The Veil seemed to darken, its pulse shivering through the air like breath drawn through teeth. A stunned silence fell. Ilys’s heart pounded in her ears.
“Why would he—” Her words fractured, choking out between gasps. “The King killed you?”
Grim’s arms wound around her, pulling her close with his strong, iron-willed grip. He didn’t speak. He just held her. Lether sob into his shoulder, let her fists curl into the fabric at his chest, let her mourn what had been stolen from them. She wept. For the years lost. For the nights she spent cursing his name. For the prayers she whispered to the Fates, begging to forget him. She wept for the boy she had never known, for the man who had raised her, for the Veilwalker who had been used and discarded like a spare blade waiting to be drawn.
She sobbed, and Grim, steadfast, unmovable Grim, held her like he had never let go.
“Look at me, Ilys,” he commanded, shaking her from the sobs that wracked her body. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out everything, the unraveling of the world she thought she knew. But Grim wasn’t letting go.
Grim's grip tightened on her shoulders, grounding her. “Look at me, Ilys.” His voice called again, cutting through her sobs, stark and adamant. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the nausea rising inside her. Grim shook her once, sharply. “Eyes open.”
She obeyed, meeting his gaze.
“Why did he do this?” He repeated her question to her. “Because the Bargain was never for Death. It was for the King.”
Her stomach lurched. “What do you mean?”
“Death needed a servant, one to walk beside him when the world began twisting its own threads. Men had started weaving magic into the skein, pulling at fate to live longer, to cheat the end. The Veilwalker was born from that need, to keep the balance, to cut away what refused to die. That part was true, yes.”
He paused, gaze flicking toward Death, who stood silent and vast. “But when the King saw what Death required, he saw a way to turn it. The first Bargain he struck was not to save the kingdom—it was to save himself. Death would not come for the King at his natural end. The Veilwalker’s march each autumn,the rituals, the consecrations, they were meant to feed the illusion that it was all for balance. But every step you took, every soul you claimed, was a tithe of power keeping him untouched by Death.”
Her pulse quickened, dread rising. “But The Book… ”
“TheBook of the Veilis a lie,” Grim said plainly. “It speaks of protection, order, and sacred duty. But the King made it to serve his own ends. It is a crafted illusion.” His voice hardened. “He reshaped reality. Death is cast as a villain, feared and hated. But Death demands no blind obedience. No terror. Only balance. The King twists it, using their deaths as lessons. Fear is his greatest tool. Faith is his strongest weapon.”
Ilys trembled, memories rising sharply of sitting cross-legged as a child, The Book heavy and reassuring on her lap. Stories of duty and safety and purpose wrapped her in warmth, made her believe she was chosen, protected. Her breathing quickened, nausea intensifying. Those comforting truths she held so tightly were but a fragile fiction, easily shattered by Grim's cool veracity.
Ilys pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, overwhelmed.
She felt sick.
“It’s a lie,” she whispered, her voice cracking like ice thawing.
Grim’s expression did not change, an unsettling calm against the storm raging within her. “It always has been.”
Baron pulled her close, “We all believed it, Ilys. All of it, until it was too late.”
“So all of it—all of it was to keep him alive?”
“Yes,” Grim said. “And to make certain no one could undo it.”
Baron broke it first. “You cannot go back there. Not after this.”
“I can’t leave,” Ilys whispered. “Not when he’s still on that throne.”
Baron reached for her hand, his voice gentle, pleading. “You can. You must. You are the last thing he cannot claim. If you stay, he’ll hollow you out until there’s nothing left to fight with.”
Grim said nothing, but the look in his eyes told her he agreed.
Ilys’s breath trembled. “There’s a girl,” she said suddenly. “At the Sanctum. Her name is Hanna.”
Baron’s brow furrowed. “Hanna?”
“My successor.” The word broke her. Ilys turned sharply, staggering as dizziness swept through her. Her vision blurred, shadows creeping into the corners of her eyes. Her breath came raggedly, painfully, each inhalation scraping against the hollow pit that had opened in her chest. A tremor spread through her fingertips, unsteady hands clutching at anything solid, trying desperately to anchor herself as reality fractured around her.
“What have I done?” she whispered, voice raw, pleading, desperate for answers she feared would never come. She looked up, eyes wild, wide, wet with confusion and anguish. “Why?” she demanded, her voice edged with disbelief and despair.
Baron caught her before she fell. “Easy,” he murmured, one hand steady at the back of her neck. “Easy, love.”
