I’m still telling myself that when the door opens.
No warning. No knock. No sound of approach. The false wall swings inward and a shape fills the frame, blocking the faint witch-light from the corridor beyond.
I scramble to my feet, backing against the far wall, my hand reaching for a knife that isn’t there. I left it in the chamber. Left it beside Ira Genn’s body, covered in her blood.
Stupid. Careless. Dead.
An orc. A death warden.
Thedeath warden.
Broader than any human I’ve ever seen, wearing the gray leathers and iron-banded armor of his office. A curved blade hangs at his hip, its edge stained with residue I don’t want toexamine too closely. The smell of smoke and ash clings to him, strong enough to taste.
The Ashwalker. In the flesh.
My heart slams against my ribs. My hands curl into fists at my sides, fingernails biting into my palms. Every instinct screams at me to run, to fight, to do anything except stand here and wait for him to drag me to the pyres.
But I can’t run. There’s nowhere to go. And I can’t fight—I’m drained, weaponless, facing a man who has killed more than I can count.
So I stand my ground. Meet his gaze. Refuse to look away, even though everything in me wants to.
His eyes are the color of cold ash. Gray so dark it borders on black, holding none of the amber fire I’ve seen in other orcs. They sweep over me—assessing, cataloging, measuring—and I feel myself being weighed. Judged. Found wanting or worthwhile, I can’t tell which.
I expected to see cruelty in those eyes. Satisfaction at having cornered his prey.
I don’t.
What I see is exhaustion. The same bone-deep weariness I feel in myself, reflected back at me from a face that has witnessed too many endings. The same burden of accumulated sorrow, pressing down on shoulders broad enough to carry the world.
He’s tired. The realization strikes with unexpected force. He’s as tired as I am.
“You’re the mourning witch.” His voice is a rumble, deep and graveled, carrying the resonance of years spent breathing ash. “The one from the crypts.”
Not a question. A statement of fact.
“I didn’t raise him.” The words come out sharper than I intend, defensive and desperate. “I don’t raise the dead. I let them speak?—”
“A presence spoke.” He takes a step into the room. I take a step back, pressing myself against the wall. “A presence that knew my name. A presence that’s been whispering through half the corpses in my pits since dawn.” Another step. The space between us shrinks, filling with the smell of smoke and steel and the undercurrent of death magic that clings to everything he touches. “A presence that told me to find you.”
My breath catches. The corpses in his pits. Whispering his name.
The presence hasn’t stopped. It’s still speaking. Still spreading. Still using the dead as channels to reach the living world.
“I don’t control what they say.” My voice is steadier now, though my heart still pounds. “I open a door. I give them a chance to speak. What comes through?—”
“What came through killed a woman.” A muscle flexes in his cheek. “Tore her throat out. Used her son’s bones to do it.”
I flinch. Can’t help it. The memory of Ira’s screams slices through me, fresh and raw.
“I know.” The words are barely a whisper. “I was there. I tried to stop it.”
“Then control it now.” He stops an arm’s length away, close enough that I can see the individual scars on his hands, the lines of old burns that map his skin. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, sharp contrast to the cold of the underground chamber. “Tell me what’s happening. Tell me why the dead are screaming my name. Tell me—” His hands curl into fists. The words seem to cost him. “Tell me what they want.”
SIX
ARADYA
What they want.