Chapter 20 Rhea #2
Each contract builds our reputation and our confidence. We learn to work as a team without the desperate urgency that defined our flight. He handles direct confrontations while I provide magical support, but we’re equals in planning and decision-making.
But it’s not without challenges.
Our first real argument happens during a contract to clear wyverns from a mountain pass. We’re pinned down behind rocks, the creatures circling above with hungry cries.
"I can draw them off," he says, preparing to charge into the open. "You hit them with fire while they’re focused on me."
"That’s suicide." I grab his arm. "They’ll shred you before I can bring them down."
"I can take it—"
"I have a better plan." I sketch it quickly—using illusion magic to create false targets while we flank from two sides.
"Illusion won’t fool them for long."
"It doesn’t need to. Just long enough."
He hesitates, and I see the moment he wants to override my plan with his own instinct to take the dangerous role himself.
"Trust me," I say firmly. "Please."
Something shifts in his expression. He nods once, accepting my tactical assessment.
The plan works. We bring down the wyverns with minimal injuries. But afterward, tension simmers between us.
"You still want to throw yourself in front of every threat," I say as we make camp that evening.
"And you take risks that make my blood run cold." He’s checking a gash across his forearm from a wyvern’s claw. "You got too close on that last one."
"I had to be close for the spell to work properly—"
"You could have been killed."
"So could you." I move to tend his wound, my hands gentle despite my frustration. "That’s the nature of what we do. But I need you to trust that I can assess my own risks."
He catches my hand, pressing it against his chest where I can feel his heartbeat. "Caring about someone means being terrified of losing them. I can’t just turn that off."
The honesty in his admission defuses my anger. "I’m not asking you to stop caring. I’m asking you to trust me to handle myself."
We talk it through—really talk, working toward compromise rather than victory. He’ll trust my judgment unless there’s a compelling tactical reason not to. I’ll accept that his instinct to protect comes from love rather than disrespect.
It’s not our last disagreement. We clash over how to spend coin, which contracts to take, when to rest versus push forward. But each argument teaches us more about navigating partnership, building the foundation that can weather normal conflicts instead of only functioning under crisis.
Three months after leaving the coven, we reach Methran. The ancient library sprawls across an entire district, its towers visible from miles away. Getting access requires sponsorship from an established scholar, but my reputation opens doors that would normally remain closed.
The head archivist—a stern woman named Magistra Calla—interviews me personally.
"You’re the witch who destroyed the abbey." It’s not a question.
"I am."
"And you seek access to our restricted collections?" Her tone suggests this is highly irregular.
"I do. I’ve encountered forces that defy conventional magical theory. I need access to pre-Veil texts to understand what I’ve experienced."
She studies me for a long moment. "Very well. But you’ll work under supervision. And if I suspect you’re using our knowledge for anything beyond scholarly pursuit, you’ll be expelled immediately."
"Understood."
While I immerse myself in research, Krath takes contracts with the city guard, handling threats they’re not equipped for. We establish a rhythm—days spent apart on individual pursuits, evenings reuniting to share what we’ve learned.
It should feel like growing apart. Instead, it deepens what we have. We’re learning who we are as individuals, which makes choosing to be partners more meaningful than if we simply couldn’t function separately.
Our small apartment above a bookshop becomes home. We make love with increasing familiarity, learning what the other needs after difficult days. Sometimes it’s slow and tender. Other times it’s fierce and desperate, driven by adrenaline from close calls.
One evening, I return from the archives to find him sitting on the bed, expression troubled.
"What’s wrong?"
"Took a contract today." He doesn’t meet my eyes. "Hunting down a rogue mage who’d been stealing from merchants. Tracked him to his hideout and found—" He stops, jaw clenching.
"Found what?"
"A child. The thief was a child, maybe twelve, stealing to feed younger siblings after their parents died in a plague." His hands clench into fists. "I nearly killed a child because I didn’t ask questions first."
I sit beside him, taking his hand. "But you didn’t."
"Because I hesitated. Because something made me pause." He looks at me finally. "What if I hadn’t? What if my first instinct had been right?"
"Your first instinct was to gather information before acting. That’s why you paused." I squeeze his hand. "You’re not the monster you think you are."
"I’ve been one before."
"Were you?" I challenge. "Or were you a soldier following orders, making impossible choices in brutal circumstances? There’s a difference between being a monster and surviving monstrous situations."
He’s quiet for a long time. When he speaks, his voice is rough. "The boy reminded me of someone I knew. During the wars. A young orc who’d joined my unit to feed his family. He was killed in his first battle—barely fifteen years old."
I don’t offer platitudes. Instead, I hold him while he processes old grief given new context. This is what we’ve built—space to be vulnerable, to struggle with who we were and who we want to become.
Later, when the worst of his dark mood has passed, we make love with a gentleness born from shared pain. I worship his scars with my mouth, reminding him that survival is not the same as sin. He holds me after with a tenderness that speaks louder than any words.
Six months after the Marshal’s defeat, we face our first serious threat from his former network.
A necromancer named Drezar arrives in Methran, seeking revenge for his master’s death. He’s powerful, more skilled than anything we faced in the abbey except the Marshal himself.
The battle takes place in an abandoned warehouse district. Drezar has prepared extensively—wards against my fire magic, constructs designed specifically to counter Krath’s fighting style, escape routes if he starts to lose.
We’re outmatched tactically. But we’ve learned since the abbey, grown stronger both individually and in how we work side by side.
When Drezar tries to separate us with a wall of shadow, I dissolve it with pure force of will—no spell, no components, just intention made manifest. When his constructs swarm Krath, I don’t panic and rush to help.
Instead, I eliminate the necromancer’s ability to create more, forcing him to commit to the fight.
We adapt to each situation without needing to speak. He draws the physical threats while I dismantle Drezar’s magical defenses. When the necromancer realizes he’s losing, he tries to flee.
Krath intercepts him at the door, sword at his throat. "Who else is coming?"
"Others." Drezar spits blood. "You’ve made enemies by disrupting the old order. They’ll keep coming until you’re dead."
I step forward, meeting the necromancer’s eyes. "Then we’ll deal with them as they arrive. One at a time if necessary."
Drezar laughs bitterly. "You think you’ve won something. But you’ve only delayed the inevitable. The Marshal’s vision will be fulfilled, with or without him."
We hand him over to the city guard, but his words linger. We haven’t just made enemies—we’ve painted targets on ourselves.
That night, lying in bed with Krath’s arms around me, I voice the concern we’re both thinking.
"This won’t end, will it? There will be others."
"Probably." His arms tighten. "Does that change anything?"
I consider the question seriously. Six months ago, the thought of constant threat would have terrified me. Now, it feels... manageable. We’ve proven we can handle what comes at us.
"No," I decide. "It doesn’t change anything. We’ll face them as we’ve faced everything else."
"As equals," he adds, and I hear the smile in his voice.
We lie in comfortable silence, listening to the city sounds filtering through the windows. Tomorrow will bring new challenges—there’s always another threat, another problem that needs solving. But we’ll face it as we face everything now: side by side, by choice rather than compulsion.
The Marshal wanted to use our love as a weapon, to twist it into chains. Instead, we transformed it into something he never anticipated—not weakness to be exploited, but strength that grows through conscious choice.
We’ve earned our freedom, learned to use it well, and discovered that love freely given is infinitely stronger than any force that could be taken.
And that’s worth everything we survived to find it.