The night before clung to her skin like a bruise. The dagger slipping, his weight pinning her wrists, Baron’s name twisted into a weapon. Neither had spoken of it yet. Now she sat stiff in front of him, his mortal form pressed close at her back, his hands wrapped around her to grip the reins as their monstrous steed devoured the road. Every jolt of the saddle reminded her how easily he had subdued her. How near she had come to ending him. How near she still might be.
Her resolve hardened with every mile. She would follow him until the necromancer was found; After that, she would strike again.
The hills broke open into salt and light, the sea stretched wide and restless below. A town clung to the shoreline, its rooftops black against the white waves. Death slowed the horse so its hooves settled to a halt just above the ridge.
“He is here,” he directed. “But cloaked. We must be cautious. I will not have him run again.”
Her pulse quickened. “You sense him?”
“Faintly. Something masks him.” His voice was tight, distant. “That alone makes him dangerous.” He paused, contemplating.
His breath brushed her ear. “I must collect. You will remain here.”
Her grip tightened on the pommel. “You mean to leave me? Alone?”
“You will establish yourself,” he said, ignoring her protest. “You and your husband were separated. You live near the border, where the skirmishes have begun. Note that he is bound to meet you shortly. I will come and meet you here in seven days.”
Her brow furrowed. “Skirmishes?”
Death’s gaze swept the horizon, shadow darkening his jaw. “Do you know nothing of the war that wages?”
Her voice rose. “I know some.”
“Many have been displaced. It is a fine enough story for a woman traveling alone,” he assured her. Death pressed on. “Find work. Root yourself. Endear yourself if you can—though I doubt it.”
And then, with no warning, his hand tore the veil from her head, stuffing it into her satchel with a single, brutal motion. Her breath caught, her scalp prickling in the open air.
“You will not wear it here.”
She stiffened, fury flooding her cheeks.
“I will return in seven nights.”
Before she could bite back a retort, he shifted. The steed shuddered beneath them, its form already unraveling into shadow. He lifted her from the saddle without strain, setting her aside with the care one gives an unwanted coat.
And then he was gone, the horse dissolving into smoke with him astride it, leaving her veilless, alone, and on foot above the seaside town, the silver wash of the sea gleaming far below.
Ilys picked her way down the craggy path with hesitation. How strange, she thought, to have longed so fiercely to be rid of Death, only to find that now, alone in the world, she wished for anyone’s company.Endear herself?The words mocked her. How was it even done?
A flock of sparrows cut across the sky above, darting through the sea wind like arrows. Her chest ached as she watched them vanish into the horizon. To be so free. The path narrowed, funnelling her toward the bustle of the market. The acrid reek of fish struck first, clinging to the air. She balked, panic tightening her chest, and slipped quickly behind a building.Just a moment,she told herself.Only a moment.
She rehearsed her story in a whisper, shaping her voice to be warmer and more human—or at least, what she imagined humanity to sound like. Words about her “husband,” about separation and loss, rolled stiffly from her tongue. She tried again, softening, gentling, forcing vulnerability into her tone.
“Are you okay?” The voice startled her, rough-edged with a coastal accent. It came just as she thought she had found the perfect note of grief.
She spun, heart in her throat.
A young man stood there, auburn-haired, the rust-red color catching in the light. The sight struck her like a blow as Baron’s memory slammed unbidden into her mind. She could not look away. Entranced, undone.
He stepped closer, frowning at the dazed set of her eyes. “Miss, are you okay?”
Ilys blinked, the words of her false story scattering from her lips like startled birds. “I… I am fine,” she stammered, though the sound of her own voice irked her; it carried too much of herself, too much truth, and not enough of the careful mask she had rehearsed.
The young man tilted his head, concern softening his expression. His eyes, green shot through with amber, caught the light in a way that made her chest tighten painfully. Baron’s eyes had not been the same, not truly, but grief distorted everything. It stitched old wounds onto new faces.
“I just—” she tried again, catching herself, forcing vulnerability into her tone. “My husband. We were separated.” The words, practiced only moments before, came easier now.
His expression sharpened, no longer just concerned but intent, as though the wordshusbandandseparatedwere a call to arms. He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
