"He was your friend," I say quietly.
"My brother in all but blood." His voice is rough as grinding stone. "I raised him from nothing. Gave him rank, purpose, a place at my side."
"What changed?"
Krath stares at the mural, at the painted betrayal that mirrors his real one. "I fell in love."
The words hit me harder than they should. Not because he loved someone else, but because of the pain bleeding through his voice. The way he says it as if love itself were a failure.
"With a witch?"
"Aye." He moves closer to the fresco, his massive frame casting shadows across the painted figures. "Lyralei of the Thornwood Coven. Beautiful, brilliant, fierce as summer lightning." His jaw clenches. "The Marshal thought it made me weak."
"Did it?"
He turns to look at me then, red eyes burning in the flickering light. "What do you think?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning I’m not sure I want to unpack. Does love make us weak? Does caring for someone compromise our strength?
Does what I’m starting to feel for him make me a liability?
"I think," I say carefully, "that the Marshal was jealous."
"Perhaps." Krath’s gaze flicks back to the mural. "But jealousy doesn’t explain the curse. Doesn’t explain why he chose chains over killing."
"Because death would have been mercy." The realization hits me cold. "He wanted you to suffer."
"Aye. And suffer I have." He steps away from the wall, away from the painted reminder of his betrayal. "For two centuries, I’ve carried this curse. Watched as it drove away anyone foolish enough to care, as it turned every connection into a weapon against me."
The bitterness in his voice makes my chest ache. Two hundred years of isolation, of believing himself too dangerous to love or be loved.
"But now you’re bound to me." I move closer, drawn by something I can’t name. "Does that make you weak?"
His nostrils flare slightly as I approach. That scenting behavior again, as if my presence affects him on some primal level.
"That makes me terrified." The admission is barely a whisper. "Because I cannot protect you from what I am."
"What if I don’t need protection?" I stop just within arm’s reach, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his scarred skin. "What if I can protect myself?"
"Can you?" His voice drops to that rough whisper that makes my pulse quicken. "Can you protect yourself from the Marshal’s games? From the bell’s hunger? From—" He stops himself, jaw clenching.
"From what?"
"From me." The words come out harsh, self-condemning. "From what I want to do to you."
Heat spirals through my chest at his confession. Not fear—anticipation. Which probably makes me as reckless as he claims.
"And what do you want to do to me?"
The question hangs in the air, dangerous as drawn steel. Krath’s eyes flare brighter, and I catch him breathing deeper.
"Things that would damn us both," he says finally.
Before I can respond, the temperature around us shifts. Not the bone-deep cold we’ve felt before, but something else. A presence that makes the shadows between the shelves writhe with unnatural motion.
Clever little witch.
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, sliding through my mind rather than my ears. Ancient, patient, amused.
