The messenger bows with mocking courtesy, then dissolves back into the mist from which it came. But its words linger, carrying the weight of prophecy and threat.
"Eighteen hours," I say quietly.
"Eighteen hours to find another way," she agrees.
But as we prepare to withdraw from our observation point, the abbey itself begins to tremble. The walls around us groan as ancient mechanisms activate, passages shifting and rearranging themselves with sounds of grinding stone.
The building is sealing itself, trapping us inside with whatever the Marshal has planned.
And somewhere in the distance, barely audible but unmistakable, comes the first toll of the abbey’s great bell. The bronze voice that hasn’t spoken in centuries suddenly rings out across the ruins, each note resonating in our bones with painful intensity.
"The bell," Rhea gasps, pressing both hands to her branded wrist as the mark flares with each toll. "It’s calling to the bond. Trying to draw the power from us before we’re ready."
I wrap my arms around her as she staggers, my own brand burning in answer to the bell’s summons. The pain is manageable now, but I can feel it building with each successive toll.
"How many times will it ring?" I ask, though part of me dreads the answer.
"Thirteen," she whispers, face pale with more than magical exhaustion. "Once for each hour until the blood moon reaches its zenith. And with each toll, the pull grows stronger."
The second toll echoes across the abbey, and this time the pain is noticeably worse. The mark on my chest burns steady as a brand fresh from the forge, and I feel our magical energies being drawn toward whatever focus the Marshal has prepared.
"Then we have twelve hours instead of eighteen," I say grimly.
She nods, leaning into my strength as the echoes of the second toll fade. But even weakened, even trapped, there’s steel in her spine and fire in her eyes.
"Twelve hours," she agrees. "Let’s make them count."
As we retreat deeper into the abbey’s shifting corridors, I’m aware of every point where our bodies touch, every breath she takes, every flutter of her pulse beneath my hands. The growing siege outside, the bell’s ominous tolling, the Marshal’s approaching deadline—all of it fades beside the simple fact that she’s here, alive, choosing to face the impossible at my side.
Whatever comes next, we’ll meet it together. And maybe—just maybe—together will be enough.
The third toll begins to build in the bronze throat of the bell, and we brace ourselves for the next wave of pain. But this time, when the mark flares on our skin, something else happens too. The Unity Rite training we’ve been practicing kicks in, our shared consciousness taking the magical assault and distributing it between us.
The pain is still there, but it’s bearable. Manageable. Evidence that together, we might be stronger than whatever ancient magic the Marshal is wielding.
"Did you feel that?" she asks, wonder threading her voice despite the circumstances.
"The sharing," I confirm, studying her face in the dim light. "Our bond is adapting, learning to protect itself."
Hope flickers between us, small but fierce. Maybe the bell isn’t just a weapon pointed at our hearts. Maybe it’s also teaching us what we need to know to survive.
But as her hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining with gentle strength, I find myself believing that maybe the impossible might be exactly what we need.
The abbey settles around us with groans of shifting stone, and somewhere in the distance, the Marshal’s forces continue their methodical preparations. But at this moment, holding her hand in the growing dark, I’m not afraid.
For the first time in two centuries, I’m not afraid.
And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous thing of all.
FOURTEEN
RHEA
The fifth toll of the bell hits with force that drives me to my knees. Stone dust cascades from the ceiling as the sound reverberates deeper than my bones, deeper than thought itself. Each ring grows stronger, more invasive, and this time, I can see what it’s doing to us.
White streaks thread through my auburn hair where there were none this morning. When I catch my reflection in a shard of broken glass, hollow cheeks stare back at me. The woman in that fragment looks decades older than the scholar who entered this cursed place days ago.
Krath fares no better. Silver now temples his dark hair, and deep lines bracket his mouth. His movements carry the deliberate care of someone whose body no longer obeys without thought. We’re aging with each toll, our life force drawn inexorably toward whatever focal point the Marshal has prepared.
