We fall into rhythm without speaking. He clears paths with brutal efficiency while I pick off stragglers with precise bursts of fire. We don’t harmonize—his raw power and my careful magic are too different. But we don’t interfere with each other either.
For the first time since entering this place, I’m not fighting alone.
The last wight crumbles to ash, and silence settles over the chamber. Krath’s breathing is heavy, his torn arm still bleeding. I feel the phantom ache in my own flesh—not painful now, but a constant reminder of our binding.
"You fight well," he says finally.
"You sound surprised."
"I am." He steps closer, and I’m trapped between him and the wall where I’ve backed up. "Most witches I’ve known preferred books to blades."
Most witches. How many has he known?
The question sits on my tongue, but before I can ask, his expression grows grim.
"This was just the beginning," he continues. "A test. He wanted to see how we work together."
"The Marshal?"
"Aye." Krath’s gaze flicks to the new passages, then back to me. "And now he knows."
"Knows what?"
Instead of answering, he reaches out and catches my wrist—the one bearing his mark. His thumb traces the branded spiral, and heat flares between us.
"That you’re stronger than you look." His voice drops to a rough whisper. "That you don’t break easily." His thumb still rests against my pulse, and I know he can feel how my heart hammers against my ribs. "That makes you dangerous to him."
"Why?"
"Because the last witch I knew was strong too." His grip tightens slightly on my wrist. "And he killed her for it."
The words hang heavy between us. Another witch. Another woman who stood beside him, fought beside him. Who died because of it.
What happened to her?
But I don’t ask. The pain in his eyes is answer enough.
"He won’t kill me," I say instead.
"Won’t he?" Krath steps closer, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at my temple. "You think your magic makes you safe? Your books and clever words?"
"No." I meet his burning gaze without flinching. "I think our binding makes me valuable. If I die, you die. He wants you alive—for whatever sick game he’s playing."
"And when the game ends?"
The question hangs in the air between us. When the bell tolls. When one of us must bleed for both. When the Marshal decides he’s had enough of whatever twisted entertainment we provide.
"Then we make sure we’re the ones who choose how it ends."
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise again, or approval. His thumb still traces the mark on my wrist, sending warmth up my arm with each touch.
"You have steel in you, little witch."
"More than you know."
The moment stretches between us, charged with tension I don’t fully understand. His massive frame towers over me, all scarred muscle and barely leashed power. But his touch on my wrist is almost gentle. Almost reverent.
Then his expression shifts, becoming grim again.
