She’s right. My hand shakes slightly as it traces the line of her jaw, mapping the soft curve with fingertips that have known only violence for so long that gentleness feels foreign.
"I need to tell you something," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "Before we attempt this ritual, before everything changes again."
My heart stutters in my chest, though whether from anticipation or dread, I can’t say. "What?"
Her green eyes hold mine steadily, unflinching in their honesty. "I’m not afraid of dying. I’ve made peace with that possibility. But I’m terrified of living without you."
I silence her with my thumb against her lips, unable to bear the thought she’s voicing. The soft warmth beneath my touch makes something clench tight in my chest.
"Nothing will separate us," I say firmly. "Whatever comes, we face it together."
"How can you be so certain?"
The question cuts deeper than she might realize. How can I be certain of anything when my entire existence has been defined by curses and chains and the constant possibility ofloss? But looking at her now, feeling the steady pulse of her life against my palm, I find certainty anyway.
"Because for the first time in two centuries, I have something worth fighting for that’s worth more than revenge."
Her breath catches at the confession, and I see my own wonder reflected in her expression.
"I never imagined a future beyond breaking the curse," I continue, the words coming easier now. "Never thought about who I might be without the chains that have defined me. But with you?—"
"With me?" she prompts when I hesitate.
"With you, I can see past tomorrow. Past freedom. Past the fear that’s ruled me for so long." My thumb strokes across her lower lip, feeling the soft warmth beneath. "I want to know who we could become together, if we’re given the chance."
The confession hangs between us, weighted with possibility and hope. When she rises on her toes to close the distance between our mouths, I meet her halfway with desperate reverence.
The kiss starts quickly as days of restrained desire finally find expression. She tastes of honey and determination, sweet warmth that makes my head spin. When her hands fist in my shirt to pull me closer, I’m lost to everything except the feel of her in my arms.
My hands span her waist easily, lifting her until we’re the same height, until I can claim her mouth properly without the awkward angle our size difference creates. She wraps her legs around my waist with startling boldness, and the new position presses us together in ways that make rational thought nearly impossible.
"Krath," she breathes against my lips, my name carrying want and uncertainty in equal measure.
I carry her to where a section of wall offers support, pressing her back against ancient stone while maintaining the kiss that’s become essential as breathing. Her fingers thread into my hair, holding me close as if she’s afraid I might disappear.
When we finally break apart, both gasping, the air between us, once again, shimmers with more than shared warmth. The Unity Rite has activated without conscious effort, our magical signatures harmonizing in response to emotional intensity.
"The ritual," she says, though her voice lacks conviction and her legs remain wrapped around my waist.
"In a moment." I rest my forehead against hers, savoring the simple intimacy of shared breath and synchronized heartbeats. "Let me have this moment before everything changes again."
She nods, understanding the need that goes beyond physical desire. Her hands frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with reverent gentleness.
"Whatever happens," she whispers, "whatever the ritual requires—know that I choose this. I choose you. Not because of necessity, but because you’ve become essential to who I am."
"And you’ve become the best part of who I could be," I reply, meaning every word. "The person I am when I’m with you—that’s who I want to be."
She smiles then, bright and fierce and absolutely beautiful, and I have to kiss her again. This time, the contact is gentler, more reverent, a sealing of promises made and accepted.
The ninth toll begins building in the bell’s bronze throat. We have perhaps minutes before the sound reaches its peak—our only chance to attempt the retuning ritual that might turn the Marshal’s own ceremony against him.
"Now," Rhea says, pressing her hands against the bell’s base where we’ve inscribed the interference runes. "We need complete unity."
I position myself beside her, palms flat against bronze that thrums with accumulated power. The metal is warm beneath my touch, pulsing with energy that speaks of centuries of accumulated purpose.
"Lower your defenses," she instructs, voice tight with focus. "Let me feel your magical signature completely. No barriers, no walls, nothing held back."
The request goes against every instinct I’ve developed over two centuries of cursed existence. Lowering my defenses means vulnerability, means trusting someone else with the deepest parts of who I am.
