Grim’s hand found hers and squeezed three times, the old signal of comfort. She nearly wept at the tenderness of it.
“Where the water stills, you will wait.”
Their voices met, the old blessing that belonged to them alone—unsanctioned, unspoken in any temple, a prayer for partings and quiet nights.
“Where the stars gather,” they said together, “you will be known.”
Through her tears, she watched helplessly as they stepped into shadow, dissolving like smoke into darkness, leaving only emptiness in their wake.
Chapter 40
Ilys could not hear the wind. She could not feel the cold bite of winter on her skin nor her own body as Death pulled her from the Veil’s threshold. Her limbs felt distant, untethered, like they belonged to someone else. She did not move, did not speak, did not breathe.
Grim was gone.
Her lungs seized. Air refused her. The ringing built until it swallowed everything—the Veil’s hum, the wind’s cry, the voice still reaching for her.
Hollow grief hollowed deeper.
The journey back through the sacred glade passed in a blur. She did not recall Death leading her away, nor the way his hands tightened around her arms, steadying her when she swayed. The moss and grass that once pulsed beneath her feet were only earth now, dull and lifeless. The trees no longer whispered as they passed.
She did not hear Death shift back into his mortal form. She did not register the way his jaw tightened, nor notice when his shoulders curled inward from his own burden pressing heavily upon him.
Only when he stopped did she realize they had left the forest.
The green ended abruptly, severed by winter’s reach. Spire and Death’s black mare stood where they had left them, their breath curling into the cold air. The sight of them felt impossibly distant, a scene in a life that no longer belonged to her.
A hand closed around her wrist. "Ilys."
She did not react.
"Ilys,” he said again, more forceful now, his grip tightening, shaking her once.
The numbness swallowed her whole.
Death exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against her arm before he released her. Without a word, he lifted her onto his horse. One hand stayed at her waist, not just to keep her upright, but to trace circles over her ribs, coaxing her breath back into rhythm. Her pulse fluttered weakly beneath his palm, a faint reminder that she still lived, even as her mind drifted far from the present.
Then he looped Spire’s reins to his own and mounted behind her, spurring the ride.
She barely noticed the motion, the sway of the horse beneath her, the rhythmic thudding of hooves against frostbitten earth. Time moved without her. The road stretched on in endless miles, the sky above melting into a dull gray, shifting from afternoon into evening.
Somewhere along the way, her body slumped against him. She barely registered the warmth of him, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the grip of his hands at her waist. The inn appeared like a mirage, the glow of its lanterns flickering in the distance.She did not stir when he pulled the horses to a stop, nor when he slid from the saddle and caught her in his arms.
The innkeeper did not question them. Perhaps it was the look on Death’s face, or the glassy, hollow emptiness in Ilys’s eyes. He offered the room in silence, unwilling to disturb the ruin they carried in with them.
She did not notice when Death lowered her onto the bed, nor when he pulled off her gloves, setting them beside her. He hesitated, then reached for her boots, loosening the laces with careful, deliberate hands.
Still, she did not move.
Death sat beside her for a long moment, his gaze heavy and indecipherable as he rubbed a hand down his face.
"You will rest,” he ordered though she gave no indication she had heard him.
Without another word, he stood and stepped away.
Ilys woke curled into herself, her body wound so tightly that every joint ached; her fingers were pressing into her arms as though she could keep herself from unraveling. Her breath came shallow, uneven. Her pulse was a frantic, fluttering thing beneath her ribs.
The room was dim, the candle on the table having long since burned down to a stub, its wax pooled in a stagnant drip. No light crept in from the night outside. The air smelled of old wood and damp fabric, the faintest traces of the stew and ale from the evening before floating in the quiet corners.
