Chapter 13 #2
Now, we’ve reached a defensible position near the abbey’s upper levels, where broken windows provide clear views of the surrounding grounds. What I see when I peer past the cracked glass makes my blood run cold.
The Marshal’s forces aren’t attacking—they’re surrounding us with methodical precision.
Ranks of bone warriors march in perfect formation around the abbey’s perimeter, some carrying siege ladders, others bearing weapons that glow with necromantic energy.
Shadow wraiths drift between the physical troops, scouting every potential exit route.
But it’s the massive constructs being assembled in the mist-shrouded distance that truly concern me.
Siege engines built from bone and rusted metal, their design speaking of long preparation and deliberate planning.
These aren’t troops gathered hastily for a quick assault—this is a prepared siege designed to trap us here until tomorrow night’s blood moon ritual.
"How many?" Rhea asks, settling beside me at the window. Her color has improved slightly, but she still moves with the precision of someone managing pain.
"Several hundred warriors, at least. Plus, wraiths, constructs, and siege equipment." I study the positioning, looking for weaknesses or opportunities. "They’re not trying to storm the abbey. They’re making sure we can’t leave."
Understanding dawns in her expression. "He doesn’t need to defeat us. Just keep us contained until the ritual window."
"Exactly." I continue scanning the enemy positions, noting how they’ve blocked every exit route we’ve discovered. "Which means we have perhaps eighteen hours to either find another way out or prepare for a final confrontation."
"Or find a way to turn his own siege against him," she murmurs, studying the bone constructs with a scholar’s eye for detail. "Those siege engines—they’re powered by the same necromantic energy as his other creations. If we could disrupt the power source..."
She trails off as movement catches our attention. A lone figure approaches the abbey’s main gates under a banner of parley—humanoid but wrong, wrapped in shadows that move independently of any breeze. When it speaks, its voice carries clearly across the courtyard despite the distance.
"Krath Ashbane. Rhea of the Thornwood Coven. Your Marshal extends an offer of mercy."
I bare my teeth in what might be a smile if smiles could promise violence. "And what mercy does a corpse offer the living?"
"Surrender the witch willingly, and you may choose the manner of your own death. Fight, and you will watch her suffer beyond mortal comprehension before joining her in agony."
The casual cruelty in the words sends rage racing along my veins. My free hand drops to my sword hilt, fire blooming along the steel before I consciously summon it.
"Counter-offer," I call back, voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to command. "Withdraw your forces, release whatever claim you think you have on us, and I might let you continue existing."
The shadow-wrapped figure laughs—a sound winters make when they kill the last flowers. "The blood moon rises tomorrow night. The ritual will proceed whether you participate willingly or not. But your cooperation could spare you both unnecessary pain."
"We’ll take the pain," Rhea says, her voice steady despite the weakness I can still sense in her. "Tell your master we choose defiance."
The messenger bows with mocking courtesy, then dissolves back into the mist from which it came. But its words linger, carrying the weight of prophecy and threat.
"Eighteen hours," I say quietly.
"Eighteen hours to find another way," she agrees.
But as we prepare to withdraw from our observation point, the abbey itself begins to tremble. The walls around us groan as ancient mechanisms activate, passages shifting and rearranging themselves with sounds of grinding stone.
The building is sealing itself, trapping us inside with whatever the Marshal has planned.
And somewhere in the distance, barely audible but unmistakable, comes the first toll of the abbey’s great bell. The bronze voice that hasn’t spoken in centuries suddenly rings out across the ruins, each note resonating in our bones with painful intensity.
"The bell," Rhea gasps, pressing both hands to her branded wrist as the mark flares with each toll. "It’s calling to the bond. Trying to draw the power from us before we’re ready."
I wrap my arms around her as she staggers, my own brand burning in answer to the bell’s summons. The pain is manageable now, but I can feel it building with each successive toll.
"How many times will it ring?" I ask, though part of me dreads the answer.
"Thirteen," she whispers, face pale with more than magical exhaustion. "Once for each hour until the blood moon reaches its zenith. And with each toll, the pull grows stronger."
The second toll echoes across the abbey, and this time the pain is noticeably worse. The mark on my chest burns steady as a brand fresh from the forge, and I feel our magical energies being drawn toward whatever focus the Marshal has prepared.
"Then we have twelve hours instead of eighteen," I say grimly.
She nods, leaning into my strength as the echoes of the second toll fade. But even weakened, even trapped, there’s steel in her spine and fire in her eyes.
"Twelve hours," she agrees. "Let’s make them count."
As we retreat deeper into the abbey’s shifting corridors, I’m aware of every point where our bodies touch, every breath she takes, every flutter of her pulse beneath my hands.
The growing siege outside, the bell’s ominous tolling, the Marshal’s approaching deadline—all of it fades beside the simple fact that she’s here, alive, choosing to face the impossible at my side.
Whatever comes next, we’ll meet it together. And maybe—just maybe—together will be enough.
The third toll begins to build in the bronze throat of the bell, and we brace ourselves for the next wave of pain.
But this time, when the mark flares on our skin, something else happens too.
The Unity Rite training we’ve been practicing kicks in, our shared consciousness taking the magical assault and distributing it between us.
The pain is still there, but it’s bearable. Manageable. Evidence that together, we might be stronger than whatever ancient magic the Marshal is wielding.
"Did you feel that?" she asks, wonder threading her voice despite the circumstances.
"The sharing," I confirm, studying her face in the dim light. "Our bond is adapting, learning to protect itself."
Hope flickers between us, small but fierce. Maybe the bell isn’t just a weapon pointed at our hearts. Maybe it’s also teaching us what we need to know to survive.
But as her hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining with gentle strength, I find myself believing that maybe the impossible might be exactly what we need.
The abbey settles around us with groans of shifting stone, and somewhere in the distance, the Marshal’s forces continue their methodical preparations. But at this moment, holding her hand in the growing dark, I’m not afraid.
For the first time in two centuries, I’m not afraid.
And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous thing of all.