Candles burn in alcoves carved into the walls, their flames dancing without any breeze to stir them. The air itself feels thick with potential, as if the chamber waits for something momentous to occur within its confines. And perhaps it does—places of power have their own awareness, their own desires.
Krath sits cross-legged in the center of the chamber, already shirtless, his scarred torso bearing testament to centuries of violence. But it’s not the old wounds that capture my attention—it’s the way he holds himself, perfectly still yet radiating controlled tension, waiting for me to take the final step.
The Unity Rite requires more than simple proximity now. The magical texts were clear about the advanced stages: sustained skin contact across multiple anchor points, shared breathing, heartbeats synchronized until they beat as one.
I remove my outer robe with deliberate care, folding it and setting it aside. The simple shift underneath is thin enough to allow magical energy to flow freely, but substantial enough to maintain some sense of propriety. Though given what we’re about to attempt, propriety seems increasingly irrelevant.
My bare feet whisper against stone as I approach him, hyper-aware of his burning gaze tracking my movement. When I settle between his legs, facing him, the position places us chest-to-chest, our knees interlocked, every breath shared in the space between our bodies.
The first contact of skin against skin sends electricity racing along my nerves. His chest is warm beneath my palms, scarred but solid, rising and falling with controlled breathing that matches my own growing rhythm.
"This position," I say, voice coming out smaller than intended. "It’s..."
"Intimate," he finishes, voice rough with more than magical preparation. "The texts weren’t unclear about what the Unity Rite requires."
I nod, then wrap my legs around his waist as the instructions demanded. His arms circle mine in response, creating a closed circuit of contact that makes the brand on my wrist flare with warmth. We’re locked together now, bodies aligned from chest to hip, faces close enough that our breath mingles in the charged air between us.
"Are you certain about this?" he asks, red eyes searching my face. "Once we begin the deep stages, there’s no going back. We’ll know each other in ways that few people ever?—"
"I’m certain," I interrupt, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I trust you. Completely."
Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe, or wonder. After so many years of believing himself unworthy of trust, the simple declaration clearly affects him deeply.
"Then let’s begin," he says.
I close my eyes and reach for the power that burns in my chest, letting it flow outward to seek his answering flame. The power fusion happens faster now, our energies already attuned from hours of practice. But something deeper occurs alongside the magical merger—barriers dissolving, consciousness intertwining until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
The sensation is overwhelming at first. Two lifetimes of memory and experience suddenly available, emotions that aren’t mine flooding across my awareness. I gasp at the intensity, my grip tightening on his shoulders as I struggle to maintain my sense of self.
"Breathe," he murmurs against my ear, his voice steady despite the tremor I can feel running across his body. "Let it happen gradually. Don’t fight the flow."
I follow his guidance, focusing on the rhythm of our shared breathing until the chaos settles into something manageable. That’s when the first memory surfaces clearly—not mine, but his, experienced as if I’d lived it myself.
A battlefield seen from his eyes, corpses piled high while something that might once have been human stalks between them. The scent of charnel houses fills my nostrils, and I feel his rage at the abomination wearing his friend’s face. But underneath the fury, something else—the creeping realization that this creature isn’t just any enemy.
It’s the Marshal, freshly transformed by necromantic power, grinning with teeth that belong to the dead.
The first betrayal. When I realized the friend I’d trusted with my life had allied with the very forces we were fighting against.
The betrayal cuts deeper than any physical wound. I experience his shock, his disbelief, the way his world tilted on its axis when everything he thought he knew proved false. The pain is so intense, I have to press my forehead against his shoulder to ground myself.
I’m sorry. To be betrayed by someone you loved?—
It taught me not to trust so easily,he responds, but I feel the lie in the words. The betrayal didn’t teach him caution—it taught him to expect pain from everyone he cared about.
Before I can respond, another image floods my awareness—younger Krath discovering Lyralei’s body in their shared chambers, the way her eyes stared sightlessly at stars she’d never see again. Her skin is cold beneath his hands as he cradles her, and I feel the exact moment his heart breaks completely.
The grief hits me harder than any of the wraiths’ attacks, raw and devastating even centuries later. But worse than the sorrow is his certainty that loving him had killed her, that his feelings had made him weak when she needed him strong.
She knew the risks,he tells me, but underneath the words I feel his self-recrimination, the absolute conviction that her death was his fault.
No. I pour all my certainty across our power bridge.Love didn’t make you weak.It made you human. And being human isn’t a weakness—it’s what separates you from the Marshal.
The sharing reverses, my memories flowing to him with equal intensity. He experiences my childhood—the subtle isolation that felt natural at the time, the way certain books were always just out of reach, how teachers praised my curiosity while steering it in very specific directions.
I feel his shock as he witnesses the scope of the manipulation, decades of careful influence designed to create exactly thewoman who would seek forbidden knowledge. Every significant choice in my life was guided by unseen hands, my very personality shaped to serve someone else’s purpose.
Your entire life. They stole your entire life.
