Chapter 6 Rhea
SIX
RHEA
The spiral staircase winds upward into darkness, each step echoing in the narrow space. The ancient presence from the library follows us—not directly, but I feel its attention pressing against my thoughts. Weighing. Measuring. Waiting.
Such determination, little scholar. Such fire. But fire can be snuffed so easily.
I try to ignore the whisper, but it grows stronger as we climb. More personal.
He believes he protects you. Poor fool. Does he not see? You are the weapon I will use to destroy him.
"Shut up," I mutter under my breath.
Krath glances back from where he leads our ascent. "What?"
"Nothing. Just... thinking."
But the voice doesn’t relent. If anything, my resistance seems to amuse it.
Look at him, little witch. See how his shoulders bear the weight of centuries. See how each step toward the tower costs him. You could end his suffering. One small sacrifice. One moment of courage.
Images flash through my mind—Krath in chains, watching Lyralei die. The same chains that could hold me while he’s forced to watch history repeat itself.
Unless you choose differently.
We reach a landing where the stairs branch in multiple directions. Krath pauses, studying the passages with a warrior’s eye for traps and ambush. But I’m studying him—the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches when he thinks I’m not looking.
He’s afraid.
Not of the tower or the bell or whatever waits above. He’s afraid of failing me the way he failed Lyralei.
Poor broken beast. If only he knew how simple the solution could be.
"This way," Krath says, choosing the passage that curves upward. "The air moves here. We’re close to the tower."
As we climb, the walls grow stranger. Older. The stone bears marks that predate the abbey—spirals and symbols. The ancient presence grows stronger too, more confident.
Soon, little scholar. Soon you will understand.
We emerge into a circular chamber that might once have been a guard room. Arrow slits pierce the walls, and broken weapons litter the floor. But it’s the alcove in the far wall that draws my attention—a niche containing a single intact book.
"Wait," I call out as Krath moves toward the next staircase. "There’s something here."
The book is bound in black leather, unmarked by age or flame. When I touch it, the cover feels warm—not with external heat, but as if something lives within the pages.
"Ritual Compendium of the Void-Touched," I read aloud. "Severance, Binding, and the Art of Soul-Trading."
Perfect.
Krath’s expression darkens. "Leave it."
"But it might have answers—"
"It has exactly the answers you want to hear," he cuts me off. "Which makes it dangerous beyond measure."
Listen to him, little witch. He knows the price of forbidden knowledge. He knows how easily the desperate can be led astray.
But even as the voice mocks, I feel its eagerness. It wants me to read this book. Wants me to find whatever’s written in its pages.
Why?
The question sits heavy in my mind as we continue climbing. What does the ancient presence gain from my knowledge? What does it want me to find?
Understanding, child. The truth your orc so desperately hides.
We reach another landing, this one opening onto a balcony that overlooks the abbey’s courtyard far below. Wind whips through the broken stones, carrying the scent of ash and old rain. But it’s the view that stops me cold.
In the courtyard below, shadows move with purpose. Not random darkness, but organized formations. An army of bone-wights marching in perfect ranks, their green fire eyes burning in the night.
"The Marshal’s legion," Krath growls. "He masses for the final assault."
Yes. He grows impatient. Soon he will simply take what he wants rather than wait for it to be given.
The image shifts in my mind—Krath overwhelmed by numbers, cut down by the very creatures he once commanded. My own death following moments later as our binding drags me into darkness with him.
Unless.
"How many?" I ask, though I can already see the answer. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. More than even Krath could face.
"Too many." His voice is grim as winter stone. "If they all attack at once..."
He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t need to.
But there is another way, little scholar. A way to save him. To save yourself. All it requires is courage.
I clutch the black book tighter, feeling its warmth seep into my hands. Inside its pages might be the answer—a way to break the binding before the Marshal can use it against us.
Read it. Learn. Choose.
"We should keep moving," Krath says, but I’m already opening the book.
The text is in the same ancient script as the bell chronicles, but somehow I can read it perfectly. As if the knowledge flows directly into my mind.
"Severance of Soul-Bonds in Extremis," I read silently. "When death approaches and time grows short, the wise practitioner may choose to break all chains rather than let them be used as weapons."
Yes. Read on.
The ritual described is complex but not impossible. It requires blood and will and the absolute certainty of purpose. But the cost...
"The severing requires the practitioner to offer their own life-force as payment," I continue reading. "The bond is broken, but the one who performs the ritual..."
Dies. Yes. A small price for such a great gift.
I snap the book shut, my hands shaking. The ancient presence practically purrs with satisfaction.
Now you understand. You can free him, little witch. All it takes is one moment of courage.
"Rhea." Krath’s voice makes me jump. He’s watching me with those burning red eyes, and I realize I’ve been standing here too long. "What did you find?"
"Nothing useful." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "Just more religious texts."
He studies my face, and I’m afraid he can see the truth written there. But after a moment, he nods.
"Come. We’re almost to the tower."
As we climb the final staircase, the ancient presence whispers constantly now. Showing me visions of possible futures—Krath free but alone, mourning my sacrifice but living. Better than both of us dying in chains.
The greater good, little scholar. Is that not what you sought when you came to this place? Knowledge that could change everything?
The tower chamber opens before us—a round space dominated by the massive bell that hangs from a framework of blessed silver. Even in the dim light, I can see the runes carved into its surface, the power that radiates from its ancient metal.
And beneath it, carved into the stone floor, is the summoning circle Brother Aldric wrote about. The one that calls the dead.
Here. This is where you choose.
Krath moves to examine the bell, but I hang back by the staircase entrance. The black book feels heavy in my hands, weighted with possibility and terrible purpose.
He doesn’t have to know. You could perform the ritual quickly, before he can stop you. Free him from centuries of suffering. Give him the peace he’s never known.
"The bell’s intact," Krath says, running his hands along the silver framework. "But the bindings are complex. It will take time to understand how to—"
That’s when I make my choice.
I drop to my knees by the staircase entrance, away from his direct sight. The black book falls open to the ritual page as if guided by invisible hands. My athame appears in my grip, silver blade catching the faint light.
Yes. Quickly now, before courage fails.
I begin to carve the ritual circle in chalk and blood, following the instructions that burn in my mind. The pattern is jagged, hungry. It pulls at something deep in my chest even as I create it.
Blood and will and absolute purpose. Give everything, little scholar. Hold nothing back.
"Rhea?" Krath’s voice carries a note of concern. "What are you—"
I speak the first words of the ritual, and the mark on my wrist flares white-hot. Not the gentle warmth of our usual binding, but searing pain that races up my arm and into my chest.
Something’s wrong.
The realization hits too late. The ritual isn’t just severing our binding—it’s tearing something else open. Something that should stay closed.
The circle erupts in black fire, and shadows pour through the gaps in reality. Not the Marshal’s creatures, but something older. Hungrier. Things that exist in the spaces between worlds, drawn by the scent of an offered soul.
Yes. Feed them, little witch. Give them what they hunger for.
I try to break the circle, to disrupt the pattern, but the shadows are already wrapping around my arms. My legs. Drawing me toward the rift that pulses at the center of the summoning.
This isn’t freedom. It’s damnation.
I scream.
The sound echoes off the tower walls, raw and desperate. Somewhere behind me, I hear Krath roar my name.
Then the world explodes.
He doesn’t run to me—he smashes through the stone floor itself, his massive frame wreathed in smoke and fury. The tower shakes under the impact of his landing, but his focus is absolute.
One hand grabs my wrist, pulling me away from the hungry shadows. The other drives his sword into the heart of the ritual circle, disrupting the pattern with brutal efficiency.
The shadows recoil with sounds that might be screaming. The rift begins to collapse, reality healing itself with painful slowness.
But the backlash is immediate and violent.
The tower fills with competing energies—the black fire of the failed ritual, the silver light of the bell above, the red glow of Krath’s own power. Stone cracks. The ceiling groans. And through it all, he shields me with his body as magical forces tear the chamber apart.
We hit the floor hard, his armor scraping against stone. He covers me completely, arms wrapped around my head, as debris rains down around us.
Then silence.
Dust settles. The rift seals itself with a sound of reality snapping back into place. The black book crumbles to ash, its purpose served.