Don’t rise to the bait.
But my hands clench into fists anyway. The mention of Lyralei—even unspoken—is a wound that never heals.
"This one is different," I growl.
"They are all different. Until they are all the same." He tilts his head, studying Rhea around my bulk. "Pretty thing. Spirited. I can smell her defiance from here. It will make her death all the sweeter."
The words hit me like physical blows. Rage builds in my chest, hot and immediate. But beneath it, something else stirs. Something that has nothing to do with the curse and everything to do with the way Rhea’s fingers still grip my armor.
Mine to protect.
The thought comes unbidden, primal. And for the first time in two centuries, I don’t fight it.
"Thou wilt not touch her."
The Marshal’s laugh echoes through the chamber. "Oh, but I will. When the bell tolls, old friend, one of you must bleed for it. And I do so enjoy choosing who."
He begins to fade back into shadow, but his voice lingers, cruel and mocking.
"Sleep well, little witch. Dream sweetly. Soon enough, thou wilt dream forever."
And then he’s gone, leaving only the scent of old graves and older hatred.
Rhea sags against me, her weight slight but warm against my chest. The mark pulses between us, carrying her exhaustion and confusion.
"What was that?" she whispers.
Death. Betrayal. The reason I can never be free.
"The Pale Marshal," I say instead. "My former general. The one who cursed me to this half-life."
Her green eyes find mine, sharp despite her fear. "Why?"
Because I loved a human witch. Because he thought it made me weak. Because he was right.
But those truths are too heavy, too dangerous to share. Instead, I release her and step back, putting distance between us once more.
"That, little witch, is a tale for another time."
She reaches out as if to stop me from leaving, then catches herself. "Wait. The bell he mentioned?—"
"One of us must bleed the bell," I finish. "Aye. I heard."
And I know what it means.
But that knowledge is mine to bear. She has enough burdens already.
I turn toward the deeper shadows of the catacombs, then pause. "Stay away from the walls. Touch nothing. Bleed on nothing. The Marshal feeds on blood and sorrow, and I would not give him either."
"Krath—"
My name on her lips. When did she learn my name?
"Rest, little witch. Tomorrow brings fresh horrors."
And with that, I fade into the darkness, leaving her alone with her questions and her fear.
But not her courage. That burns bright as ever, steady as a flame.
