The words cut, but I understand them. He’s protecting me from myself again, from a decision made in extremity rather than certainty.
Honor. Even here, even now, he has honor.
Before I can respond, slow clapping echoes through the tower chamber.
We both spin toward the sound, weapons appearing in our hands. On the chamber’s balcony, which definitely wasn’t there before, a familiar figure steps from the shadows.
The Pale Marshal.
But he’s not alone. The ancient presence I’ve been hearing manifests beside him—a writhing mass of darkness barely contained in humanoid shape. Its voice, when it speaks, is the sound of endings.
Disappointing, little scholar. But educational. Now we know exactly how far you will go for love.
"The void-touched grows restless," the Marshal says, his bone armor gleaming in the bell’s silver light. "It has waited so long for souls to claim, and you keep denying it satisfaction."
The game ends tonight,the darkness continues.One way or another, blood will wake the bell. The only question is whose.
Krath positions himself between me and the threats, sword raised. "Face me, cowards. Stop hiding behind shadows and whispers."
"Oh, but we are done hiding." The Marshal’s grin widens. "The legion rises. The tower is surrounded. And you..." He gestures at the bell above us. "You have a choice to make."
Ring the bell willingly, and one of you may yet live. Refuse, and we will make you watch each other die slowly.
The threat hangs in the air between us, heavy with promise. But as I look at Krath’s determined stance, at the way he refuses to yield even against impossible odds, I realize something.
We’re not the same people who entered this tower. The naive scholar and the resigned warlord are gone, replaced by something stronger. Something that chooses to fight rather than surrender.
Together.
"Then come," I say, raising my own blade.
SEVEN
KRATH
Sleep refuses to come.
I’ve been pacing the abbey’s corridors for hours, my boots wearing smooth paths in the dust that coats these ancient stones. Every turn reveals new evidence of abandonment—cobwebs thick as burial shrouds, doors hanging askew on rusted hinges, windows where glass once blazed with colored light now gaping like empty eye sockets.
This place was magnificent once. Even in ruin, I can see hints of its former glory. Carved capitals crown the pillars, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries but still showing traces of intricate stonework. Faded murals peek through layers of soot on the walls, depicting scenes of faith and devotion now obscured by shadow and neglect.
The monks who built this place understood beauty as well as devotion. They carved their prayers into every surface, turned stone into art, transformed a mountain stronghold into something approaching the divine. What drove them to abandon it? What terror was great enough to make them flee their life’s work?
Every time I close my eyes, I see her collapsed in that ritual circle—pale as death, shadows reaching for her soul whileancient magic tore the air apart around us. The way her body went limp, the absolute stillness that made my heart stutter to a halt. For one terrible moment, I thought I’d lost her before I truly understood what having her meant.
The memory makes my chest tight with something I don’t want to examine. Relief, certainly. But underneath that, something more complex. Something that whispers of responsibility and possibility in equal measure.
She’s safe now. Sleeping peacefully in her chamber three floors above, the mark on my palm pulsing with the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. I feel her dreams through the brand—formless, gentle things that speak of healing rather than nightmare. That should be enough to quiet this restlessness.
It isn’t.
The abbey feels different tonight. Not hostile, exactly, but... watchful. The stones themselves seem to pulse with ancient memory, holding secrets in their weathered faces. Gargoyles lean from corners where shadow gathers thickest, their carved features worn smooth but still managing to leer with stone malice. Water stains streak the walls in patterns that almost look deliberate, as if the building itself weeps for what it has lost.
I’ve lived with curses long enough to recognize the signs. The way silence takes on weight and substance. How darkness seems to press closer, testing the boundaries of whatever light dares challenge it. The sense of invisible eyes cataloging every movement, every breath, every moment of vulnerability.
The calm before the storm.
My wandering brings me to the nave, drawn by some instinct I can’t name. This was the heart of the abbey once, where hundreds of monks gathered for daily prayers, their voices lifting in harmonious supplication to whatever powers they believed would listen. Now it’s a monument to abandonment.
