Chapter 2
TWO
KRATH
Stone dust cascades off my shoulders as I lurch to full height. Centuries of cursed sleep cling to my bones—thick as tar, heavy as chains. The taste of her blood burns on my tongue, copper and magic and something clean that cuts through the tomb’s staleness.
Awake.
The word pounds through my skull. After so long in the black between sleeping and death, sensation hits in waves. The scrape of blackened mail against scarred skin. The weight of my sword at my hip. The ember-glow behind my eyes that marks me cursed, damned, other.
And her scent. Books and chalk and warm woman-flesh.
Witch.
She presses herself against the obsidian wall, clutching that bleeding finger to her chest. Too late, little scholar. The damage is done. Her blood woke me. Her blood carved the binding rune into both our souls.
But she doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg.
She stares.
Those sharp green eyes catalog every scar on my green hide, every crack in my armor where the curse bleeds through. She watches me as if I’m a puzzle to solve instead of a nightmare to flee.
Foolish.
I cross the chamber in two strides, moving faster than human eyes can follow. My clawed hand slams into the wall beside her head, and spider-web cracks split the ancient stone. She flinches but doesn’t look away.
Definitely foolish.
"You." The word scrapes from my throat. Centuries without speech leave my voice rough as grinding stone. "Thou hast wakened me from cursed sleep."
Her chin lifts a fraction. "I was looking for—"
"I care not what thou sought." I lean closer, close enough that my breath stirs the auburn strands escaping her braid. Close enough to smell the fear-sweat on her skin mixed with that maddening scent of magic and learning. "Thou hast bled upon my tomb. Spoken the ancient words. Bound us both."
I grab her wrist—the one bearing my mark—and drag it up between us. The branded rune glows against her pale skin, pulsing in rhythm with the answering burn over my heart. Heat flares between us, and I taste her terror sharp on my tongue.
She gasps, free hand flying to her chest. "What did you—"
"What thou didst when thy curiosity proved stronger than thy wisdom." I tighten my grip, claws pricking her skin. Not enough to break it. Yet. "We are bound now, little witch. Death-bound. Soul-tethered. If I burn, thou burnest. If I die—"
"So do I." The words are steady despite the tremor in her voice. "The journals mentioned blood bonds."
Smart. Too smart for her own good.
"Clever girl." I bare my tusks in what might be a smile if smiles could promise violence. "Aye. Thy life is tied to mine now. Thy death—" I press my free hand to my chest where the curse-mark flares in answer to hers "—is tied to mine."
Heat builds between us, and I feel her pulse hammering against her ribs. Taste her fear copper-bright on my tongue. But underneath that...
Want.
The realization hits cold as winter steel. She’s terrified, aye. But there’s heat threading through her terror. Warmth that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way her eyes linger on the breadth of my shoulders.
Dangerous.
In my last life, I learned what happened when human women looked at orc warlords with heat in their eyes. I learned the price of desire, of hope, of believing love could conquer curses.
I learned it in blood and screaming.
"So what now?" She lifts her chin, defiance sparking in those green eyes. "You kill me? Break the binding before it settles deeper?"
The idea has merit. One quick twist of those delicate bones. Snap that slender neck. End this before the tether deepens into something I cannot control.
My claws flex against her wrist. I imagine how easy it would be. How quick.
But even as the thought forms, something stirs in the depths of my cursed soul. The primal part of me that recognizes strength, that values courage over beauty. The part that whispers—
Mate.
The word slams into me. I stumble back, releasing her wrist as if it burned. She slumps against the wall, cradling her branded arm.
No. Not mate. Never again.
Rage follows the recognition—fury that has nothing to do with being woken and everything to do with the way her scent makes something in my chest clench tight. The way her stubborn courage calls to parts of me I thought died with Lyralei.
Lyralei.
The name cuts deep as it always does. Beautiful, brave Lyralei who thought love was stronger than curses. Who died because I was foolish enough to believe her.
I slam my fist into the wall, and the entire chamber shudders. Cracks split the obsidian where my knuckles hit, and ember-light bleeds through the gaps. Dust rains from the ceiling.
"Stay away from me." The words come out as a snarl, all gravel and barely leashed violence. "The mark hungers, little witch. It wants what I will not give."
She pushes herself off the wall, and disappointment flashes across her face so quickly, I almost miss it. "What does that mean?"
It means I want to claim thee. Mark thee. Make thee mine in ways that go deeper than blood.
"It means thou keepest to thy side of this tomb, and I keep to mine." I back toward the shadows of the deeper catacombs, putting distance between us before I do something we’ll both regret. "Touch naught else. Bleed on naught else. Do not—"
"Don’t what?" Fire sparks in her eyes. "Don’t try to understand what just happened to me? You dragged me into this—"
"Thou dragged thyself into this." The words snap out harder than I intended. "I asked not to be woken. I asked not for a bond-mate." My voice drops to a growl. "I asked not for another witch to die because of me."
The words hang in the air between us. She goes very still, and I see the moment she hears what I didn’t mean to reveal.
Another witch.
Her green eyes narrow, sharp as her silver blade. "Another? You’ve done this before?"
Clever. Too clever.
"That is not thy concern."
"Everything about this binding is my concern." She takes a step forward instead of back, and something hot and unwelcome unfurls in my chest at her courage. "What happened to her?"
She died. They always die.
But I don’t give her that truth. Instead, I stalk deeper into the tomb, seeking the familiar darkness of the catacombs. The shadows welcome me, thick with ash and older sorrows.
Behind me, I hear her slide down the wall. The soft sound of defeat sends an unwelcome pang through my chest—her exhaustion bleeding through the mark burning my flesh.
Ignore it. Ignore her.
But I can feel her presence burning at the edge of my awareness as I retreat. Her heartbeat echoes mine. Her scent clings to my armor. The mark on her wrist throbs in perfect time with the one over my heart.
Bound.
I find an alcove carved deep in the catacomb walls and brace my back against the cold stone. My armor scrapes and settles as I let my weight rest against the rock. Claws dig grooves in the wall.
What am I supposed to do with a witch?
Lyralei had been different. Soft where this one is sharp. Trusting where this one questions everything. Lyralei had looked at me with starlight in her eyes and believed love could conquer darkness.
This one looks at me and sees a problem to solve.
Maybe that’s better. Maybe problems can be solved without anyone dying.
But even as the thought forms, I know it’s a lie. The curse doesn’t release its hold easily. The Marshal won’t allow it. And this abbey...
This abbey hungers for blood just as much as the mark binding us.
I’m still lost in dark thoughts when I feel her stirring. Moving around the main chamber with careful steps, probably cataloging every rune and carving. Her curiosity burns bright as flame, impossible to miss.
Of course, she’s curious. She came for knowledge.
And found a monster instead. But she’s still here, isn’t she? Still exploring instead of fleeing. Still—
The mark flares with sudden alarm. Sharp and cold and laced with recognition.
She’s found something. Something she shouldn’t touch.
I’m moving before conscious thought kicks in, shadow and speed carrying me through the catacombs in a blur of motion. The main chamber materializes around me just as her fingers stretch toward the wall where the deepest binding runes are carved.
The ones that hold more than just me.
"Do not—"
Too late.
Her fingertip—still bloody from the cut that woke me—brushes against the ancient symbol. The rune ignites with cold fire, not the warm gold of our binding but something else entirely. Something hungry and patient and full of malicious joy.
The voice that whispers from the stone is ancient. Familiar. Hateful.
"One of you must bleed the bell."
She staggers backward, face white as bone. The rune pulses once more, then dies, but the words hang in the air.
The bell.
Of course. I should have known it would come back to that cursed thing. Everything in this place comes back to the bell that hangs in the shattered tower. The bell that calls the dead home.
I cross to her in three strides and grab her shoulders, spinning her to face me. Her green eyes are wide, pupils blown with shock.
"What bell?" The words tumble out. "What did that mean?"
"The bell in the tower." My voice is grim as winter stone. "The one that summons what should stay buried."
Her hands fist in my armor, clinging as if I’m the only solid thing in a world gone mad. The gesture sends heat spiraling through my chest in ways I refuse to examine.
"Summons what?"
Before I can answer, the chamber fills with laughter. Cold, cruel, entirely too familiar. The sound raises every hair on my body and sends ice through my veins despite the eternal fire that burns in my chest.
Not yet. Too soon.
But shadows are already gathering in the corners of the room. Whispers multiply, echoing off stone walls in languages that predate kingdoms. And in the darkness, something that has waited just as long as I have begins to stir.
He is waking.
I pull Rhea closer, not caring that the gesture is possessive enough to make something primal in my chest rumble with approval. Right now, protection matters more than pride.
"Listen to me." My voice drops to an urgent growl. "Whatever happens next, whatever thou seest or hearest—"
The whispers stop.
The temperature plummets.
And from the deepest shadows of the tomb, a voice I’d hoped never to hear again speaks my name with the intimate hatred of old betrayal.
"Hello, old friend."
The shadows coalesce into a familiar shape—tall, gaunt, armored in cracked bone and black iron.
The Pale Marshal steps from the darkness as if he owns it, and perhaps he does.
Death has not been kind to him. His skull-like face is half-shadow, half-corpse, and his eyes burn with the cold fire of the grave.
Rhea’s breath catches. Her hands tighten on my armor, and I feel her terror spike through the mark binding us.
Good. Fear will keep her alive.
"Marshal." I keep my voice level, casual. As if his presence doesn’t send every instinct I possess screaming for violence. "Still wearing corpse-armor, I see. Death suits thee poorly."
He laughs, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "And thou still speakest as if centuries have not passed. Still clinging to old forms, old courtesies." His gaze shifts to Rhea, and his smile is a rictus of bone and malice. "But this is new. Another little witch to play with. How delightful."
I step between them, blocking his view of her. "She is under my protection."
"Is she?" His voice holds dark amusement. "How... familiar. Tell me, does this one also believe love can conquer all? Does she whisper sweet promises in thy ear about breaking curses with gentle touches?"
Don’t rise to the bait.
But my hands clench into fists anyway. The mention of Lyralei—even unspoken—is a wound that never heals.
"This one is different," I growl.
"They are all different. Until they are all the same." He tilts his head, studying Rhea around my bulk. "Pretty thing. Spirited. I can smell her defiance from here. It will make her death all the sweeter."
The words hit me like physical blows. Rage builds in my chest, hot and immediate. But beneath it, something else stirs. Something that has nothing to do with the curse and everything to do with the way Rhea’s fingers still grip my armor.
Mine to protect.
The thought comes unbidden, primal. And for the first time in two centuries, I don’t fight it.
"Thou wilt not touch her."
The Marshal’s laugh echoes through the chamber. "Oh, but I will. When the bell tolls, old friend, one of you must bleed for it. And I do so enjoy choosing who."
He begins to fade back into shadow, but his voice lingers, cruel and mocking.
"Sleep well, little witch. Dream sweetly. Soon enough, thou wilt dream forever."
And then he’s gone, leaving only the scent of old graves and older hatred.
Rhea sags against me, her weight slight but warm against my chest. The mark pulses between us, carrying her exhaustion and confusion.
"What was that?" she whispers.
Death. Betrayal. The reason I can never be free.
"The Pale Marshal," I say instead. "My former general. The one who cursed me to this half-life."
Her green eyes find mine, sharp despite her fear. "Why?"
Because I loved a human witch. Because he thought it made me weak. Because he was right.
But those truths are too heavy, too dangerous to share. Instead, I release her and step back, putting distance between us once more.
"That, little witch, is a tale for another time."
She reaches out as if to stop me from leaving, then catches herself. "Wait. The bell he mentioned—"
"One of us must bleed the bell," I finish. "Aye. I heard."
And I know what it means.
But that knowledge is mine to bear. She has enough burdens already.
I turn toward the deeper shadows of the catacombs, then pause. "Stay away from the walls. Touch nothing. Bleed on nothing. The Marshal feeds on blood and sorrow, and I would not give him either."
"Krath—"
My name on her lips. When did she learn my name?
"Rest, little witch. Tomorrow brings fresh horrors."
And with that, I fade into the darkness, leaving her alone with her questions and her fear.
But not her courage. That burns bright as ever, steady as a flame.
Dangerous.
Because courage in a witch can get us both killed.
Or maybe—just maybe—it can set us both free.