Ilys frowned. Grim, never characterized as timid, faced her, braced in the doorway, seeming so small. He stood vulnerable in a way she had never seen before.
She appraised him, then gave a slow nod. “Of course.”
“Good. Good.” He stepped back. “I’ll see you this evening.” Then he left, and his warning echoed in her mind.
“Put her in the midnight veil. It suits the occasion more. And adorn her with the silver thorned circlet.” Mother Inrith’s voice cut through the low murmurs of the Sanctum, her tone carrying the same authority it always had, though age had softened its edges. The priestesses obeyed, their hands moving with practiced efficiency as they dressed Ilys for the evening ahead.
Ilys had seen many priestesses come and go over the years. Some stayed long enough to gray, while others disappeared like footprints in the snow, their names lost to time.
Years ago, Ilys witnessed two trees who had merged into one. Two branches, mangled, reached towards one another, binding in the middle and creating an entirely new entity, reaching now towards the sky. Mother Inrith and the sanctum mirrored that twisted tree. One had a hard time separating the two. Interdependent and metonymous. The years had settled into her bones, carving lines into her face and slowing her steps, but they had not dimmed her formidable spirit. She still hobbled through the Sanctum with sharp, unrelenting purpose, swatting away offered hands when she stumbled, treating every mundane duty as though its neglect might unravel the world. Her memory often slipped, her words muddled, yet her will forged on, iron and unbending. Ilys had grown to admire that.
“This will do,” Mother Inrith announced, stepping back to examine her.
Her veil hung heavier than her usual one, its fine embroidery shimmering under the candlelight. Silver filigree edged its hem, subtle and intricate, meant to signify authority without excess. The circlet sat atop her head, delicate but barbed, the thorns pressing lightly against her scalp. Beneath the veil, she wore robes of deep indigo, layered and formal, the high collar stiff against her throat, the sleeves heavy with embroidery. She looked every bit the Veilwalker, save for the absence of blood on her hands.
A knock hit at the chamber door and Grim entered, dipping his head.
“It’s time.” His voice sounded formal and distant. He turned his attention to the elderly woman beside her, bowing his head in deference. “Mother.”
Mother Inrith inclined her head in approval before shooing the priestesses away with a sharp flick of her wrist. Ilys moved after Grim, her stride composed, her pulse anything but.
Outside, the carriage waited, the horses shifting restlessly in the cold. Baron leaned casually against its side, his usual smirk in place.
“What are you doing here?” Ilys queried as she approached.
Baron smiled, straightening. “You are looking at one of the attendees of honor.”
Grim silently climbed into the carriage, his posture stiff as a board.
Ilys lifted a brow. “Did you finally break the record for most pork legs devoured in one sitting?”
Baron let out a bark of laughter. “Ha ha, you chit.”
“Veilwalker.” Grim’s voice sliced through the air.
The amusement drained from Baron’s face.
Grim’s thrust an inelastic gaze towards the pair. “From here to the castle and back, you will call her Veilwalker.”
Baron’s jaw tightened. A slow flush crept up his neck, his usual lighthearted demeanor rattled. Ilys felt the tension shift like a snapped thread.
Baron dallied, breathing through his nose. “I’ve been asked to bear the sigil.”
An award of valor, the Sigil was given only to those who had proven loyalty in service. It was a mark worn by few, meant to set its bearer apart from the ranks.
After a long beat, he addressed her, “Veilwalker.”
The door shut. Through the stifled travel, Ilys barely noticed the streets sliding past. The city blurred, and in her mind’s eye, the black swirls from her dream began to curl and twist again.
The carriage slowed, the wheels crunching against the gravel of the grand courtyard. Outside, the castle loomed, its towering spires piercing the night sky. Banners of red and silver hung heavy at the gates, the sigil of the Veil gleaming at their heart.
A servant in white and blue robes stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Veilwalkers.” His hands folded in reverence. “Welcome.”
Grim stepped down beside her, silent, veil drawn tight. Baron followed, stiff as iron at her side, his usual smirk absent.
The servant straightened. “The King awaits. Please, follow me.” He turned, gliding through the towering doors of the castle.
He guided them toward the dining hall, pausing only when they passed a group of nobles. One by one, he introduced them; their names and titles Ilys had no interest in remembering, and their faces she had no intention of keeping.
