Chapter 5 Rhea
FIVE
RHEA
The library stretches before us in the wavering light of my conjured flame—a graveyard of knowledge where charred tomes lie scattered across the floor. Soot coats everything, turning what was once a sanctuary of learning into something that belongs more in a furnace than a house of worship.
"This place saw fire," I murmur, stepping carefully around fallen shelves. "Recently, by the look of it."
Krath grunts his agreement, using his considerable strength to shift a toppled bookcase aside. "The Marshal has no love for written wisdom."
Or maybe he had something to hide.
We move deeper into the ruins, searching for anything that might tell us about the bell. The one that hangs in the shattered tower. The one Brother Aldric’s journal mentioned in those final, frantic entries.
Krath clears debris while I examine any tome that survived the flames. Most are beyond saving—pages fused into illegible masses, leather covers warped beyond recognition. But here and there, protected by stone or luck, I find fragments still readable.
"Here." I kneel beside an intact volume, its brass binding green with age but unmelted. "Chronicles of Blackspire’s Founding."
The text is illuminated script in High Gothic, painstakingly detailed. I trace the words with my finger, translating as I read.
"’In the Year of Shadows, when the dead walked among the living, the Abbot commissioned a great bell to be forged.
Not of bronze or iron, but of blessed silver and the bones of saints.
’" I pause, making sure Krath is listening. "’The bell was crafted to call wandering souls to their final rest. But the founding text warns—the bell’s voice cannot be silenced once awakened, save by one willing to offer their very essence to still its cry. ’"
Krath goes very still. "Their essence?"
"It doesn’t specify." I flip through more pages, finding additional passages. "’Let none approach the bell in anger or haste, for it knows the heart’s true intent. Those who would silence its call must come as supplicant, not conqueror.’"
Willing sacrifice.
The words hang unspoken between us, but I see understanding dawn in Krath’s red eyes. This isn’t about breaking a curse—it’s about replacing it. Someone has to take his place.
"There’s more." I move to the far wall where a massive fresco stretches from floor to ceiling, half-hidden beneath layers of soot. "Help me clear this."
Together we brush away centuries of grime. The mural emerges slowly—colors still vibrant beneath the filth, gold leaf catching my flame’s light.
It depicts a great hall filled with orcs in gleaming armor. At the center stands a figure I recognize despite the artistic styling—Krath in his prime, powerful and proud, surrounded by loyal soldiers. But behind him, partially hidden in shadow, another figure raises a blade.
The Pale Marshal.
Even rendered in paint and gold, his treachery is clear. The blade drives deep into Krath’s back while shadow and fire coil around both figures. Ancient script runs beneath the scene in the same High Gothic as the chronicle.
"’When trust became betrayal and brotherhood became envy, the Ashbane fell to shadow’s whisper. Thus was loyalty rewarded with chains, love met with loss, and honor bound in ash and bone.’"
The silence stretches between us, heavy with old pain. I can feel tension radiating from Krath—not anger this time, but something deeper. Grief, maybe. Or shame.
"He was your friend," I say quietly.
"My brother in all but blood." His voice is rough as grinding stone. "I raised him from nothing. Gave him rank, purpose, a place at my side."
"What changed?"
Krath stares at the mural, at the painted betrayal that mirrors his real one. "I fell in love."
The words hit me harder than they should. Not because he loved someone else, but because of the pain bleeding through his voice. The way he says it as if love itself were a failure.
"With a witch?"
"Aye." He moves closer to the fresco, his massive frame casting shadows across the painted figures. "Lyralei of the Thornwood Coven. Beautiful, brilliant, fierce as summer lightning." His jaw clenches. "The Marshal thought it made me weak."
"Did it?"
He turns to look at me then, red eyes burning in the flickering light. "What do you think?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning I’m not sure I want to unpack. Does love make us weak? Does caring for someone compromise our strength?
Does what I’m starting to feel for him make me a liability?
"I think," I say carefully, "that the Marshal was jealous."
"Perhaps." Krath’s gaze flicks back to the mural. "But jealousy doesn’t explain the curse. Doesn’t explain why he chose chains over killing."
"Because death would have been mercy." The realization hits me cold. "He wanted you to suffer."
"Aye. And suffer I have." He steps away from the wall, away from the painted reminder of his betrayal. "For two centuries, I’ve carried this curse. Watched as it drove away anyone foolish enough to care, as it turned every connection into a weapon against me."
The bitterness in his voice makes my chest ache. Two hundred years of isolation, of believing himself too dangerous to love or be loved.
"But now you’re bound to me." I move closer, drawn by something I can’t name. "Does that make you weak?"
His nostrils flare slightly as I approach. That scenting behavior again, as if my presence affects him on some primal level.
"That makes me terrified." The admission is barely a whisper. "Because I cannot protect you from what I am."
"What if I don’t need protection?" I stop just within arm’s reach, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his scarred skin. "What if I can protect myself?"
"Can you?" His voice drops to that rough whisper that makes my pulse quicken. "Can you protect yourself from the Marshal’s games? From the bell’s hunger? From—" He stops himself, jaw clenching.
"From what?"
"From me." The words come out harsh, self-condemning. "From what I want to do to you."
Heat spirals through my chest at his confession. Not fear—anticipation. Which probably makes me as reckless as he claims.
"And what do you want to do to me?"
The question hangs in the air, dangerous as drawn steel. Krath’s eyes flare brighter, and I catch him breathing deeper.
"Things that would damn us both," he says finally.
Before I can respond, the temperature around us shifts. Not the bone-deep cold we’ve felt before, but something else. A presence that makes the shadows between the shelves writhe with unnatural motion.
Clever little witch.
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, sliding through my mind rather than my ears. Ancient, patient, amused.
You begin to understand the game’s true nature.
I spin toward the sound, but there’s nothing to see. Just dancing shadows and the sudden certainty that we’re being watched.
"What is that?" I whisper.
Krath’s hand drops to his sword hilt, but his stance is wary rather than aggressive. "Something older than the Marshal. Something that was here before the abbey, before the curse."
Before everything.
The presence seems to approve of his assessment. Books rustle without wind, pages turning of their own accord.
The bell calls, little scholar. Soon you must choose—his freedom or your life. There is no third path.
"There’s always a third path," I say to the empty air.
Laughter echoes through the library—not cruel like the Marshal’s, but genuinely amused.
Spoken like a true witch. Always seeking the loophole, the clever solution, the way around instead of through.
The shadows shift closer, and I feel something brush against my mind—not invasive like the whispers from before, but curious. Testing.
But some choices cannot be avoided, little one. Some prices must be paid.
"Then we’ll find another way to pay them," I snap.
We shall see.
The presence fades, leaving only the scent of old parchment and older secrets. But the certainty remains—whatever spoke to us isn’t gone. It’s waiting.
"What did it mean?" I ask. "About the bell calling?"
Krath’s expression is grim. "It means our time grows short. The Marshal won’t wait much longer to force our choice."
"And what choice is that?"
"One of us bleeds for the bell." His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "One of us takes my place in the curse."
No.
The word sits heavy in my chest, immediate and absolute. Not because I fear death—though I do—but because the thought of Krath suffering another two centuries is unbearable.
"There has to be another way."
"Does there?" He steps closer. "What if there isn’t? What if this is simply the price of waking a cursed warlord?"
"Then I pay it."
The words come out before I can stop them, fierce and certain. Krath goes very still, red eyes searching my face.
"You would die for me?"
"Yes." There’s no hesitation in my answer. "Wouldn’t you do the same?"
"That’s different."
"How?"
"Because I’ve already lived too long. Because I’ve done things that damn me regardless of curses." His hand rises as if to touch my face, then stops just short. "Because you have a life worth living."
"So do you."
"Do I?" There’s so much pain in those two words that my throat tightens. "What life is there for a monster, little witch?"
"The same life there is for anyone." I reach up and catch his suspended hand, pressing his palm against my cheek. "The life you choose to make."
His thumb brushes across my skin, the gesture achingly gentle for hands that could crush stone. "You don’t know what you’re offering."
"I know exactly what I’m offering." I meet his burning gaze without flinching. "The question is whether you’re brave enough to accept it."
Something flickers in his expression—hope, maybe. Or fear. His hand trembles against my cheek, and I realize he’s just as terrified as I am.
Good. Fear means it matters.
"Rhea—"
Whatever he was going to say is cut off by the sound of stone grinding against stone. The library walls begin to shift, passages rearranging themselves with deliberate intent.
"The abbey moves again," I whisper.
"Aye." Krath’s hand drops from my face, but he doesn’t step away. "Something drives it. Something with purpose."
The grinding grows louder, more urgent. Dust rains from the ceiling as the very foundations of the library reshape themselves.
"We need to leave," he continues. "Find higher ground before—"
A new passage opens in the far wall with a sound of breaking stone. Beyond it lies a staircase carved from living rock, spiraling upward into darkness.
The tower.
The knowledge comes unbidden, certain as sunrise. The stairs lead to the bell that hangs in the shattered tower. The bell that calls for blood.
"It’s time," I say.
Krath nods grimly. "The final choice approaches."
We gather what supplies we can from the ruined library—chalk, candles, what few intact texts might prove useful. But as we prepare to climb those ominous stairs, I feel the weight of what’s coming.
One of us will bleed for the bell.
One of us will pay the price of freedom.
But maybe—just maybe—we can find a way to pay it together.
The thought is dangerous, reckless, probably impossible.
Perfect.
As we step into the passage and begin our ascent toward whatever waits in the tower, I hold onto that thought. That hope.
That the choice, when it comes, might not be the one either of us expects.