The question sits heavy in my chest. How long do we have before the Marshal’s game reaches its conclusion? Before one of us has to bleed the bell that hangs in the shattered tower?
Not long enough.
Rhea approaches slowly, her gaze fixed on the gashes across my chest. "Those need tending."
"They’ll heal."
"Will they?" She stops just within arm’s reach, close enough that I can smell the chalk dust and magic that clings to her skin. "Or will they fester and kill us both?"
Good point.
I sit heavily on a broken piece of the champion’s sarcophagus, suddenly feeling every year of my cursed existence. The wounds burn, but not as badly as they should. The binding seems to be sharing the pain, making it manageable.
Small mercies.
Rhea kneels beside me, pulling supplies from her satchel. Clean cloth, a small vial of something that smells of herbs and alcohol. Her hands are steady as she works, cleaning blood from torn mail.
"You saved my life," she says quietly.
"I saved both our lives. Remember? We’re bound."
"Is that the only reason?" Her eyes find mine, sharp and knowing. "Self-preservation?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with meaning I’m not ready to examine. Why did I throw myself at the champion? Why did seeing her in danger unleash something primal in my chest?
Because she’s mine.
But I can’t say that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"You think this was a mistake?" I ask.
She’s quiet for a long moment, her hands gentle but efficient as she tends my wounds. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft.
"Ask me again when we’re both still alive."
Fair enough.
Her touch is careful, clinical. But there’s something else in the way her fingers linger on my skin, the way her breathing changes when she’s this close. Heat that has nothing to do with magic or binding marks.
Dangerous.
But for the first time since waking, dangerous doesn’t feel like a warning. It feels promising.
"There." She sits back on her heels, surveying her work. "That should hold until we find somewhere safer."
"Safer?" I look around the bone-strewn chamber. "In this place?"
"Point taken." She starts repacking her supplies. "So what now?"
Before I can answer, laughter echoes through the catacombs—closer than before, carrying the promise of worse things coming.
"Well done, old friend. Well done indeed. But that was merely the first movement. The real symphony has yet to begin."
Rhea’s face pales. "He’s getting stronger."
"Aye." I push to my feet, testing the bandages. They hold, for now. "And we’re running out of places to run."
"Then maybe it’s time we stopped running."
