She did not know how long she laid there, staring at the wall, her mind replaying every second, every breath, every moment from the Veil.
Grim’s hands, warm against her cheeks.
His voice, fond despite the truth, unraveled before her.
The way his gaze softened as he spoke her name.
The way he had held her, kissed her tears away, whispered promises he could not keep.
The way he had walked through the doorway.
Gone.
Her breath caught in her throat, ripping through her chest and spreading like ice in her veins. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it away, willing all of it away, but it only settled deeper, sinking into her marrow.
The creak of a floorboard snapped her eyes open.
Death stood in the doorway.
The sight of him made her stomach twist violently, nausea curling up her throat. He was mortal again. His godhood had been shed in the return journey, leaving behind only the man. The liar. The one who had known.
"Get out." Her voice came hoarse, raw from sleep and grief, but the venom in it was unmistakable.
Death’s brows furrowed. "Ilys.”
“Get out.” She pushed herself upright, arms trembling under her own body, but she did not falter. Her blood burned with a fury that scraped against her ribs like jagged bone. “You lied to me,” she hissed, breath sharp and uneven. “You knew. You knew and you let me…” Her voice fractured, but she swallowed the wretched sound rising in her throat.
Death took a careful step forward, scrutinizing her every tendon, every breath. "Ilys, please.”
"GET OUT."
She launched the nearest object at him, a tin cup left on the nightstand. It hit the doorframe with a sharp clang, missing him by inches.
"GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!" Her screams rang through the room, through the walls, sharp and unrelenting. She reached for whatever was near: a pillow, the candlestick, a book, anything to throw, anything to drive him away.
“I was bound by blood, Ilys!” he shouted. It was so rare to hear him raise his voice, it rattled her. “I was bound. He sought to protect you through my silence. So you did not have to feel what he felt. Act as he did.”
“You should have found a way,” she ground out.
“This will not solve anything.”
She wrenched against his hold, desperate to escape, desperate to strike again. “You think you are judgment,” she spat, her voice hoarse with grief, with fury. “You are nothing more than a stupid dog, heeding commands without question, without thought. You cannot audit your instincts, cannot challenge what has been whispered into your ear since the dawn of time.”
She shook, her body trembling. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her vision blurred.
“I implore you,” she whispered, raw and aching, “beg you, to have a conscience. I know you can feel love. I know you can feel empathy. You foolish, foolish man. Help me kill him.”
“When you kill him,” he said finally, voice low, even, “what do you think will happen? A new government will rise? Fair and loving? The world will be just? That is a fantasy, Veilwalker.”
Her breath hitched. She wrenched at his hold again, but he did not yield.
“Live your life,” he said. “Do not waste it in this way.”
The sob tore from her, sudden, violent. “I want to die.”
His grip faltered. Just enough. Moisture shimmered along his lashes as he bent to her.
“Anwyl Vyth. Anwyl Veth.” The language of gods spilled from him: soft, aching, and urging. Ilys flung the litany from her mind.
