The words, so alien in his mouth, stirred her. She had been strong for so long, hard and sharp and unbending, but the gentleness—clumsy, halting—unraveled her. For an instant she let herself collapse into it, clutching at his tunic with bloodied fingers.
Her chest heaved. She pulled away sharply, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand as though she could erase the weakness he had just seen.
Death’s gaze lingered. “Come,” he said at last, his voice low, threaded with urgency. “Before the rest arrive.”
He guided her out the door, his grip firm but not cruel. Ilys barely had time to gather her bearings before a hand seized her arm.
A blade kissed her throat.
Owin. His eyes were red-rimmed and his chest heaved as he held the knife hard enough to nick her skin.
“I’m going to kill you,” he rasped.
Death shifted. His form blurred, shadows curling at the edges, his godhood seeping through like fractures in the air. His voice resonated, deeper, ringing with command.
“Release her,” he thundered.
But Owin only tightened his grip, the knife pressing deeper, a bead of blood blooming on her throat. His voice cracked, raw with anguish. “Give me back my brother!”
The air split with Death’s power, but his voice was grave, stiff.“You ask for something no one can give. No one should give. Would you wrest your brother from his peace?”
Owin’s face contorted, tears streaming as he pressed the blade harder. His sob shook his words. “He never should have died,” he cried out, anguish overtaking him, and in that desperate heartbeat he began to drag the knife across Ilys’s throat.
Death moved faster.
His mortal hand gripped the hilt of his own blade and plunged it deep into Owin’s chest. The sound was wet, final, the force of it staggering them both. Owin gasped, blood spilling from his lips, the light dimming in his tear-soaked eyes. He dropped at Ilys’s feet, the knife falling from his grasp with a metallic ring.
But the cost was immediate.
The shadows that wrapped Death began to tear loose, smoke curling and unraveling from him in wild, violent tendrils. A high, ringing sound pierced the air, vibrating in Ilys’s bones, rattling her skull. Her ears throbbed with the pulsing, the unnatural hum swelling like the toll of some unseen bell. Death staggered, his form flickering between god and man, half-shadow and half-flesh. He roared, the sound shaking the air, rattling through the stones beneath them.
“Ilys—” his voice distorted, “run.”
She stumbled back, shielding her eyes from the storm of smoke. “What is going—”
“I saidrun, Ilys!”
The roar cracked the air itself, sending her reeling. Through the chaos, through the whirling storm of smoke and sound, she caught only a glimpse of him: his face twisted, his godhood ripping at the edges of his mortal skin.
His voice struck again, louder than the din, ringing like a bell through her skull.“Return to the Sanctum!”
The words hit her like a blow, leaving no room for argument, no room for thought. The Sanctum. Home. Obedience drilled into her bones.
Ilys stumbled into the night air, the salt of the sea clinging to her tongue. Her eyes darted frantically, searching the dark.Spire.She could not return without her. Veylen had taken her; he could have loosed her to the wilds, or worse…
Her pulse spiked. She moved quickly, keeping low and pressing herself into the shadow of buildings. The dress she had worn for the revel was plain enough, but now it was torn and bloodied; every passerby would notice. Any glance might become suspicious. She hugged close to the walls, slipping through alleys, ducking behind fish crates and drying nets. Here, between shuttered shops and dark corners, every sound was sharper; the clatter of boots on cobbles, the shift of doors against salt-wind. She kept to shadow, her breath sharp, each heartbeat a hammer in her throat.
“Spire,” she whispered once, a prayer more than a call. She froze, listening. Nothing. Just the tide’s hollow drag against the docks.
She forced herself onward, slipping between two leaning sheds where sea-grime coated the stone. Then—there. A faint scrape, the restless shuffle of hooves against cobble. Her head snapped toward it, and she crept closer, crouching low, until at last a pale flank broke through the dark.
Spire.
The mare stood tethered behind a broken cart, reins left to dangle, her coat streaked with salt-dust and grime. Her ears flicked at Ilys’s approach, nostrils flaring, but she did not bolt.
Relief hit Ilys so hard her knees weakened. She pressed her palm against Spire’s warm neck, burying her face briefly in her mane.
“Good girl,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “Quiet now. Quiet.”
