He doesn’t have to know. You could perform the ritual quickly, before he can stop you. Free him from centuries of suffering. Give him the peace he’s never known.
"The bell’s intact," Krath says, running his hands along the silver framework. "But the bindings are complex. It will take time to understand how to?—"
That’s when I make my choice.
I drop to my knees by the staircase entrance, away from his direct sight. The black book falls open to the ritual page as if guided by invisible hands. My athame appears in my grip, silver blade catching the faint light.
Yes. Quickly now, before courage fails.
I begin to carve the ritual circle in chalk and blood, following the instructions that burn in my mind. The pattern is jagged, hungry. It pulls at something deep in my chest even as I create it.
Blood and will and absolute purpose. Give everything, little scholar. Hold nothing back.
"Rhea?" Krath’s voice carries a note of concern. "What are you?—"
I speak the first words of the ritual, and the mark on my wrist flares white-hot. Not the gentle warmth of our usual binding, but searing pain that races up my arm and into my chest.
Something’s wrong.
The realization hits too late. The ritual isn’t just severing our binding—it’s tearing something else open. Something that should stay closed.
The circle erupts in black fire, and shadows pour through the gaps in reality. Not the Marshal’s creatures, but something older. Hungrier. Things that exist in the spaces between worlds, drawn by the scent of an offered soul.
Yes. Feed them, little witch. Give them what they hunger for.
I try to break the circle, to disrupt the pattern, but the shadows are already wrapping around my arms. My legs. Drawing me toward the rift that pulses at the center of the summoning.
This isn’t freedom. It’s damnation.
I scream.
The sound echoes off the tower walls, raw and desperate. Somewhere behind me, I hear Krath roar my name.
Then the world explodes.
He doesn’t run to me—he smashes through the stone floor itself, his massive frame wreathed in smoke and fury. The tower shakes under the impact of his landing, but his focus is absolute.
One hand grabs my wrist, pulling me away from the hungry shadows. The other drives his sword into the heart of the ritual circle, disrupting the pattern with brutal efficiency.
The shadows recoil with sounds that might be screaming. The rift begins to collapse, reality healing itself with painful slowness.
But the backlash is immediate and violent.
The tower fills with competing energies—the black fire of the failed ritual, the silver light of the bell above, the red glow of Krath’s own power. Stone cracks. The ceiling groans. And through it all, he shields me with his body as magical forces tear the chamber apart.
We hit the floor hard, his armor scraping against stone. He covers me completely, arms wrapped around my head, as debris rains down around us.
Then silence.
Dust settles. The rift seals itself with a sound of reality snapping back into place. The black book crumbles to ash, its purpose served.
"Why?" His voice is hoarse, broken. I can feel him shaking above me, his whole body trembling with aftershock and something deeper. "Why would you try to?—"
"To save you." The words come out as a sob. "The voice said I could free you if I just?—"
"What voice?"
I tell him about the ancient presence, about the visions it showed me, the promises it made. With each word, his expression grows darker.
