The chamber feels smaller in the gray light filtering between cracked stone walls, though perhaps that’s because Rhea has been unconscious for the better part of three hours. I sit beside the makeshift bed we’ve arranged from salvaged monastery blankets, watching the rise and fall of her chest with the focused intensity of a sentry expecting attack.
She’s too pale. The consciousness splitting took more from her than either of us anticipated—not just magical energy, but something deeper. Color has leached from her skin until she looks carved from ivory, and dark circles ring her closed eyes. When I touch her forehead, her skin feels cold despite the fever that makes her breathing shallow and rapid.
The spiritual violation of encountering the Marshal’s power reservoir has left marks I can sense but cannot heal. Echoes of necromantic energy that make her flinch even in sleep, her branded wrist glowing fitfully as the mark tries to purge whatever filth clings to her consciousness.
I should have stopped her. Should have recognized the danger before she ranged so far from the safety of my physical anchor. The guilt sits heavy in my chest—another person undermy protection suffering because I failed to be strong enough, smart enough, fast enough to prevent harm.
But she stirs as I’m counting my failures, green eyes fluttering open with the disoriented confusion of someone surfacing from deep water. Her gaze finds mine immediately, and relief flickers across her features.
"How long?" Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"Three hours, maybe more." I reach for the water we’ve been carefully rationing, supporting her with my other arm as she struggles to sit upright. "Don’t push yourself. The spiritual trauma?—"
"I’m fine," she starts to say, then nearly drops the cup as her hands shake uncontrollably. Water sloshes across her fingers, cold against skin that feels fever-warm beneath my touch.
"You’re not fine." I steady the cup, my larger hands covering hers to guide it to her lips. The contact sends warmth flowing between us—not magical energy this time, but simple human comfort. "Drink. Slowly."
She obeys, though I can see the effort it costs her to accept help. Rhea has spent her life relying on herself, trusting her own strength and intelligence to see her through any crisis. Having to depend on someone else goes against every instinct she’s developed.
But when she’s managed half the water, she leans back against my arm instead of pulling away. The gesture is small but significant—trust given despite vulnerability, acceptance of care from someone she’s learned to rely on.
"I saw it," she says quietly, staring at the stone wall across from our makeshift sanctuary. "The chamber. The stolen life force. It was..." She shudders, and I feel the echo of her horror ripple across my awareness. "Beautiful and terrible and absolutely wrong."
I tighten my arm around her shoulders, offering what comfort I can. The memories she’s carrying aren’t hers—they’re impressions of the Marshal’s work, taint that will take time to fade from her consciousness.
"You don’t have to talk about it now."
"Yes, I do." She turns to meet my gaze, and I see steel beneath the exhaustion. "The scale of what he’s built—we can’t fight it with conventional magic. The amount of life force he’s accumulated over the decades, maybe centuries—it’s overwhelming."
"Then we find another way." The words come out colored by protective fury that makes the brand on my chest pulse with heat. "We’ve survived everything else he’s thrown at us."
"Have we?" She studies my face with those sharp green eyes that see too much. "Or have we just been running deeper into his trap? Every step we’ve taken, every choice we’ve made—what if we’re exactly where he wants us?"
The question sits heavy between us, weighted with implications neither of us wants to examine too closely. How much of what we’ve experienced has been genuine choice, and how much has been manipulation by forces beyond our understanding?
But before I can attempt an answer, a sound echoes across the abbey that makes every hair on my body stand upright. Low, resonant, carrying across the ruins with the authority of ancient bronze and older power.
A horn. Specifically, a bone horn carved from the femur of some massive creature and enchanted to carry farther than any mundane instrument. I recognize the specific pitch, the way it sustains and fades—I heard that same call countless times during our campaigns against the shadow-spawn.
The Marshal’s battle horn. The one he used to coordinate troop movements and signal the beginning of assaults. Hearing it now, in this place, sends ice flowing down my spine.
Rhea struggles to sit up straighter, alarm clear in her expression. "What was that?"
"A summons." I rise and move to the chamber’s single window, peering between broken shutters toward the courtyard beyond. "He’s calling in reinforcements."
The view from our hidden chamber doesn’t reveal much—mist hangs heavy over the abbey grounds, obscuring details but carrying sounds with crystalline clarity. Footsteps, too measured to be human. The scrape of metal on stone. The whisper of movement that speaks of large numbers advancing in formation.
"How many?" Rhea asks, though she’s already struggling to her feet despite the weakness that makes her movements clumsy.
"Unknown. But enough that he feels confident using the horn openly." I turn back to her, taking in her pallor and the way she has to brace herself against the wall for support. "You’re in no condition to fight."
"I’m in no condition to die helplessly either." Fire sparks in her eyes, bright with stubborn determination. "We need to know what we’re facing. How many enemies, what kind of siege equipment, whether there are escape routes still open."
She’s right, but every instinct I possess rebels against the idea of taking her into danger while she’s weakened. The protective urges that have been building over our time together roar to life, demanding I find somewhere safe to hide her while I handle whatever threat approaches.
But the Unity Rite bonds won’t allow separation beyond a certain distance. When we tested the limits during our practice sessions, attempting to move more than a few dozen yards from each other created pain that built rapidly toward the unbearable.If I try to scout alone, I’ll be fighting agony that will compromise my effectiveness.
"We go together," I say finally, though the words taste of ash. "But you stay behind me. No heroics, no pushing beyond your limits. If your magic fails?—"
