But here, beneath this sky, she came nearer still. Her heart ached with it, brimming, spilling over. Looking into the blaze of false stars, she felt as though she were touching the fabric of human life itself threaded through with sorrow and joy, pain and wonder, woven into eternity.
The bell tolled again. Louder. Sharper. And the people came.
Not at once, but in fragments. They slipped in and out of her vision like reflections on rippled glass, until more gathered, stepping from every curve of hill and hollow of glade. They were not wisps. Not shadows. Whole. As they had been in life. Some wore fine garments, the embroidery at their hems catching the starlight. Others walked barefoot, their hands still dirt-stained, as though they had just left their work. A man passed, smiling softly, a book tucked beneath his arm. A woman carried a bundle of herbs, plucking leaves absentmindedly between her fingers. A child knelt in the flowers, hands outstretched, catching a tiny bug unseen between his palms. Garments catching starlight. Rings dropping from hands as mist. Belongings falling useless to the ground.
The line stretched on, moving with quiet purpose toward a horizon she could not yet see.
It was endless. River and plain and forest emptied themselves into this single procession, every figure drawn by the same inexorable pull. Their steps rose and fell together, soft as rain, yet the sound thundered in her chest. The tether at her wrist vibrated with it, each footfall a pulse through her blood, through the earth, through the stars themselves.
They followed him. Not like subjects trailing a king, nor mourners behind a bier, but as though he were the tide and they the sea itself: pouring forward, unresisting, inevitable. The Veil bowed to him, opened for him, its rhythm keeping time with his stride.
Ilys stood at the edge of it, breath ragged, overwhelmed by the immensity of what she witnessed. This was no solemn duty. No sacred ritual. This was the world’s climax, the truest truth hidden beneath every scripture and lie: all life flowing into his hands, all threads drawn to their end.
Ilys’s gaze swept the procession, dazzled and undone by its immensity—until a sharp sense pierced through the perfume of crushed grass and cold starlight.
A scent.
Leather darkened with rain. Tobacco smoke clinging to wool. A note of iron, faint as memory. Her lungs seized. She knew that smell as surely as her own skin.
Baron.
Her head snapped toward the line, eyes raking desperately across the endless procession until she saw him. Broad shoulders. The familiar slope of his jaw. And his hair, auburn still, though muted now with strands of copper fire catching the strange starlight. He walked with the same unhurried stride she remembered, boots leaving no mark upon the grass, gaze fixed on the horizon where Death led them.
“Baron.” The name tore out of her, ragged, wild.
The tether yanked taut as she surged forward, silk burning her wrist. She shoved through the silent figures, vision tunneling. “Baron!” she cried again, louder, desperate, running now, heart pounding against her ribs.
This time, he faltered.
The turning felt like revelation. His eyes, when they found her, shone with the far glow of constellations. The procession dissolved around them. There was only him.
He stepped toward her, out of the rhythm, out of the tide, breaking the procession’s perfect order. With each pace, the scent of him grew stronger, the memory of his warmth, his low laugh, the press of his hand at her back.
“Ilys.”
Her name on his lips nearly undid her. She stumbled forward, clutching at him, tears spilling hot down her cheeks. His hands—familiar, callused, real—rose to cup her face. The tether at her wrist thrummed in protest, vibrating and recognizing the trespass.
She pressed her forehead to his, breath trembling, half joy, half ruin.
Baron swayed against her, disoriented, his gaze flicking back to the endless line of souls as though seeing it for the first time. His voice faltered. “I was just—”
“What?” Ilys gasped. Her grip tightened. “What is it?”
Confusion darkened his eyes. “I don’t remember… coming here.”
Her stomach dropped. He didn’t remember dying. Heat surged sickening through her chest, all she had done pressing in hard and merciless. All the words she had never thought she’d have to say tangled in her throat.
“Baron,” she forced out, voice cracking. “You are in the Veil.”
He blinked at her, then laughed softly, rubbing a hand across his face. “Yes, I know, my girl. Of course I know.” His smile flickered, crooked, achingly familiar. “I was just with Grim.”
Her breath caught. “Baron,” she rasped, desperate now. “You are dead. I killed you.”
At that, he stilled. His gaze cut into hers, searching, steady, strangely gentle. “Ilys,” he said quietly, firmly, punctuating every word. “I know.” He brushed her tears with his thumb, shaking his head faintly. “My sweet girl. Don’t cry.”
The guilt she had carried like armor shattered. It poured out of her in sobs as he pulled her close, his voice a balm against her ear. “Come,” Baron urged softly. “Shhh. Enough. Let us find Grim.”
Her body stiffened. She pulled back, staring up at him, confusion cutting through her grief. “Why do you keep saying that?” Her voice cracked, sharp with fear. “Baron—we’re in the Veil. He’s not coming.”
