“And—” His voice faltered, just for a heartbeat. His gaze flicked briefly toward Baron, whose expression had gone perfectly still.
“Baron Madog of the Guard.”
The ministers clamored over each other in outrage, but the King lifted his hand, and his guards pressed the crowd back into order with spears.
Ilys did not move. She could not. The sound of Baron’s name rang through her skull like a hollow bell. She remembered—absurdly—the way Lord Veylen had once toyed with her skirts, how she had gone rigid, unable to breathe, unable to think. And now that same paralysis gripped her, holding her fast in the hall while time unraveled around her.
How strange, she thought over and over.How strange.
Grim erupted from his seat, hands clamping to the table so fiercely the wood groaned and splintered beneath his grip. His veil hung askew, his breath sharp and ragged, his voice breaking as he fought against the guards who swarmed him. The entiredemonstration raw, unrestrained, and alien from the man she knew.
Ilys stared, frozen, as if the ground itself had tilted. She had never seen him so undone.
Then the King’s hand closed over hers, importunate, pulling her attention away.
“My daughter,” he said, stepping close, his voice dropping low, intimate, as though there were only the two of them. He took her hands, warm and heavy, into his own. “Think not that I wish this. Would that I could turn Death’s face aside, yet the Bargain binds us. The Veil demands it.”
His eyes shone as he pleaded, soft enough for only her to hear. “Think of the children who cough themselves to dust in the alleys. Think of the mothers with nothing left to feed their babes. Famine waits. Plague devours. If we do not hold to the covenant, if we do not pay the price, what hope remains?” He leaned closer, his voice urgent, trembling. “It is you and me, my daughter. Only you and me, upholding what must be. Help me bear it. Help me make them understand.”
The room still battled in disarray. Protests swimming across the table. Guards forcing order into the chaos.
Then Lord Veylen’s voice cut through. “This is a moment to show loyalty to the Veil,” he declared, sharp and unrelenting. “Be careful, lest Death catch your name in his mouth.”
Obedience rippled outward. Heads bent. Backs straightened. Fear sealed every tongue.
The King turned to her, his voice gentle, coaxing. “Go on, my girl. Let us carry this together.”
Her breath faltered, but her feet moved, slow and heavy, carrying her down the length of the hall. Every eye followed as she approached the three kneeling figures at the dais, their hands bound, shoulders braced for what waited ahead.
The first man—Lord Cestel of Westmarch—trembled as she drew near. She spoke the blessing with a voice that shook as she raised the blade. The sound of the strike echoed against the dining hall. His body folded, lifeless.
She lingered there, trembling, her throat raw, until the King’s voice urged her softly again. Only then did she force herself onward.
Minister Deyrin met her eyes only briefly, a flicker of defiance quickly crushed beneath the guards’ grip. Her own gaze blurred as she spoke the words. She swung once more. Blood spilled.
But when she reached the third, her steps faltered.
Baron.
He knelt as though in quiet repose, the same man who had once sprawled in her chair with a book in hand, laughing at his own irreverence. Strands of auburn fell loose across his brow, his hazel eyes on her.
“Ilys, no!” Grim’s voice ripped through the chamber, ragged and wild. Guards strained against his thrashing, dragging him back, his veil hanging loose, his face bare and undone. “Do not touch him! Ilys!” His voice cracked with desperation. He bucked and shoved, splintering more wood beneath his heels as he fought. “Baron!”
The guards forced him through the doors, his cries echoing until they faded with distance.
The King’s hand settled light against her shoulder, his voice low in her ear.
“The hardest trials always come to the most faithful,” he said. “I have learned by experience that the greatest good is born from the deepest suffering. Our people will thank us, though they have no idea how cruel the god is we must tithe to. You are strong, Ilys.”
She shuddered, throat closing. Stepped away from the King, towards Baron.
Baron lifted his head, his smile faint but consoling. His voice came hoarse, but warm—always warm. “It’s okay, Ilys. It’s no trouble at all.”
Tears streaked her cheeks. She shook her head violently.
“My little darling,” Baron whispered, eyes never leaving hers. “I love you.”
Her sobs broke loose, her chest heaving as the world around her faded into blur. But his gaze held her, calm, heartening, and unafraid. His eyes—those eyes she had grown up with, the ones she had sketched a thousand times in a thousand expressions—were dull now, half-lidded with exhaustion. His voice, strangled with emotion, still reached her.
