The abbey’s ancient library stretches before us in the gray morning light, a cathedral of forgotten knowledge. Towering shelves lean at precarious angles, heavy with volumes that have survived whatever catastrophe claimed this place.
The air carries the weight of centuries—dust motes dancing in shafts of light, the musty scent of old parchment, and something else underneath it all. Ash, maybe. Or the lingering traces of magic gone wrong.
"Careful with that one," Krath says as I reach for a tome bound in cracked leather. "The binding looks ready to give way."
I nod, handling the volume with the reverence it deserves. These books are survivors, witnesses to knowledge that might otherwise be lost forever. Each one could hold pieces of the puzzle we’re trying to solve—if we can find them before this place decides to shift its architecture again.
We’ve fallen into an easy rhythm over the past hour. He clears debris from fallen shelves while I examine whatever texts we uncover, his strength complementing my scholarly training in ways that feel natural rather than forced. There’s something deeply satisfying about working alongside someonewho understands the value of what we’re doing, who doesn’t question the need to risk danger for knowledge.
"Here," I call softly, gesturing him over to where I’ve spread a large tome across a reading stand. "This one’s about the bell’s construction."
He approaches quietly, mindful of the library’s sacred atmosphere. Even ruined, this place demands a certain reverence. When he settles beside me to examine the text, I’m acutely aware of his presence—the way his bulk makes the reading stand seem delicate, how his breathing shifts the air between us, carrying the scent of smoke and steel that’s becoming achingly familiar.
The manuscript is illuminated in the old style, gold leaf catching our light as I trace the elaborate script with my finger. "It says the bell was forged during the Year of Shadows, when the dead walked among the living. The abbey’s founders believed they needed something powerful enough to call wandering souls to rest."
"And did it work?" His voice is pitched low, appropriate for the hushed space.
"Initially, yes. But listen to this." I find the relevant passage, translating the archaic language as I read. "’The bell’s voice grew stronger with each tolling, drawing not just the peaceful dead but those who clung to mortal concerns. In time, it called to things that should never have been summoned.’"
Krath leans closer to see the text, his shoulder brushing mine. The contact is innocent enough, but it sends warmth skittering along my nerves. I catch his scent more strongly now.
"There," he says, pointing to a marginal note I’d missed. "What does that say?"
I have to lean into him to read the faded ink, our bodies pressing together from shoulder to hip. The contact makes it difficult to concentrate on translation, especially when I feel thewarmth radiating through his armor, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"’The willing sacrifice may quiet the bell’s call, but only if the blood is freely given,’" I manage, my voice coming out slightly breathless. "’Coercion or deception renders the offering void.’"
The implications hang heavy between us. Not just death, but willing death. Someone would have to choose to die, knowing full well what that choice meant.
Before either of us can comment on this disturbing revelation, the temperature drops precipitously. Our breath mists in air that was warm moments before, and the candles we’d lit begin to gutter as if blown by invisible wind.
I straighten, pulling away from Krath’s warmth as alarm races down my spine. "We’re not alone."
The shadows between the shelves begin to move with purpose, coalescing into shapes that might once have been human. Tall, gaunt figures wrapped in tatters of cloth, their faces hidden beneath tattered hoods. When they move, they make no sound—but the air around them grows colder still, carrying the scent of old graves and forgotten sorrows.
Shadow-wraiths. I recognize them from the coven’s bestiaries, though I’ve never seen them in person. Creatures of necromantic magic, animated by will rather than true life. But why now? What triggered their manifestation?
The answer comes as I notice frost forming on the pages of the open tome. Our research has drawn attention we didn’t want. Someone doesn’t want us reading about willing sacrifice.
"The Marshal doesn’t want us learning this," I whisper.
"Then we must be close to something important." Krath’s sword clears its sheath with barely a whisper of steel on leather. Fire blooms along the blade, pushing back the encroaching darkness. "Stay close."
The first wraith lunges without warning, moving faster than anything without substance should be able to. Krath intercepts it with brutal efficiency, his blade carving through shadow and ancient fabric. The creature dissipates with a sound of sighing wind, but three more take its place.
I scramble for my chalk, scrawling hasty sigils in the air as the wraiths circle us. Blue-white fire erupts from my palms, catching one of the creature’s center. It shrieks—a sound that goes through my bones—before crumbling to ash.
But there are more emerging from the deeper stacks. Too many for the confined space between the towering shelves. The smell of old death fills the air, mixing with the acrid scent of burning shadow.
"Behind me," Krath orders, but I’m already moving to guard his flank.
"We fight together," I say firmly, calling up another burst of purifying flame.
Something flickers in his burning gaze—surprise, maybe, or approval. Then we’re moving as one, covering each other’s vulnerabilities with increasing coordination. He carves brutal paths through the wraiths while I pick off the ones that try to flank us, our different fighting styles complementing rather than interfering.
I burn three wraiths in quick succession, their ashes mixing with dust on the library floor. Behind me, I hear the wet sound of Krath’s blade finding its mark, the clatter of something heavy hitting stone. We move around each other with growing ease, each anticipating the other’s needs without needing to speak.
When a wraith breaks through his guard, reaching for me with fingers that trail frost, his response is immediate and savage. He doesn’t just destroy it—he tears it apart with his bare hands, shadow and cloth exploding in all directions. The fury inhis movements is primal, protective in a way that goes beyond tactical necessity.
