Chapter 4
FOUR
KRATH
Coffin lids crack in the darkness ahead.
We run through passages that shift around us, walls flowing into new shapes, corridors branching where none existed moments before. Behind us, the Marshal’s laughter echoes off stone that grinds and reshapes itself with each step.
The first skeletal arm punches through a sarcophagus as we round a corner—yellowed bone wrapped in burial cloth, claws extended. Green fire burns in hollow sockets as the wight drags itself free.
Then another. And another.
"Bone-wights," I growl, drawing my sword. Ember-light flickers along the blackened steel. "He calls his army."
Rhea’s hand tightens in mine—when did I start holding her hand? When did that feel natural instead of binding?—and I feel her pulse spike through our shared mark.
"How many?" she asks.
The answer comes as a dozen more coffins split open throughout the catacomb. Ancient nails squeal as they’re forced from rotted wood. The scent of dust and decay thickens until each breath tastes of charnel houses.
"Too many to count." I position myself between her and the emerging horde. "Too few to matter."
Arrogant. But she needs confidence now, not truth.
The first wight lunges with claws extended. My blade sweeps through the air, catching it at the neck.
But more shamble forward from alcoves and wall crypts. They move with purpose now—not random hunger, but directed malice. The Marshal’s will driving them toward a specific target.
Her.
The realization sends coldness through my veins. They’re not attacking me directly. They’re trying to get around me, reach the witch behind my guard.
Why her specifically?
A wight lunges from my left flank. I pivot, bringing my sword around in a brutal arc that cleaves the creature in half. Ash and bone fragments spray across the floor, but two more take its place.
Rhea stumbles as our binding mark flares. She’s being dragged forward by invisible chains every time I advance into combat, forced closer to gnashing teeth and raking claws.
"Can you break the pull?" I ask, crushing a wight’s ribcage with my bare hand.
"I’m trying." Her voice is strained. "But the magic won’t let me retreat while you—"
A bone-wight breaks through my guard, claws raking toward her throat. Without thinking, I throw myself sideways, intercepting the blow with my forearm. Claws punch through mail and leather, tearing flesh to the bone.
Rhea screams—not from her own pain, but mine bleeding through the binding. Her unmarked arm clutches at phantom wounds that burn real as fire.
"Fuck." I grab the wight by its skull and crush it to powder. "I forgot—"
"You forgot we share wounds?" She’s breathing hard, green eyes bright with pain and anger. "How exactly does one forget that?"
Because I was thinking of you as mine to protect, not as part of me.
The thought comes unbidden, dangerous. When did her safety become more important than my own? When did protecting her feel as natural as breathing?
Don’t think about it. Not now.
Another wave of wights shambles forward. I carve through them with methodical efficiency, but there are always more. The catacombs seem to be producing them faster than I can destroy them.
"This isn’t working," Rhea says behind me. "We’re being overwhelmed."
She’s right. For every wight I destroy, two more emerge from the shadows. They’re herding us, driving us deeper into the catacombs where—
Where the Marshal waits.
"Can you fight?" I ask.
"You’ve seen me fight."
"I’ve seen you burn one or two. Can you handle a dozen?"
Her answer is to pull chalk from her satchel, scrawling sigils in the air with practiced precision. "Ignis mortuum!"
Blue-white fire erupts from her palm, engulfing three wights at once. They vanish in bursts of flame, reduced to drifting ash in seconds. The magic burns pure against the necromantic filth, and I catch the scent of burning bone.
She’s stronger than she lets on.
The realization hits me again, but this time it doesn’t surprise me. This time it feels... right. Natural. A witch worth standing beside instead of protecting from behind.
We fall into rhythm without needing to speak. I wade into the thickest knots of wights, my blade clearing brutal paths through bone and sinew. She picks off the stragglers with precise bursts of fire, her magic complementing my strength without interfering.
Partnership.
The word tastes strange. I haven’t fought alongside someone since—
Don’t think of her. Not here. Not now.
But the comparison comes anyway. Lyralei had been gentle, trusting. This witch is different. Sharper.
Maybe that’s better.
A sound echoes through the catacomb, but not a coffin this time. Something much larger.
The massive sarcophagus at the chamber’s far end cracks down its center. The lid, easily the size of a warhorse, grinds aside with a sound that sets my teeth on edge.
What emerges makes the other wights look like children’s toys.
It had been a knight once—that much is clear from the helm fused to its skull and the scraps of mail hanging from its bones.
But death and the Marshal’s power have changed it into something else.
Horns curl from its temples, its ribcage expanded into a cage of yellowed bone.
Green fire burns in its eye sockets with intelligence the smaller wights lack.
Champion. Of course.
The Marshal always did enjoy his lieutenants. This one bears the marks of his personal attention—necromantic runes carved deep into its bones, power radiating from its massive frame.
Its burning gaze sweeps the chamber, passing over me without interest, then fixes on Rhea with predatory hunger.
It wants her specifically.
"Stay back," I growl, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re useless. The binding won’t let her retreat while I advance.
The champion moves faster than its size should allow, crossing the chamber in a few massive strides. Bone claws sweep toward Rhea’s throat—too fast, too close.
I don’t think. I hurl myself forward, sword raised overhead. Steel meets bone with a clash that sends sparks flying, but the champion’s strength is immense. The impact drives me to one knee.
"Krath!" Rhea’s voice is sharp with fear.
The champion’s free hand backhands me across the chamber. I hit the wall hard enough to crack stone, and Rhea cries out as the impact echoes through our binding. Blood runs down my face from a split scalp.
Getting too old for this.
But the champion is already turning back toward the witch, claws extended. She raises her hands, sigil-fire crackling around her fingers, but the creature’s necrotic aura washes over her magic and snuffs it out.
No.
The word tears from my throat as I push off the wall. Not just denial—rage. Pure, incandescent fury at anything that dares threaten what’s mine.
Mine.
The thought comes clear and undeniable. Not because of the binding. Not because of duty or protection or any other noble reason.
Because I want her to be.
I cross the chamber in one brutal leap, sword cutting through the air. The champion’s claws are inches from Rhea’s throat when my blade takes its arm off at the shoulder.
Green fire gutters and hisses as bone dust fills the air. The champion roars—a sound that has no business coming from a dead throat—and spins toward me with its remaining arm.
I duck under its swing and drive my sword up through its ribcage, angling for where the heart would be if it still had one. Steel bites deep, finding the runes carved into its bones and shattering them one by one.
The champion staggers, green fire flickering in its sockets. But it’s not finished yet. Claws rake across my chest, punching through mail to tear flesh beneath. Pain lances through the binding mark, and I hear Rhea gasp.
End this.
I twist my blade, finding the last runic anchor holding the creature together. The champion’s skull splits with a crack that reverberates through the stone walls. Green fire dies as I drive my sword down through spine and pelvis, cleaving the massive frame in half.
It collapses into pieces, bones scattering across the floor with hollow rattles. The smaller wights freeze as their champion falls, then crumble to dust as the necromantic power holding them fails.
Silence settles over the chamber. Only the sound of my breathing and blood dripping from my wounds.
I turn toward Rhea, still standing where the champion nearly reached her. Ash dusts her auburn hair, and there’s a cut on her cheek that mirrors one on mine—shared through our binding. But her green eyes are bright, alive, defiant.
"You’re bleeding," she says.
"We’re bleeding." I gesture at the mark on her cheek. "Remember?"
She reaches up to touch the cut, then looks at her bloodied fingers. "This is going to take some getting used to."
Is it?
The question sits heavy in my chest. How long do we have before the Marshal’s game reaches its conclusion? Before one of us has to bleed the bell that hangs in the shattered tower?
Not long enough.
Rhea approaches slowly, her gaze fixed on the gashes across my chest. "Those need tending."
"They’ll heal."
"Will they?" She stops just within arm’s reach, close enough that I can smell the chalk dust and magic that clings to her skin. "Or will they fester and kill us both?"
Good point.
I sit heavily on a broken piece of the champion’s sarcophagus, suddenly feeling every year of my cursed existence. The wounds burn, but not as badly as they should. The binding seems to be sharing the pain, making it manageable.
Small mercies.
Rhea kneels beside me, pulling supplies from her satchel. Clean cloth, a small vial of something that smells of herbs and alcohol. Her hands are steady as she works, cleaning blood from torn mail.
"You saved my life," she says quietly.
"I saved both our lives. Remember? We’re bound."
"Is that the only reason?" Her eyes find mine, sharp and knowing. "Self-preservation?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with meaning I’m not ready to examine. Why did I throw myself at the champion? Why did seeing her in danger unleash something primal in my chest?
Because she’s mine.
But I can’t say that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"You think this was a mistake?" I ask.
She’s quiet for a long moment, her hands gentle but efficient as she tends my wounds. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft.
"Ask me again when we’re both still alive."
Fair enough.
Her touch is careful, clinical. But there’s something else in the way her fingers linger on my skin, the way her breathing changes when she’s this close. Heat that has nothing to do with magic or binding marks.
Dangerous.
But for the first time since waking, dangerous doesn’t feel like a warning. It feels promising.
"There." She sits back on her heels, surveying her work. "That should hold until we find somewhere safer."
"Safer?" I look around the bone-strewn chamber. "In this place?"
"Point taken." She starts repacking her supplies. "So what now?"
Before I can answer, laughter echoes through the catacombs—closer than before, carrying the promise of worse things coming.
"Well done, old friend. Well done indeed. But that was merely the first movement. The real symphony has yet to begin."
Rhea’s face pales. "He’s getting stronger."
"Aye." I push to my feet, testing the bandages. They hold, for now. "And we’re running out of places to run."
"Then maybe it’s time we stopped running."
I look at her sharply. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, we find this bell everyone keeps talking about." Fire sparks in her green eyes. "And we end this on our terms."
Bold. Reckless. Probably suicidal.
Perfect.
For the first time since waking, I smile. Really smile, not just a baring of teeth.
"Now you’re thinking like a cursed warlord, little witch."
Her answering grin is as sharp as her silver blade.
"I learned from the best."