He reached for her throat, gripping gently with threats, not force.
“I can break every piece of you,” he whispered. “And I will. You will beg before the end.”
Ilys turned her face, eyes meeting his for the first time that day. Not with hatred, not with fear, just quiet, bone-deep refusal.
He dropped his hand just as though it sullied him to touch her and stood quickly, spine stiff with restraint.
“Leave her,” he said to the guards, already turning. “Let her stew in her silence.”
The door closed. The lock turned.
She remained kneeling in the dark, the air compact with ash and the scent of burned flesh. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, and her limbs trembled now, weak from blood loss and pain. But she stayed upright.
Silent.
Still.
Unbroken.
The Great Hall reeked of sanctity and smoke. Incense burned in black iron bowls at every corner, thickening the air with myrrh and bloodroot. The Eye of the Veil peered, painted on the stone floor in lamb’s blood, still tacky underfoot. Banners hung like funeral drapes. The nobles gathered in muted silks, their jewels dulled by ash. The priests were already chanting.
And at the center stood the altar, no longer symbolic.
It had been re-fashioned. Shackles at the base. Grooves in the stone to catch the runoff.
The doors opened.
Ilys was dragged in, half-conscious, her body limp, her feet trailing streaks of blood behind her. Her shift struggled, a little more than rags now, soaked through in places, torn in others. Flesh showed beneath: burned, cut, swollen. Her shoulder displayed a ruin of blistered skin, the brand raised like a second mouth.
Two guards hoisted her onto the altar, strapping her arms to the iron hooks. Her head lolled. Hair clung to her face in clumps, dark with sweat and gore.
The King entered behind her, robed in black and silver, his hands bare. His crown had changed, now a circlet of twisted nails, rusted and sharp. In one hand, he heldThe Book of the Veil. In the other, a broad serrated blade, forged for this ritual alone and stained from use.
He stood above her.
“Before us lies the hollow shell of a once-holy thing,” he declared, his voice smooth and theatrical, echoing beneath the high vaults. “A Veilwalker who drank from poisoned wells. Who opened her body to shadow. Who held hands with the Unbound. I alone can fix her.”
He stepped closer and touched her face with two fingers, lifting her chin. Blood had dried beneath her nose. One eye labored to open, swollen half-shut.
“This is not cruelty,” he promised. “This is love made sharp.”
He began to read.
“And the flesh shall be carved from the wayward,
Until only the sanctified remains.
Let not her blood defile the ground,
But consecrate it in suffering.”
He raised the knife.
The first cut went deep, across the belly, horizontal and unflinching. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make her scream.
She did.
Not a loud scream, but a choked, raw sob that echoed like a prayer swallowed wrong. Her back arched against the restraints. Blood poured from the wound, spilling down her sides, staining the altar dark.
