Grim chuckled, low and reluctant, turning back to his saddlebags.
“Shall I tell Baron you’ve arrived?”
“No need for that,” he clipped, tone guarded. “Walk me to my room first. Let me shed this dust before you start your interrogation.”
She nodded but could not help looking again toward Death’s form, still as a specter carved from night. “May I speak to him?”
Grim tilted his head. “You aren’t scared at all?”
“Why should I be scared? We are bound. I to him. He to me.”
Grim turned toward her fully now, weary scrawled across his face. “Is that what they’re teaching you?”
“It’s true.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “He claimed you as Veilwalker. And soon he will claim me.”
Grim shifted his weight, glancing at the guards, lowering his voice. “He’s not one for words.”
She stared longer at Death, dogged in her attention.
“Ilys, come.” Grim’s voice cut through the air, firmer now.
She stared past him, still watching Death. Testing his gaze.
“Ilys,” Grim chided, louder now. Inflexible.
Even as she walked away, she could feel Death watching, like cold fingers tracing the curve of her spine.
Grim set his things down with the practiced efficiency of a man who had lived too long on the road. He unfastened the straps of his saddlebags, laying out his weapons and provisions one by one. His movements were slow but precise. Weary. Familiar. The scent of leather and steel clung to him, softened only slightly by wool and travel dirt.
Ilys hovered in the doorway, arms folded. Watching.
He didn’t look up. “I meant to spend this time alone.”
She stepped further into the room, ignoring his shared sentiment.
Six moons. That’s how long he’d been gone. Six moons of cold routine and colder purpose. Five more choked with commands and names that she longed to forget.
She stopped at the edge of the table, her gaze drifting to the blade he’d placed down. The handle worn thin and the leather wrap darkened from use. She used to wonder what it felt like resting in his palm, the burden, the power, the quiet knowledge of what it could take. Now she knew. Her hands twitched at her sides, calloused fingers brushing against the seam of her cloak. Not idle hands, not anymore.
But now that he was back would the blade pass back to him? What would be left for her in the months to come? This was what she had been made for.
“The executions in the city… they’ll be yours again.” Ilys spoke, statement teasing questioning.
Grim’s hand stilled on the last buckle.
“You’ve grown,” he observed, voice low. Grim spoke not of height.
He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, smoothing his veil and tucking it into his gauntlet. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper now. His shoulders more burdened than before.
“I’ll take them again,” he said finally. “For now.”
“The Consecration Rites are near. Would it not be best if I prepare in any way possible?”
“I will take them, Ilys.” He stood, turning away from her and returning to his work.
Relief entered her mind, reserved and unsure and Ilys turned to the door ready to ignore the thoughts rallying around inside her head.
Ilys itched to recount the day’s events to her confidant. Rowenna pushed open the wooden door to her small chamber with her hip, stepping inside as Ilys followed, careful to close it behind them. The room smelled of thistle soap and a small fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the simple but tidy space.
