The landing opened to a small shuttered room. Scrollwork and runes had been etched into the floorboards, curling in unnatural spirals of ink and ash. Their lines seemed to crawl, as though still alive, and in the center lay horror.
Two women were naked and bound, their skin marred with shallow wounds. Cuts designed not to kill, but to mark. To hurt. Their eyes flicked to Ilys as she entered, wide with terror, though no sound left their lips. They trembled like frightened animals.
But the third figure that made her stomach twist. A waxen-skinned body lay slumped before the scrollwork, her chest unmoving, her gray and glassy eyes open, animated though vacant. She was dead, but not gone.
Death moved first. His vast shadow bent low, a gentleness in his inhuman hands.
“Hush,” he whispered to the body, coaxing an essence unseen. From her parted lips rose a ribbon of smoke, soft and silver, curling upward into his waiting palm. He closed his fingers around it as though soothing a child, and the gray in her eyes faded to stillness.
“What have you done?” Ilys’s voice wavered. “What did you do to her?”
The deity did not look up. “I have restored her soul to the Veil. Whoever wrought this magic dragged her back from peace and tethered her to the husk of her flesh, forcing her into torment.”
The words struck like ice. “She is dead?” Ilys pressed her fingers to the woman’s throat, desperate, searching for a pulse that would not come.
“I restored her peace,” Death bit out, his voice edged with what might have been anger, might have been pity.
Ilys swallowed down her horror, forcing herself toward the living. She dropped to her knees beside the women, hands working the knots that bound them. Their wrists were raw, their bodies shaking under her touch.
“Who has done this?” She tried for an empathetic tone, but the women only cowered, eyes fixed on her with silent dread.
Death’s voice broke through the air, low and resonant. “Whoever wove this has left. I cannot sense their magic here any longer.”
Ilys kept her focus on the women, ignoring the bile in her throat. “You will be safe now. I will see you to your families. Come—”
They stayed rooted, their wide and unblinking gazes locked on her, as if her voice had never reached their ears. She reached for one of them, desperate to ease the tremors in her shoulders.
“You are free,” she promised. “You are safe.”
The woman flinched back, dragging the other with her, and both pressed against the wall, shuddering.
Ilys observed this, unease tightening her posture and confusion swirling in her head.
Death’s command filled the room like thunder. “Come, Ilys. No one seeks the aid of a Veilwalker.”
Her breath caught. She looked at them, at those fearful eyes, the way their bodies shrank from her touch. A hollowness spread through her chest. She straightened, stepping back. Without another word, she turned and followed Death from the room, swallowing her guilt and drilling her duty into her skull once more. A million times.
No one sought the aid of a Veilwalker.
She only brought more Death.
Ilys looked back once, the house shrinking to a smudge against the horizon as they rode. Ahead, Death moved with relentless purpose, tracking the unnatural scent like some otherworldly hound. The land grew harsher as they pressed on; crags rising out of the earth, hills rolling into one another, the road narrowing to a pale ribbon beneath the dimming sky. Death never glanced back, never checked if she followed, fatesbent on his mission.
“Death,” she called, her voice cutting against the night air. He did not stir. “Death!” she yelled louder now, a ragged edge in her throat.
Her body ached. Her eyes stung and betrayed her, closing without consent. He had sworn early in their journey that he would guard her mortal needs. Yet now, she faded, her head heavy on Spire’s neck. At last, his shadow stirred, breaking from its trance. He turned, taking in her slumping form.
“We will rest at the next village,”he assured her.
Under the star-shot night, roofs soon rose ahead. She watched as Death shed his godhood piece by piece, his mortal form appearing, donned for convenience she imagined. He rode into the dark like any other man. She supposed he wished to draw less attention. Yet, with a Veilwalker at his side, there would always be stares. Before they reached the homes, he dismounted in the shadows of the outskirts.
“Take that off,” he demanded.
Her hands flew instinctively to her veil. “Absolutely not.”
Dread climbed her throat. No. She would not. It was not done.
“You will rest better indoors,” he pressed. “They will not serve a Veilwalker. Do you remember those women’s eyes upon you?” Ilys flinched at the memory, fingers tightening on the fabric.
