“Ilys of the Veil,” Death greeted, stonily. The cold timbre echoed through the hall.
A low grinding sound echoed as a hidden mechanism gave way. The gate on the far wall creaked open, and three men stepped through. They weren’t monsters. Just men, all pale-skinned, sunken-eyed, and bare-chested beneath linen trousers. Shackles clanked around their ankles, though no guards followed them. One looked too young, another too old, and the last had a soldier’s stance—thin but upright.
“Three condemned,” The King announced, plainly. “Each stands in judgment. But if one of them ends you, his life is returned.”
Ilys stared, unblinking. Her heart pounded in her chest.
“A trial,” the King gently clarified, “to prove the one who bears the Veil will not falter beneath it.” His lips curved in a warm, measured smile. “And I know you will not fail.”
Grim’s eyes lingered on her. He had always seen the veil, always understood what it meant, but now fractals of himself reflected back where once there had just been Ilys. Her image was not the child he’d helped raise, but the weapon she had been shaped into. A mirror of Grim's own making. His gaze slid toward the condemned men waiting ahead, but memories would not let him go: Ilys small enough to clutch his leg, stubborn enough to demand answers, soft enough to need reassurance. He remembered the warmth of her hand in his, the silent rhythm he had pressed into her skin. Once. Twice. Three times.I will come back.I love you.
Now, through the thin barrier of gloves, he found her hand again. The squeeze came steady, deliberate. Once. Twice. Three times. The code rushed through her like a pulse. Once, it meant safety, promise, return. Now, at the threshold of the Hollow Hall, it throbbed with another meaning: farewell.
Her breath snagged in her throat. Her heart pressed hard against her veil, aching to break free.
Then Grim’s hand slipped away.
And Ilys moved into the dark alone.
Her hand slipped to the dagger at her hip. The leather hilt pressed against her palm as she drew it free. The blade slid from its sheath with a low scrape. She bowed to the King, low enough that the veil brushed the cold stone floor.
“My King,” she said, voice clear in the hush. “I serve.”
He solemnly took in her form.
She straightened cautiously, then turned her attention to Death. He stood as though carved from shadow and memory, still and absolute. The air bent inward. Light seemed reluctant to touch him. He was the absence of all else.
Death turned his head toward the King. “Begin it how you please,” he directed.
The King straightened further, his dark, fur robes dragging over the stone like spilled ink. The gaudy gold and jewel toned accents were nowhere to be found in his dress. He raised a single hand, not grandly or theatrically, but with the slow precision of one who has done this many times before.
“The Veil is constant,” he intoned, voice echoing through the Hollow Hall. “The flesh is temporary. By trial of will, blade, and blood, let a Veilwalker’s worth be revealed.”
The King lowered his hand.
And the men rushed her.
No trumpet. No count. No signal beyond the shift of muscle and the scrape of feet against stone. They moved like men emptied of fear, the cost already paid.
The youngest lunged first. Barefoot, fast, and reckless. He didn’t aim for the dagger, but in a move that surprised her, he aimed to tackle her, to get her under him and break her before the others could reach her. Ilys twisted out of the way, just barely. His shoulder clipped her ribs and they both stumbled, but she stayed upright. He skidded across the stone, elbows scraping raw.
She didn’t get time to breathe.
The older man ran at her, not fast but purposeful, arms out, fingers curled like hooks. His nails were broken and yellowed, one eye nearly swollen shut.
She stepped back, raised her dagger and—
He swung. Not a punch. A full, clumsy backhand that caught her across the cheek and sent her spinning. She hit the ground hard. The stone grated her palms, and the veil half tore from her head. Blood pooled in her mouth from where her teeth had cut her lip.
Footsteps. Behind her.
She rolled just in time to see the third man—the soldier—charging forward, aiming a kick straight at her side. She caught his shin with her elbow. It threw him off balance, and he staggered past, slamming into the wall with a grunt.
She jumped to her feet before he recovered.
The younger one stood again, wild-eyed now, his mouth foaming, screaming something incoherent. He dove for her legs.
She didn’t dodge. She brought the dagger down. It hit his shoulder first—off-mark, shallow—but it was enough to make him cry out. She yanked it free, fast and cruel, and drove it again. This time, lower. The blade met resistance in his stomach, then sank. She felt the warmth burst over her hands, the wet stutter of his breath as he fell forward onto her, his body convulsing.
