Chapter 12
TWELVE
RHEA
The hidden chamber we’ve claimed as our sanctuary sits deep in the abbey’s foundations, carved from living rock and shielded by walls thick enough to muffle sound and magical resonance.
Ancient symbols cover every surface—not the Christian imagery of the upper levels, but older markings that predate kingdoms. Spirals and interlocking circles that speak of powers far more ancient than any human god.
Power flows through the very stones here, making this the perfect place for what we’re attempting. What we must attempt, if we’re going to survive what’s coming.
Candles burn in alcoves carved into the walls, their flames dancing without any breeze to stir them.
The air itself feels thick with potential, as if the chamber waits for something momentous to occur within its confines.
And perhaps it does—places of power have their own awareness, their own desires.
Krath sits cross-legged in the center of the chamber, already shirtless, his scarred torso bearing testament to centuries of violence.
But it’s not the old wounds that capture my attention—it’s the way he holds himself, perfectly still yet radiating controlled tension, waiting for me to take the final step.
The Unity Rite requires more than simple proximity now. The magical texts were clear about the advanced stages: sustained skin contact across multiple anchor points, shared breathing, heartbeats synchronized until they beat as one.
I remove my outer robe with deliberate care, folding it and setting it aside.
The simple shift underneath is thin enough to allow magical energy to flow freely, but substantial enough to maintain some sense of propriety.
Though given what we’re about to attempt, propriety seems increasingly irrelevant.
My bare feet whisper against stone as I approach him, hyper-aware of his burning gaze tracking my movement. When I settle between his legs, facing him, the position places us chest-to-chest, our knees interlocked, every breath shared in the space between our bodies.
The first contact of skin against skin sends electricity racing along my nerves. His chest is warm beneath my palms, scarred but solid, rising and falling with controlled breathing that matches my own growing rhythm.
"This position," I say, voice coming out smaller than intended. "It’s..."
"Intimate," he finishes, voice rough with more than magical preparation. "The texts weren’t unclear about what the Unity Rite requires."
I nod, then wrap my legs around his waist as the instructions demanded.
His arms circle mine in response, creating a closed circuit of contact that makes the brand on my wrist flare with warmth.
We’re locked together now, bodies aligned from chest to hip, faces close enough that our breath mingles in the charged air between us.
"Are you certain about this?" he asks, red eyes searching my face. "Once we begin the deep stages, there’s no going back. We’ll know each other in ways that few people ever—"
"I’m certain," I interrupt, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I trust you. Completely."
Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe, or wonder. After so many years of believing himself unworthy of trust, the simple declaration clearly affects him deeply.
"Then let’s begin," he says.
I close my eyes and reach for the power that burns in my chest, letting it flow outward to seek his answering flame.
The power fusion happens faster now, our energies already attuned from hours of practice.
But something deeper occurs alongside the magical merger—barriers dissolving, consciousness intertwining until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
The sensation is overwhelming at first. Two lifetimes of memory and experience suddenly available, emotions that aren’t mine flooding across my awareness. I gasp at the intensity, my grip tightening on his shoulders as I struggle to maintain my sense of self.
"Breathe," he murmurs against my ear, his voice steady despite the tremor I can feel running across his body. "Let it happen gradually. Don’t fight the flow."
I follow his guidance, focusing on the rhythm of our shared breathing until the chaos settles into something manageable. That’s when the first memory surfaces clearly—not mine, but his, experienced as if I’d lived it myself.
A battlefield seen from his eyes, corpses piled high while something that might once have been human stalks between them.
The scent of charnel houses fills my nostrils, and I feel his rage at the abomination wearing his friend’s face.
But underneath the fury, something else—the creeping realization that this creature isn’t just any enemy.
It’s the Marshal, freshly transformed by necromantic power, grinning with teeth that belong to the dead.
The first betrayal. When I realized the friend I’d trusted with my life had allied with the very forces we were fighting against.
The betrayal cuts deeper than any physical wound. I experience his shock, his disbelief, the way his world tilted on its axis when everything he thought he knew proved false. The pain is so intense, I have to press my forehead against his shoulder to ground myself.
I’m sorry. To be betrayed by someone you loved—
It taught me not to trust so easily, he responds, but I feel the lie in the words. The betrayal didn’t teach him caution—it taught him to expect pain from everyone he cared about.
Before I can respond, another image floods my awareness—younger Krath discovering Lyralei’s body in their shared chambers, the way her eyes stared sightlessly at stars she’d never see again.
Her skin is cold beneath his hands as he cradles her, and I feel the exact moment his heart breaks completely.
The grief hits me harder than any of the wraiths’ attacks, raw and devastating even centuries later. But worse than the sorrow is his certainty that loving him had killed her, that his feelings had made him weak when she needed him strong.
She knew the risks, he tells me, but underneath the words I feel his self-recrimination, the absolute conviction that her death was his fault.
No. I pour all my certainty across our power bridge. Love didn’t make you weak. It made you human. And being human isn’t a weakness—it’s what separates you from the Marshal.
The sharing reverses, my memories flowing to him with equal intensity. He experiences my childhood—the subtle isolation that felt natural at the time, the way certain books were always just out of reach, how teachers praised my curiosity while steering it in very specific directions.
I feel his shock as he witnesses the scope of the manipulation, decades of careful influence designed to create exactly the woman who would seek forbidden knowledge. Every significant choice in my life was guided by unseen hands, my very personality shaped to serve someone else’s purpose.
Your entire life. They stole your entire life.
No, I tell him, drawing strength from his protective rage. They influenced it, guided it, but they couldn’t create what wasn’t already there. The curiosity, the courage, the choices I made when it mattered—those were mine.
How can you be certain?
Because I’m here. Because when I saw you chained in that tomb, I chose to free you. No manipulation could create that moment—it came from my heart.
The memory sharing deepens, becoming more intimate as our power fusion reaches new levels.
I experience his exact emotions during Lyralei’s death—not just grief, but helpless rage and the kind of self-hatred that carves itself into your bones.
The way he held her cooling body and promised never to love again, never to risk another person’s life for his own weakness.
He feels my childhood loneliness, the way I was systematically isolated from other children my age.
How I learned to find companionship in books because people always seemed to slip away just when I grew close to them.
The careful cultivation of solitude that made me desperate enough to seek dangerous knowledge when the time came.
No one will control you again. No one will hurt you while I draw breath.
The intensity of the emotional sharing makes maintaining magical focus difficult, but we persist. The Unity Rite demands this level of vulnerability, this complete trust that goes beyond anything either of us has known. But with each layer of barrier that falls away, our power grows stronger.
I feel his magic enhancing mine, his strength flowing into my flames until they burn hotter than ever before. He can sense my precision guiding his more brutal power, giving it focus and direction beyond simple destruction.
That’s when the temperature plummets without warning.
Bone-wraiths flow into the chamber like smoke given malevolent form, their hollow eyes burning with cold fire. But these aren’t the creatures we’ve faced before—they move with coordinated purpose, spreading out to attack from multiple angles simultaneously.
More concerning, they seem specifically designed to break magical links. Their very presence disrupts energy flows, and I feel our power fusion wavering as they approach.
"Don’t let go," I gasp, one hand pressed to Krath’s chest to maintain our energy bridge while the other calls up purifying flame.
"Never," he growls, one arm locked around my waist while the other wields his sword with devastating precision.
Fighting while maintaining sustained contact requires coordination we’ve never attempted.
I burn wraiths with one hand while keeping the other pressed to his skin, feeling his strength flow into my magic.
He carves through enemies with surgical precision while keeping me anchored against his body, our heartbeats hammering in unison.
The position should be awkward, limiting. Instead, it forces us to move as one entity, each motion coordinated perfectly with the other.