"Stop. Moving. You. Idiot," I snapped, shoving Soren’s shoulder back against the damp stone wall.
He didn't move. Not because he was listening, but because he was vibrating. His breath came in jagged, wet rattles that sounded like a broken accordion. Blood—too much of it—was soaking through his black inquisitor's tunic, turning the fabric into a heavy, sodden mess.
"I can... handle it," he wheezed. He tried to push my hand away, but his grip was pathetic. His fingers trembled, barely grazing my wrist before he slumped further.
"Handle what? Bleeding out in a sewer?" I glared at him, my voice echoing off the slime-coated walls of the tunnel. "You’re not a martyr today, Soren. You’re just a liability with a hole in his gut."
I reached into my kit, pulling out a scalpel that had seen better days. It wasn't sterile. Nothing here was. The air smelled like sulfur and old rot, and the water from the underground river was still dripping off my boots.
Soren’s eyes, a piercing, cold blue even through the haze of pain, locked onto mine. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why save... a man who would have burned you alive an hour ago?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Instead, I ripped the fabric open. The wound was ugly—a jagged tear from a mana-infused blade that was still sizzling. The edges were charred, the flesh around it pulsing with a sickly purple hue.
"Because we're soul-bound, you arrogant prick," I hissed, leaning in so close I could smell the copper of his blood and the faint, lingering scent of ozone. "You die, I die. I’m not spending my first week in this world as a ghost because you’re too proud to let a 'witch' stitch you up."
I pressed the blade into the edge of the wound to clear the necrotic tissue. Soren let out a sound—not a scream, but a sharp, guttural hiss. His hand suddenly shot up, gripping my wrist with a strength that shouldn't have been possible for a dying man.
His fingers dug into my skin, hot and bruising. He didn't pull away; he dragged me closer, forcing me to look at him. The power imbalance shifted in a heartbeat. Even broken, he felt like a predator.
"If you're lying..." he whispered, his voice a dry rasp, "I'll make sure your death is slow."
"Shut up and bleed quietly," I countered, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. I didn't pull my wrist back. I couldn't. The tension between us was thick, a physical thing that felt like a live wire. I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, the way his labored breathing pushed his torso against my hip.
I began the stitches. I didn't have a proper needle, just a thin wire and a prayer. Every time I pulled the thread through, Soren’s muscles coiled. He didn't look away. He watched me with a terrifying intensity, tracking every flicker of my eyes, every smudge of blood on my cheek.
"You're shaking," he noted. It wasn't a question.
"I'm cold. And I'm disgusted," I lied.
"Liar."
I paused, the needle hovering mid-air. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Your pulse," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the vein in my neck. "It's racing. Not from cold. You're terrified... or excited."
I scoffed, leaning my weight into him to keep him steady. "I'm excited to see if I can accidentally stitch your liver to your ribs. Now hold still."
Above us, a metallic clatter echoed through the vents. My head snapped up. The sound was distant, but rhythmic. Boots. Heavy, armored boots.
"Hunters," I whispered.
Soren’s expression shifted instantly. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating mask of the High Inquisitor. He tried to shift his weight, his hand sliding from my wrist to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him in a sudden, protective—or possessive—gesture.
"Can you walk?" I asked, my voice dropping.
"I can kill," he replied.
"Great. Kill the air while I figure out how to get us out of here."
I finished the last knot with a sharp tug. I didn't offer him a hand up; I just stepped back, wiping the blood on my pants. The silence that followed was heavy. Soren stayed leaned against the wall for a moment, his chest heaving. He looked at me—really looked at me—and for a second, the hatred in his eyes was replaced by something else. Something hungry.
"You're a strange creature, Vespera," he said, his voice regaining its edge.
"I'm a doctor. We're all strange. Now move, before those hounds smell your blood."
We limped forward, the tunnel narrowing into a claustrophobic crawl. Every shadow looked like a blade. Every drip of water sounded like a footstep. Soren was leaning on me more than he wanted to admit, his arm draped over my shoulders, his heat seeping through my clothes.
I could feel the friction of his heavy cloak against my arm, the way his breathing synchronized with mine. It was a forced proximity that felt like a trap. I hated how my body reacted to him—the way I didn't want to push him away, even though he represented everything that wanted me dead.
"Wait," Soren whispered. He stopped dead, his body tensing.
"What now?"
"Scent. Magic. High-grade."
I followed his gaze. At the end of the corridor, the darkness didn't just end—it tore. A jagged rift of purple light flared open, illuminating the tunnel in a sickly, neon glow. The air suddenly tasted like burnt sugar and ozone.
Out of the portal stepped a man. He was dressed in white and gold, a stark contrast to the filth around us. His smile was wide, polished, and utterly devoid of warmth. Beside him, three mana hounds—skinless, glowing creatures with rows of obsidian teeth—lowered their heads, growling in a frequency that made my teeth ache.
"Soren," the man purred, his voice echoing with a cruel elegance. "I heard you'd fallen. I didn't realize you'd fallen so far that you were playing house with a gutter-witch."
Soren shifted, stepping half an inch in front of me, his hand instinctively reaching for a blade he no longer had.
"Kaelen," Soren spat.
Kaelen laughed, a light, airy sound that sent shivers down my spine. He raised a hand, and the mana hounds snapped their leashes, their eyes locking onto me.
"The Tribunal wants the girl, Soren. But I? I think I'll just enjoy watching you both bleed out in the dark."
Kaelen flicked his wrist, and the hounds leaped forward, their jaws open.
"Soren!" I yelled, but he didn't move to run. He stood his ground, his gaze fixed on his rival.
"Run, Vespera," he commanded, but his voice lacked its usual authority.
Before I could move, a new notification pinged in my vision, bright red and screaming.
[WARNING: SOUL-BOND INSTABILITY DETECTED. HOST STATUS: CRITICAL. FORCED EXECUTION STATE IMMINENT.]
I stared at the screen, then at the hounds mid-air.
"What the hell does that mean?" I whispered, just as Kaelen’s smile widened and he spoke a single word of power.