It reeked of woodsmoke, of old leather, of the cold wind that clung to him like a second skin and creased where his hands had folded it. She imagined him somewhere far from her, boots cutting through frost, cloak drawn tight against the gales. Perhaps he sat by a dying fire, writing with bare fingers, wind-chapped and unfeeling.
She pressed the letter to her chest, imploring it to answer her. She wanted to hate him for it. She wanted to let the words slip from her hands, let them flutter to the cold floor beside her discarded veil. He thought she would take comfort in this, in knowing she had done what had been asked of her, and that her grief, or what small, strange thing remained of it, was irrelevant.
Day in and day out, Grim had pressed the truth into her, and the priestess had religiously reiterated the message. Ilys should be seasoned to agree.
And maybe tomorrow she would be.
She folded the letter carefully, setting it on the bedside table, smoothing its edges like a relic of something that had mattered. Then she turned onto her side, staring at the ceiling, counting her breaths.
One after another.
Like they would never run out.
Chapter 4
Fifteenth year in the life of Ilys of the Veil
Days blurred in a cycle of obedience.
Ilys attended lesson after lesson, her mind drifting as the priestesses droned on about duty and sacrifice. The ink ofThe Book of the Veilobscured before her eyes, pressing into her skull like old, raised scars. When her restless nature truly fattened, she sought out Rowenna, who, if time allowed, indulged her in idle conversation or let her sit in companionable silence. But more often than not, Rowenna belonged to chores, and Ilys was left with only the hollow ache of solitude.
She’d taken to drawing in Grim’s absence, if only to keep from dying of sheer boredom. Initially she spent the long, hollow months of his Veilmarch pacing the castle like a caged animal, restless and irritated, snapping at Baron more often than usual. He had tolerated it, as he always did, before shoving a piece ofcharcoal into her hand and telling her to go busy herself before she took his head off.
Death called for three executions that winter. The first, the King himself presided over. The last two, however, he could not attend. Instead, Lord Veylen stood beside her, his smirks tarrying like oil on water. How she missed the King’s presence.
Ilys ignored the flicker of darkness that quickened in her when the orders came. Finally, a purpose. Finally, a task to anchor her. Regret always followed the blade’s fall, yet for one breath before it struck, she touched the edge of peace.
She was now five-and-ten years of age. And Grim was late.
Two days past due.
The first thaw of sun broke through the frost, softening the land but not the ache beneath her ribs. Ilys stood outside, feigning interest in Grim’s old exercises, the movements automatic and her thoughts elsewhere. Then she heard it, the moored rhythm of hooves on melting ground and her breath caught.
She turned, raptly watching as the gate creaked open. Grim rode through, his broad figure draped in dust and winter’s weariness yet she’d know his gait in sleep. A familial ache unfurled in her chest.
But behind him, cloaked in dusk-black and astride a shadow-dark steed, rode another figure. His presence hit her not like a blow, but like drowning, quiet and all-consuming. The air pressed tighter with every breath. He didn’t need to move. He imbibed everywhere.
Death.
She tried not to flinch, not to step back. Her spine stayed straight, but her skin crawled, his gaze seeming to move not over her body but through it, sorting soul from sinew. Judging. Measuring.
She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin in defiance.
Look all you want. Do your best to intimidate me. You depend on me.
Grim dismounted.
“Big chit,” he noted, voice dry but warm.
“I’ve grown two spans,” Ilys offered.
“I can see that.”
Her gaze flickered past him. “Has he ever followed before?” She nodded toward Death, yards behind him, still silent, still watching.
Grim did not turn, but merely muttered, “No. I imagine he wanted a glimpse of his incoming Veilwalker.”
She hummed, unimpressed. “I imagine he’s disappointed.”
