A strangled cry. The grip on her hair loosened. She twisted free, gasping, stumbling.
There were too many.
Another guard caught her from behind, pinning her arms. She thrashed, teeth bared, her head snapping back against his face. A crunch. A curse. She slipped free, dropping into a crouch, reaching for another blade.
And then—a voice she knew.
“Ilys.”
The King.
Chapter 44
The King did not rush toward her. He did not call for his guards to finish what they had started. He was a man who had never once felt the need to hurry. After all, time stretched before him like the vast, undrinkable ocean.
Ilys stood, her breath still coming fast, her body thrumming with the ache of the fight, of the fists that had bruised her ribs, the grip that had wrenched her hair back. Blood—hers, theirs—dampened the front of her gown, but she did not move, did not reach for another blade. Not yet.
The guards parted at his approach, bowing their heads, though none dared turn their backs on her. She still threatened, even with empty hands.
The King stopped a few paces before her, head angled just so, the torchlight glinting along the gold of his mask. He lifted a hand and unfastened it, revealing the face beneath.
The years had been kind to him. The softening lines of age had settled into a quiet regality, patience tempered byunderstanding. He studied her with a faint smile, not unkind, but appraising, curious.
With an almost amused tilt of his head, he said,"Are you finished, my dear?"
Ilys did not answer.
"You made quite the mess,” he continued, glancing at the guards, some still groaning in pain, clutching wounds that would likely fester by morning if left unattended. "I am not surprised, of course. That is your nature, is it not? A blade in the dark, a hand with no mind of its own, only purpose."
Ilys clenched her jaw, forcing her breath riveted. "I know what I am,” she said.
The King smiled wider. "Do you? Then tell me, Veilwalker, what will you be, now that you have no master? No leash?"
"I will be the end of you,” she promised, recalcitrant and hostile.
He chuckled softly. "Oh, Ilys." His voice poured over, paternal, almost pitying. "I have given you purpose. I have made you holy. Without me, what will you have?"
"A life,” she whispered.
He sighed. "No, my dear. You will have regret."
The King lifted one elegant hand, signaling silently to the guards behind him. They moved swiftly, cautiously, encircling her without hesitation this time, the tension of her threat still hanging heavy in the air.
"Bind her,” the King commanded softly, watching impassively as they closed in.
Ilys did not resist, not now. Her body had spent itself in violence already; to fight further would achieve nothing. They seized her wrists roughly, shackles clamping down tightly, metal biting into her already bruised flesh. Her vision swam momentarily, but she forced herself upright, shoulders squaredeven as chains were locked around her ankles, shortening her stride to a humiliating shuffle.
"Take her to where Grim was held,” he continued, his tone dismissive yet edged with quiet cruelty, as though aiming to break her resolve. "Let her contemplate her choices. Perhaps solitude will teach her what loyalty did not."
She held his gaze, unblinking, until the guards forced her to turn away, pushing her roughly toward the narrow staircase that wound downward, away from the regal corridors and gilded light of the palace.
The air grew colder, stale, as she descended, torches fewer and farther apart until only shadows remained. The dungeons lay beneath layers of stone, ancient walls dense enough to swallow all sound, to bury screams until they turned silent and forgotten.
A cell door creaked open, iron grating against iron, a hollow sound that resonated deep within her bones. They shoved her inside without ceremony, the chains rattling heavily as she stumbled, catching herself against a rough stone wall. The door slammed shut, reverberating with brutal finality, the lock sliding into place like a blade driven home.
She stood still, allowing herself to feel the full weight of her imprisonment, the dark pressing in, oppressive and bloody-minded. Gingerly she knelt down, pressing her hands into the dirt, fingers digging into the grit and grime of the cell floor. She reached outward, palms flat against the cold stone walls, searching desperately for anything that might remain of him.
"Grim,” she whispered softly, her voice barely audible. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, seeking the echo of his strength, the residue of his defiance.
