The carriage had not been for the King.
Instead, Lord Veylen stood in his place, a spider poised at the center of its web. Torchlight danced along the stone, carving shadows across the sharp planes of his face.
Ilys halted in the doorway. “Such a late hour.” She noted, keeping her voice even.
Lord Veylen smiled, all teeth, the glint of his Ebon Choir ring catching in the dim glow.
“Sometimes Death needs a message delivered rather quickly.”
The words slithered between them, smooth and unhurried. Ilys did not answer. Instead, she merely inclined her head and followed him from the Sanctum, her steps quiet against the stone. She had walked these halls a thousand times before, but under Lord Veylen’s watch, they felt narrower. More suffocating.
When they stepped outside, the cold air bit at her through the folds of her cloak. A waiting driver pulled the door open andLord Veylen gestured her forward, his ring catching the light once more.
“After you.”
He followed, settling across from her with the ease of a man who had never been denied a single thing in his life.
The carriage jerked forward.
Lord Veylen, of course, could not abide stillness. “You seemed disappointed that it was me who had come for you.”
She kept her gaze fixed on the long, dark road, the torches lining the streets casting flickering shadows along the path.
“Perhaps you miss the King’s attention,” he mused.
Still, she did not speak.
Veylen, undeterred, let his silk voice unravel. “He’s a very busy man, or else I am sure he would attend to you more often. You are such a darling of his.”
Ilys finally turned, meeting his gaze through the dim carriage light. Her eyes glinted sharp and as cool as a cat’s. “I find your common conversation beneath my office, Lord Veylen,” she said smoothly. “Perhaps entertain yourself by some other means.”
Veylen’s lips thinned, the amusement in his expression curdling. His fingers twitched where they rested on his knee, before rising to absently toy with his Ebon Choir ring, twisting it against his skin. Then, almost idly, he caught at her skirts, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.
“So grown,” he inveighed. “So sure.”
Her pulse hammered. Heat rose sharp and indignant in her chest, but her body betrayed her; still and rigid, Ilys found herself unable to drive his hand away.
The carriage lurched, jostling him back and breaking the nearness. He didn’t reach for her again.
As they neared the square, the air shifted. First came the smoke, curling under the carriage door. Then the acrid stench, layered with pitch and rot. And finally, orange light bledacross the rooftops like an open wound. Ilys straightened, brow knitting as she caught the first flicker of orange light dancing beyond the rooftops.
Then came the noise.
Screaming.
Shouting.
The wailing of children as they clung to their mothers, pulled along by frantic hands. Men moved through the streets in clusters, some fleeing, others pressing forward. Shadows writhed in the firelight, some with torches, others with weapons. Chants echoed through the square, fractured and discordant, their meaning lost in the chaos.
She turned to Lord Veylen, curiosity winning out over disdain. “What is happening?”
He smiled. A slow, predatory leer. “Death is not pleased, Veilwalker.”
She did not move, but her gut coiled tight.
Veylen leaned back into his seat, watching her with quiet amusement as the carriage rattled closer to the square.
“Thank the Fates,” he congratulated, tilting his head, “that he sent you to unravel this untidy mess.” His smile widened, flashing white in the firelight. “I would share more," he added, a mocking lilt to his voice, “but I find it would be beneath you.”
