"Then you protect us both." She moves toward me with tentative steps, one hand braced against the wall for support. "Just as you did when you pulled me back from the Marshal’s trap."
The trust in her voice does something uncomfortable to my chest. When was the last time someone believed so completely in my ability to keep them safe? When was the last time someone looked at me and saw protection instead of threat?
I help her gather what supplies we’ll need—her spell components, the salvaged texts that might prove useful, water and what little food we’ve been able to scavenge. The domestic nature of the task provides strange comfort, a reminder that beneath all the supernatural threats and ancient curses, we’re still just two people trying to survive together.
"Can you walk without support?" I ask as we prepare to leave our sanctuary.
She tests her balance, managing several steps before swaying slightly. "For short distances. The spiritual exhaustion is fading, but slowly."
I nod and lead us from the chamber, though I keep one hand ready to catch her if her strength fails. The corridors feel different in the gray light—less overtly threatening but more watchful, as if the abbey itself is holding its breath in anticipation of whatever comes next.
We move with deliberate stealth along passages I’ve memorized over our days here, following routes that should avoid the main approaches any attacking force would use. But once we were forced to take cover in an alcove barely largeenough for one person, pressing together in spaces that make breathing quietly a challenge.
The first time it happened, I pulled her back against my chest as bone scouts passed ahead of us. Her body fit against mine with startling intimacy, soft curves pressed to hard muscle while I wrap my arms around her to shield her from view. The alcove was so narrow that every breath pushes us closer together, and I was acutely aware of her scent—chalk dust and dried herbs and something warm that’s uniquely hers.
She trembled against me, though whether from lingering magical exhaustion or awareness of our forced proximity, I couldn’t tell. My own breathing grew unsteady as her pulse raced against my forearm where it rested across her chest. When she tilted her head back to whisper a warning about movement in the corridor, her hair brushed my jaw and sent heat cascading down my spine.
Minutes passed before the sounds of the scouts faded completely. Neither of us moved immediately, caught in the strange intimacy of shared danger and shared space. Her small hands rested flat against my chest, and I felt her breathing change as she became conscious of how we were positioned—chest to chest, her back pressed to my front, my arms encircling her protectively.
"They’re gone," she whispered, but didn’t pull away.
"Are you certain?" My voice came out scratchy, and I made no move to release her.
For a heartbeat longer, we remained frozen in the narrow space. Something shifted in her expression—awareness becoming something deeper, more personal.
Then footsteps echoed from another corridor, and we sprang apart with guilty haste.
Now, we’ve reached a defensible position near the abbey’s upper levels, where broken windows provide clear views of thesurrounding grounds. What I see when I peer past the cracked glass makes my blood run cold.
The Marshal’s forces aren’t attacking—they’re surrounding us with methodical precision. Ranks of bone warriors march in perfect formation around the abbey’s perimeter, some carrying siege ladders, others bearing weapons that glow with necromantic energy. Shadow wraiths drift between the physical troops, scouting every potential exit route.
But it’s the massive constructs being assembled in the mist-shrouded distance that truly concern me. Siege engines built from bone and rusted metal, their design speaking of long preparation and deliberate planning. These aren’t troops gathered hastily for a quick assault—this is a prepared siege designed to trap us here until tomorrow night’s blood moon ritual.
"How many?" Rhea asks, settling beside me at the window. Her color has improved slightly, but she still moves with the precision of someone managing pain.
"Several hundred warriors, at least. Plus, wraiths, constructs, and siege equipment." I study the positioning, looking for weaknesses or opportunities. "They’re not trying to storm the abbey. They’re making sure we can’t leave."
Understanding dawns in her expression. "He doesn’t need to defeat us. Just keep us contained until the ritual window."
"Exactly." I continue scanning the enemy positions, noting how they’ve blocked every exit route we’ve discovered. "Which means we have perhaps eighteen hours to either find another way out or prepare for a final confrontation."
"Or find a way to turn his own siege against him," she murmurs, studying the bone constructs with a scholar’s eye for detail. "Those siege engines—they’re powered by the same necromantic energy as his other creations. If we could disrupt the power source..."
She trails off as movement catches our attention. A lone figure approaches the abbey’s main gates under a banner of parley—humanoid but wrong, wrapped in shadows that move independently of any breeze. When it speaks, its voice carries clearly across the courtyard despite the distance.
"Krath Ashbane. Rhea of the Thornwood Coven. Your Marshal extends an offer of mercy."
I bare my teeth in what might be a smile if smiles could promise violence. "And what mercy does a corpse offer the living?"
"Surrender the witch willingly, and you may choose the manner of your own death. Fight, and you will watch her suffer beyond mortal comprehension before joining her in agony."
The casual cruelty in the words sends rage racing along my veins. My free hand drops to my sword hilt, fire blooming along the steel before I consciously summon it.
"Counter-offer," I call back, voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to command. "Withdraw your forces, release whatever claim you think you have on us, and I might let you continue existing."
The shadow-wrapped figure laughs—a sound winters make when they kill the last flowers. "The blood moon rises tomorrow night. The ritual will proceed whether you participate willingly or not. But your cooperation could spare you both unnecessary pain."
"We’ll take the pain," Rhea says, her voice steady despite the weakness I can still sense in her. "Tell your master we choose defiance."
