Chapter 13 · What a Name Weighs

The chains didn't feel like metal. They felt warm. Almost alive. Ivy's wrists burned where they touched her skin, and the pull toward the center of the array was steady, patient, like something that had all the time in the world.

Cole's hand locked around her forearm. His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise.

"Let go," Ivy said. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "You can't—"

"Shut up." Cole braced his boots against the stone floor. The chains didn't care. They kept pulling. Slow. Inevitable.

The voice in the dark laughed. Not the Taker's hiss. This was deeper. Older. It rolled through the chamber like thunder trapped underground.

"The half-blood speaks," it said. "But not her name. Not yet."

Ivy's stomach dropped.

Cole's grip tightened. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," the voice said, "that I know what she is. And what a name costs, when the blood runs thin."

The chains yanked. Ivy stumbled forward. Cole went with her, his boots scraping stone. He didn't let go.

"Cole." Ivy twisted to look at him. His face was white. Jaw set.