“Have you ever had a choice?” he queried.
“Not remember then—discover what it felt like to choose,” Ilys corrected.
Jorrin reached across the table, sympathy crinkling his eyes as he grasped for her gloved hand. “How lucky am I to be your first choice?”
She told him about Grim’s worst defeat at Fox and Geese and how he still denied its existence. They argued over the best pastries in the castle kitchens, and Jorrin gasped in exaggerated horror when she admitted she did not care for apple tarts. Theyshared secrets, and loves, and hates, and all the crumbs of humanity they had to give.
Then a sharp rap attacked the door.
Ilys frowned. She ignored it.
Another knock followed, more insistent. She let out a slow sigh, turning toward the door.
“I am busy,” she called.
A pause.
Then Baron’s voice, exasperated, sighed, “Ilys.”
Followed by the unmistakable sound of the door latch turning.
Jorrin tensed just as Baron stepped inside, the flickering firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. He took in the scene, the two of them seated at the small table, the half-empty pitcher of wine between them, the unmistakable ease in their postures.
He simply stared. Jorrin opened his mouth, possibly to stammer some defense, but Baron only looked at Ilys, his usual humor faded into soberness.
She had almost let the story slip from her mind—until now. Until Baron’s voice, the scrape of the latch, his solemn face. The same expression he’d worn years ago, when he told her of the Veilwalker who loved and found themself undone for the sin of it.
And behind him came Grim, veiled and breathless, shadowing Baron’s step.
Death calls. Just like he did then. The warmth drained from the room. Ilys inhaled, setting down her cup.
Reality had returned.
Chapter 7
Grim reached for her wrist, afraid she might vanish if he let go. He made no mention of the scene he had witnessed between her and Jorrin. His grip tighter than usual and hot, almost fevered.
“Grim?” Ilys pulled against him, but his strength overpowered her own.
“It’s time.”
She stumbled to keep up, her veil slipping askew. “Time?”
But she knew. Beneath her ribs her breath coiled, small and frightened, curling in on itself.
No one ever knew when the Consecration Rites would come. The ritual’s power lived in its surprise, its inevitability.Death decides, they said.Not man. Not the King.
They took the long corridor down into the belly of the Sanctum, through the iron doors that groaned like old beasts, and into the deep places carved long ago by hands that never left names.
“The Hollow Hall?” she whispered. Panic clawed its way up her throat.
Baron raised a hand to halt Grim. “Give her a moment.”
He cupped her veiled face, his touch gentle, fatherly. “This is where I leave you. Breathe, darling. It will be no trouble at all.” His smile trembled, and she saw the fight it took for him to turn away. Grim only shook his head, unwilling to indulge such softness.
The great arches of the Hollow Hall rose before her like broken ribs. The stone drank the light, black and sharp with cold while the chill bit at her teeth as she crossed the threshold.
They were waiting. The King stood at the far end of the chamber, cloaked in fur and crimson. The Ebon Choir lined the edges of the hall with their arms crossed over their chests. And at the center, unmovable and terrible, stood Death. He wore no crown, no armor. Only a simple dark robe, his hands bare, his expression unreadable. The torchlight did not touch him. His presence was its own eclipse.
