Not because she’s soft. Not because she’s gentle. But because underneath the compassion lives a woman made of steel and whispers, a woman who will walk into the mouth of death itself if that’s what it takes to help the people who need her.
“Can you walk?”
“Does it matter?” She squares her shoulders, exhaustion giving way to determination. “The city needs us.”
The mark burns on both our skins—no longer a promise, but a weapon. The only weapon that might be able to stop what’s coming.
I take her hand. Her fingers interlace with mine, cold but steady, gripping with the strength of a woman who refuses to let go.
Above us, Blackreach is dying.
We climb toward the screaming.
THIRTY-FOUR
ARADYA
The King’s realm follows me.
Not physically—the passage collapsed when we escaped, sealing the Battlefield Beyond the Veil behind tons of stone and centuries of accumulated grief. But in my mind, the door remains open. I can feel the Gravetide King pressing against my consciousness, patient and relentless, waiting for me to break.
Mourning witch.
The whisper slides through my thoughts as Drokhar and I climb toward the surface, his hand steady around mine, his grip the only anchor keeping me from drowning in the dead’s endless demands.
You cannot escape me. I am in every grave you pass. I am in every unspoken goodbye, every burial without rites, every name that was forgotten before the body was cold.
I push the voice away. Focus on the burning brand beneath my collarbone, on the pulse of it matching Drokhar’s heartbeat, on the solid reality of his scarred fingers interlaced with mine.
The tunnel narrows as we climb. Rock walls slick with moisture, the air heavy with the smell of old earth and older death. Every few steps, my foot catches on debris—fragmentsof the passage that collapsed behind us, pieces of a realm that should never have touched the mortal world.
“How bad?” Drokhar keeps his words pitched low, barely louder than a breath.
I know what he’s asking. The King. The pressure against my thoughts. The voice that won’t stop whispering.
“Manageable.” The lie tastes like ash. “For now.”
His thumb traces a slow circle against my palm—a gesture that shouldn’t be comforting, given everything pressing down on us. But it is. His touch. The steady pulse of the brand that links us. He’s here. He’s real. The King can whisper all it wants, but it can’t take that away.
Can’t I?
The voice slides through my defenses, silk and smoke and three hundred years of accumulated hunger.
Everything you love, mourning witch. Everything you’ve found in theAshwalker’sarms. I can take it all. Would you like to spend eternity listening to him beg for the closure you denied him?
My step falters.
Drokhar catches me before I can stumble, one arm wrapping around my waist. “Talk to me.”
“The King.” I lean into him despite myself. “It’s creative with its threats.”
“What’s it saying?”
“Nothing worth repeating.” I straighten my spine, pull away from the comfort of his embrace. If I let myself depend on him too much, I’ll never find the strength to face what’s coming. “Keep moving. The city needs us.”
The screaming grows louder as we ascend.
By the time we reach street level, Blackreach has become a nightmare.