Instead, she stood in his private study, tracing ward patterns with uncanny understanding, asking questions that cut straight to the heart of his investigation.
His shadows moved restlessly, unsettled by possibilities he wasn't ready to admit. This ran deeper than simple sabotage. Someone had planned this with an intent that disturbed him, manipulating events over the years. Possibly centuries. To achieve this exact setup.
And he had no idea who. Or why.
"I have a proposal," he said at last.
XVII.
DANTE
Dante found himself reluctant to continue. His fingers traced the edge of the table, shadows coiling around his wrists. He didn't ask for help. Ever.
But the alternative was watching everything collapse.
"The ward-locks are failing," he said. "What we witnessed tonight will happen again unless someone can identify and reverse the sabotage."
She stood across from him, hands hovering above the maps. The large table between them felt both necessary and frustrating. Close enough to catch the subtle shift in her breathing, far enough that his shadows had to resist bridging the gap.
"Someone is targeting the entire system," he continued. "They know these mechanisms better than the people who built them. They know exactly how to ensure any repair attempt triggers catastrophic failure."
Her fingers traced a connection between two distant realms. "How many other locks show signs of tampering?"
He gestured to several dim pulse points scattered across the map. "At least a dozen that we've identified. Possibly more."
She looked up at him. "You want my help."
His shoulders tensed. She wasn't asking or offering, just stating afact, forcing him to admit what they both knew.
"I need your assistance with the ward-locks."
She didn't answer immediately. She was weighing her options, preparing to bargain with a Death Lord in his own domain.
Bold. And deeply inconvenient.
"What happened tonight was mostly luck," she said slowly. "I was just trying things until something worked. How exactly do you expect me to help with an entire network?"
Training a mortal in death magic was dangerous under the best of circumstances. Training one to work with ward-locks deliberately sabotaged to kill anyone who touched them?—
"With proper training?—"
"Training." She stepped back from the table, crossing her arms. "From you."
"Yes."
"In exchange for what?"
His shadows shifted at the challenge in her tone. Not because he couldn't afford whatever price she named, but because it meant acknowledging she held the upper hand.
That a mortal thief had something he desperately needed.
"What do you want?" he asked.
She was quiet, her gaze moving around his study. Books, maps, shadows moving independently through the space. When she looked back, her expression had shifted to something more guarded, but he caught the way her pulse jumped when their eyes met.
His shadows noticed too. They always caught her reactions.
"Freedom," she said at last. "I'm not your prisoner, and I won't be treated like one. If I'm going to help, it's because I choose to, not because I'm trapped here."
