She shoved him away; he hit the ground, limbs jerking, fingers raking through empty space.
No time.
The old man approached behind her now, breathing hard, moving like every joint hurt. She waited until he stepped close enough to smell, then drove the heel of her hand into his nose, eliciting a fustian crunch. He staggered. Blood poured, but still he swung again, wild. Ilys ducked, but he caught her veil, yanked hard. Her head snapped back.
She stabbed behind her, blindly, and felt it sink into soft tissue.
A groan. Hot breath on her neck.
She twisted the blade.
He fell like wet meat.
She pulled back, trembling, panting, soaked now in blood that wasn’t hers. Her fingers slipped on the hilt. Only the soldier remained. He watched her, a terrible hush settling through his body—waiting.
Because now she was tired. Now her grip was slick, her breath uneven, her body shaking. Now, he thought, he had the advantage.
He came in close. Fast. He grabbed her wrist. They struggled, elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder. He tried to turn the blade in her hand. Tried to force it back toward her. She bit the meaty flesh of his neck, hard. Deep.
He screamed. Let go.
She drove the blade into his thigh, pulled it out, and dug in again, this time into his gut. He dropped to his knees, trying to clutch at her—to beg, maybe—but she didn’t stop. She stabbed until he didn’t move.
Until her arm shook with the effort.
Until her veil soaked through.
Only her breath remained, thin, ragged, and the blood dripped off her hands onto the stone. Her lungs dragged in the air around her like she’d been drowning. A sob ripped loose, cut short by the cloth at her mouth. She couldn’t stop panting in short, shallow gasps that scraped her throat raw. Her hands wouldn’t unclench. Her body wouldn’t listen. Her knees knocked beneath her, and the dagger slipped once, clattering against the stone before she snatched it up again with trembling fingers. Water fell from the ceiling, diluting the blood staining her hands.
No. Tears,she realized.
“Ilys of the Veil,” Death called, his voice shuddering through the hall. “You have marked your place at my side.”
Ilys swallowed, shakes wreaking havoc on her form. A frenzied energy inside rendered her unable to move of her own accord. She felt the eyes of the room upon her.
The King approached, robes dragging. He spared no glance to the mangled bodies around her, instead holding out a hand to help Ilys to her feet.
“How proud we are, daughter.” The King beamed. Ilys welcomed the flare of content that rose at his praise. “I knew from the moment I saw you what you were made for.”
Ilys took his hand, standing. She urged her body to cooperate.
You are a Veilwalker, she thought.Stop shaking.
A sudden retching noise from the wall ahead stole the attention of the room. A member of the Ebon Choir keeled over, vomiting relentlessly.
“Some are weaker than others.” The King shared a smile with her.
The sound had awoken Ilys’s gaze to the rest of the room. The King in front of her. Death holding court at the top of the hall. And Grim.
Grim’s hands had curled into fists. She knew him well enough to read what lay inside the gesture, even through the veil. Tension. Relief. The fight to stay still. Her chest loosened at the sight of him, a single anchor in the storm.
The King bent to her ear. “Let us finish the rites, my dear. Only your vows wait.”
The King’s hand steadied her shoulders as he guided her forward. At the far end of the hall, Death rose from his seat. He moved like smoke given shape, descending the dais with each step more solid, until what stood before her was a man. Mortal, though not. His eyes fixed on her, cruelly calm. Hooded eyes, defined facial bones, and tousled midnight hair.Yes, He looked just as Death should, Ilys thought to herself. She had the unbidden thought that she would like to draw him.
“Ilys of the Veil,” he greeted. His mortal voice entered scratchy and low.
A ceremonial dagger placed in his palm, he drew a jagged line across the meat of his hand, the blood dark and heavy. He extended the blade to her.
