Veylen froze.
Grim’s voice hissed through his lips. “You sent her there knowing those people.” His breath came hot through the veil. “Knowing their hearts. Knowing that if they had the chance they would not hesitate to send a message to the King.”
Veylen tensed, but Grim did not give him room to speak.
“You sent her with little guard. No preparation.” His grip tightened, the blade biting deeper. “And if she had died—” he let out a breath, sharp and lethal, tilting his head—“I would have dragged you to the Veil myself, and delighted in how your soul unspooled like thread.”
Veylen swallowed carefully, his throat pressing against the unforgiving edge of the dagger. His usual smirk transformed, replaced with dark calculation.
Grim pressed in closer, his voice a low snarl. “She is necessary for this Bargain, Yannik,” Grim spat, stripping the title from his voice. “You are not.”
Veylen’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but he did not fight back.
“When you play with her life,” Grim continued, his tone digging an unmarked grave, “you play with all of ours.” The dagger tilted, pressing just enough for a bead of blood to rise against the pale skin of Veylen’s throat. Grim leaned in. His voice like a blade drawn in close. “Particularly your own.”
Veylen, to his credit, did not flail or plead. Instead, after a long pause, his lips curled ever so, his voice calm despite the blade at his throat. “Are you going to slit my throat here in the Veilwalker’s chambers?”
Grim let the following silence stretch, holding him there a beat longer before stepping back. Veylen’s breath left him as he adjusted his tunic, and rolled his shoulders, shaking off the threat. His fingers brushed the shallow cut at his neck, feelingthe blood there, his expression unreadable. He then turned his gaze to Ilys, eyes flicking over her, assessing.
“Your recovery seems to be going well,” he noted, as though Grim had not just nearly gutted him. “The King will be pleased.” With a polite bow of his head, he turned away. The door shut behind him.
Ilys sighed, rolling her head back against the pillow, allowing the moment to settle. Then, she gestured lazily toward the Fox and Geese board.
“Well,” she drawled. “You fold faster than a temple novice.”
He reached for the chair, and missed. “I let you win,” he claimed.
Ilys smirked beneath her veil. “That is what a sore loser would say.”
Grim huffed, but no real fire sparked behind it. He set the piece back onto the board, his fingers pausing, his mind clearly elsewhere.
She studied him before asking, “Does Death still wait outside?”
His fingers twitched, but he nodded, careful not to meet her eyes.
“You need to finish the season, yes?” she pressed.
“In time,” he promised, adjusting her pillow with unnecessary precision. “You are still healing.”
“I am nearly healed, Grim.” He sighed and she continued, “And I worry of the consequences of your dawdling, as much as I like you near.”
“Someone needs to bat Jorrin away.”
“I do not kid, Grim.” Ilys stared at his weary form.
“Neither do I. You are careless with Jorrin. If anyone knew… ” His voice urged.
Ilys frowned, watching him carefully. “Do not change the subject.”
After a pause, Grim lifted his head, his veiled gaze finally meeting hers. “Death is invested in your life,” he said, voice low. “In your health, just as much as I.”
A strange, slow chill curled through her at his words.
Grim considered her longer before leaning back, the tension in his posture painfully blatant.
“But I will bear what you’ve said in mind.”
Chapter 10
