“I am not brooding,” Grim muttered, moving another piece on the board.
“You are always brooding.” Baron countered, flipping a page in his book without looking at it.
Ilys smirked, tilting her head as she examined Grim’s portrait. “Brooding suits you.”
Grim grumbled beneath his breath but didn’t argue.
Baron, pleased, leaned forward to get a better look at the parchment. “And the dog? What role does he play in this grand artistic vision?”
Ilys cast a glance down at Morrigan, still sprawled between them, his breathing slow, tail flicking in his sleep.
“I’ve captured him in all his finest qualities,” she said solemnly, turning the paper to reveal the sketch of him mid shit onto Grim.
Baron howled with laughter. Grim sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.
“Very dignified,” Grim offered dryly. “Exactly what one expects of a woman of two-and-twenty.”
Ilys grinned, folding the parchment and setting it aside. It was an absurd kind of bliss, one forged in exhaustion, in stubborn companionship, in lives built around blood but softened in stolen moments like these.
It was not meant to last.
None of it ever was.
Chapter 13
Ilys dreamed. Great, terrible dreams.
Darkness pressed around her, ardent and endless. She clawed for someone, anyone—Grim, Baron, Rowenna—but always woke alone. Death’s words lingered in her skull, etched deep.
You are his lamb sent for slaughter.
Her breath came sharp and shallow until Mor pushed his nose against her jaw and curled close. His presence steadied her pulse, though the unease never truly left.
At first light she slipped outside. Frost clung to the stones beneath her feet, and the air stung her throat with every inhale. She settled near the temple wall, parchment spread across her lap, and set her charcoal to the page. Lines took shape beneath her hand, sharp and urgent, as though drawing might bind the dreams and keep them still.
So when Grim’s voice broke the quiet, she startled.
“Do you remember when you were eight, and the King invited us to that…” He stalled. “That dinner?”
Ilys didn’t turn, still shading the edge of a figure she hadn’t yet named. “Vaguely,” she answered. “Why?”
Grim’s veil tickled against the doorway as he lingered, shifting. “We’ve been called to another. This evening.”
She paused, finally looking up.
“I’ve told Mother Inrith. She’ll help you ready yourself, but I just wanted to… ” He stopped, his fingers tightening over the edge of the doorframe as he mulled over his words.
Ilys narrowed her gaze. “What?”
The veil dulled his voice, but not the strain in it. “These dinners are strange, Ilys.”
She waited.
“You think we have power—” He met her gaze—“and we do,” he relented. “But there are elements we wield no power over.”
Cold crept up her spine. “I haven’t the faintest sense of what you’re trying to say.”
Grim grunted, adjusting his footing, the floor creaking beneath the shift. “Be careful tonight,” he said simply. “Be polite. Above all, be quiet.”
