"We have a practical alliance," he says firmly. "Mutual survival."
But the denial comes too quick, too sharp. And beneath it, I hear something that might be fear.
Fear of what? Of admitting there’s more between us than convenience? Of hoping for something beyond mere survival?
Before I can press further, a sound echoes through the hall—distant but distinct. Footsteps on stone, deliberate and measured. Both our heads snap toward the sound, conversation forgotten in the face of potential threat.
Krath is on his feet instantly, sword appearing in his hand with fluid grace. He motions for silence, head tilted to track the movement. His entire body shifts into combat readiness, muscles coiled for violence.
I hold my breath, straining to hear more. The footsteps seem to circle the hall at a distance, never coming close enough to identify their source. They move with purpose but without haste, as if whoever makes them has all the time in the world.
The sound fades as gradually as it came, leaving only the whisper of wind through broken stone and the racing of my own heartbeat.
"Probably just settling," I say, though the words feel hollow even to my own ears.
"Probably." But Krath’s grip doesn’t loosen on his sword hilt, and his eyes continue to scan the shadows between the pillars. "We should finish quickly. This place doesn’t feel as empty as it should."
I nod agreement and hastily pack away the remainder of my meal. Whatever peace we’d found in quiet conversation has been shattered by the reminder that we’re not truly safe here. The abbey watches us with invisible eyes, catalogs our movements for some unknown purpose.
But as we prepare to leave, I catch myself looking back at the table where we sat. For a few precious moments, it had felt almost normal—two people sharing breakfast and tentativeconversation, learning the shape of each other’s thoughts. A glimpse of what companionship might look like if circumstances were different.
The memory follows me as we gather our supplies and make our way deeper into the abbey’s maze of corridors. I tell myself it’s foolish to want something so simple as easy conversation with someone who understands the weight of secrets. Foolish to hope for anything beyond survival in a place like this.
But foolish or not, the wanting remains. And judging by the careful way Krath avoids meeting my eyes as we walk, the way his jaw tightens when our hands accidentally brush while navigating narrow passages, I’m not the only one feeling the pull of possibilities we’re not ready to name.
The sensation of being watched intensifies as we move deeper into the abbey’s heart. Whatever walked those distant corridors during our breakfast wasn’t content to simply observe. It was measuring, evaluating, planning.
The game has changed, but we’re still learning the rules.
And somewhere in the darkness ahead, something waits with infinite patience for us to make our next move.
NINE
KRATH
Dawn filters through the cracked window of our makeshift shelter, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. I’ve been standing guard for hours, watching shadows lengthen and retreat as the sun climbs higher. Sleep came in fragments last night—brief moments of unconsciousness broken by the constant awareness of her presence mere feet away.
Rhea sleeps on the narrow cot we fashioned from salvaged monastery bedding, one arm flung across her face to block the growing light. Auburn hair spills across the rough pillow in copper waves, and her lips part slightly with each breath. The sight should be innocent—a weary traveler taking rest where she can find it.
Instead, I find myself cataloging details I have no right to notice. The delicate curve of her neck where it disappears beneath the collar of her travel-worn shirt. The way her breathing deepens when she shifts, drawing the fabric taut across the gentle swell of her breasts. The soft sound she makes when dreams stir behind her closed eyelids—not distress this time, but something that might be contentment.
The brand on my palm burns in rhythm with her heartbeat, a constant reminder of what ties us together. What started as an unwelcome chain has become something else entirely—awareness that settles into my bones and refuses to be ignored. I’m conscious of her in ways that go beyond magic, beyond necessity.
When did watching over her stop feeling burdensome and start feeling necessary?
I force myself to turn back to the window, scanning the courtyard below for signs of movement. The Marshal’s creatures avoid daylight, but that doesn’t guarantee safety. This place harbors too many secrets, too many shadows that move without regard for sun or moon.
"Krath?" Her voice carries the rough quality of recent sleep. "How long have you been standing there?"
I don’t turn around, afraid she’ll read too much in my expression. "A few hours. Someone needs to keep watch."
The soft rustle of bedding tells me she’s sitting up, probably running fingers through that tangled mass of hair.
"You should have woken me. We agreed to share the watches."
"You needed the rest." The words come out rougher than intended. "The nightmares haven’t been kind."
A pause, then the sound of bare feet on stone as she approaches the window. I catch her scent—chalk dust and dried herbs, something clean that cuts through the abbey’s perpetual staleness. She stops close enough that I feel the warmth from her sleep-warmed skin.
