"Do not?—"
Too late.
Her fingertip—still bloody from the cut that woke me—brushes against the ancient symbol. The rune ignites with cold fire, not the warm gold of our binding but something else entirely. Something hungry and patient and full of malicious joy.
The voice that whispers from the stone is ancient. Familiar. Hateful.
"One of you must bleed the bell."
She staggers backward, face white as bone. The rune pulses once more, then dies, but the words hang in the air.
The bell.
Of course. I should have known it would come back to that cursed thing. Everything in this place comes back to the bell that hangs in the shattered tower. The bell that calls the dead home.
I cross to her in three strides and grab her shoulders, spinning her to face me. Her green eyes are wide, pupils blown with shock.
"What bell?" The words tumble out. "What did that mean?"
"The bell in the tower." My voice is grim as winter stone. "The one that summons what should stay buried."
Her hands fist in my armor, clinging as if I’m the only solid thing in a world gone mad. The gesture sends heat spiraling through my chest in ways I refuse to examine.
"Summons what?"
Before I can answer, the chamber fills with laughter. Cold, cruel, entirely too familiar. The sound raises every hair on my body and sends ice through my veins despite the eternal fire that burns in my chest.
Not yet. Too soon.
But shadows are already gathering in the corners of the room. Whispers multiply, echoing off stone walls in languages that predate kingdoms. And in the darkness, something that has waited just as long as I have begins to stir.
Heis waking.
I pull Rhea closer, not caring that the gesture is possessive enough to make something primal in my chest rumble with approval. Right now, protection matters more than pride.
"Listen to me." My voice drops to an urgent growl. "Whatever happens next, whatever thou seest or hearest?—"
The whispers stop.
The temperature plummets.
And from the deepest shadows of the tomb, a voice I’d hoped never to hear again speaks my name with the intimate hatred of old betrayal.
"Hello, old friend."
The shadows coalesce into a familiar shape—tall, gaunt, armored in cracked bone and black iron. The Pale Marshal stepsfrom the darkness as if he owns it, and perhaps he does. Death has not been kind to him. His skull-like face is half-shadow, half-corpse, and his eyes burn with the cold fire of the grave.
Rhea’s breath catches. Her hands tighten on my armor, and I feel her terror spike through the mark binding us.
Good. Fear will keep her alive.
"Marshal." I keep my voice level, casual. As if his presence doesn’t send every instinct I possess screaming for violence. "Still wearing corpse-armor, I see. Death suits thee poorly."
He laughs, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "And thou still speakest as if centuries have not passed. Still clinging to old forms, old courtesies." His gaze shifts to Rhea, and his smile is a rictus of bone and malice. "But this is new. Another little witch to play with. How delightful."
I step between them, blocking his view of her. "She is under my protection."
"Is she?" His voice holds dark amusement. "How... familiar. Tell me, does this one also believe love can conquer all? Does she whisper sweet promises in thy ear about breaking curses with gentle touches?"
