The sound he makes—half growl, half roar—sends heat racing through my body despite the supernatural cold. When he turns back to me, the look in his burning eyes makes my breath catch. Not just concern for an ally, but something deeper. Possessive, almost. As if the thought of anything harming me unleashes something violent in his chest.
I incinerate the last wraith, leaving us alone among the scattered books and overturned furniture. In the sudden silence, I’m hyperaware of our breathing, the way we’re standing closer than strictly necessary, the heat radiating from his body despite the lingering cold.
"Are you hurt?" His voice is rough, strained with something I can’t identify.
"No, I—" I start to answer, then stop as he steps closer. His hands rise to frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones as he examines me for injuries with an intensity that makes my pulse race.
"You’re bleeding," he says, thumb ghosting over my lower lip where a wraith’s claw must have caught me.
The touch is featherlight, clinical, but the look in his eyes is anything but professional. Heat coils low in my belly as his gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there with unmistakable hunger.
"It’s nothing," I whisper, though I make no move to step away.
"Nothing," he agrees, but his thumb traces the cut again, sending sparks of sensation through my entire body. His other hand has settled at the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.
We’re close enough that the space between us crackles with tension that has nothing to do with magical bonds andeverything to do with the way he’s looking at me—as if I’m something precious he’s afraid to touch.
"Krath..."
The moment stretches, charged with possibility. His head dips slightly, bringing our mouths closer together. I feel the warmth of his breath, see the way his eyes darken with want.
Then he steps back abruptly, hands dropping to his sides, jaw clenching with visible effort.
"We should keep searching." His voice carries careful neutrality, but his eyes linger on my mouth. "Before more of those things show up."
I nod, though disappointment sits heavy in my chest. "Right. Of course."
But as we return to our research, I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. And when our hands brush while turning pages, the contact lingers just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
We continue our search in companionable silence, though the air between us remains charged. Every accidental touch sends awareness racing along my nerves.
"Look at this," I say, unrolling a parchment that had been hidden beneath other documents. "It’s about the Marshal’s original curse."
Krath leans over my shoulder to read, close enough that his breath stirs my hair. I have to fight not to lean back into his warmth. "What does it say?"
I translate the script, my voice growing tighter with each revelation. "The curse wasn’t just about your imprisonment. He’s been manipulating events for decades, maybe longer. Look—" I point to a list of names. "These are coven members going back fifty years. People who influenced magical education, who decided which texts were preserved and which were lost."
The implications settle over me in waves. Not just my arrival at the abbey, but my entire education. The books I was allowed to read, the ones that were forbidden, the very curiosity that drove me to seek dangerous knowledge—how much of it was genuinely mine?
My hands shake as I trace the names on the parchment. Sister Morrow’s predecessor, who decided which grimoires would be relegated to the forbidden vaults. The librarian who mysteriously reclassified certain texts as "too dangerous for novice study." Even my childhood tutor, who first told me stories of ancient magic and lost knowledge.
"My whole life," I whisper, the words barely audible. "Everything I thought I chose, everything I believed about myself..."
The revelation is like losing my footing on solid ground. If my curiosity was planted, if my drive for knowledge was manufactured, then what parts of me are actually real? Which of my thoughts and desires can I trust?
"Every choice I made," I continue, voice cracking. "Every book I sought out, every rule I bent to learn more—was any of it really me?"
"Yes." His voice is fierce, absolute. Before I can protest, his hands are on my shoulders, forcing me to meet his burning gaze. "Your courage is real. Your strength is yours. No one can manufacture what you are."
"But what if?—"
"What if the curiosity that brought you here was planted? So what?" His grip tightens slightly, grounding me. "You still chose to act on it. You still risked everything to pursue knowledge. You still bled on my tomb, knowing nothing about what would happen." His voice drops to something almost reverent. "You woke me. You freed me. No manipulation could create the strength I’ve seen in you."
The conviction in his voice breaks something loose in my chest. Fear I didn’t know I was carrying—not just of the Marshal’s manipulation, but of my own inadequacy. The terror that I’m not worthy of the power I’ve claimed, not brave enough to face what’s coming.
"I’m scared," I admit, the confession torn from somewhere deep. "What if I’m not enough? What if when the moment comes, I fail you the way?—"
"The way Lyralei failed me?" His hands slide up to cup my face, forcing me to hold his gaze. "She didn’t fail me, Rhea. I failed her. And you—" His thumb brushes across my cheekbone. "You’re nothing like her. Where she was gentle, you’re fierce. Where she trusted, you question. Where she hoped, you plan."
