Chapter 1

Silas tried to breathe, but his mouth tasted like copper. "Yeah," he rasped. "You got the wrong guy."

A laugh rippled through the front row. Not a kind one.

"Still lying!" someone yelled. "Burn him!"

He couldn't lift his head. The boot kept him pinned. But past the block, he saw them. Polished boots. White cloak. Gold trim. Completely still.

Viviane.

High Inquisitor Viviane watched him like he was a stain she had to scrub out. Her face was calm. Too calm.

"You had your trial, Vane," she said. Her voice was low, clear, and cut right through the noise. "You had your chance to confess."

"I told you," Silas choked out, "I didn't kill them. I wasn't even there. Check the sigils. Check who actually—"

"Enough." She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. "Proceed."

Silas saw the shadow of the axe rise. Big. Heavy. The edge caught the gray light.

"Wait—wait!" Silas jerked against the rope. It did nothing. "Viviane! Look at me! You know this is wrong!"

She looked. Her gray eyes locked onto his. No pity. Just duty. Cold as the steel.

"Justice is not wrong," she said.

The axe dropped.

He felt the wind first. Then—

*Bam.*

Air slammed into his lungs. Not blood. Air.

Silas gasped, his hands shooting out. He caught himself on brick. Rough. Damp. His wrists weren't tied.

"What the hell?"

He was standing in an alley. His knees shook so hard he almost collapsed. His shirt was soaked with sweat, not blood. He grabbed his neck. Skin. Pulse hammering.

"No. No no no," he whispered. "I felt it. I felt—"

The alley stank of trash and fried oil. The apothecary's alley. The exact spot where they'd grabbed him an hour before the block.

"This isn't real," he said. His voice cracked. "I'm dead. I was dead."

*Dong.*

A bell tolled. One. Low and heavy from the cathedral.

One hour before the execution. Exactly.

"Okay. Think," he muttered. "If this is a trick, it's a good one. If it's forbidden arts—"

He'd been accused of blood magic. Soul binding. Shit he'd never touched. Shit he didn't even know how to do.

And now he was back.

Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Coming from the street.

"There! That's him!" a guard shouted. "Silas Vane!"

Silas flinched. Two city guards in blue, swords half-drawn, blocking the alley. Same two as before. Same damn words.

"Hands where I can see them!" one barked. "On your knees, mage!"

"Oh, come on!" Silas snapped, backing up until he hit the wall. "We already did this! You tackle me, you drag me, she chops my head off. Can we skip to the end?"

The guards traded a confused look.

"He's resisting!" the second one yelled.

"I'm not resisting, I'm—"

Silas ducked as the first guard lunged. He didn't freeze this time. His body remembered the axe. The block. The boot. He twisted, slammed his shoulder into the guard's chest, and shoved him straight into the trash cans.

Metal crashed. Loud.

"Stop!" The other guard grabbed for Silas's arm.

Silas yanked free. A snap of heat flared in his chest. Not normal heat. Sharp. Like a wire pulled tight under his skin.

"The hell is that?" the guard shouted, stumbling back. "He's casting! He's casting!"

"I'm not doing anything!" Silas yelled. He slapped his hand over his chest. It burned. Cold and hot at once. A mark. A second heartbeat that wasn't his.

He ripped his shirt open. Buttons popped.

A sigil pulsed on his skin, right over his heart. A circle of light, thin lines crossing inside it. It felt old. And it felt like it was holding him by the throat.

"High Inquisitor!" the guard screamed. "High Inquisitor, here!"

"Don't call her!" Silas panicked. "Don't you dare call her!"

Too late.

Heels on stone. Steady. Unrushed.

"Step away from him," a woman's voice commanded.

The guards went rigid. They scrambled back instantly.

Viviane.

Same white cloak. Same gold collar. Same sword. But her hair was perfect, her face clean. This was an hour earlier. Before she'd ordered him dead.

Her eyes found his. Gray. Sharp. She took in the glowing mark, the guards on the ground, and Silas pressed against the wall, breathing like he'd run a mile.

"Silas Vane," she said. That same low cut. "You were supposed to run north. Not hide here like a rat."

"You—" Silas stared. His throat was dry. "You remember? You know I—"

"I know you were flagged for forbidden arts three days ago," she said. "I know you disappeared. And I know that sigil on your chest is not yours."

She stepped into the alley. One step. Then another. The guards didn't move. They knew better.

Silas pressed harder into the brick. The glow under his shirt pulsed faster. Hotter.

"Stay back," he warned. His voice shook. "I'm serious. Don't come closer."

"Or what?" She tilted her head. Her cloak shifted, and he caught the scent of steel and incense. Clean. Cold. "You'll cast again? With what training, Vane?"

"I'm not casting! This thing just showed up! After you killed me!"

Her eyebrows lifted. Just a fraction. "I killed you?"

"You ordered it! On the block! Ten minutes from now!" He was talking too fast. He sounded crazy. "The axe, the herald, you said 'Proceed'—"

"I have not ordered any execution today," she said flatly. "You are under arrest for suspicion of blood magic. That's all."

"Yeah? Then what's this?" He shoved the ripped fabric aside.

The mark pulsed in time with his heart. And—shit—in time with hers. He could hear her breath. He could feel the pulse sync as she stepped closer.

Viviane stopped. Her eyes dropped to the mark. For the first time, her calm cracked. Her lips parted.

"That is a pact sigil," she whispered.

"A what?"

"A binding. Forbidden." Her hand went to her own chest, just above her heart. Like it hurt. "Where did you get it?"

"I didn't get it anywhere! I woke up with it! After you—" He cut himself off. The alley felt too small. She was too close. He could see the dark flecks in her eyes. He could feel the heat coming off her. "You telling me you don't have one too?"

She didn't answer. But her fingers curled tight against her chest. Her jaw tightened.

"You do," he said. "You have one. Don't you?"

"Silas Vane," she said, her voice dropping. Dangerous. "Who gave you that mark? Who taught you to make it?"

"No one! I told you, I died!" He pushed off the wall, scared-angry. He stepped right into her space. Chest to chest. The glow between them flared, painting both their faces white. "And if you have one too, then we're linked, right? That's what a pact does?"

She didn't back up. She lifted her chin and held his stare. Her breath hit his jaw. Warm. Fast. Even though her face was stone.

"You don't know what you're talking about," she said. But the sharpness was gone. There was unease under it.

"Then explain it," he shot back. "Explain why I'm back. Explain why that thing is on my chest and you're touching yours like it burns."

Her hand dropped from her chest like she'd been caught. Her cheeks colored. Just a little.

"Do not presume to—"

"I presume you killed me and now I'm stuck with you," Silas snapped. "So yeah, I think I get to ask."

They stood there. Too close. The sigil throbbed, heat building. The guards stared, hands on swords, not daring to interrupt.

Viviane's eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back up. Fast. Like she didn't mean to.

Silas felt his own pulse kick. Stupid. Wrong time. But her being that close, that angry, and still in control—it did something. The way she looked at him like he was a problem she wanted to solve with her hands—

"Back up," she said quietly. Not to the guards. To him.

"You back up," he said, his voice rough.

She didn't. He didn't. The light got brighter.

Then her sword was out. Fast. He didn't even see her draw. One second her hand was at her side, the next the tip was at his throat. Cold steel kissing skin.

Silas went still. His breath caught.

"You want answers, Vane?" she whispered, leaning in an inch. Her voice was for him alone. "Then tell me one thing first—"

"Did you make this pact to save yourself, or to trap me?"

The mark on his chest flared white-hot, and the mark under her cloak answered with the same light, and Silas realized—