Twenty-first year in the life of Ilys of the Veil
The gardens were bathed in a soft silvery glow, the moonlight cascading over the cobblestones. Ilys stood by the hedges, her figure shrouded in the black garment and veil that clung to her like a second skin. The fabric caught the faint breeze, shifting just enough to suggest the sharp, elegant angles of her face beneath.
She heard the familiar cadence of boots against stone before she saw him. Stepping out from the shadowed path, Jorrin’s dark jacket was tailored to his broad frame and his crisp white shirt caught the glow of the lanterns. His high cheekbones were now more defined, carved by years of discipline and duty in the guard, though the boyish charm that once softened his expression still lingered faintly at the corners of his mouth. He’d combed his chocolate hair into neat order, but the wind caught at the strands near his temple.
“You always pick the loneliest corners,” he said, gently teasing, though his gaze lingered on her as though she might disappear into the shadows.
Ilys turned her head toward him, though her veil concealed her expression. “Perhaps I like the company of my own thoughts.”
“Your thoughts,” Jorrin said lightly, stepping closer, “are weighty, homely little things. Let me send them away.” He stopped a short distance from her, his eyes searching the dark fabric obscuring her face.
“Decades of Veilmarches,” Ilys relayed, her voice light but edged with the memory of seemingly endless winters. “Yet I never quite learn how to fill the silence.”
“Grim will be home soon enough,” Jorrin assured. He moved closer until he stood within arm’s reach. The veil swayed, teasing at the mystery it concealed. Jorrin’s dark eyes lingered there.
Another breeze caught the veil, lifting it ever so before it resettled. Jorrin’s hand twitched at his side. Finally, he spoke, his voice softer now. “May I?”
After a long moment, she inclined her head just enough to grant him permission. Jorrin’s fingers climbed unperturbed as they brushed the edge of the veil, the fabric yielding under his touch. He lifted the veil inch by inch, until her face lay bare before him. The lantern light danced across her sharp features, casting delicate shadows that accentuated the angles of her cheekbones and the curve of her lips. Her eyes, dark and expressive, met his without flinching. The scars etched across her left cheekbone and jaw caught the lantern light, faint but unmistakable.
Jorrin stepped forward, his expression shifting. Not pity, not fear, but awe. He reached out, fingers grazing the ragged edges of her scar, mapping its path like a devoted cartographer. Histouch grounded, his calloused fingers gentle against the rough texture.
“Three years,” he whispered, his voice soft. “Still your skin clings to the memory.”
Ilys’s breath hitched, her eyes flickering with emotion that felt too raw to name. He cupped her face then, his thumb brushing lightly against her unmarred cheek, his touch grounding her in the moment. His lips met hers in a fierce yet fragile kiss.
When they parted, Ilys remained still, her veil resting forgotten in Jorrin’s hand. “You are dangerous,” she chided.
Jorrin’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “Only because you let me be.” His forehead rested lightly against Ilys’s, their breaths mingling in the cool night air. The veil, still held loosely in his hand, a symbol of boundaries briefly cast aside.
“Tomorrow will be difficult, yes?” He pressed light kisses across her brow. “You hate him, don’t you?” he said into her skin, his lips brushing against hers.
Ilys let out a breathy laugh, though it held no humor. “The man Rowenna is to marry? I despise him.”
“You’ve never met him,” Jorrin accused, amusement coloring his tone as he pressed another kiss to the corner of her mouth.
“I do not need to,” she replied, her voice low against his lips. “Anyone chosen by Mother Inrith for a match is bound to be insufferable.”
Jorrin chuckled, the sound rumbling softly between them. “You are insufferable, as well.”
“And yet,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, her own glittering with a sharp edge. “You’re here.”
He didn’t answer, only kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands coming to rest at her waist.
Tomorrow’s wedding loomed in the distance. Rowenna had insisted it be held in the Sanctum so that Ilys could attend,though the idea of standing amidst the ritual and revelry felt more like an ordeal than a celebration.
“So beautiful,” he teased, pressing her close. “Even when you’re sad. Don’t be sad. Don’t waste what little we have.” His plea rolled in raw, threaded with urgency. Since Jorrin had taken up the guard’s colors, their hours came in fragments, stolen from the jaws of duty.
Ilys pressed her forehead against his neck, forcing the dread of tomorrow away, clinging to this fragile present. “I won’t waste a second.”
And she tried. She really did.
The chamber smelled of sage, the air warm with candlelight and incense. Silken silver pooled across the floor like spilled moonlight.
Rowenna stood still in the center of it all, arms lifted as seamstresses adjusted the draping sleeves of the bridal garment. Her blonde hair had been braided and wrapped into a low coil, the silver veil not yet lowered. She looked mythic, like a story come to life, though her eyes flicked anxiously between the women fluttering around her like moths.
The bridal garment shimmered in the lamplight, woven with silver-threaded flax, dyed the pale gray of a storm-washed sky, in the tradition of Annon. Silver to reflect purity of heart and intention, to mirror the Veil itself: thin, delicate, radiant, and near invisible unless one knew how to look.
Ilys paused at the threshold, her own black robes stark against the soft brilliance of the room. Boots quiet against thestone floor, she stepped inside, and the seamstresses turned, bowing their heads.
