“It is against Veil law,” she hissed.
“It is inconvenient,” he ground out. “I care for no such laws. Take it off.” He enunciated each syllable, dark gaze bearing into her.
Her blood boiled. A low growl escaped her as she pulled the veil free and tucked it into her satchel. Fear shot through her with the movement, sharp, electric. Was it fear of breaking the law? Of angering the Fates? Or being seen?
Death flinched at the sight of her wide eyes, her pink lips, her squirming as he took in her personage.
I hate you, she thought to herself.I hate your eyes upon me.
He cleared his throat, leading the way towards the inn after stowing the horses in the stable.
Inside, the inn purred, thick with the scent of roasting meat and wood. The fire in the hearth burned low, barely tended, while the air sat stagnant with the quiet lull of a place accustomed to transience. The innkeeper barely looked up as they approached, his attention fixed on the dented mug he looked to polish. A broad man, thick-browed, he wore the expression of someone who had seen too many faces pass through to bother caring about any of them.
“What do you need?” he asked, voice flat, uninterested.
“Two rooms,” Death indicated, flashing two long fingers.
The innkeeper snorted, still not bothering to meet their eyes. “I have one.”
Death’s jaw ticked. “Then one.”
The man finally glanced up, taking them in with the same mild disinterest as he might a dull gray sky. “Are you planning to stay together?”
“With but one room, I suppose,” Death ground out.
The innkeeper nodded, but his eyes lingered a second too long. “Are you married?”
Death did not react, did not blink. “Will that change the availability of the room?”
The man studied them for a moment longer before shrugging. “I do not house whores.” Ilys felt the shift beside her before she heard it, Death’s sapped inhale, controlled, measured.
Clipped in the tone, Death took the hint and embellished, “We are married.”
The innkeeper gave an absent grunt, already moving to jot a note into the thick leather book on his counter. “Late supper is served here shortly. You don’t show, you don’t eat.” He nodded towards a stairwell. “First door on the left.”
Death did not reply, only turned sharply on his heel, moving toward the stairwell with rigid efficiency.
Ilys followed, smirking as they reached the steps. “That was painless.”
His gaze flicked toward her, still dark with the remnants of restraint. “Would you rather I had argued? Drawn out the time between you and a pillow?”
She shrugged, pushing the door open to their lodgings. The room unfolded into a plain scene, like most inns in towns like this, with sturdy wooden furniture, a single small window, and a washbasin tucked in the corner. A single bed sat against the far wall.
Ilys dropped her pack onto the floor and immediately sat at the edge of the bed, pulling off her boots. Her feet ached from the long ride, and she rolled her ankles, sighing. She walked to the basin, dipping the cloth provided in the balsam scented water, washing her face. She stared into the mirror at her skin, wiping under eyes and down her throat.
Death stood in the doorway, stalling, before stepping inside, setting down his pack and removing his coat. She caught him watching her. She hadn’t meant the act to look sensual, but the water felt so good on her bare skin. So breathable. So free.
“We will leave at first light,” he said, coughing. At some point, footsteps sounded outside the door, voices carrying from below.
“Supper?” she asked awkwardly.
Death stood without a word, rolling his shoulders. Ilys followed, and together they descended the narrow stairs, the scent of roasting meat thick in the air.
The inn’s dining room materialized quietly, save for the soft strumming of a lyre in the corner, its delicate notes blending with the low murmur of voices from the few other patrons scattered throughout the room. The fire in the hearth crackled occasionally, its warmth a welcome contrast to the chill outside.
Ilys leaned back, fingers tapping idly against the worn wood of the table. The day’s ride had been long, and though exhaustion hadn’t fully taken her yet, she could feel it dragging at the edges, waiting to settle in once she let her guard down.
The innkeeper arrived without ceremony, setting down two steaming plates of food along with two pints of ale, the liquid dark and thick, foam spilling over the edges. Death pushed his back.
