She frowned, uneasiness curling in her chest.
“Less pomp. Less ritual,” he mused. “No priests, no processions, no empty prayers from those who don’t understand what we do.” He sighed, stretching one leg out. “Just us. Just the work. New sights, new drinks, new people. You’ll see,” he said, tilting his head, watching her. “When it’s yours to take.”
“Grim?” Ilys called earnestly, as he turned from her. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”
“Tell you what, chit?”
“You are holding back. I can tell. You always have been. There is something you are not telling me.” A battle flickered behind his eyes. He opened his mouth, shut it again.
“What I have to say helps nothing.”
“You cannot possibly know that.”
“It has not helped me,” he admitted, voice low. “I cannot.”
He pushed to his feet, brushing the dust from his tunic.
“Come. You need to eat.”
Ilys did not move, her grip still firm on her sword.
“Forget it. You aren’t needed yet,” he said again, softer now. “You still have time. Breathe.” The words carried a strange gentleness, borrowed almost, as though he were reaching for Baron’s tone and falling short.
Not much time. But she didn’t say that.
Instead, she let her blade fall to her side and followed.
After sup, the door creaked, a draft of winter air slipping in as Elspeth, Grim’s attendant, entered with a tray balanced on her palms. Baron reached first, naturally. He plucked up a cup before Grim had even extended a hand, swirling it lazily.
“Elspeth, you’re a jewel,” he said, flashing her one of his unrepentant grins.
“Mm,” she replied, unimpressed, though the corner of her mouth twitched as she retreated a step. Elspeth moved with the steadiness of the oak beams above, her frame solid, her braid of iron-grey hair coiled like rope at her crown.
Grim lounged at the worn wooden table, his broad form draped in dark layers, his ever-present veil casting his face in shadow. His hands, scarred, calloused from years of wielding ablade, idly shifted Fox and Geese pieces across the board, his fingers moving with slow deliberation.
Baron sprawled in the chair opposite him, a sharp contrast to Grim’s constant tension. Where Baron, all ease, with one leg slung over the armrest overshadowed Grim’s stoicism, a dowdy book balanced against his stomach. His auburn hair protested order, mussed from running his hands through it too many times while the candlelight caught in the gold flecks of his hazel eyes, making them glint with mischief.
Morrigan lay beneath the table, his dark, scruffy fur a tangled mess, his paws twitching in his sleep. One ear flopped lazily while the other remained at attention, listening to some far-off sound beyond the walls. His chest rose and fell steadily, blissfully unaware of the world around him.
Cross-legged on the floor, Ilys sat with parchment scattered in her lap, her fingers smudged black with charcoal. Strands of dark hair had slipped loose from the braid at her nape, curling at the edges of her veil where she had brushed against them. The veil itself shone lighter than the Tartarean ceremonial ones she wore for public duties, but it still framed her face in shadow.
Her charcoal glided over the page, shaping the familiar angles of Grim’s shoulders, the way his fingers toyed absentmindedly with the board, the way his posture, always braced, always quiet, made him look as though he were still waiting for danger, even in rest.
Baron, of course, noticed her study first.
“Are you drawing me again?” His voice broke through the quiet, dry and accusatory.
Ilys hummed, “You have a good face for it.”
“I do,” he agreed at once, tilting his head toward her with mock solemnity. “Are you sketching Grim, too?”
She nodded, demure.
“Grim,” Baron called, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Pose for her.”
Grim exhaled, long-suffering. “I do not care.”
Baron smirked. “Even better. You will be captured in all your veiled, brooding glory.”
