“I’ll have water,” Death requested, his voice as even as ever.
The innkeeper barely spared him a glance. “You’ll drink the ale.” Then he walked off.
Ilys smirked, lifting her pint with one hand. She admired a man who denied Death. The smell hit her first: earthy, bitter, and strong. Strong was an understatement. She took a tentative sip, then let out a short breath, the taste commanding.
It was rank. Potent. Likely brewed in a barrel older than she was. And yet, it warmed her instantly, the almost immediate buzz settling in, a low hum in her veins. She welcomed it.
Death, on the other hand, looked disgusted.
She watched, fascinated, as he took the smallest sip, his expression tightening in clear displeasure. He set the pint down as though it had offended him personally.
“Have you never enjoyed a spirit?” Ilys asked, bemused.
Death’s gaze flickered toward her, unimpressed. “What need does Death have of spirits?”
She rolled her eyes and turned back to her plate.
The simple meal filled her, stew thick with root vegetables, a hunk of coarse bread, and a sliver of salted and cured meat. Across from her, Death moved with the same precision he always did, methodical even in a task as mundane as eating.
But she noticed things.
His hands, long-fingered and strong, moved more naturally now, absent of the eerie stillness they once held. He gripped the spoon like any man would and tore his bread like someone accustomed to the humdrum hunger. His brow, usually furrowed in thought or indifference, had smoothed as though he had unknowingly relaxed into his mortal form.
And then there were his eyes. Dark as ever, but they lacked the strange, depthless quality they once held. He looked at her rather than through her.
She found herself staring.
Then his gaze flicked up to hers. Her face burned with having been caught, stomach fluttering in embarrassment.
Ilys quickly focused on her drink, tipping back the last of the ale. It remained terrible. She grimaced as the sharp bitterness clung to her tongue, but she felt the warmth crawl up her spine, settling into her limbs. The edges of her thoughts softened, her movements looser, easier. She blinked across the table,watching as Death finished his own pint, more out of necessity than enjoyment, it seemed. He drained it with the expression of someone enduring rather than partaking, and its effects were immediately noticeable. His shoulders, always tense with quiet restraint, had loosened. His usual razor-sharp focus blurred at the edges. The drink had reached him, relaxed him.
Stop staring,Ilys admonished herself.
Instead her tongue, unbound from her usual caution, sought out a question that had been nagging. “What is it like?”
He arched his brow, tone dry. “What?”
“To be a god,” she mock-whispered, leaning in. “And then to be mortal.”
He stared at the ceiling, contemplating. “Wrong,” he said at last. “It feels wrong.”
“Why? In what way?” she queried further.
“I can feel my godhood tugging at me. And I can feel my vulnerability.”
Her pulse spiked. Baron’s face pressed into her memory, eyes everywhere in the room. Heat rose from the drink, filling her chest. “And are you?”
He turned his head toward her, exhaling. “Am I what?”
“Vulnerable?”
His gaze lingered, suspicion knitting into his features. He seemed to sense the eagerness in her, the sharp glint in her eyes.
“Why ask such a question?” His defenses stirred, the faintest edge in his voice.
Her breath caught, but she forced composure, smoothing it with a coy smile. “I am but your servant, Death. Would you have me ignorant of your weaknesses? What a poor protector I should be.”
He hummed low in his throat, still studying her, but finally relented, “It is the cost of mortality. In the flesh we feel pleasure, and pain, and we can be drunk.” He lifted his cup, swallowing toprove the point. “But it is when we are at our most vulnerable. That weakness always drives us back to our godhood, as the Fates would have it.”
