“And you simply let this happen?”
His mouth curved, wry and tired. “What else is there to do, little Veilwalker? To resist the Veyth is to snarl the whole weave. Better to be unraveled cleanly than to tangle the world.”
“So noble from the mouth of a creature of cruelty.”
“Cruel? What have I done that is so cruel?”
“You take those that displease you. Simply because you can.”
“I listen to the fates, Ilys. There is no abstract emotion driving my decisions. The one time I faltered, the one time I acted outside of my domain, was the day I saved you. And look what it has cost me.”
“What do you mean?” she pried.
He spared her a drill glance, his mare trotting ahead.
The rain came down gradually at first, a drizzle that misted against their faces as they rode. But by the time the sun had sunk behind the curtain of storm clouds, the heavens opened in earnest, spilling sheets of cold, unrelenting water over the land. The dirt path beneath them softened into a slick mess of mud, their horses slogging through it with heavy, labored steps.
Ilys was miserable.
Her clothes clung to her. Her veil, drenched and useless, stuck to her face, water running in thin rivulets down her neck, collecting in the folds of her cloak. She curled deeper into herself, hunching her shoulders against the downpour, but it did little good. Ahead of her, Death rode just as silently, his dark figure barely visible through the veil of rain. Just as wet, just as cold, he did not complain and it irritated her beyond comprehension. A crack of thunder rumbled overhead, rolling through the sky like distant war drums.
Then his voice carried through the storm.“We will stop here,” he called.
She could barely make out his form as he veered off the road toward a small, weather-beaten inn nestled against the trees. The building sat dark and low to the ground, its slanted roof dripping from the storm, the narrow windows teasing light.
Too cold to argue, she heeded.
By the time she reached the inn, her hands were numb, her legs sore from gripping Spire’s slick coat. Death had already dismounted, his mortal form shadowed beneath the rain, his hair plastered against his forehead. He turned as she swung down from the saddle, barely composing herself before his hands were on her, firm but careful, guiding as her feet hit the ground. She shivered violently, the cold settling deep in her bones. Without a word, he pulled his cloak from his own shoulders, the heavy, sodden fabric hanging dark with rain, and wrapped it around her.
She scowled, gripping the edges, water pooling at her fingertips.“You think you are helping,” she nit-picked, her voice rough with discomfort, “but your cloak might as well be a body of water itself.” She shrugged off his touch, shaking out the drenched fabric, annoyed at the gesture, annoyed at him, annoyed at all of it.
He sighed but did not comment, instead moving toward the inn’s entrance, pushing open the heavy wooden door. A gust of warmth spilled out, greeting the pair. The keeper barely looked up from behind the counter, only nodding once Death set down the coins.
One room. Once more.
Ilys did not fight it. She wanted dry clothes, a place to sit, a place to be warm.
Their plain room boasted two narrow beds pushed to opposite sides of the space and a wooden table with an old, faded game board carved into its surface between them. She peeled off her veil, wringing it out as best she could before dropping onto the edge of one of the beds, her muscles aching from the long ride.
Death only shrugged off his coat, ran a hand through his wet hair, and sat on the opposite bed, shaking out his own dampened sleeves.
Outside, the rain pounded against the roof, the wind howling against the wooden walls. Ilys knelt beside the fire, hands outstretched, begging the warmth to take hold. The heat licked at her palms, at her forearms, but it did not sink into her bones the way she needed. Cold still clung to her skin, settled deep in the spaces between her ribs, wrapped around her like a second, wretched skin. She had fought it long enough, stubborn against the discomfort, but she saw no use in it now.
The dress had to go.
The heavy muslin clung to her, soaked through, smothering like a burial shroud. Leeching the heat from her body faster than the fire could return it, she cringed at the unbearable sensation. Her fingers located the ties at her back, stiff from the rain, and she forced them apart, rising stiffly to move behind the folding screen in the corner.
Peeling the dress away was its own battle, the wet fabric reluctant to part from her, sticking to her arms, her waist, dragging against her thighs. She found the relief immediate, though unfamiliar. Standing there, left only in her thin chemise and slip, she felt exposed. She inhaled before stepping back out into the warm glow of the fire. With the wet dress discarded, her body moved lighter, free of its suffocating hold. She knelt once more, the heat finally starting to reach her skin, spreading through her limbs.
Then, the sound of fabric shifting.
A rustle, a shuffle, the teasing shedding of soaked outer layers.
She did not turn to look.
“I asked that they bring sup to us,” he relayed, his voice even, unbothered as he wrestled his clothing from his body.
She nodded, eyes fixed on the fire, her mind willing itself to stay there, to settle on the flicker of flames, the crackle of wood, the way the heat pressed against her cheeks.
