“Rest now,” he ordered. “I will snuff the fire when the time comes.”
She bristled at the order. “I will sleep when I desire.”
“Mortals need rest. You may not value your life," he hummed, his voice smooth, reminiscent of humoring a child. “But our Bargain dictates that I do.”
He eyed her delay in obedience. “You will sleep now,” he reiterated.
Tense, she obliged, turning onto her side. She slept feet away from him, her body still, her mind restless. Ilys dreamt ofnothing. Instead, she lay in the dark, eyes half-lidded, imagining all the ways one might kill a god.
Chapter 18
Outside the city square, Ilys had never seen how the Faithful truly lived.
Along the journey, small villages emerged from the autumn-washed landscape, tucked between rolling fields and dense auburn groves. Smoke curled from the chimneys of flat-roofed dwellings, the scent of burning wood and roasting grain thick in the air. Men and women moved through the narrow streets with purpose, carrying baskets of goods, exchanging hushed conversations. Children played in the cobbled paths, their laughter ringing through the crisp air.
This part of the journey, Ilys loved.
Birdsong. The rustling of trees shedding their golden leaves. The sound of life unburdened by duty, by rites, by death.
But, inevitably, they saw her.
A woman, veiled, draped in black atop a white steed. And beside her, Death in all his godlike glory. Today, it seemed,he had decided to ignore her comfort, donning the swirls of darkness and forgoing the striking mortal face.
Parents hurriedly gathered their children, snatching them off the street and pressing them into doorways. Shopkeepers froze mid-sale, hands tightening over coins or bread loaves, fabric bolts suddenly forgotten. A murmur swept through the villagers, not loud, not panicked, reverent in its fear. The Faithful here were not as familiar with the sight as the crowds in the city. In the capital, the Veilwalkers were an accepted yet hated omen—respected and feared, but known. Here, in the scattered villages, they were another entity entirely, spoken of in hushed tones over bedtime warnings and prayers whispered into candlelight.
Ilys dreaded the moment of discovery. Some knelt at the sight of Death, pressing their foreheads to the cold ground. Others simply turned away, disappearing into homes and alleyways like smoke curling through cracks.
And then there were the rare ones, the ones who scowled, who stood their ground, who spat at their feet as they passed.
Death did not react. Neither did she.
"The next village is where we will stop,” Death dictated. "We will find him there."
Before she could bite her tongue, the question slipped free. "How do you know this?"
Death turned his head, his gaze settling on her. She could not see his face beneath the shifting darkness of his hood, but his posture, the way the air seemed to still around him, told her he was amused.
“Ahhh, now the questions arrive.”
Ilys scowled, spurring Spire into a faster pace beside him.
They came to the next village, its outline no different from the ones before. Stone cottages, timbered rooftops, narrow streets. Each village bore the same bones, but this one felt wrong. An eerie quiet lay in the cobblestones, thick as fog. Flies buzzed in dense clusters over forgotten waste, the stench of rot curling through the air. The few villagers who lingered outside moved like shadows, their eyes downcast, their steps hurried.
“Deeper in,” Death commanded.
They trotted forward, their horses’ hooves echoing against the stones. Beneath the hum of wind and water, Ilys heard life: small, hurried movements behind doors, the occasional dull thump, the scuff of footsteps that vanished before they could be placed.
They turned a corner, following the narrowing path to the end of a lane.
“There,” Death nodded.
The air soured around the house, thick and tainted, pressing into Ilys’s lungs like an oppressive cloth. She swallowed against it, nausea curling low in her stomach. Her horse whinnied, bowing its head from the sight of the dwelling. Her grip on the reins tightened.
Death dismounted and entered without knocking.
Inside, the home held a modest sitting area. A table sat to the side with untouched plates still set atop it, the contents of a meal long since decayed littering their surfaces. A small wooden shelf sat against the far wall, its few belongings knocked askew and coated in dust. In the center of the room, a chair had been overturned, a half-burned candle spilled onto the floor beside it.
The noise came suddenly—a dull, rhythmic pounding from above, each strike rattling the beams overhead. Ilys’s hand instinctively flicked to the hilt at her side. Death’s dark form angled upward as though he could see through wood and stone. They climbed the narrow staircase, each step groaning beneaththeir weight. At the landing, the air thickened. The smell struck her first: iron and rot, cloying, sour.
