"Steel won’t be enough," he growls. "Not for what’s coming."
"What is coming?"
But before he can answer, laughter echoes through the chamber—cold, cruel, entirely too familiar. The Marshal’s voice follows, seeming to come from everywhere at once.
"Such pretty words, little witch. Such brave promises. But steel breaks. Fire dies. And in the end, you all bleed the same."
Krath’s grip on my wrist tightens protectively. "Show yourself, you corpse."
"Soon, old friend. Very soon. But first, let us see how long your courage lasts when the walls themselves turn against you."
The chamber shudders. Not just movement this time, but something else. The walls begin to close in, passages narrowing, ceiling lowering. The abbey isn’t just reshaping itself—it’s compressing, turning our sanctuary into a trap.
"Move." Krath releases my wrist and grabs my hand instead, pulling me toward the least threatening passage. "Now."
We run into darkness that swallows our footsteps, the Marshal’s laughter following behind us as the chamber collapses where we stood.
But even as stone grinds against stone and shadows press close, I feel Krath’s hand warm in mine. Strong. Steady. Real.
Not alone.
For the first time since entering this cursed place, that feels like enough.
FOUR
KRATH
Coffin lids crack in the darkness ahead.
We run through passages that shift around us, walls flowing into new shapes, corridors branching where none existed moments before. Behind us, the Marshal’s laughter echoes off stone that grinds and reshapes itself with each step.
The first skeletal arm punches through a sarcophagus as we round a corner—yellowed bone wrapped in burial cloth, claws extended. Green fire burns in hollow sockets as the wight drags itself free.
Then another. And another.
"Bone-wights," I growl, drawing my sword. Ember-light flickers along the blackened steel. "He calls his army."
Rhea’s hand tightens in mine—when did I start holding her hand? When did that feel natural instead of binding?—and I feel her pulse spike through our shared mark.
"How many?" she asks.
The answer comes as a dozen more coffins split open throughout the catacomb. Ancient nails squeal as they’re forced from rotted wood. The scent of dust and decay thickens until each breath tastes of charnel houses.
"Too many to count." I position myself between her and the emerging horde. "Too few to matter."
Arrogant. But she needs confidence now, not truth.
The first wight lunges with claws extended. My blade sweeps through the air, catching it at the neck.
But more shamble forward from alcoves and wall crypts. They move with purpose now—not random hunger, but directed malice. The Marshal’s will driving them toward a specific target.
Her.
The realization sends coldness through my veins. They’re not attacking me directly. They’re trying to get around me, reach the witch behind my guard.
Why her specifically?
A wight lunges from my left flank. I pivot, bringing my sword around in a brutal arc that cleaves the creature in half. Ash and bone fragments spray across the floor, but two more take its place.
