It had been a knight once—that much is clear from the helm fused to its skull and the scraps of mail hanging from its bones. But death and the Marshal’s power have changed it into something else. Horns curl from its temples, its ribcage expanded into a cage of yellowed bone. Green fire burns in its eye sockets with intelligence the smaller wights lack.
Champion. Of course.
The Marshal always did enjoy his lieutenants. This one bears the marks of his personal attention—necromantic runes carved deep into its bones, power radiating from its massive frame.
Its burning gaze sweeps the chamber, passing over me without interest, then fixes on Rhea with predatory hunger.
It wants her specifically.
"Stay back," I growl, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re useless. The binding won’t let her retreat while I advance.
The champion moves faster than its size should allow, crossing the chamber in a few massive strides. Bone claws sweep toward Rhea’s throat—too fast, too close.
I don’t think. I hurl myself forward, sword raised overhead. Steel meets bone with a clash that sends sparks flying, but the champion’s strength is immense. The impact drives me to one knee.
"Krath!" Rhea’s voice is sharp with fear.
The champion’s free hand backhands me across the chamber. I hit the wall hard enough to crack stone, and Rhea cries out as the impact echoes through our binding. Blood runs down my face from a split scalp.
Getting too old for this.
But the champion is already turning back toward the witch, claws extended. She raises her hands, sigil-fire crackling around her fingers, but the creature’s necrotic aura washes over her magic and snuffs it out.
No.
The word tears from my throat as I push off the wall. Not just denial—rage. Pure, incandescent fury at anything that dares threaten what’s mine.
Mine.
The thought comes clear and undeniable. Not because of the binding. Not because of duty or protection or any other noble reason.
Because I want her to be.
I cross the chamber in one brutal leap, sword cutting through the air. The champion’s claws are inches from Rhea’s throat when my blade takes its arm off at the shoulder.
Green fire gutters and hisses as bone dust fills the air. The champion roars—a sound that has no business coming from a dead throat—and spins toward me with its remaining arm.
I duck under its swing and drive my sword up through its ribcage, angling for where the heart would be if it still had one. Steel bites deep, finding the runes carved into its bones and shattering them one by one.
The champion staggers, green fire flickering in its sockets. But it’s not finished yet. Claws rake across my chest, punching through mail to tear flesh beneath. Pain lances through the binding mark, and I hear Rhea gasp.
End this.
I twist my blade, finding the last runic anchor holding the creature together. The champion’s skull splits with a crack that reverberates through the stone walls. Green fire dies as I drive my sword down through spine and pelvis, cleaving the massive frame in half.
It collapses into pieces, bones scattering across the floor with hollow rattles. The smaller wights freeze as their champion falls, then crumble to dust as the necromantic power holding them fails.
Silence settles over the chamber. Only the sound of my breathing and blood dripping from my wounds.
I turn toward Rhea, still standing where the champion nearly reached her. Ash dusts her auburn hair, and there’s a cut on her cheek that mirrors one on mine—shared through our binding. But her green eyes are bright, alive, defiant.
"You’re bleeding," she says.
"We’re bleeding." I gesture at the mark on her cheek. "Remember?"
She reaches up to touch the cut, then looks at her bloodied fingers. "This is going to take some getting used to."
Is it?
