“The ritual must be performed at the heart of death,” she said. Her voice was different down here. Deeper. Resonant. The voice of a priestess speaking in a temple, not an old woman giving instructions.
“The Raven Spirit dwells in the space between worlds. To bind yourself to it, you must meet it where it lives.”
She gestured to the polished stone at the center. “Remove your dress.”
I looked at Cador. He nodded, his eyes reflecting the candlelight, and began unbuttoning his coat. His movements were steady, methodical. Not rushed. Not hesitant.
He stripped, folding his clothes and setting them aside, and the candlelight painted his pale skin in shades of gold and shadow.
I untied my laces. The fabric slipped from my shoulders, pooled at my feet. The air grew frigid. Not winter-chill, but the absolute zero of the grave.
It raised bumps on my skin, but it didn’t hurt. Hadn’t hurt since the blood feeding, since his fire had anchored itself in my center.
Naked, we walked to the polished stone.
The surface was cold beneath my bare feet. Smooth as glass, black as his eyes, reflecting nothing. I knelt on the stone, and Cador knelt facing me, and between us the reflection showed only darkness.
Morveth began to chant.
The words were ancient. Older than the Shift, older than the crypts, older than the bones that lined the walls. They scraped against my ears, syllables that human throats weren’t meant to form.
The language of ravens. The language of the Realm.
Lowen padded into the circle. He lay where the ritual circle met the bone floor, his bony body flattened against the boundary between ritual space and the world outside.
His green eyes watched, unblinking, as Morveth’s chant grew louder.
“Place your hands on her heart,” Morveth commanded.
Cador obeyed. His palms rested flat against my chest, warm and steady, fingers splayed across my ribs.
“And you,” Morveth said to me. “On his.”
I raised my hands, placing them against his chest, against the heat that lived beneath his skin. His heart thudded against my palms. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The same rhythm as mine. The same rhythm as the chant.
The candles flared brighter.
“The bond requires blood,” Morveth said. “And flesh. And the willing surrender of one soul to another.”
She produced a knife, not the dagger from before, but something older. Bone, I realized. A blade carved from bone, its edge honed to a wicked sharpness. “Do you consent to this binding?”
“I consent,” Cador said.
“I consent,” I echoed.
The knife moved.
Morveth cut Cador’s palm first. A quick slash, deep and sure, blood welling dark against his pale skin. Then mine. The pain was distant, muffled, less important than the way our blood mingled when she pressed our bleeding hands together.
“Speak the words,” she commanded.
“I bind myself to you,” Cador said. His voice was steady. His eyes held mine, dark and bottomless. “My life to your life. My death to your death. My soul to your soul. What was separate becomes one. What was alone finds its other half.”
The chant grew louder. The candles burned higher. And from somewhere far above, I heard ravens calling. Dozens of them, hundreds, their voices echoing down through the crypts.
“Repeat,” Morveth said to me.
“I bind myself to you.” My voice came out stronger than I expected. Clearer. “My life to your life. My death to your death. My soul to your soul. What was separate becomes one. What was alone finds its other half.”
