Reality crashes back as footsteps echo from the corridor beyond our ruined wall. Heavy boots on stone, moving with military precision. More enemies coming, drawn by the sounds of battle.
I release her and step back, the loss of contact leaving me strangely cold despite the fire that burns eternally in my chest. "We need to move. There will be more."
She nods, but I catch the way her eyes linger on my mouth before she turns away. The hunger there is unmistakable, and it takes all my control not to respond to the invitation.
Not here. Not now. Not when we’re fighting for our lives in a place that wants us dead.
But the promise hangs between us as we gather our scattered supplies and prepare to flee into the abbey’s shifting maze.
The passagewe choose leads deeper into the monastery’s heart, past chambers we haven’t seen before.
"These markings," Rhea says, running her fingers along the carved stone as we walk. "They’re not just decorative. They’re... functional. Part of some larger pattern."
I study the symbols she’s indicating, trying to make sense of their arrangement. Military training taught me to read terrain, to spot patterns that might indicate a trap or ambush. These carvings have that same deliberate quality—placement that follows rules I don’t understand.
"Instructions?" I suggest.
"More detailed than that." She stops beside a section where the spirals form complex geometric shapes. "These could be blueprints. For something that requires precise positioning to?—"
The floor gives way beneath her feet.
I lunge forward, catching her wrist just as she starts to fall. The sudden jerk sends us both off balance, and we tumble together into the darkness below. I twist mid-fall, taking the impact on my back against stone while she lands across my chest in a tangle of limbs and scattered breath.
The landing drives the air from my lungs in a harsh grunt. Stone scrapes against my armor, and somewhere above us, debris continues to rain down from where the floor collapsed. But the immediate danger passes quickly—no sounds of pursuit from above, no threats emerging from the shadows around us.
We lie still for a moment, listening to echoes fade into silence. Her weight across my chest is slight but warm, herbreathing rapid against my throat. I should move, help her up, put proper distance between us.
Instead, I find myself acutely aware of every point where her body touches mine.
"Are you all right?" I ask, though I make no move to dislodge her.
"I think so." She pushes herself up on her elbows, inadvertently pressing her hips more firmly against mine. The friction sends unwelcome heat racing through my body. "You broke my fall."
"Seemed practical." My voice comes out strained as she shifts again, apparently unaware of what her movement is doing to me. "Shared injuries and all."
Her eyes find mine in the dim light filtering from above, and something passes between us—understanding, maybe. Or recognition of the careful distance we’ve been maintaining, the way we’ve both been pretending this draw between us is purely magical.
"Is that the only reason?" The question is barely a whisper.
Before I can answer—before I have to decide whether to lie or reveal more than either of us is ready for—she’s moving, sliding off me with deliberate care. The loss of her weight leaves me strangely hollow.
"We should explore," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "See where we’ve landed."
I push myself upright, grateful for the distraction. We’ve fallen into a circular chamber carved from living rock, its walls covered with the same ancient symbols we saw above. But these are different—more complex.
At the center of the room sits a massive stone table, its surface covered with what might once have been maps or diagrams. The parchment has long since crumbled to dust, but iron weights still hold the corners where documents once lay.
"A war room," I realize, moving closer to examine the table. Something about the space feels familiar, though I can’t place why.
Rhea approaches from the opposite side, her scholar’s eye already cataloging details I would miss. "Look at this." She points to symbols carved directly into the stone surface. "Battle formations. Troop movements. But the language..."
I circle the table to read over her shoulder, close enough to catch her scent again. The symbols are orcish—ancient military script used by commanders who couldn’t trust human writing to survive the chaos of war.
Recognition hits me with the force of a physical blow. Not just any orcish script, but my own hand. My own planning.
"These are mine," I say, the words coming out hollow. "My battle plans. From the campaign against the shadow-spawn."
Her head snaps up, green eyes wide with understanding. "The Marshal brought you here deliberately. To this exact place."
