Chapter 17 Krath
SEVENTEEN
KRATH
Krath
The eleventh toll reverberates deep into the abbey’s bones as we navigate passages that spiral toward whatever waits below.
Each ring strengthens something between Rhea and me that defies explanation—her heartbeat pounds against my ribs when she’s behind me in the narrow corridor, her breathing shifts the rhythm of my own.
Her power flows into mine without conscious effort now. When exhaustion makes her steps falter, my strength supplements hers. When my enhanced senses detect movement ahead, she reaches for chalk before I can warn her, as if my awareness has become hers.
"Three passages converge ahead." I study the junction while acutely aware of her warmth at my back. "Bone scouts. Moving in coordinated sweeps."
She steps closer, close enough that her breath touches my shoulder as she peers past me. The contact should be purely tactical—instead, heat cascades down my spine.
"Let them think they control the field." I check my sword’s edge, steel humming eagerly in response. "We needed to reach his power chamber anyway."
Her hand settles on my shoulder, ostensibly for balance as she examines the passages ahead. The contact lingers longer than necessary, her thumb tracing muscle beneath torn fabric. The gesture sends awareness racing along my nerves despite our precarious circumstances.
"The deeper we go, the stronger his influence becomes." She doesn’t pull her hand away. "Are you prepared for what that might mean?"
I turn to face her in the narrow space, bringing us chest-to-chest. Her eyes are bright with more than magical energy—there’s heat there that has nothing to do with tactical planning.
"I’m prepared for anything as long as you’re beside me."
Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t step back. "Even if I become a liability? If the magical strain proves too much?"
"You won’t." I lift my hand to frame her face, thumb brushing soft skin. "We’re stronger together than either of us could be alone. The Marshal learned that when we retuned his bell."
Confidence flows between us, carried by whatever force has been building since that first desperate kiss. When she leans into my touch, I’m struck again by how perfectly she fits—as if we were crafted to complement each other.
But duty intrudes as bone scratches stone from multiple directions. The Marshal’s scouts have found us.
"Move." I breathe the word against her ear, carrying more heat than simple tactics require.
The scouts are just advance units. Heavy footsteps echo from deeper passages, accompanied by grinding sounds of massive constructs hauling themselves through corridors designed for human movement.
"The main force," I realize, pulling Rhea closer as we press against an alcove barely large enough for one person. "Hundreds of them, moving in formation."
The confined space forces us together in ways that make breathing quietly a challenge. Every breath presses her soft curves against my chest. Her pulse hammers against my throat where she’s tucked under my chin. The scent of her hair mingles with chalk dust and spent magic.
"Military tactics." Her observation is astute despite our compromised position. "He’s not just throwing undead at us—he’s conducting a proper campaign."
The words vibrate against my skin, sending heat racing down my spine.
I can feel her pulse fluttering rapid as a bird’s wing where her throat rests against my collarbone.
The proximity should be purely tactical—instead, it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to tilt her chin up and claim her mouth.
"How many?" she asks, apparently unaware of what her movement does to my concentration when she shifts to peer around the alcove’s edge.
I force myself to extend my senses beyond the intoxicating warmth of her body. "Two hundred bone warriors minimum. Plus constructs and support elements." I pause, processing implications. "They’re not trying to kill us."
"What do you mean?"
"The formation. Advancing slowly, cutting off retreat routes but not rushing to engage. Classic herding maneuver."
Her eyes find mine in the dim light, and I see my own determination reflected there. But there’s something else too—heat that has nothing to do with combat readiness and everything to do with how we’re pressed together.
"Hit and run?" she asks, though her voice carries a breathless quality that suggests her thoughts have drifted from pure tactics.
"Hit and run," I confirm, though I make no immediate move to leave our shelter.
"I couldn’t separate from you even if I wanted to." Her hands slide up to rest against my shoulders. "The magical tether won’t allow that much distance anymore."
The reminder should feel restrictive. Instead, satisfaction courses through me—purely possessive. She belongs at my side. Not because magic demands it, but because I need her there.
The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility. Her lips are close enough that I could claim them with the slightest movement. I see the exact moment she realizes the same thing, the way her breathing changes as awareness sparks in her green eyes.
But thunder of approaching feet reminds us we’re still hunted. Reluctantly, I pull back just far enough to break the spell.
"Ready?" I ask, though the question encompasses more than our escape plan.
"With you? I’m ready for anything."
We burst from the alcove as the first rank of bone warriors rounds the corner. Instead of standing to fight, we run—using speed and coordination to stay ahead of organized pursuit. Behind us, sergeants bark orders in the Marshal’s ancient tongue, directing the hunt with military precision.
The chase becomes deadly urban warfare played in three dimensions. We climb collapsed staircases, leap across gaps where floors have given way, slide down debris slopes with bone arrows whistling past our heads. Each obstacle requires timing and absolute trust.
When a gap yawns between broken walkway sections, I don’t hesitate to lift Rhea around the waist and leap across, trusting our combined momentum to carry us safely.
The brief flight gives me a moment to feel her body pressed completely against mine, to appreciate the strength hidden in her seemingly delicate frame.
When bone constructs block a narrow passage, she doesn’t pause before channeling fire into my blade, her magic flowing into steel without conscious effort.
The sensation of her power merging with mine sends electricity racing along my nerves, turning simple weapon enhancement into something intensely intimate.
But constant motion and magical expenditure takes its toll.
Her energy reserves are dropping—I can sense it in the way each spell costs her more than it should, how her breathing becomes labored not just from physical exertion but from steady drain of maintaining magical output beyond natural limits.
The pursuit is achieving exactly what the Marshal intended—wearing us down before the real battle begins. There’s a deeper cost too. The magical strain is beginning to affect whatever force binds us, causing fluctuations that send echoes of her exhaustion directly into my awareness.
"Here," I say, spotting an alcove that offers momentary shelter. "Rest."
We press into the narrow space, both breathing hard from exertion and adrenaline.
The confines force us together again, and despite our exhaustion, I’m hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch.
Her back against my chest, my arms around her waist for support, the way she fits against me as if she belongs there.
"Your shoulder," she says, noticing the tear where claws found their mark. "You’re bleeding."
The wound is minor, but her concern sends warmth racing through me.
"It’s nothing," I say automatically, the response trained by centuries of self-reliance.
"Let me be the judge of that." Her tone brooks no argument as she turns in my arms to examine the damage. "These look deeper than you’re admitting."
She reaches up to probe the torn fabric, her touch careful but thorough.
The clinical examination should feel purely medical, but there’s something intimate about her ministrations that goes beyond simple wound care.
Her fingers are gentle against my skin, and I can feel magical energy flowing into the cuts to encourage faster healing.
"There," she says softly, though her hands don’t immediately withdraw. "Better?"
"Much." My voice comes out rough.
I lift my own hands to check the cut on her cheek where a bone fragment caught her during our escape. The wound is minor, but tending it gives me an excuse to trace the delicate line of her jaw, to feel the silk of her skin beneath my fingertips.
"You’re beautiful," I tell her, the words escaping before I can examine their wisdom.
She draws in a sharp breath, eyes widening. "Krath—"
"I know this isn’t the time or place. But if we don’t survive what’s coming, I need you to know that being with you has been the best part of my existence. You’ve made me remember what it feels like to be alive instead of just enduring."
The confession hangs between us, honest and vulnerable in ways I haven’t allowed myself for two centuries. Looking into her eyes, seeing how she responds, I don’t regret the admission.
She silences me by rising on her toes and pressing her lips to mine. The kiss is soft, brief, but it carries more than passion. It’s reassurance, promise, and acceptance combined into one perfect moment.
When we part, both breathing unsteadily, she rests her forehead against mine. "We’re going to survive. Both of us. Together. Because I have plans for us that extend far beyond this place."
Plans. A future. The possibility that what we’re building might continue past survival sends something warm and bright coursing through my chest.
"Tell me about these plans," I say, needing to hear hope spoken aloud.