The fight forgotten.
The vows left to the wind.
Death shifted beside her, rolling onto his elbow, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. The room was steeped in the cold blue light of late afternoon, the weak winter sun filtering through the frost-laced window. The fire had burned low, embers barely pulsing beneath the ash, and the chill in the air curled around them, threading through the linen sheets.
"Ilys,” he breathed.
She groaned, curling closer, her body tucking instinctively into the warmth of his chest.
"Ilys,” he said again, softer this time, though the insistence remained.
She shifted, inhaling deeply, her breath warm against his throat. "No,” she protested, voice pummeled with sleep.
His lips ghosted against her temple, a sigh against her skin. "We have to go."
The words settled over her, heavy and unrelenting. She blinked herself awake, eyes finding his, still hazy with the remnants of sleep.
"Veilmarch,” he relayed, the syllables threading into the space between them, a quiet pulse in the air. "It pulls."
She studied him, the way his fingers flexed against her hip, his body already coiled with the tension of inevitability. Her stomach curled at the thought, at the quiet way he endured his fading godhood, the way the burden pressed into his very being. She nodded, bracing herself against the cold as she shifted upright, rubbing her hands over her face. The blankets slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her waist before dipping lower, revealing the pale stretch of her thighs and the curve of her calves, bare against the crisp air.
Death, still lounging beside her, let his gaze wander over the exposed skin, his fingers following in its wake.
His palm slid over her knee, warmth cutting through the chill. The rough pad of his thumb traced circles higher along her thigh, a rhythm meant to cool them both.
A sudden brightness lit his tone, impatience edging the excitement. "Then we return to this, yes?" His lips found the inside of her leg, plush and wanton. She hummed, her fingers threading through the dark waves of his hair. "I promise." He lingered, pressing another kiss against her skin, before abandoning the warmth of her leg, resigning himself to what waited beyond the door.
Winter howled outside, rattling the shutters, reminding them of the world that did not wait.
Chapter 37
The March
They rode hard through the bitter wind, its teeth gnashing at their faces, skeletal shadows of trees clawing long across the snow-laden path. Ilys’s legs ached, her wound throbbed with each stride of her horse, and her face stung with icy spray. The pain, the weariness, all of it fell away when she saw it.
The Divide.
The land broke clean in two. A wall of green forest stretched before them, sun-drenched and impossible, the trunks of ancient trees standing sentinel in the crisp light. Where frost ended, spring began. No thaw, no mud, no gray slush; the line between the boundary was sharp, as though winter itself had been carved away by an unseen hand. A wound in the world.
Spire balked, ears flattening, hooves striking the frozen ground. Death’s mount snorted as well, stamping the earth, eyes rolling white. Neither animal wished to cross.
"Step down, Ilys,” he instructed, dismounting with fluid ease as he led her into the sun-drenched greenery.
Ilys slid from the saddle, boots crunching in snow. At the threshold she paused, breath clouding in the cold, eyes fixed on that unnatural shimmer where one season bled into another. Then she stepped forward.
The moment her boot crossed, winter fell away. Warmth enveloped her, moss breathing beneath her feet, golden shafts of light dripping through high boughs. The forest closed around them, and the pulse of the Veil whispered at the edges of her skin. It did not feel like entering another place, but another body. Living. Watching. Leaves rustled though no wind stirred. Bark shivered beneath her fingertips when she brushed it. More than once, she swore she heard her name whispered low, breathed through the weave of branches.
And then, like a mirage taking form, the portal loomed.
An impossible monolith, neither stone nor glass, shifting at the edges like the veil of a dream. The light within it flickered, unsteady, like an untrustworthy reflection. As they approached, she lifted her hand, fingers grazing the bark. The wood was warm beneath her touch, thrumming.
The doorway to the Veil.
Death turned to her, holding out a length of black silk, folding it carefully over his palm before reaching for her hand.
"I will take the mantle of my godhood,” he said quietly. "It is required for this."
Ilys swallowed, watching as he looped the silk around her wrist and knotted it with careful precision. His fingers moved deftly, securing the fabric with an ease that suggested long practice. Then, without hesitation, he bound his own wrist and pulled the silk taut, knotting it over and over again until the black threads coiled against his skin like vines.
