TWENTY-EIGHT ARADYA
TWENTY-EIGHT
ARADYA
The truth comes to me in fragments.
I’m sitting on the edge of Drokhar’s narrow bed, wrapped in one of his shirts—gray linen that smells of smoke and ash and him—watching him prepare for the day’s burning.
Morning light filters through the single window, catching dust motes that drift through the air like the ash that coats everything in this place.
The Ash Pits never truly sleep, and even now I can hear the distant crackle of pyres being fed, the murmur of death wardens calling to each other across the burning grounds.
The domesticity of the scene should feel strange.
A mourning witch making herself at home in a death warden’s quarters, surrounded by the tools of his trade: corpse-iron brands hanging on the wall, suppression chains coiled in the corner, the curved blade he uses to sever revenant spines propped against the door.
A chest against the far wall that I know contains spare uniforms. On a single nail above the bed hang a pair of dog tags.
Nothing else soft. Nothing decorative. Nothing that speaks of a life beyond duty and endings.
But the mark has a way of making the impossible feel inevitable.
The mark throbs gently beneath my collarbone as I watch him move—checking the edge of his blade, adjusting the buckles on his armor, the same routine he’s probably performed a thousand times.
He pauses mid-buckle. Turns to look at me with those ash-colored eyes that see too much.
“You’re staring.”
“You’re worth staring at.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—Drokhar doesn’t smile easily—but close. He crosses the small room in two strides and bends to press a kiss to my forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“I’ll be back before dusk.”
“I know.”
My hand finds his before he can pull away, our fingers interlacing with the ease of people who have learned each other’s shape.
The mark flares at the contact—mine and his, calling and answering—and I feel his presence settle more firmly at the edge of my awareness.
Not thoughts, not feelings. Location. The constant knowledge of where he is in relation to me, like a compass needle finding north.
He squeezes my fingers once, then releases them.
The door closes behind him.
Silence.
Not true silence—never true silence, not for me.
The dead are quieter now, after what I did on the battlefield.
The mass release I forced on those soldiers has calmed the immediate crisis, smoothed the ragged edges of the Veil where it stretched too thin.
But I can still feel them pressing at the boundaries of my awareness.
I rise from the bed and begin to pace, my bare feet silent on the cold stone floor.
The mark pulses with each step, tracking Drokhar’s distant presence at the Ash Pits.
He’s probably checking on his wardens right now, making sure the compound is secure, preparing for whatever comes next. He has no idea what I’m realizing.
But why? What does the King gain from teaching the Ashwalker that his methods are wrong?
The pyres are visible from here—smoldering columns of orange and gray, feeding the sky with the ashes of the anonymous dead. Every body that burns without rites adds to the Gravetide King’s grievance. Every silence imposed feeds its rage.
But those soldiers on the battlefield—they spoke. They found peace. They released their grip on existence and let themselves rest.
That should have weakened the King. Should have cost it power.
Unless...
The whispers surge louder, and I realize the King has been listening this whole time. Waiting for me to work it out. Amused by my slow human reasoning.
I should wait for Drokhar. Should tell him what I’ve figured out, let him decide how to proceed. But the fragments are still incomplete, and I need to understand. Need to know what the King is after.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach.
Not for the individual dead—for the presence beneath them. The vast consciousness that has been pressing against my awareness since the first rite went wrong. I extend myself the way I would for any spirit seeking voice, opening the channel that makes my throat their instrument.
The King floods in like water through a broken dam.