“Come dawn, Death arrived. He stood at the foot of their bed, raised his hand, and the story ended, as ours always do.”
Ilys stiffened, the fabric of her veil clinging muggy against her lips. Baron tilted his head toward her. Not a warning, not pity, but an apology trying to take shape.
“Because love makes cowards of gods. And Death cannot stand to be afraid.”
Later, long past night’s bell, Ilys stood outside Grim’s chamber. Quiet as breath, she slipped inside. The room lay small, spartan with a fire burning low in the grate. Grim sat beside it, cloak draped across his shoulders, his veil discarded, jaw shadowed by stubble. He read with his head bowed, eyes sharp on the page.
The wrongness struck her at once. No crest on the spine, no seal of the Archive. Too worn. Too real.
“You’re not meant to have that,” she said.
Grim didn’t look up. “No?” His tone carried the condescension of someone who already knew the answer.
“Where did you get it?”
“Darrant.”
Her breath caught. “You brought it back. From the last march.”
He said nothing.
“What is it?”
He turned a page.
“Grim.”
He sighed, low and tired. “Something old. The sort they’d never let us keep.”
She moved closer. “Why not?”
“Because it speaks plainly.”
She knelt beside the chair, the hem of her nightrobe brushing the stone.
“Why does that matter?” she asked.
He closed the book. “They don’t want people thinking beyond the bounds. Books make things louder. Questions. Doubt. Desire.”
Ilys studied his face. “Is that what it gave you?”
Grim didn’t look up. “No. I had all of those already.”
She sat with that, then said, “The Veilmarch.”
He hummed in acknowledgement. “What is it truly like? Why does it take so long?”
He turned the book once in his hand, slow and thoughtful. “I’m not always at Veilmarch when I’m gone. The march itself is but a single day, near the end of spring. It’s the path to it that takes time.”
She watched him. “And what lies along that path?”
He glanced at her, then let his gaze drift back to the fire. “Those who live beyond the Fates’ reach. Necromancers. Seerswho look past the veil and try to bend what lies beyond. We deal with them while we wait for the call.”
Her brow furrowed. “Are there many?”
“Few,” he said. “But strong. Clever. Dangerous. No one endeavors to give up life so easily.”
“But Death is with you,” she said. “Is he not?”
