Chapter 11 · The Blood Price

"You’re shaking, Jace." Lira’s voice was a whip, cutting through the heavy, metallic air of the Dead Zone.

She didn't move to help him. Instead, she stepped closer, her boots crunching on the obsidian grit. She stopped just inches away, the heat from her body radiating through the chill. She leaned in, her breath ghosting over his ear. "Is it fear, or are you just realizing how much this is going to cost?"

Jace didn't look up. He couldn't. His fingers were locked around the edge of the Dread Altar, a slab of weeping stone that felt like it was sucking the warmth right out of his marrow. "Shut up," he rasped. "Just... shut the hell up."

"Make me," she whispered. He could smell the ozone and old parchment clinging to her—the scent of an Anchorwright who had spent too long staring into the void.

Jace finally snapped. He lunged upward, grabbing her wrist and pinning it against the cold stone of the altar. The movement was violent, desperate. He pulled her flush against him, his chest heaving. Lira didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.