She checked the alley and found it still empty, no lantern light cutting her way, no footsteps chasing. With shaking fingers, she loosed the reins. Her bloodied dress caught and tore against the splintered wood as she hauled herself up, her palms raw on the rope, but she scrambled into the saddle.
“Go,” she hissed. Spire lunged forward, hooves striking sparks, the night peeling open before them. Ilys hunched low, guiding her into the deepest dark, skirting light and sound where she could.
The Sanctum. The command rang in her bones, relentless.Return to the Sanctum.
Chapter 24
Ilys spoke no word of Lord Veylen.
Not when she returned to the Sanctum, mud and blood stiff in the hem of her plain dress. Not when the King summoned her, his gaze sharp, searching for truths she would not give. She held her tongue.
At first, Lord Veylen’s absence drew little notice. The court was accustomed to his disappearances, his secretive errands carried out beyond the palace walls. But when the next summons came, and the herald called his name before the gathered lords, no Veylen stepped forward.
The murmur that followed spread like an ambling fire through the chamber. Within days, the King’s herald stood in the courtyard and read aloud the decree: a warrant for Lord Veylen’s arrest. He was to be taken alive if possible, slain if not. Treason, it was called. Betrayal of crown and faith alike. Ilys listened from the shadows, her hands folded, her veil hiding her face. Hersecret pressed hard against her chest, a truth she could neither speak nor swallow.
She knew the truth; he could never be arrested, never brought in chains before the throne, for she had already driven the dagger into him. And still, she did not speak.
Veylen’s death, and the foulness that had clung to his deeds, had left her with incertitude lodged beneath her skin. Doubt. The men who preached from gilded pulpits, who raised their hands as if the Fates themselves spoke through them, they were not divine. They were fallible. Oh, so fallible.
Her eyes lingered on the Ebon Choir with suspicion. Her voice faltered in prayer. Even the rites felt hollow on her tongue. A wariness had rooted itself in her bones, and though she tried to bury it, it grew, unsettling her with every passing day.
It was in this state of unease that she dined with the King.
The chamber was dim but warm, the table set with silver and heavy plates, and the scent of roasted venison and herbs hung fervid in the air. Ilys sat across from him, her veil in place, the cloth pulled low over her mouth. She ate as she always had, lifting morsels delicately, slipping food beneath the folds with practiced precision. Veilwalkers were taught to make even this graceless act seem ritual, dignified.
The King spoke idly at first, praising the preparation of the meal, remarking on the crispness of the greens, the tenderness of the meat. His voice was light, almost kind, as though they dined as father and daughter rather than sovereign and executioner.
Then, as he set down his goblet, his tone shifted. “Death has sent word,” he said.
Ilys stilled, her fingers pausing at the edge of her plate.
“He tends to the Fates. The Bargain is intact,” the King continued, his voice carrying across the table like judgment dressed in silk. “But he will not return to finish the Veilmarch.He says only that he will send word when he plans to return.” The King gave a low, amused laugh, shaking his head slightly as though at some private jest. “Have you unsettled him, my dear? I have never known Death to be unreliable.”
Ilys let the words wash over her, but she did not let the event leave her mouth. She did not tell him of Veylen. She did not tell him of the blood in the shadows, of Death’s unraveling. She was not sure why the truth lodged in her throat like a stone.
The King prattled on about the wine, about the difficulty of securing venison this late in the season, the color of the figs. She sipped her drink in silence, nodding where politeness was required, the veil concealing her expression.
Then, abruptly, he set down his cup. “With the time you’ve been given back, I have thought long and hard,” he said. “I think you should choose a successor.”
Ilys blinked, her voice level though her chest tightened. “A successor? I am able-bodied. I am young. Is there a need?”
The King’s lips pulled faintly downward, a frown tugging at his full mouth. His gaze lingered on her, studying her as if he might peel back the veil itself.
“Where is the reverent girl from years past?” he asked.
The King chewed his venison, his teeth working the meat before his face twisted with displeasure. He spat the gristled tissue into his napkin, grimacing.
“The Fates ask it,” he said finally. His voice hardened, stripped of warmth. “It will be done.” He dabbed his mouth, then rose, adjusting the folds of his heavy robe. His eyes lingered on her one last time, cold and expectant. “Mother Inrith will walk you through the process. See it done by the next moon, Ilys.”
He stood, pushing the plate away. “I think we are done, yes?”
She mirrored his stance, smoothing the veil down with collected hands. “Yes, my shepherd.”
The next day, when Mother Inrith summoned her, Ilys went without protest.
They sat across from one another at a narrow table, a single candle guttering between them. Inrith’s presence filled the chamber, her veil dark as mourning cloth.
“There is a ritual, of course,” Mother Inrith directed. The candlelight traced the deep lines of her face. “The Bargain was sealed in blood, and so blood must guide the choice.”
