Rowenna set the basket down on the bed and immediately set to work, drawing out a sheet and shaking it with practiced ease. The fabric rippled like a billowing sail before she folded it over itself with sharp, crisp movements.
“Start from the beginning,” she demanded, not bothering to look up.
Ilys leaned against the post of the bed, tracing the wood grain. “Grim arrived just after first light. I heard his horse before I saw him.”
Rowenna’s hands never stopped moving. “And Death?”
“He sat behind him,” Ilys explained, watching as Rowenna smoothed the linen with deft fingers. “On a black steed.”
Rowenna folded the sheet into a perfect square. “That’s how they always describe him,” she muttered. “I have the same chills that comes over me in anEbon Choir sermon.” Rowenna pulled a smaller cloth from the basket, folding with quick, precise gestures. “Could you see his face?”
“No,” Ilys admitted. “His hood was drawn. But I felt him.”
“Felt him?” Rowenna paused, her hands hovering over the next piece of linen.
Before Ilys could reply, the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, the rustle of heavy robes following close behind. The priestesses.
Ilys froze.
“Rowenna.” Came the familiar voice of Mother Inrith.
Without hesitation, Ilys dropped to her knees and ducked beneath the bed, her breath shallow as she pressed herself into the shadows.
The door creaked open. Rowenna remained composed, smoothing the last linen with unhurried precision.
Mother Inrith stood in the doorway, her presence filling the small room. Her dark robes, embroidered with the golden sigil of the Veil, pooled at her feet.
“Rowenna,” she addressed, her tone clipped but not unkind. “You are to attend to the services. We will need you ministering.”
“Yes, Mother,” Rowenna replied, dipping her head in deference.
Ilys remained deathly still beneath the bed, watching the hem of the priestess’s robes shift as she turned. The slow synchronized footsteps of the others, following the Mother’s departure.
The door shut, their previous conversation stretching between the pair.
Rowenna’s fingers traced over the fabric, smoothing out an invisible crease before finally resolving the quiet.
“Continue, Ilys,” Rowenna said, her voice tinged with quiet amusement. “I believe you were just about to tell me how you’ve beenfeelingDeath.” She waggled her eyebrows at the innuendo.
Time slipped by with an unnatural ease now that Grim arrived home.
The days settled into a familiar rhythm of training in the warming air, meals taken side by side, and the occasional evening spent in the dim glow of the hall, where Baron sometimes joined them.
Grim reclaimed his duty over the execution orders after his return. The blade once again rested in his hands, but now, Ilys stood beside him.
Lord Veylen never attended when Grim carried out the King’s justice. Neither did the King himself.
Spring had come, but the air still carried the bite of winter’s gnawing breath. Now, in the swaying hush of the carriage, she turned to Grim, restless energy twisting beneath her skin. She needed a distraction, any small act to quiet the slow-building frustration of watching, waiting, existing held from purpose.
“Tell me about the Veilmarch again,” she pried, shifting her balance as the carriage rocked gently over the uneven road.
Grim, veiled as always, barely inclined his head. “You are fixated on this,” he mused. “You never ask to hear about the necromancers or the immortals.”
“The necromancer makes me ill.” Ilys made a face, tugging absently at the hem of her gloves. “They never teach me about the Veilmarch. It feels like rabbit.”
Grim huffed, amusement curling at the edge of his voice. “Rabbit?”
“Yes.” She folded her arms. “Something kept from me, so now I must have it.”
