Blood splattered the wooden planks, stark against the sun-bleached scaffold.
Then Grim spoke the final words, a low and measured decree, “The Veil shall hold.”
“Vasha.”
The body crumpled and the guards moved in to deal with what remained. The people turned away, shuffling back to their lives, some murmuring relief, others barely concealing their contempt.
Grim descended the stairs, bearing himself like a man twice burdened. Ilys studied him, seeing the way he carried regret, tucked into the quiet spaces of his being. She saw the way the people hated him. And she saw the way he welcomed it.
Without a word, she fell into step beside him, eager to return home and musing on why she had been desperate to leave.
Never had there been a more awkward dinner.
The table stretched between the small party, candlelight flickering along the dark wood. Ilys pushed her food in idle circles, the meal’s warmth unable to chase the memory of blood from the wood.
Grim ate in measured bites, his movements slow and methodical. Neither of them had spoken much since returning. The heaviness of the day clung to them both, thick as wool.
Then Baron strolled in. He paused just inside the doorway, gaze flicking from Grim to Ilys. He crossed the threshold with ease, holding a bottle aloft like a peace offering. He rested his chin on the top of Grim’s head, dotingly.
“Well,” he said, voice lighter than the air deserved. “You will never guess what I got my hands on today.”
Neither Grim nor Ilys responded. She blinked at him once and Grim didn’t bother to look up.
Baron plunked the bottle down at the center of the table. “Port. Half-decent, too.”
They offered no respite from the awkwardness.
He sighed and uncorked it himself, pouring three glasses without comment. The rich scent curled into the air, earthy and sweet, a small gesture of normalcy.
Baron slid a glass toward each of them. “Don’t worry, I’ll drink yours if it comes to it,” he promised, lifting his own. Grim finally glanced up, exhaling.
Baron took a sip, then leaned back with theatrical satisfaction. “So. Jorrin. You remember Jorrin? Face like a terrified hare, barely knows which end of the sword cuts?”
Ilys tilted her head, curiosity stirring. A mention of Jorrin was a sure way to her attention.
Baron grinned. “Today I find him trying to saddle a beast that clearly wants him dead. The horse is foaming. The boy is whispering sweet nothings like he’s wooing a blushing maiden instead of a demon whore with hooves.”
Grim let out a breath, half amused, half warning.
Baron ignored it, grinning wider. “The horse kicks him clean into the wall. Poor bastard’s ribs are broken.”
A sharp laugh escaped Ilys before she could stop it.
Baron continued, offering smaller absurdities from the day. Complaints from the baker. A crow that shits daily on the western watch. Sluggishly, the room warmed. By the time the meal dwindled, Baron and Grim were speaking in lower tones, while Baron kneaded the muscles in Grim’s hand and forearm. Ilys tuned them out, nudging crumbs on her plate.
She glanced up. “May I be excused?”
“Where?” Grim’s reply arrived suspiciously.
She wavered, then shrugged, deciding not to play coy. “To see Rowenna.”
At that, Grim turned his veiled face toward her.
Baron, sensing the unspoken tension in the room, leaned back in his chair and drained the last of his port. His eyessteadily met Grim’s, communicating in their silent way. He mouthed,let her.
Grim’s posture eased. He caught Baron’s hand, pressed a small kiss against his knuckles, then studied her. His fingers tapped once against the table. His voice, when it came, sated with compromise, bid her be careful. Yet what she wanted—what she ached for—was to be anything other than careful. Anything other than the Veilwalker.
Chapter 5
