Owin’s jaw worked, his eyes hard, but suffering wavered at the edges.
“You talk like you’re human,” he rasped at last, his voice breaking. “But all I see is the King’s butcher. No woman. Just a vessel of evil.”
Tears stung, burning tracks down her cheeks. “Iama woman,” she whispered fiercely. “I was a girl, and now I am a woman. I am human. I falter. I fail. Hate me, I understand, but know this: I am not Death.”
The lantern swung with his movement, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls. His hand lingered on the doorframe, his shoulders taut. But he did not speak, turning to leave and pulling the door shut, the lock scraping home.
Later, the lantern had burned low, its wick nearly swallowed, the light a frail, stuttering thing on the crate beside her. Ilys’s head drooped against the wall, eyes half-lidded, her body aching from stillness, her wrists raw from the rope’s constant bite.
The rough drag of the lock pulled her upright.
Her pulse quickened.Owin, she thought. He was back again with more venom, more grief to hurl at her. She braced herself, but the man who stepped through the door was not Owin.
Her breath stopped.
Lord Veylen.
He moved with a casual grace, the lantern he carried held high, throwing sharp shadows across his face. The same face she had seen in the revel, hidden beneath a black cloak, cruel and unforgettable. He closed the door behind him, the lock sliding in with a deliberate click.
“Well,” he drawled, his voice smooth as oil. “So it’s true. I thought perhaps the boy had been mistaken, but no—here you are. The King’s little monster.”
Ilys’s throat tightened. She kept her silence, staring, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reply. Veylen stepped farther into the room, the lantern swinging lazily at his side.
“Do you know how easy it is to buy entry here?” He smiled thinly. “A few coins, a promise or two, and even the sanctity of your prison becomes negotiable.” He tilted his head, watching her carefully. “For enough coin, we’re even allowed to take a turn with you. Did you know that?”
Ilys’s stomach knotted, rage rising hot in her chest. She forced herself to meet his gaze, unflinching.
“Yes,” he went on, as though savoring the words, “that boy loved his brother. What a beautiful way to honor his legacy, don’t you think? Delivering his killer into my hands.”
Her voice cracked as she finally spoke. “Why?”
Veylen raised his brows, mock-surprise flickering across his face. “Why?”
Her jaw clenched. “Why the girls?”
For a baleful moment, words eluded him, but then Veylen smiled—a dragging, joyless smile.
“Because I want to,” he said simply. His voice lowered, intimate and cruel. “Because I can.”
Ilys’s hands curled into fists against the rope at her wrists. The fibers scraped her already-raw skin. She felt the faintest give beneath her fingers. She clung to it, small and secret, even as hatred burned in her chest.
“You’re vile.”
He chuckled. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take moral counsel from the Crown’s executioner.”
Veylen crouched before her, close enough she could smell the faint spice of wine on his breath, the cloying perfume clinging to his cloak. His eyes glinted in the half-light, sharp and merciless.
“You know,” he said softly, “I’ve always admired you. Not for your skill—though you do cut a striking figure—but for your obedience. Your absolute, pitiful obedience. You never flinch. Never question. Not even when you were made to slaughter the innocent.”
Ilys bared her teeth.
He lifted a hand, fingers brushing her cheek. She flinched, jerking away as much as the ropes allowed.
“Don’t,” she hissed.
He laughed, low and amused, tracing the line of her jaw with a featherlight touch before dragging his fingers down to her throat. She struggled, twisting against him, her bound ankles scraping against the stone as she tried to shift away.
“Stop,” she snapped, fury rising sharp and hot in her chest.
