“Bridge?” Nyssa asks hopefully.
I shake my head but focus my death magic, creating a shimmering causeway of solidified wraith-light. Silver mist rises from the bloody current, coalescing under my command, twisting into a solid, spectral path that hovers inches above the flow. It glimmers with the captured light of a thousand lost souls, silent and cold.
“Now there’s a bridge,” I say, stepping onto the ethereal walkway. “You’ll have to trust me.”
“Just think of it as a leap of faith into a meat grinder,” Dastian adds helpfully.
Nyssa shoots him a venomous look before turning back to me. “Fine. But if I end up swimming in divine haemoglobin, I’m haunting you for eternity.”
She takes a hesitant step, her boot landing on the invisible bridge. A shiver runs through her. “Gods, it’s cold.”
“That’s just my winning personality,” I say, offering myhand.
She takes it, gripping it tightly as I lead her across, Dastian and Dreven following close behind.
We cross over and arrive unscathed on the other side.
“Now what?” she asks. “What do you see?”
“A doorway carved from a single piece of obsidian. The frame is covered in runes.”
“What kind of runes?” Nyssa asks, her hand still gripping mine.
“Wraith runes,” I say, studying the intricate patterns. “Can I see your blade?”
She holds it up without arguing, which is refreshing.
“Yes, they are the same.”
“What does that mean?”
“That your blade can pass.”
“Just the blade? That doesn’t sound helpful.”
“Probably also the one holding the blade.” I stare at her expectantly.
She chews her bottom lip as she absorbs my meaning. “Fine. Hold on, let’s test this mad theory because we’ve got fuck all else.”
I step closer to the doorway, the obsidian sucking in the feeble light like it’s starving. The runes crawl under my gaze, old as sin and twice as petty.
“Blade first,” I tell her. “Then you. I’m going to lace a thread through you so I can pull you back if the door tries to keep you.”
“Like a divine dog lead,” Nyssa mutters, but she hands me her wrist without hesitation.
“Anchor,” I correct, and let a ribbon of wraith-light unfurl from my palm. It sinks beneath her skin like frost finding cracks in a window. She shivers, eyes flaring at the chill, but she grips her blade like it’s a lifeline.
Dastian makes a face. “Safe word?”
“Bacon,” she fires back.
“Figures it would be food,” he sighs.
Dreven’s power tightens, a storm about to break. “If anything touches her?—”
“It will touch me first,” I say, and mean it.
She lifts the blade. The runes on the frame flare in recognition, then go dead flat, like a god unimpressed by your magic. Nyssa breathes out, sets her shoulders, and steps.
