Rhea stumbles as our binding mark flares. She’s being dragged forward by invisible chains every time I advance into combat, forced closer to gnashing teeth and raking claws.
"Can you break the pull?" I ask, crushing a wight’s ribcage with my bare hand.
"I’m trying." Her voice is strained. "But the magic won’t let me retreat while you?—"
A bone-wight breaks through my guard, claws raking toward her throat. Without thinking, I throw myself sideways, intercepting the blow with my forearm. Claws punch through mail and leather, tearing flesh to the bone.
Rhea screams—not from her own pain, but mine bleeding through the binding. Her unmarked arm clutches at phantom wounds that burn real as fire.
"Fuck." I grab the wight by its skull and crush it to powder. "I forgot?—"
"You forgot we share wounds?" She’s breathing hard, green eyes bright with pain and anger. "How exactly does one forget that?"
Because I was thinking of you as mine to protect, not as part of me.
The thought comes unbidden, dangerous. When did her safety become more important than my own? When did protecting her feel as natural as breathing?
Don’t think about it. Not now.
Another wave of wights shambles forward. I carve through them with methodical efficiency, but there are always more. The catacombs seem to be producing them faster than I can destroy them.
"This isn’t working," Rhea says behind me. "We’re being overwhelmed."
She’s right. For every wight I destroy, two more emerge from the shadows. They’re herding us, driving us deeper into the catacombs where?—
Where the Marshal waits.
"Can you fight?" I ask.
"You’ve seen me fight."
"I’ve seen you burn one or two. Can you handle a dozen?"
Her answer is to pull chalk from her satchel, scrawling sigils in the air with practiced precision. "Ignis mortuum!"
Blue-white fire erupts from her palm, engulfing three wights at once. They vanish in bursts of flame, reduced to drifting ash in seconds. The magic burns pure against the necromantic filth, and I catch the scent of burning bone.
She’s stronger than she lets on.
The realization hits me again, but this time it doesn’t surprise me. This time it feels... right. Natural. A witch worth standing beside instead of protecting from behind.
We fall into rhythm without needing to speak. I wade into the thickest knots of wights, my blade clearing brutal paths through bone and sinew. She picks off the stragglers with precise bursts of fire, her magic complementing my strength without interfering.
Partnership.
The word tastes strange. I haven’t fought alongside someone since?—
Don’t think of her. Not here. Not now.
But the comparison comes anyway. Lyralei had been gentle, trusting. This witch is different. Sharper.
Maybe that’s better.
A sound echoes through the catacomb, but not a coffin this time. Something much larger.
The massive sarcophagus at the chamber’s far end cracks down its center. The lid, easily the size of a warhorse, grinds aside with a sound that sets my teeth on edge.
What emerges makes the other wights look like children’s toys.
