A ripple of voices carried through the square, a low murmur of agreement that pricked at her skin. Ilys’s mind flashed back to the riot, to her body curled beneath fists and boots, breath crushed from her lungs. She saw that same fury in their eyes now, as clearly as she saw the guards shifting, knuckles white on their spears.
They no longer believed. Not in the King. Not in the Veil. Not in her.
“Traitor,” Lord Veylen announced behind her, his voice carrying over the stonework. “Spy. Poisoner of Faith. Desecrator of the Veil.”
The prisoner twisted, bloodied lips curled in contempt. “Your Veil is rot,” he rasped.
Ilys paused, just a step below the prisoner. Her fingers tightened on the hilt.
“I know what you are,” he said, eyes locking with hers through the veil. “Beneath your mask, beneath your names and prayers. I know what you really are.”
She fought the fallible sentiment threatening her resolve. Raised the blade.
The prisoner screamed before the knife touched him. Fear marked many, but fury set him apart: a raw, howling defiance that filled the execution square and set the onlookers shifting, uneasy in their boots. The sound carried through the Capitol like a crack in the stone.
He lunged.
It happened too fast, the bonds snapping, the guards shouting, her body reacting before thought could catch up. Hethrew himself at her with desperation and ruined pride. The blade caught him low, too low, not in the heart. Blood erupted across her front, warm and immediate. It splattered the veil, painted the temple’s holy sigil across her chest in arterial red. He crashed into her and they both went down. She hit the stone hard, air knocked from her lungs. He writhed on top of her, choking, clawing at her arms, his mouth a gory snarl.
She screamed.
Not in pain. Not in fear.
In rage.
The blade came down again, into his neck this time. Again. Again. It caught between bone. She twisted. She felt something snap.
He convulsed. Shuddered.
Stopped.
The square mourned and when she rose, her robes clung to her like a second skin, soaked through in crimson. Her veil drooped, half-torn, exposing one hollow eye. Her gloves had split at the seams from gripping the blade so tightly, and blood ran in thin rivulets down the inside of her wrists, warm and indistinguishable from the man’s.
A woman’s voice cracked out, “Murderer!” before being drowned by the hiss of others trying to hush her. The guards shifted nervously, shields raised, eyes sweeping the crowd, expecting a riot to break at any second. Ilys felt their stares sear through her veil: hungry, accusatory, unblinking.
Veylen approached at last. “Well done,” he said, his smile crooked. “So thorough. So... zealous.”
She didn’t look at him.
She looked down.
At the ruin she had made.
Chapter 12
Twenty-second year in the life of Ilys of the Veil
“You’re back.”
Ilys ran to Grim. When she reached him, her arms wrapped around his neck, holding tight, anchoring herself to solidity after too long at sea.
Grim stiffened but after a breath’s pause, his arms folded around her.
Near her ear, his voice came low, rough from travel. “There’s a name-gift in the saddlebag.”
Ilys swallowed, pressing her forehead briefly against his shoulder, allowing the warmth of his presence to settle over her before pulling back. “You remembered.”
Grim exhaled through his nose, which could have meant “of course” or “don’t make a fuss of it.”
