Ilys tried to speak, but her throat felt scraped raw. The words lodged, hefty and unformed.
Before she could try again, footsteps echoed outside the chamber.
The door creaked open as Lord Veylen stepped inside, his presence staining the space like ink spilled over parchment. His gaze swept over Ilys first, his expression callous, but then, maliciously, his eyes slid to Rowenna. Ilys did not like the way they lingered. Even in pain, she noticed. The tilt of his chin. The claws in his gaze. The gleam of hunger behind his civility.
He smiled. “Ah,” he said, stepping closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone. “The Veilwalker wakes.”
Rowenna stiffened beside her, her hands stilling against the wetted cloth.
“I was so worried when I could not reach you. What a shame it would’ve been to lose you to that chaos. A terror, truly.” He savored her discomfort like a delicacy, before tilting his head. “The King will want to see you soon. Rest while you can.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strolled toward the door, but he paused at the threshold. His gaze slid to Rowenna, measured, amused, and creeping too long, before he turned to leave.
“Ilys. Ilys. Ilys.”
She must have drifted again. A hand pressed to her shoulder, insistent, coaxing her back from the depths.
Her eyes fluttered open. The world swam in strange tones that were soft and muted. As the haze lifted, she saw him, Grim, veiled and broad-shouldered, leaning over her.
He exhaled, relief evident even through the fabric obscuring his face.
“My girl,” he crooned, voice low, rough with emotion. His gloved hand lifted, his thumb brushing across her veil-covered brow in a doting motion, assuring himself of her presence. Ilys blinked up at him, her body sluggish, pain still thrumming through every bone.
“Is it spring already?” she rasped, her voice scratchy and thin.
Grim stilled. His shoulders sank, not much, but enough. The air around him quieted.
“No, chit.”
Realization dawned like ice water pouring over her. “What are you doing here?” The question came out hoarse, edged with disbelief.
Grim’s jaw tensed. He lowered his head, his voice raw and strained. “Death felt it, Ilys. The moment your soul wavered. He was nearly at the threshold.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Truly.” But even she winced at the thin sound of her voice, trembling and too hollow.
Grim shook his head, exhaling through his nose, a sound full of exhaustion and something dangerously close to grief. He knelt beside her, lowering himself until his forehead rested lightly against her hand.
“You are going to rest,” he demanded, his voice resolute. “And when you wake, I will hear everything. Every detail. Each soul will answer. We will bear down and drive them to the Veil.”
Ilys frowned, exhaustion and confusion still muddling her thoughts.
His head lifted, and though she could not see his face beneath the veil, she felt the intensity of his stare.
“Rest, Ilys,” he ordered gently. “I needed to hear your voice, but now it is time to sleep.”
Ilys sat upright, rolling her shoulders as she tested the strength returning to her limbs. Two weeks had passed, and the stiffness in her ribs had lessened. The bruises were dark but no longer tender to the touch.
Grim hunched beside her at the table, idly shifting carved Fox and Geese pieces. He wasn’t paying much attention to the game, but then, neither was she. More ritual than anything, a quiet way to fill the space between them.
Ilys nudged one of her pieces forward. “You’re losing,” she observed.
Grim snorted, “I’m humoring you.”
She smirked, prepared to counter, but the door creaked open.
The moment Lord Veylen stepped inside, Grim stilled. The warmth vanished. The ease between them broke like thin glass and in its place came tension, sharp and sudden.
Grim sprung to his feet, the chair scraping violently against the stone as he strode forward, hand shooting out to seize Veylen by the front of his tunic. The force sent Veylen stumbling back, crashing into the wall with a dull thud. Before he could recover, Grim’s dagger danced at his throat, the sharp edge pressing against his pale flesh.
