And beneath the pain, awareness blooms.
A pulse. Deep in my chest, steady and strong. A second heartbeat that isn’t mine.
The orc staggers, his free hand pressed to his chest as if he feels it too. His red eyes go wide with shock, then narrow with fury that makes the air itself seem to burn.
He snarls words in the harsh orcish tongue that sound ancient, powerful. Curses, probably. The shadows in the chamber writhe and dance, whisperingminein voices that crawl along my spine.
What did I just do?
But I know. Some part of me, some deep instinct older than reason, knows exactly what happened here.
I woke him.
I bound myself to him.
And from the rage twisting his scarred features, he’s not particularly grateful for either.
He slams his free hand against the stone dais to steady himself, and the impact cracks the rock. Ash spirals around us in a miniature cyclone, and I catch glimpses of power barely held in check—muscles that could snap me, claws that could tear through steel, fury hot enough to melt stone.
When he looks at me again, his molten eyes hold centuries of accumulated rage and recognition. He drags me closer, and I’m helpless to resist. The mark burns between us.
His voice, when it comes, is barely controlled violence wrapped in silk.
"You woke me, little witch."
The endearment sounds more threating than greeting.
"Now you will burn with me."
Flames flare briefly in his eyes. Behind us, the crypt doors slam shut with a sound that reverberates through my bones, sealing us in darkness lit only by ember-light and the burning rune on my wrist.
Oh.
Fuck.
TWO
KRATH
Stone dust cascades off my shoulders as I lurch to full height. Centuries of cursed sleep cling to my bones—thick as tar, heavy as chains. The taste of her blood burns on my tongue, copper and magic and something clean that cuts through the tomb’s staleness.
Awake.
The word pounds through my skull. After so long in the black between sleeping and death, sensation hits in waves. The scrape of blackened mail against scarred skin. The weight of my sword at my hip. The ember-glow behind my eyes that marks me cursed, damned, other.
And her scent. Books and chalk and warm woman-flesh.
Witch.
She presses herself against the obsidian wall, clutching that bleeding finger to her chest. Too late, little scholar. The damage is done. Her blood woke me. Her blood carved the binding rune into both our souls.
But she doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg.
She stares.
Those sharp green eyes catalog every scar on my green hide, every crack in my armor where the curse bleeds through. Shewatches me as if I’m a puzzle to solve instead of a nightmare to flee.
Foolish.
