“Listen to me, Ilys,” he said, voice low, deliberate, each word a tether. “What’s done can be undone. But not by blood, not by rage. Take her. Take the girl and go.”
“You want me to run while he still sits on his throne?” she demanded, voice raw. “You want me to pretend none of it happened? That you—Baron, thatyou—”
Baron caught her hands, steady but gentle, his expression soft with sorrow. “I want you to live,” he said quietly. “For once in your life, Ilys, live for something other than him.”
She shook her head, gasping for breath, tears streaking her cheeks. “He killed you. He chained Grim. He made me—” Her voice faltered, breaking on the memory. “He made me everything he wanted.”
Baron gave a faint, rueful smile. “Then stop being what he wants.”
Before she could speak, the Veil pulsed, the sound of a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. Death stepped forward, the air tightening, his godhood weighing down the light.
Ilys spun, her fury snapping loose. “No,” she snarled, stepping between them. “No, no, no—you will not take them!”
Death’s gaze was unreadable, still as carved obsidian. “It is not my will, Ilys. You know this.”
“You knew!” she screamed, shoving against his chest. The hum of his being vibrated through her palms, a living current that made her bones ache. “You knew all of it, and you let me believe! You let me think I was chosen, that it meant something sacred. You let me kill for him. For a lie. You—” her voice broke, trembling— “you lied to me.”
Her fists struck his chest again and again, useless against eternity. She cursed him, cried his name with venom, until her strength crumbled into sobs. And still, Death did not stop her.
Behind her, arms gathered her in. Grim. “Ilys.”
The sound of his voice steadied her, fragile as it was. She turned, eyes red and wet.
Grim cradled her face in his hands. “He is not at fault for this,” he said gently. “When I learned the truth, I bound him to silence. I thought it was mercy.” His gaze wavered. “I was wrong.”
“You made me a murderer,” she choked.
“I was blind in my complacency,” he confessed.
Her breath caught painfully, her fingers gripping his wrists.
Grim swallowed, his tone trembling. “You were always mine, Ilys. Not as a weapon. Not as a creed. Mine to protect. My brave one. My clever one.” His voice cracked. “My dear one.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead. She felt a tear, his, fall against her skin. “My stubborn girl. My fierce girl.”
Ilys looked between them, trembling. “You can’t both leave me.”
Baron smiled. “We’re not leaving you,” he said. “We’re peeking around the corner. You’ll catch up one day far from now, when you’re good and ready.”
“I don’t even know where to go,” Ilys whispered.
His broad grin deepened as he stooped to press a kiss to her forehead. “Do what you’ve never been allowed to: choose. Find a place to sleep, then a reason to wake. That’s where you start. It’s no trouble at all.”
Ilys’s breath hitched, breaking sharply, tears falling pursy and fast, soaking into his coat, pooling over his heart. Her breath hitched, her body shaking. She could feel it now, the Veil drawing them back, the light dimming at their edges.
“Please don’t—” she whispered.
All the sudden she was nine years old once more, staring at a doorway that sought to thieve everyone she loved.
Baron leaned into her ear. “Say the blessing,” he ushered. “Nice and slow. One could fall asleep.”
Ilys froze. The words caught somewhere between her ribs. Her lips parted, but nothing came at first, only a shuddering breath, the ache of knowing what came next.
Baron’s thumb brushed her hand. “Go on,” he said softly. “You know it.”
She swallowed hard, eyes shining. Then, barely above a whisper:
“Where the fire dims, you will rest.”
