RHYS'S POV
I wake to wrongness.
Not sound—the farmhouse is silent except for Ariella's breathing across the fire. Not sight—darkness is complete, the moon hidden behind clouds. But something fundamental in the air has shifted, magic pressing against my senses like a hand over my mouth.
I'm on my feet before conscious thought, dark magic already gathering in my branded palms. The familiar burn flares hot.
"Ariella." I keep my voice low, urgent. "Wake up. Now."
She's alert instantly—credit to her combat training. No confusion, no questions. Just immediate readiness, shadows already leaking from her hands in response to my tension.
That's when I see them.
Three figures materializing from darkness itself. Not stepping from shadows but forming from them, edges blurring between solid and spectral.
Wraiths.
"Oh, fuck," I mutter.
"What are those?" Ariella's voice is steady, but I hear the fear underneath.
"Wraiths. Creatures of pure shadow magic, drawn to sources of dark energy." I position myself between her and the closest one. "Specifically, drawn to your curse."
The wraiths drift closer, moving like smoke given malice. Empty eye sockets somehow seeing, somehow hungry. They're partially incorporeal—physical weapons won't touch them. Only magic can hurt these things.
And they're fast.
The first wraith attacks before I finish the thought.
I throw up a shield of dark magic, branded hands screaming in protest as power flows through the marks. The wraith slams into the barrier, and the impact sends shock waves up my arms.
Behind me, Ariella gasps as the second wraith goes straight for her.
"Don't freeze!" I shout, holding off the first one while the third circles, looking for an opening. "Use your shadows!"
But she does freeze—just for a crucial second. All her training didn't prepare her for nightmare creatures with empty eye sockets and claws that pass through flesh to tear at souls.
The wraith slashes her shoulder.
Her scream is unlike anything I've heard—not pain exactly, but something deeper. Existential. Like part of her is being unmade.
Rage floods through me, hot and immediate.
I release the shield and channel everything I have into a killing curse. The first wraith burns away like paper in fire, but the effort drops me to one knee, blood already trickling from my nose.
The third wraith lunges for me while I'm down.
Then shadow explodes behind me.
Not controlled. Not elegant. Pure defensive instinct as Ariella's curse responds to mortal terror.
The blast catches the wraith mid-lunge, and—impossibly—the creature screams. Shadow Elf magic and wraith essence interact violently, the creature's form destabilizing, burning away like acid on flesh.
The remaining wraith freezes, reassessing. In three years of exile, I've never seen a wraith hesitate.
Whatever Ariella just did, it terrified something that shouldn't be capable of fear.
I use the distraction. Another killing curse, blood price immediate—vessels bursting in my eyes, copper taste flooding my mouth. But the wraith burns away, leaving only the smell of scorched magic.
Silence falls.
I'm on my hands and knees, vision swimming red, my entire body screaming that I've pushed too far. The brands on my palms feel like molten iron pressed into flesh.
"Rhys!" Ariella's voice, panicked.
I force myself upright, wiping blood from my face. "I'm fine. You?"
She's holding her shoulder where the wraith struck, and even in darkness I can see the wound isn't bleeding—it's wrong. Shadow leaks from it like smoke, the flesh around it going gray and cold.
Wraith wounds don't heal naturally. They have to be sealed with magic or they spread, unmaking the victim piece by piece until nothing remains.
"Come here," I say, gesturing her closer to the fire. "Now."
She obeys, sinking down beside me. Up close, the wound is worse than I thought—spectral cold spreading from the slash, her veins around it going black.
"This is going to hurt," I warn, already gathering what magic I have left.
"Everything hurts." But she pulls her shirt aside, exposing her bare shoulder without hesitation or modesty. Pure practicality.
I place both hands over the wound, feeling how cold her skin is, how the wraith's essence is trying to burrow deeper. Dark magic flows from my brands into her flesh, seeking out the spectral poison and burning it away.
She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood but doesn't make a sound.
The magic sinks in like ice water through fabric, painful and foreign but necessary. I can feel her curse rising to meet my power, recognizing it, helping to drive out the wraith's essence.
When it's done, the wound closes—not perfectly, but enough. A scar will remain, shadow-dark against pale skin.
"You saved us," I say quietly, removing my hands from her shoulder. "That shadow blast—I've never seen anything affect wraiths like that. You're more powerful than you know."
She's staring at her hands, trembling. "I didn't think. Just reacted. It was pure instinct."
"Instinct that destroyed a wraith instantly. Most trained battle-mages can't do that."
"I don't feel powerful. I feel terrified."
"Good. Fear keeps you alive." I check her wound again—it's holding, no more spectral spread. "But beneath the fear, you need to remember: you can fight. You're not helpless."
She looks at me then, and there's something vulnerable in her expression. "Neither are you. You nearly killed yourself protecting me."
"That's the job."
"Since when is keeping me alive your job?"
Since the moment I decided not to walk away, I think but don't say. Since I realized you understand what it means to be thrown away for choosing wrong. Since you stopped being a complication and started being a person I actually give a damn about.
"Since we got bound together," I say instead. "Pragmatism, remember?"
She doesn't believe me—I can see it in her eyes—but she doesn't push. Just reaches out and touches my branded hand gently, carefully, where blood still seeps from pushing magic too hard.
"You're bleeding everywhere," she says.
"I've had worse."
"That doesn't make it better."
We sit in the wreckage of the farmhouse, both wounded, both exhausted, surrounded by the fading stench of burned wraith. The fire has nearly died. Dawn is still hours away.
Neither of us will sleep tonight.
"We need to move at first light," I say finally. "Wraiths hunt in packs. Where there are three, there are more."
"What drew them here?"
"Your curse. It's like a beacon to shadow creatures." I meet her eyes. "Which means we can't stay anywhere long. Can't settle. The stronger your curse gets, the more things it attracts."
"So we run forever?"
"We run until we reach the temple. Then we pray the Crystal is real and can actually help us."
"And if it's not?"
I don't answer. Because if the Crystal is just a legend, if we've risked everything for nothing, then we're both dead anyway. Her curse will consume her. My magic will tear me apart. And whatever's hunting us will eventually catch up.
But I don't say that. She doesn't need more reasons to be afraid.
"Get some rest," I tell her instead. "I'll keep watch."
"You need rest more than I do."
"I need you alive more than I need sleep."
The words come out rougher than intended, more honest than I meant them to be. She blinks, surprised, and I look away before she can see too much in my expression.
"Four hours," she says finally. "Then you rest, and I'll watch. That's non-negotiable."
I want to argue. But exhaustion is pulling at me, and she's right—I'm no good to either of us if I collapse.
"Four hours," I agree.
She settles with her back against the wall, shadows already gathered loosely around her hands. Ready. Alert.
I close my eyes, listening to her breathe, and try not to think about how close we came to dying tonight.
Or about how her shadow blast saved me when my magic wasn't enough.
Or about how badly I want to keep her safe, even though I'm barely keeping myself alive.
Just before sleep takes me, I hear movement outside again. Distant. Watching.
The wraiths weren't alone.
Something else sent them as a test.
And we both know it.