I should pull away. Should remember who he is, what he’s done, the sisters he’s sent to the pyres. Should remember that I am a mourning witch and he is the Ashwalker and everything about this is wrong.
But the mark pulses between us, and his hand is on my jaw, and for the first time since I discovered my gift, I don’t feel alone.
“The compound.” His voice has gone rough. “Other death wardens. Wards that might hold. We need to?—”
“I know.” I don’t move. Neither does he. “In a moment.”
Outside, the dead are stirring.
Inside, a beginning sparks to life.
And gods help us both, I don’t want it to stop.
But hate isn’t what I’m feeling.
His breath catches. His hand tightens on my jaw—not painful, but possessive. Claiming. As if he’s fighting the same pull I am and losing badly.
“We need to reach it before—” He forces the words out like they’re being dragged from him.
A sound cuts through the night. Low. Rumbling. Coming from beneath our feet.
The dead are waking.
Not here, not yet—but close. Close enough that I can feel the vibration through the soles of my worn boots. Close enough thatthe mark beneath my ribs pulses in warning, its light flickering like a candle in a draft.
Drokhar’s hand drops from my face. His blade is in his grip before I can blink, the transition so smooth it looks like magic. His whole body has shifted into combat readiness—shoulders squared, knees bent, weight balanced for immediate action.
“Stay behind me.”
I almost laugh. “I can barely stand.”
“Then lean on me.” He doesn’t wait for my response. His free arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against his side, supporting my weight without breaking his combat stance. “The compound is a hundred yards northeast. Can you make it?”
I don’t know. My legs are shaking. My magic is drained to almost nothing. Every part of me screams for rest, for stillness, for the chance to process everything that has happened in the last hour.
But the dead are waking. And the man whose mark burns in my body is asking me to trust him.
“I can make it.”
He doesn’t question my certainty. Doesn’t point out that I’m swaying on my feet. Nods once and starts moving, half-carrying me toward the door, his blade held ready against whatever might be waiting outside.
The night air hits me like a slap. Cold. Thick with ash and the chemical stink of ward-herbs. The pyres burn in the distance, their orange light painting the haze above them in shades of amber and rust. Beyond them, I can see the silhouettes of buildings—the death warden compound, spartan and functional, designed to be abandoned if the wards ever fail.
The wards.
I squint through the ash-thick dark. The protective circles that ring the Ash Pits should be glowing with power, carvedrunes burning bright against any dead that might try to rise. Instead, they flicker. Gutter. Fail.
One by one, the wards are going dark.
“Drokhar.”
“I see it.” His voice is grim. His arm tightens around my waist. “Move faster.”
We stumble across the blackite soil, the death warden and the mourning witch, the marks on our bodies burning as one as the dead begin to stir beneath our feet. The earth trembles. Cracks spread across the ground like veins of darkness. And somewhere in the depths of Blackreach’s mass graves, a king made of forgotten soldiers feels his power growing.
Feels us growing closer.
Feels the marks that have claimed us for each other, and knows exactly how to use them.