Page 19 of Till Death

“I don’t know,” I said, ducking away from him to catch my breath. “You don’t have to wear the veil.”

“See? There are gods.”

To my utter surprise, the king found no issue scaling the building. I had to keep reminding myself that he didn’t grow up in a castle. He’d have survival skills most in the cities carried. Perhaps the beautiful exterior mixed with the roughness would do something good for this world.

“It’s beautiful from up here.” Icharius gripped the intricate iron railing, peering down over the city. “We’re far enough away, and it’s dark enough out, you almost can’t see the rot.”

“Almost.” I moved to stand beside him, studying a broken city from a vantage point I’d used many times.

The harsh reality of the city’s underbelly could not be hidden, even within the darkest moments of the night. Carriages trundled along the streets, their wheels echoing on the cobblestones. Pedestrians, wrapped in threadbare clothing on their frail frames, huddled together, limping through the mist, their footsteps muffled but resolute. Bent over, their bodies seemed burdened by the weight of the world, their gaunt forms betraying the toll of hardship and destitution. Hollow eyes, haunted by sorrow, stared into an unforgiving void.

The gravity of the moment wasn’t lost on me. I’d only ever taken from this world. I was merely a symbol of promised pain. But in this one act, in marrying a king to ensure peace—though I would have to defy my father eventually—I would make the ultimate eternal sacrifice for a struggling people. Somewhere in the depths of my soul, I hoped and even prayed to the gods that had abandoned us, this act would be felt by the people of this world. That they could look at me, and maybe fear me, but hold a sliver of gratitude that I’d married for their sake and not my own.

The silver light of the moon rimmed each of the headstones in the graveyard. Each death, a marker of a Maiden’s presence. A silent tally of our murderous history.

I kicked a toe into the crack between weather-worn mosaic tiles laid centuries ago. The funerals I’d watched replayed in my mind. Moss and lichen clung tenaciously in scattered patches over the old building.

“You can nearly see the pulse of the city from up here,” he said, unaware that I’d looked away.

I nodded. “Can you imagine what it was like before the wars? Before Death spared us from extinction?”

He turned, taking in my solemn face as I tucked a damp lock of hair behind an ear. “Maybe we should get this over with.”

“A true romantic if ever I’ve seen one.” This time, his smile didn’t meet his eyes.

“You could always change your mind.”

He shook his head, sodden hair falling across his brow. “Not on your life, Princess Deyanira Sariah Hark, Death’s Maiden, heir to the throne of Perth, future queen of Silbath.”

“Dey,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry?”

“You can call me Dey.”

He titled his head. “That feels like a win.”

“It’s not a win, Icky. It’s just a concession.”

“My friends call me Orin.”

I couldn’t help the urge to push the rogue hair from his brow. “That’s an odd nickname for Icharius.”

He leaned in with a smile. “It’s better than Icky.”

“Depends on who you ask, I guess.”

He took a solid breath, his broad chest rising. “Close your eyes.”

“I don’t trust you, and I’m standing on one of the tallest buildings in Perth. I’ll pass.”

Closing the distance, he gripped my hands. “You can trust me, Deyanira.”

“I trust no one, King. Not even my own father.”

“Take out your blade.”

“What?”