Chapter 9 Krath
NINE
KRATH
Dawn filters through the cracked window of our makeshift shelter, painting everything in shades of amber and gold.
I’ve been standing guard for hours, watching shadows lengthen and retreat as the sun climbs higher.
Sleep came in fragments last night—brief moments of unconsciousness broken by the constant awareness of her presence mere feet away.
Rhea sleeps on the narrow cot we fashioned from salvaged monastery bedding, one arm flung across her face to block the growing light.
Auburn hair spills across the rough pillow in copper waves, and her lips part slightly with each breath.
The sight should be innocent—a weary traveler taking rest where she can find it.
Instead, I find myself cataloging details I have no right to notice.
The delicate curve of her neck where it disappears beneath the collar of her travel-worn shirt.
The way her breathing deepens when she shifts, drawing the fabric taut across the gentle swell of her breasts.
The soft sound she makes when dreams stir behind her closed eyelids—not distress this time, but something that might be contentment.
The brand on my palm burns in rhythm with her heartbeat, a constant reminder of what ties us together.
What started as an unwelcome chain has become something else entirely—awareness that settles into my bones and refuses to be ignored.
I’m conscious of her in ways that go beyond magic, beyond necessity.
When did watching over her stop feeling burdensome and start feeling necessary?
I force myself to turn back to the window, scanning the courtyard below for signs of movement. The Marshal’s creatures avoid daylight, but that doesn’t guarantee safety. This place harbors too many secrets, too many shadows that move without regard for sun or moon.
"Krath?" Her voice carries the rough quality of recent sleep. "How long have you been standing there?"
I don’t turn around, afraid she’ll read too much in my expression. "A few hours. Someone needs to keep watch."
The soft rustle of bedding tells me she’s sitting up, probably running fingers through that tangled mass of hair.
"You should have woken me. We agreed to share the watches."
"You needed the rest." The words come out rougher than intended. "The nightmares haven’t been kind."
A pause, then the sound of bare feet on stone as she approaches the window. I catch her scent—chalk dust and dried herbs, something clean that cuts through the abbey’s perpetual staleness. She stops close enough that I feel the warmth from her sleep-warmed skin.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For last night. For staying."
The simple gratitude in her voice does something uncomfortable to my chest.
"We should move soon," I say, deflecting before the moment can grow too intimate. "This place doesn’t stay mapped for long."
"What do you mean?"
I gesture toward the corridor beyond our chamber. "Look at the passage we used to get here."
She leans closer to peer through the doorway, close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt through my body—not the sharp pain of shared injury, but something warmer. More dangerous.
Her sharp intake of breath tells me she sees what I’ve noticed. The corridor that led us here last night now curves in the opposite direction, disappearing around a bend that definitely wasn’t there before. Where we should see the intersection with the main hall, solid stone blocks our view.
"The abbey’s layout has shifted," she whispers.
A grinding sound cuts off her words. Deep in the walls, something massive moves. Not settling or collapse, but deliberate rearrangement. The building itself is reshaping around us, corridors flowing into new configurations.
"We need to leave. Now." I’m already moving, gathering our supplies with practiced efficiency. "If we get trapped in a dead end—"
The grinding intensifies, and the floor beneath our feet begins to tremble. Dust rains from the ceiling as stress fractures spider across the walls. Whatever force controls this place has grown impatient with subtle manipulation.
"Krath—"
The far wall erupts inward with a sound of breaking thunder. Not collapse, but forced entry. Something has punched through three feet of solid stone as if it were parchment.
Shadow pours through the jagged opening in writhing tendrils, coalescing into shapes that might once have been human. Gaunt figures with elongated limbs and fingers that end in bone-white claws. They smell of old graves and older malice.
Bone-constructs. The Marshal’s latest gift.
The first one lunges before I can draw my sword, moving with inhuman speed. I catch it by the throat, claws raking across my forearm as I slam it into the wall hard enough to crack stone. Ancient bone dust explodes from the impact, filling the air with the scent of charnel houses.
But there are more. Too many for the confined space.
"Behind me!" I shout to Rhea, finally managing to clear my blade. Fire blooms along the steel as I carve through the closest attackers.
But she’s not retreating. Blue-white flames erupt from her palms, catching two constructs’ center mass and reducing them to drifting ash.
We fall into rhythm without needing to speak—I create openings with brute force while she exploits them with precision.
My blade cleaves through bone and shadow while her fire turns the Marshal’s creations back to the dust they were raised from.
The sound of battle fills the chamber—steel on bone, the hiss of purifying flame, the clatter of destroyed constructs hitting stone.
A construct breaks through my guard, claws raking toward her exposed flank. Without thinking, I pivot and catch her around the waist, pulling her against my chest as my other hand drives upward through the creature’s ribcage. The impact of catching her sends us both stumbling backward.
She’s pressed fully against me, soft curves fitting against hard angles in ways that have nothing to do with combat.
Her hands have fisted in my armor for balance, and I feel the rapid flutter of her pulse against my throat.
For one heartbeat, the battle fades. There’s only the warmth of her body bleeding through fabric and mail, the way she fits against me as if she belongs there.
Heat races along my palm where the brand burns—not pain this time, but recognition. The absolute certainty that this woman belongs at my side, fighting beside me, trusting me to guard her back while she guards mine.
The thought comes unbidden, primal: She is mine to protect, mine to claim, mine to—
I push the dangerous direction of that thinking away before it can fully form.
"Are you hurt?" The words come out rough.
"No, I—" She looks up at me, green eyes wide, and I realize how close we are. How easily I could lower my head and claim the lips that part slightly in surprise.
The brand pulses between us, carrying more than magical energy. I smell her arousal beneath the scent of battle-sweat and fear—warm musk that makes something in my chest rumble with approval.
Her hands are still fisted in my armor, but the grip has changed from desperate balance to something else entirely. Her breathing has quickened, and not from exertion.
"Krath..." My name on her lips carries a question she’s not ready to voice.
Reality crashes back as footsteps echo from the corridor beyond our ruined wall. Heavy boots on stone, moving with military precision. More enemies coming, drawn by the sounds of battle.
I release her and step back, the loss of contact leaving me strangely cold despite the fire that burns eternally in my chest. "We need to move. There will be more."
She nods, but I catch the way her eyes linger on my mouth before she turns away. The hunger there is unmistakable, and it takes all my control not to respond to the invitation.
Not here. Not now. Not when we’re fighting for our lives in a place that wants us dead.
But the promise hangs between us as we gather our scattered supplies and prepare to flee into the abbey’s shifting maze.
The passage we choose leads deeper into the monastery’s heart, past chambers we haven’t seen before.
"These markings," Rhea says, running her fingers along the carved stone as we walk. "They’re not just decorative. They’re... functional. Part of some larger pattern."
I study the symbols she’s indicating, trying to make sense of their arrangement. Military training taught me to read terrain, to spot patterns that might indicate a trap or ambush. These carvings have that same deliberate quality—placement that follows rules I don’t understand.
"Instructions?" I suggest.
"More detailed than that." She stops beside a section where the spirals form complex geometric shapes. "These could be blueprints. For something that requires precise positioning to—"
The floor gives way beneath her feet.
I lunge forward, catching her wrist just as she starts to fall. The sudden jerk sends us both off balance, and we tumble together into the darkness below. I twist mid-fall, taking the impact on my back against stone while she lands across my chest in a tangle of limbs and scattered breath.
The landing drives the air from my lungs in a harsh grunt. Stone scrapes against my armor, and somewhere above us, debris continues to rain down from where the floor collapsed. But the immediate danger passes quickly—no sounds of pursuit from above, no threats emerging from the shadows around us.
We lie still for a moment, listening to echoes fade into silence. Her weight across my chest is slight but warm, her breathing rapid against my throat. I should move, help her up, put proper distance between us.
Instead, I find myself acutely aware of every point where her body touches mine.
"Are you all right?" I ask, though I make no move to dislodge her.