Ilys approached the altar, a slab of black stone worn smooth by centuries of bowed foreheads and whispered vows. She pressed her fingers to its cool surface, tracing the etchings beneath her touch. The sigil of the Veil. The barley laurel crest of the King. The carved silhouette of a Veilwalker.
Here stood Annon’s past and present. The country’s beliefs pressed into unyielding rock.
She knelt, cringing at the slate biting through her gown, pressing sharp and cold against bone. The prayer bell tolled, while she fought to get comfortable.
“The King is eternal,” she intoned, voice small in the vast hollow of the chamber. Ignoring her ungainly positioning, her heart leapt to recite every word. She loved her King as a veil loves the wind: shaped and defined by it, never needing to see its source. She wished the King and Grim might trade places. How tenderly the King doted on her.
"His will is law,” she continued, breath undeviating. "The Veil shall hold." She pressed her forehead to the altar in closing. "Vasha."
When she rose, the five priestesses stepped back in perfect unison, parting to allow her passage. They did not touch her. They did not speak. They led her through the corridors, each step muffled by the thick hush of the temple halls. The torches along the walls flickered as they passed, their glow dancing across polished stone, casting shadows that stretched and shivered.
Her chamber’s warmth greeted her entrance. A fire crackled low in the hearth, its scent mingling with the ever-present aroma of temple oils and incense.
The priestesses moved with careful precision, their hands light as they unfastened the clasps of her outer robes. They guided her through each motion with wordless efficiency, lifting the heavy ceremonial layers and replacing them with softer linens, then pulling thick stockings over her feet so she would not feel the cold of the stone in the night. Their touch held neither warmth nor chill. Only detachment. After swathing Ilys in the nightdress, they faded from her reach.
A pause. A breath.
Then, in perfect unison, they turned and filed out of the room. The door closed softly behind them, leaving her alone.
Only then did Ilys reach up and remove her veil. She removed it tenderly, willfully. It was an old, familiar ritual, more intimate than the prayers, more sacred than the altar itself. Her veil had been stitched by the consecrated. Dipped in ashwater. Pressed with the sigil of the Veil before she could walk in it. The cloth slipped through her fingers like water, cool and silken. But beneath the softness, the grit of ash clung to the threads. Ilys folded the veil carefully, the way one might fold a shroud. The veil had always known better than she did. It carried her breath, caught her tears, held her silence. It spared her the burden of beauty. Of shame. Of being seen before she was ready to be judged.
When she wore it, she was no child.
She was important. She was divine.
She unsheathed her blade, peeking at her reflection in the glint of the metal: round hooded eyes, tawny skin, and gaunt cheeks.
“Hello face,” she whispered, not unkindly.
She slid the blade away and abandoned her makeshift mirror. Ilys climbed into bed, the heavy blankets swallowing her small frame. Through the high window, the night sky stretched endless and dark, stars pulsing against the void like distant embers.
“Vasha,” she hummed to herself, closing her eyes.
A tether. A truth. And then, she slept.
Grim ate like he always did, efficiently and without ceremony. He tore off a piece of bread with his teeth, chewing as he spoke. “I will leave in three weeks' time.”
Ilys froze, melancholy dragging a pointed finger up her spine. Attachment, ugly and adolescent, crept where it didn’t belong, and she knew better than to let it linger. She lifted her veil, scooping another bite of venison broth into her mouth and urging the warmth to smooth the unwelcome prickle at the base of her neck.
“We have three weeks to prepare,” he continued. “Death has duties for you while I’m away this time.”
Her spoon stilled against the bowl’s rim. “What sort of duties?”
“Whatever duties he sees fit.”
“What use is preparation if the duties remain unknown?”
Grim sighed, shaking his head. “I know the nature of them. They are the nature of all Veilwalkers.”
“Can I not learn alongside you?” she offered. “Travel with you?”
She didn’t hunger for the work, only the time between it, the quiet spans where he might see her, not overlook her.
Whatever might have been said withered before it reached the air. She bit back a sigh, staring at the bowl; the broth lay still and cooling.
Grim stood, his chair grating against the stone as he nodded to the meal in front of her. “Meet me in the yard when you finish.”
Grim stood near the weapons rack, rolling his shoulders, testing the grip of a simple dagger. He trained with the real thing. No dulled edges. No blunted tips.
