before her, but the gathered crowd pressed close, their forms hunched against the cold. Ilys fought the urge to look at them, to take them in. She had never been this close to the world beyond the temple walls. She could feel them. Their stares. Their unease. Their fascination.
They had not expected someone so young. So small.
But she held herself as she had been taught, poised and pious.
The dais loomed ahead, stark against the pale wash of the sky. She walked toward it with careful steps, her movements fighting against the wind. A body lay sprawled atop the polished black stone of the executioner’s block, familiar as the obsidian altar she knelt before in prayer. His wrists and ankles were bound, his clothes threadbare. As she approached, the details sharpened. Dark eyes, weary and watchful. Cuts along his arms, wounds fresh and clumsy. Lines around his mouth, deepened by exhaustion. He was near Grim’s age.
Probably a father, unlike Grim.
A thousand thoughts converged, tangled, and pulled at her mind. The rhythm of the ritual pressed against her.Take the sword, Ilys. Look into his eyes, Ilys. Raise the blade, Ilys.But another thought surfaced, quiet and disobedient,what is his name?
Her arm wavered. Only once. Beneath her veil, her eyes flicked to the King.
And the blade fell.
The world suspended.
He inhaled. She exhaled.
Steel met flesh, slipping through that fickle place between the ribs, where the blood lives. Where life lives. Where Ilys would now take it away.
A sharp gasp. A body stiffening. The crowd baying like wolves.
Quick and encompassing, akin to lightning her stomach roiled. She had forgotten the blessing.
No one would know. The veil hid her face. The crowd devoured her voice.
But she knew.
The black stone glistened, so much like the Sanctum altar she knew, but there were no prayers here. Only blood.
She turned, her movements prudent, her steps careful. The King’s steady eyes met hers, warm in their depths. Banked low like a hearth fire, she saw his praise. The recognition was a sacred, secret joy she clung to, even as the blood on her gloves began to chill.
And yet, as she approached the waiting carriage, the blade protested in her hand. Lord Veylen stood at the open door, one hand resting against the frame.
“Good girl,” he awarded with mock sincerity.
She stepped past him without a word, propelled by her palpable, indisputable divinity.
Ilys opened her eyes, face down in the water. The bath had cooled long ago, but she remained, forehead pressed against the porcelain lip, watching her breath ripple against the surface. The room lingered in half-light, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth, their glow too faint to warm the chill clinging to her skin.
Breaking the surface, she breathed in. Reflected on the breaths she had stolen. The ones that would never rise again.
