Chapter 8 Rhea
EIGHT
RHEA
Morning comes reluctantly, gray light seeping through cracked windows to illuminate the ruins of communal life. The vast hall stretches before me, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows that seem reluctant to retreat even in daylight.
Tables lie scattered and broken throughout the space, their surfaces scarred by fire and deliberate violence.
Some display deep gouges that could only have been made by claws or weapons.
Others show scorch marks where flames licked hungrily at ancient wood.
A few have been overturned entirely, their massive oak frames reduced to kindling by whatever fury claimed this place.
The great hearth dominates the far wall—a monument to hospitality now cold and lifeless.
Its stones are blackened not just by centuries of cooking fires, but by something hotter, more destructive.
The iron hooks that once held cauldrons hang twisted and warped, metal reshaped by heat that should not have been possible in a simple kitchen.
What happened here? What force was powerful enough to turn a place of fellowship into a battlefield?
But the storage rooms survived, somehow.
Hidden behind walls thick enough to withstand siege engines, they still hold provisions that speak of careful preparation for lean times.
Hard bread wrapped in oiled cloth, still edible despite its texture.
Dried meat tough as leather but rich with salt and smoke.
Stoppered jugs of water that taste of stone but run clear enough to sustain life.
The monks who built this place understood the value of preparation. They planned for siege, for famine, for the possibility that the outside world might turn hostile. They just didn’t plan for the threat to come from within their own walls.
I gather what I can carry, my movements careful and deliberate in the oppressive silence.
Every shadow could hide another of the Marshal’s creatures.
Every sound echoes too loudly in the cavernous space, announcing my presence to whatever might be listening.
The weight of invisible attention presses against my shoulders, though I see no obvious source for the sensation.
This place has eyes. I feel them tracking my movement, cataloging my actions for some unknown purpose. The dead don’t rest easy here.
Footsteps echo from the corridor—heavy boots on stone, but with a measured cadence that speaks of conscious stealth. I recognize the rhythm of Krath’s stride before he appears in the doorway, sword at his side and ember eyes already scanning the room for threats.
Even in daylight, he moves like a warrior expecting an ambush.
His massive frame fills the doorway completely, and I’m struck again by the sheer physicality of him.
Not just his size, though that’s impressive enough, but the way he carries himself.
Every muscle held ready for violence, every sense attuned to potential danger.
This is what two centuries of curse and conflict have made him—a weapon wrapped in flesh, always prepared for the next battle.
"Any trouble?" he asks, his voice carrying the rough quality of someone who hasn’t slept well.
"Just ghosts," I reply, then immediately regret the words. In a place like this, ghosts might be more than a metaphor.
He grunts acknowledgment and moves to examine the stores I’ve uncovered.
His massive hands look almost comical handling the human-sized provisions, but he manages to fill a pack with mechanical efficiency.
There’s something oddly domestic about the scene—two people preparing breakfast in a kitchen, no matter how ruined that kitchen might be.
I find myself studying his hands as he works.
They’re scarred and callused from centuries of swordwork, but his touch on the fragile provisions is surprisingly gentle.
He’s learned to control his strength, to measure his force according to need.
How many years did it take to develop that kind of restraint?
We don’t speak as we work, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable.
The events of last night—the nightmare, him staying with me until dawn—sit acknowledged but unexamined between us.
I’m not sure what to say about it. Thank you feels inadequate for someone who sat vigil through my darkest dreams. Pretending it didn’t happen feels dishonest.
Instead, I find myself stealing glances at his profile as he inventories supplies.
The strong line of his jaw. The way morning light catches in his dark hair, revealing threads of silver that speak of age beyond his apparent years.
The careful way he handles even the most mundane objects, as if afraid his strength might break something precious.
How long has it been since he shared simple domestic tasks with someone? How long since he had a partner instead of just allies or enemies?
"The main hall should be safer," he says finally, his voice breaking the contemplative quiet. "More defensible, better sight lines."
The practical concern in his tone reminds me that this isn’t a peaceful morning despite the domestic scene we’ve created.
We’re still trapped in a hostile environment, still hunted by forces beyond our understanding.
The brief illusion of normalcy dissolves, replaced by the weight of our circumstances.
I nod agreement and follow him through corridors that seem different in daylight. The oppressive atmosphere hasn’t lifted entirely—too much darkness has soaked into these stones for sunlight to banish it completely—but the harsh shadows of night have given way to more natural illumination.
Still, I catch myself looking over my shoulder as we walk. That sensation of being watched hasn’t faded with dawn. If anything, it’s grown stronger, more focused. As if whatever observes us has grown bolder with the light.
The hall he leads me to was once the abbey’s pride—a soaring space that must have taken decades to build.
The ceiling disappears into shadows high above, supported by pillars carved with such intricate detail that each one could be studied for hours.
Tall windows line the walls in perfect symmetry, their empty frames speaking of glass that once blazed with colored light.
Even in ruin, the space inspires awe. This wasn’t just architecture—it was art, devotion manifested in stone and mortar. The monks who designed this place understood that beauty itself could be a form of prayer.
We claim a table near the largest window grouping, where morning light can reach us through the broken frames.
Krath positions himself automatically where he can watch all the entrances, old habits of warfare asserting themselves even in seemingly peaceful moments.
I arrange my meager breakfast and try to pretend this is normal—sharing a meal with a cursed warlord in the ruins of a haunted abbey.
The absurdity of the situation hits me suddenly.
A week ago, my greatest concern was avoiding Sister Morrow’s disapproval when I lingered too long in the forbidden sections of the coven library.
Now I’m bound soul-deep to an ancient warrior, trapped in a place where the dead don’t rest easy, pursued by enemies I barely understand.
How did my life change so completely in such a short span of time?
The bread tastes of dust and age, but it’s sustenance. The water washes it down adequately, though I can taste the minerals leached from stone over centuries. Small victories in a place that seems determined to offer none.
I steal glances at Krath as we eat, trying to reconcile the gentle presence who comforted me through nightmares with the lethal warrior I’ve seen in combat. The contradiction should be jarring, but somehow it isn’t. Both aspects feel genuine, different facets of the same complex whole.
"How long were you cursed?" I ask finally, breaking the oppressive quiet that’s settled between us.
Krath pauses with food halfway to his mouth, surprised by the question. For a moment, I think he won’t answer—privacy is clearly something he values, and I’m still essentially a stranger despite our forced proximity.
"Two centuries," he says eventually. "Give or take a few years. Time moves strangely when you’re suspended between life and death."
The span of time is almost impossible to grasp. Entire kingdoms have risen and fallen while he lay trapped in that tomb. The world he knew has been transformed beyond recognition. Languages have changed, borders have shifted, whole peoples have disappeared into history.
"What was it like?" I ask, then immediately wonder if the question is too personal. "The sleep, I mean."
When he finally speaks, his voice carries a distant quality, as if he’s remembering something from very far away.
"Dark. Dreamless, mostly. Sometimes I could sense the world above—seasons changing, years passing. But it was... distant. Sounds heard through deep water." He pauses, considering. "There was peace in it, of a sort. No pain. No responsibility. No fear of failing someone again."
The last part comes out barely above a whisper, and I catch a glimpse of something raw in his expression before he looks away.
"Do you miss it?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes find mine, surprised. "Miss what?"
"The sleep. The peace of it."
Another long pause. When he speaks, his voice is carefully neutral, but I hear something underneath—surprise, maybe, as if he’s never considered the question before.
"Some," he admits. "When the weight of being awake feels too heavy to bear."
The honesty in his admission cuts deeper than any dramatic declaration. Here is a man who has known such pain that unconsciousness seemed preferable to waking life. What must that do to someone’s soul? How do you find reasons to keep going when existence itself has become a burden?
"But not today?" I ask softly.