Not true silence—never true silence, not for me. The dead are quieter now, after what I did on the battlefield. The mass release I forced on those soldiers has calmed the immediate crisis, smoothed the ragged edges of the Veil where it stretched too thin. But I can still feel them pressing at the boundaries of my awareness.
I rise from the bed and begin to pace, my bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. The mark pulses with each step, tracking Drokhar’s distant presence at the Ash Pits. He’s probablychecking on his wardens right now, making sure the compound is secure, preparing for whatever comes next. He has no idea what I’m realizing.
But why? What does the King gain from teaching the Ashwalker that his methods are wrong?
The pyres are visible from here—smoldering columns of orange and gray, feeding the sky with the ashes of the anonymous dead. Every body that burns without rites adds to the Gravetide King’s grievance. Every silence imposed feeds its rage.
But those soldiers on the battlefield—they spoke. They found peace. They released their grip on existence and let themselves rest.
That should have weakened the King. Should have cost it power.
Unless...
The whispers surge louder, and I realize the King has been listening this whole time. Waiting for me to work it out. Amused by my slow human reasoning.
I should wait for Drokhar. Should tell him what I’ve figured out, let him decide how to proceed. But the fragments are still incomplete, and I need to understand. Need to know what the King is after.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach.
Not for the individual dead—for the presence beneath them. The vast consciousness that has been pressing against my awareness since the first rite went wrong. I extend myself the way I would for any spirit seeking voice, opening the channel that makes my throat their instrument.
The King floods in like water through a broken dam.
TWENTY-NINE
ARADYA
The sensation is overwhelming. Not painful—not yet—but vast in a way that threatens to erase me. Thousands of voices speaking simultaneously, centuries of accumulated grief pouring through a channel built for single spirits. My vision goes dark at the edges. My body feels distant, like a garment I’ve stepped out of.
Ah.
The voice emerges from my throat, but it’s not mine. It’s a chorus of voices harmonizing into a single tone—deep and resonant and terribly certain.
You’ve finally asked the right question.
I try to speak, to respond, but my throat isn’t my own anymore. The King uses it with the ease of long practice, shaping words that bypass my will entirely.
Don’t fight me, mourning witch. You invited me in—that’s what your kind does. You open yourselves to the dead, and we pour through. The only difference is that I am more than any single spirit you’ve channeled before.
The brand burns beneath my skin. Distant, through the haze of the King’s presence, I feel Drokhar’s awareness snap toward me—the GPS-pull of the mating bond registering that I’m indanger. He’s still at the Ash Pits, too far to reach me quickly, but he knows. He knows I’m in trouble.
The King laughs through my lips.
He feels it, doesn’t he? TheAshwalker. Your mate. The mark tells him you’re in danger, but it can’t tell him from what. Can’t tell him that I’ve been waiting for this moment since you first reached for me in the Mourning Crypts.
I manage to force a thought through the pressure of its presence.
What do you want?
What I’ve always wanted. Peace. Closure. An end to the grief that has been festering beneath this city for three hundred years.
The words sound reasonable. Almost noble. But I can feel the currents beneath them—the rage, the hunger, the endless need that no amount of acknowledgment will ever satisfy.
You want vengeance.
I want justice.
The King’s voice hardens.