She already knew Death had arrived.
Veilmarch had begun.
With satchel in hand, Ilys readied Spire for departure. The mare’s restless breath misted in the evening air, hooves shifting against the dirt. In contrast, Death’s mount stood unnaturally still, its black form nearly indistinguishable from the shiftingtendrils of shadow curling around its legs. Its rider bore a similar smoky shape. The form of a man made up of plumes of ash. Whether out of cowardice or defiance, her gaze avoided his personage.
Ilys swung into the saddle without hesitation. Death did not gesture for her to follow. He did not need to. She clicked her heels, and her horse obeyed, falling into stride beside him.How obedient and devoted he must find her.She thought. How disappointed he will be.
The road stretched long before them, winding through the hills, disappearing into the deep gray of the horizon. If she had been expecting a guide, or delicate training (she had not), there was none.
Without turning, without breaking his loitering pace, Death in his godly form spoke,"Where is the voracious girl from years before?"
Ilys did not answer. She only stared ahead, gripping the reins, her face hidden behind the veil. Death did not press her.
Hours and hours they rode. The landscape bleeding into another. Ilys’s thighs chafed with the prolonged effort of riding, but a piece of her welcomed the distraction from her curdling distaste for the God at her side.
Death rode ahead, his mount moving effortlessly over the uneven terrain. His presence warped the air around him; wherever he passed, the grass yellowed, the trees lost their leaves, and the earth itself seemed to recoil from his touch.
Then, without warning, he pulled his steed to a stop.
“We will stop here tonight.”
Ilys slowed her horse beside him, following his gaze to the ground below. The land here subsisted lifeless, dry and brittle. She dismounted, unfastening her pack, already moving through the familiar motions of setting up camp. Her heart tugged as she recalled Grim’s lessons. Would nothing be hers alone? Wasthe man who had abandoned her wrapped up in every action, in every word?
Death did not dismount like a man would, nor did he prepare anything for the night. Instead, he slid effortlessly from his horse, a shift of darkness pooling into itself, his form taking shape against the gnarled roots of a leafless tree. He leaned against its trunk, his body neither tense nor relaxed, his limbs draped unnaturally, like a thing that had never known exhaustion but chose to mimic it for her sake. His cloak unfurled around him, the edges unraveling into mist before they could meet the ground.
He was not flesh. He was not bone. A presence stretched between the two, a shadow that did not breathe, did not shift, did not belong here, yet still was.
“Where is Grim?”Death asked.
She scoffed, impressed by the humility of such a question. Was the god not omniscient? Ilys supposed he needed a mortal to enact his will. She took note of the fallibility and contemplated her response.
“He is no longer in your service.”
The unnatural god cocked his head.
“Yes, that is plain. Where is he?”
“Why would I tell you such a detail?” She refused to admit her own ignorance. “Should I reveal it so you may cull him?”
“Where is he?”
“I will not tell you,” she ground out. How his voice grated, the icy baritone that flooded her ears.
“Why the bite in your voice, Ilys of the Veil? Why meet your god with such wrath?”
Ilys willed her heart to stop pounding, for the blood to stall in her veins.Why such a bite, Ilys? Why such wrath?He need not be omniscient to know such an answer. Baron’s voice replayed in her head over and over. The image of his earnest, dying eyescemented in her brain. She would not warrant such a question with a response. Instead she busied herself with the fire. Placing the wood and kindling as such. Replaying Grim’s instructions.
Death, displeased, turned towards the scattered wood beside her. He did not gather it as a man would, did not kneel or reach, but with the barest flick of his fingers, the kindling caught flame, small embers glowing in the growing darkness.
“Is it this form? Does it bother you so?”
Just as he had at the Consecration Rites, the shadow unspooled revealing mortal flesh. Swirls of darkness dissipated to reveal the plush lips and the dark, needy eyes she recollected.
“Is this more to your liking?” Death queried.
Ilys eyed the pale line of his collarbone; just below it, she imagined lay a beating, thumping heart. Her gaze locked onto the tunic stretching over his ribs. How easy it might be to thrust her dagger in between. But she did not know what killed a god yet. She dare not risk his wrath, if her life ending did not also result in his own demise.
She willed her breath towards poise, fighting the burning urge to hurt. To hurt. To hurt.
