"Baron,” Grim replied, wiping the sweat from his palms against his tunic. His body denied the enthusiasm that sparked in his eyes at the Captain’s arrival.
Ilys adjusted her grip on the dagger. The fight had cooled in her muscles, but she still felt the training clinging to her skin, clammy and familiar.
Grim turned to her. "Go."
She hesitated. She liked when Baron came around. But Grim never missed a chance to ruin her fun and send her away.
"Ilys." His voice left no room for argument.
She bowed her head. Stepped away. Baron wiggled his eyebrows at her, mocking Grim’s sour and dowdy tone.
At the threshold, she lingered, half-hidden behind the stone archway and desperate to hear. Grim and Baron spoke in low voices, their words hushed beneath the wind threading through the courtyard.
“You’ll be leaving soon,” Baron said, tucking the stray folds of Grim’s tunic back under his belt.
“Three weeks.”
Baron’s gaze shifted, sorrow in his eyes, his fingers tapping once against the hilt of his sword. “It’s not long.”
A pause.
Ilys turned away before either man noticed her listening.
The temple gardens were a favorite escape of Ilys’s. Vines curled against the stone walls, their leaves stretching toward the weak sunlight filtering through the lattice overhead.
She wandered without purpose, hands tucked behind her back, the ends of her sleeves damp where she had idly traced them along the well stones.
Near the western edge of the garden, by a patch of freshly turned soil, she spotted one of the priestesses’ girls; Rowenna, Ilys had heard them call her. The girl knelt in the dirt, fingers sinking deep into the earth, coaxing stubborn roots free with slow, practiced care. Loose strands of flaxen hair clung to her forehead, darkened with sweat and soil.
Ilys stepped closer, heart racing. She felt sure of her place in this world and of the power she carried, yet her influence still felt new, her confidence tentative, and her presence beside others was a discipline she had not yet mastered.
"What are you doing?"
The girl startled, her eyes flicking up to Ilys’s veil before dropping quickly to her hands and bowing her head.
"Vasha,” Rowenna greeted.
Ilys ignored the reverence in her tone, stepping forward until her shadow stretched over the small patch of earth. "What are you doing?"
The girl swallowed before answering. "Gardening. The frost killed some of the plants."
Ilys crouched beside her, peering at the fragile green shoots pushing through the dirt. They were thin, weak-looking. Insignificant.
"They don’t look like much,” she observed.
"Not yet."
The girl pressed her fingers into the soil, careful, methodical. She uncovered the base of a small stem, brushing away the loose dirt that clung to it. Rowenna’s fingers worked with a patience Ilys didn’t understand. Her own hands were made for rituals and leather-bound hilts, not coaxing life from buried things.
Ilys tilted her head. "I killed a rabbit yesterday."
The girl stilled, fingers tightening around the trowel she had been using.
Ilys traced a pattern in the dirt beside her. "Do you enjoy the sinew of rabbit?"
The girl blinked, uncertain. "The… sinew?"
“I wanted to bring you a rabbit. I heard the Faithful love it,” Ilys said, brushing soil from her fingertips. “But my father said no.”
