Ilys stared. “This,” she deadpanned, “is the beast?”
From the corner, Baron erupted into laughter, his cackling loud enough to shake the walls. Grim spoke through the amused confession of his smile.
Ilys let out a measured breath, willing her heart to quiet. Then, remembering her poise, she pushed a hand through her dark curls and reached for her veil.
She cleared her throat, eyeing the pup with suspicion. “Why do you interrupt my sleep with a monster?”
“This monster,” Grim quipped, his voice laced with humor, “is your own little babe.”
Baron folded his arms, leaning against the post of her bed. “We know it’s been hard without… ”
“Attachments,” Grim finished.
Ilys’s fingers curled over the blanket.
Baron sighed. “We wanted you to have one of your own. A creature to love. As best as a Veilwalker can.”
A warm, wet sensation bloomed against her calf. She inhaled sharply.
“Your attachment,” she muttered dryly, “has just pissed on my leg.”
“The duality of love,” Baron offered, utterly unrepentant.
Grim shook his head, barely restraining a laugh as Ilys scowled down at the pup. Despite herself, she reached forward, brushing her fingers over his fur. Dark, coarse, unruly. The pup blinked up at her, oblivious to her scrutiny.
She hummed, thoughtful. “You are Morrigan.”
“That’s an awful name for a dog.” Baron grimaced.
Ilys’s eyes narrowed. “There was a priestess once. She looked just like him. If you saw her, you’d know it suits him.”
“I’ve seen her.” Grim chuckled under his breath. “It does.”
Ilys ignored him, shifting forward. “Come here, Mors,” she called, testing the name.
The pup wagged his tail.
Her scowl deepened. “He’s just pissed again.”
In the evening, the sound of clashing filled the training yard, a tempo carved from repetition as Ilys and Grim sparred. Shemoved quickly, her strikes precise, her footing light. Grim met her at every turn, his counters fluid, but she could see it now, the drag in his steps, the fraction of a second delay in his movement. His strength had not faded, not yet, but time had begun to sink into him, pressing at the edges of his endurance.
A year ago, she wouldn’t have landed a hit on him. Today, she did.
She dropped low, pivoted sharply, and swept his legs from beneath him. Grim hit the ground with a solid thud, his sword skidding from his grasp as dust curled into the air.
Ilys straightened, waiting for his usual grumble, his usual quip about luck. But he didn’t speak. He stayed there, his breath steady, but more sluggish than it once would have been. When he finally pushed himself up, elbows braced against his knees, his voice came quiet.
“This Veilmarch,” he announced, “will be my last.”
Ilys froze.
She gripped her sword tighter. “You don’t mean that.”
Grim’s veiled gaze lifted to hers. “I do.”
She could hear it in his tone. The finality.
“I’ve spent half my life walking with Death,” he continued, voice even. “And the truth is, there is beauty in the Veilmarch. Beauty I’m excited for you to experience.”
