“It’s okay, Ilys. It’s okay.”
Her throat locked. She could not.
“You have to,” Baron urged, reading her mind. “Say the blessing. Nice and slow. I love the way you say it. One could fall asleep.”
Her vision blurred with tears. She shook her head harder, with the humility and denial of a young child.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, muted but moored. “Please, Ilys.”
She gasped, sobbed, tried to breathe.
His words guided her, soft, reverent even now. “Thy thread is cut.” He watched her flounder, waited for her to follow. “Come now.”
Her lips trembled. The words were coals on her tongue, but still, she followed, “Thy thread is cut.”
His head tilted faintly, urging her on. “Thy name is lost.”
Her throat seized, but his gaze held her fast. She choked the words out, “Thy name is lost.”
He inhaled, shallow but calm, and still he smiled.
“The Veil shall hold.”
Her body shook. “The Veil shall hold.”
His eyes flickered, faint as a candle flame guttering low. When she didn’t move, his bound hands rose until his fingers found hers on the hilt. The guards shifted but did not stop him. His grip closed over hers, riveted and instructive.
“Together, then,” he steered.
Her breath hitched. He guided her hand forward, guiding the blade toward his heart, their knuckles pressed close. She could feel his pulse beneath her fingers—fast, alive, terrified—and still, he smiled.
“Vasha,” he whispered, one last time.
The sword slid in.
His breath left him in a single, broken sigh, his body folded to the stone. Blood spilled slow and red, baptizing the ground.
The hall had gone deathly still. No cries, no protests, only the shuffle of guards and the distant flicker of candlelight. Grim’s voice faded down the corridor with his struggle, yet its echo still clawed at her ears.
Slowly, she turned her gaze to the King. His hands settled firm on her trembling shoulders. He turned her gently, guiding her away from the kneeling dead.
“Oh, my dear,” he consoled paternally. “Well done.”
She could not look back.
He steered her from the place of death, his hand anchoring her as the chamber remained bowed, and she let herself be carried, numb, away from what she had left behind.
Chapter 14
Ilys woke with a start, her breath catching against the pillow as though the sobs of the night before still pressed on her chest. Gray light pressed against the curtains. She sat up, veil caught at her throat, fingers cramped from the hold she’d kept on the blankets.
Baron’s voice lingered in her ears—It’s no trouble, my girl—and she nearly choked on the memory. She pressed her palm hard against her sternum, as though she could force the image down, bury it deep enough to breathe again.
She tried, uselessly, to piece the night together. She remembered Grim’s struggle, the way he fought like a madman to reach Baron as guards were dragging him back, his voice raw as he shouted her name. She remembered, too, the King’s hands upon her shoulders, his low murmur in her ear,oh, my dear. Well done.And then everything blurred. The throne hall dissolved into shadows, her grief a tide pulling her under. Shehad been guided away by the King, who placed her into the carriage as though she were a child.
Elspeth had been waiting back at the Sanctum, her eyes wide but demeanor collected. She had pressed a cup to Ilys’s lips, a sleeping draft that tasted faintly of bitter herbs and honey. After that, darkness.
And now she awoke to a world without Baron.
