Something flickers in her expression—surprise, maybe, or relief. She’s been carrying the same fears, the same uncertainty about what complete merger might reveal.
The climb to the bell tower tests more than physical endurance. Halfway up, when she stumbles slightly on a cracked step, I turn to steady her. My hands span her waist easily, lifting her past the obstruction, and for a moment we’re pressed together on the narrow staircase.
Her palms rest flat against my chest for balance, and I feel her pulse racing beneath my hands where they rest on her ribs.
"Careful," I murmur, though I make no immediate move to release her.
"I’m always careful," she replies, but her voice carries a breathless quality that suggests her thoughts have drifted from simple navigation.
"Are you?" I ask, studying her face in the dim light filtering down from above. "Because taking on a cursed warlord, bleeding on ancient tombs, and attempting to overthrow centuries-old magical workings doesn’t strike me as particularly careful behavior."
She laughs softly, the sound echoing in the narrow stairwell. "Maybe I’ve learned to be reckless from someone."
"And maybe reckless suits you."
The words hang between us, weighted with implication. When she looks up at me, lips parted in surprise or invitation, I’m struck again by how perfectly she fits against me. How right this feels despite every circumstance that should make it wrong.
But voices echo from below, and we resume climbing with reluctant necessity.
"Are you managing the pace?" I ask as we near the top, though the question encompasses more than simple physical exertion.
"Better than you might expect." She pauses at a landing where ancient windows offer views of the abbey grounds far below. "The magical sharing seems to be increasing my stamina as well as yours."
I note this for later consideration while my attention is caught by the way afternoon light catches in her hair, turning auburn strands to copper fire. When she notices my attention, color rises in her cheeks.
"What?" she asks, voice carrying self-consciousness that I find unexpectedly endearing.
"Nothing," I lie, forcing myself to look away before I do something we don’t have time for. "We should keep moving."
But the damage is done. The awareness between us has shifted again, becoming more personal, more immediate.
The bell chamber opens before us finally—a circular space dominated by the massive bronze instrument that has become the focus of all our hopes and fears. Afternoon light streams through broken windows, casting everything in gold and shadow. Stained glass crunches beneath our boots, fragments of saints and angels reduced to colored shards that catch the light in painful beauty.
The bell itself commands attention. Larger than I expected, easily twice my height and proportionally broad, its surfacecovered in runes that pulse with their own inner light. The bronze bears the green patina of centuries, but underneath, I can see the careful craftsmanship—mathematical precision wed to artistic vision.
"Magnificent," Rhea breathes, moving to examine the bell’s base with scholarly intensity. "The inscriptions are in three different scripts—Classical Latin, High Gothic, and something older. Probably the original magical framework that the monks built their blessing around."
I circle the bell from the opposite direction, noting how the different scripts layer over each other in complex patterns. Each runic sequence seems to serve a different purpose—binding, blessing, protection—all woven together into something greater than the sum of its parts.
"The Marshal wouldn’t have been able to change this completely," I observe. "The original bindings are too strong, too pure. He could only twist them, not break them entirely."
"Which means we can untwist them." She looks up from her examination, excitement bright in her voice. "Reset the bell to its original purpose—calling souls to rest instead of binding them in service."
The theory is sound, but implementing it will require precision neither of us has ever attempted. We’ll need to inscribe new runes over the existing ones, creating interference patterns that will redirect the bell’s resonance.
"Show me what needs to be done," I say, moving to her side.
The next hour passes in careful preparation. She maps out the runic sequences we’ll need to inscribe, while I clear debris and position materials where they’ll be easily accessible during the ritual. But it’s impossible to ignore how often our hands brush during the work, how frequently we find ourselves standing closer than strictly necessary.
When she reaches for a piece of chalk that’s fallen behind the bell’s base, I steady her with a hand on her waist. The contact sends warmth racing up my arm, and I feel her breath catch at the touch. She doesn’t pull away immediately, instead leaning into my support as she retrieves the chalk.
"Thank you," she says softly, but doesn’t step back when she straightens.
We’re standing close enough that I can see the way candlelight reflects in her eyes.
"You’re trembling," I observe, lifting my free hand to brush that escaped strand of hair back from her face.
"So are you."
