Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
KRATH
The chamber feels smaller in the gray light filtering between cracked stone walls, though perhaps that’s because Rhea has been unconscious for the better part of three hours.
I sit beside the makeshift bed we’ve arranged from salvaged monastery blankets, watching the rise and fall of her chest with the focused intensity of a sentry expecting attack.
She’s too pale. The consciousness splitting took more from her than either of us anticipated—not just magical energy, but something deeper.
Color has leached from her skin until she looks carved from ivory, and dark circles ring her closed eyes.
When I touch her forehead, her skin feels cold despite the fever that makes her breathing shallow and rapid.
The spiritual violation of encountering the Marshal’s power reservoir has left marks I can sense but cannot heal. Echoes of necromantic energy that make her flinch even in sleep, her branded wrist glowing fitfully as the mark tries to purge whatever filth clings to her consciousness.
I should have stopped her. Should have recognized the danger before she ranged so far from the safety of my physical anchor. The guilt sits heavy in my chest—another person under my protection suffering because I failed to be strong enough, smart enough, fast enough to prevent harm.
But she stirs as I’m counting my failures, green eyes fluttering open with the disoriented confusion of someone surfacing from deep water. Her gaze finds mine immediately, and relief flickers across her features.
"How long?" Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"Three hours, maybe more." I reach for the water we’ve been carefully rationing, supporting her with my other arm as she struggles to sit upright. "Don’t push yourself. The spiritual trauma—"
"I’m fine," she starts to say, then nearly drops the cup as her hands shake uncontrollably. Water sloshes across her fingers, cold against skin that feels fever-warm beneath my touch.
"You’re not fine." I steady the cup, my larger hands covering hers to guide it to her lips. The contact sends warmth flowing between us—not magical energy this time, but simple human comfort. "Drink. Slowly."
She obeys, though I can see the effort it costs her to accept help. Rhea has spent her life relying on herself, trusting her own strength and intelligence to see her through any crisis. Having to depend on someone else goes against every instinct she’s developed.
But when she’s managed half the water, she leans back against my arm instead of pulling away. The gesture is small but significant—trust given despite vulnerability, acceptance of care from someone she’s learned to rely on.
"I saw it," she says quietly, staring at the stone wall across from our makeshift sanctuary. "The chamber. The stolen life force. It was..." She shudders, and I feel the echo of her horror ripple across my awareness. "Beautiful and terrible and absolutely wrong."
I tighten my arm around her shoulders, offering what comfort I can. The memories she’s carrying aren’t hers—they’re impressions of the Marshal’s work, taint that will take time to fade from her consciousness.
"You don’t have to talk about it now."
"Yes, I do." She turns to meet my gaze, and I see steel beneath the exhaustion. "The scale of what he’s built—we can’t fight it with conventional magic. The amount of life force he’s accumulated over the decades, maybe centuries—it’s overwhelming."
"Then we find another way." The words come out colored by protective fury that makes the brand on my chest pulse with heat. "We’ve survived everything else he’s thrown at us."
"Have we?" She studies my face with those sharp green eyes that see too much. "Or have we just been running deeper into his trap? Every step we’ve taken, every choice we’ve made—what if we’re exactly where he wants us?"
The question sits heavy between us, weighted with implications neither of us wants to examine too closely. How much of what we’ve experienced has been genuine choice, and how much has been manipulation by forces beyond our understanding?
But before I can attempt an answer, a sound echoes across the abbey that makes every hair on my body stand upright. Low, resonant, carrying across the ruins with the authority of ancient bronze and older power.
A horn. Specifically, a bone horn carved from the femur of some massive creature and enchanted to carry farther than any mundane instrument. I recognize the specific pitch, the way it sustains and fades—I heard that same call countless times during our campaigns against the shadow-spawn.
The Marshal’s battle horn. The one he used to coordinate troop movements and signal the beginning of assaults. Hearing it now, in this place, sends ice flowing down my spine.
Rhea struggles to sit up straighter, alarm clear in her expression. "What was that?"
"A summons." I rise and move to the chamber’s single window, peering between broken shutters toward the courtyard beyond. "He’s calling in reinforcements."
The view from our hidden chamber doesn’t reveal much—mist hangs heavy over the abbey grounds, obscuring details but carrying sounds with crystalline clarity.
Footsteps, too measured to be human. The scrape of metal on stone.
The whisper of movement that speaks of large numbers advancing in formation.
"How many?" Rhea asks, though she’s already struggling to her feet despite the weakness that makes her movements clumsy.
"Unknown. But enough that he feels confident using the horn openly." I turn back to her, taking in her pallor and the way she has to brace herself against the wall for support. "You’re in no condition to fight."
"I’m in no condition to die helplessly either." Fire sparks in her eyes, bright with stubborn determination. "We need to know what we’re facing. How many enemies, what kind of siege equipment, whether there are escape routes still open."
She’s right, but every instinct I possess rebels against the idea of taking her into danger while she’s weakened. The protective urges that have been building over our time together roar to life, demanding I find somewhere safe to hide her while I handle whatever threat approaches.
But the Unity Rite bonds won’t allow separation beyond a certain distance.
When we tested the limits during our practice sessions, attempting to move more than a few dozen yards from each other created pain that built rapidly toward the unbearable.
If I try to scout alone, I’ll be fighting agony that will compromise my effectiveness.
"We go together," I say finally, though the words taste of ash. "But you stay behind me. No heroics, no pushing beyond your limits. If your magic fails—"
"Then you protect us both." She moves toward me with tentative steps, one hand braced against the wall for support. "Just as you did when you pulled me back from the Marshal’s trap."
The trust in her voice does something uncomfortable to my chest. When was the last time someone believed so completely in my ability to keep them safe? When was the last time someone looked at me and saw protection instead of threat?
I help her gather what supplies we’ll need—her spell components, the salvaged texts that might prove useful, water and what little food we’ve been able to scavenge.
The domestic nature of the task provides strange comfort, a reminder that beneath all the supernatural threats and ancient curses, we’re still just two people trying to survive together.
"Can you walk without support?" I ask as we prepare to leave our sanctuary.
She tests her balance, managing several steps before swaying slightly. "For short distances. The spiritual exhaustion is fading, but slowly."
I nod and lead us from the chamber, though I keep one hand ready to catch her if her strength fails. The corridors feel different in the gray light—less overtly threatening but more watchful, as if the abbey itself is holding its breath in anticipation of whatever comes next.
We move with deliberate stealth along passages I’ve memorized over our days here, following routes that should avoid the main approaches any attacking force would use.
But once we were forced to take cover in an alcove barely large enough for one person, pressing together in spaces that make breathing quietly a challenge.
The first time it happened, I pulled her back against my chest as bone scouts passed ahead of us.
Her body fit against mine with startling intimacy, soft curves pressed to hard muscle while I wrap my arms around her to shield her from view.
The alcove was so narrow that every breath pushes us closer together, and I was acutely aware of her scent—chalk dust and dried herbs and something warm that’s uniquely hers.
She trembled against me, though whether from lingering magical exhaustion or awareness of our forced proximity, I couldn’t tell.
My own breathing grew unsteady as her pulse raced against my forearm where it rested across her chest. When she tilted her head back to whisper a warning about movement in the corridor, her hair brushed my jaw and sent heat cascading down my spine.
Minutes passed before the sounds of the scouts faded completely.
Neither of us moved immediately, caught in the strange intimacy of shared danger and shared space.
Her small hands rested flat against my chest, and I felt her breathing change as she became conscious of how we were positioned—chest to chest, her back pressed to my front, my arms encircling her protectively.
"They’re gone," she whispered, but didn’t pull away.
"Are you certain?" My voice came out scratchy, and I made no move to release her.
For a heartbeat longer, we remained frozen in the narrow space. Something shifted in her expression—awareness becoming something deeper, more personal.
Then footsteps echoed from another corridor, and we sprang apart with guilty haste.