Chapter 18 · Whispers from the Grave

"Let her go, you rotting piece of shit!"

Silas didn't wait. He lunged. His shoulder slammed into the undead Inquisitor's chest with a wet, sickening thud.

The creature's grip on Viviane's throat loosened. She gasped, a ragged, desperate sound, and didn't waste a heartbeat. Her palm cracked against the thing's jaw with a sound like breaking slate.

They tumbled. Viviane hit the cold stone floor hard. Silas was over her in a blur, shielding her body with his own, eyes scanning the dark corners of the vault. The corpse—if you could call it that—slid across the floor like a spill of oil, limbs twitching at impossible angles.

"Get up," Silas hissed. "Now. Unless you like the view from the floor."

Viviane scrambled up, fingers clawing at her high collar. Her face was ghost-white, the red bruises of fingers vivid against her skin. She didn't look at him. She stared at the thing in the shadows.

"That mark," she whispered, voice trembling. "The crest on its wrist. It's the same as mine."

"Don't tell me you're surprised," Silas said. He stepped forward, boots crunching on broken glass. The pact hummed in his blood—