"Don't move a muscle, or I'll carve that smug look right off your face."
Viviane didn't just threaten. The tip of her blade pressed into my skin, drawing a thin, stinging line of red across my throat.
I didn't flinch. Couldn't. My chest was on fire. That damn glowing sigil pulsed like a second heartbeat, and every beat sent a sickening tug through my gut. It wasn't just magic. It was a leash. And the other end was wrapped tight around her.
"You're shaking, Inquisitor," I whispered. I leaned an inch closer to the steel. "Is it the horror of seeing a dead man walk? Or is your chest burning as much as mine?"
Her eyes snapped. For a split second, the icy mask of the High Inquisitor cracked. She shifted her weight, gloved hand tightening on the hilt. She wanted the high ground, but we were stuck in a dead-end alley smelling of rotting fish and damp stone.
"I don't know what filth you've crawled out of, Silas, but this ends now," she snapped. "Who gave you that mark? Tell me. Now."
"Who gave it to me?" I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "I was on the chopping block, Viviane. I felt the axe hit. I smelled the blood. Then I woke up here, staring at you."
I grinned. "You want to tell me how that works? Or should we skip to the part where you admit you're tied to a convicted heretic?"
She didn't answer. She shoved me hard against the brick wall. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but she didn't let go. She pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, her body pressing flush against mine to keep me immobile.
I could feel the heat radiating off her. Expensive incense and cold steel.
Her face was inches from mine. Her breath was shallow, hitting my lips in short bursts. "You're lying. You're a mage of the forbidden arts. This is some pathetic illusion. A trick to make me hesitate."
"Then kill me," I challenged.
I arched my back, pushing my chest—and the glowing mark—right against her. "Do it. Put your sword through my heart. Let's see what happens to you when I stop breathing."
Viviane froze. Her eyes dropped to where our chests met. The sigils reacted, humming in a frequency that made my teeth ache. A pale, violet light leaked from between our clothes, illuminating the grime of the alley.
"It's a resonance pact," she whispered. The edge was gone, replaced by raw, genuine fear. "That's impossible. This magic was purged three centuries ago."
"Well, surprise," I grunted, twisting my wrists. "The purged magic just picked us for a team-up. Now let go of me before I see if this thing works both ways."
She didn't let go. If anything, she pressed harder, as if trying to crush the mark out of existence. Her grip was iron, knuckles white.
"If this is a pact, we share a life force," she hissed. "If you die, I die. Is that what you want? To take the High Inquisitor of the Holy See into the dirt with you?"
"Sounds like a fair trade," I spat. "I've already died once today. I'm getting pretty good at it."
She recoiled as if I'd slapped her. The grip on my wrists loosened just enough. I didn't punch her—not yet. I grabbed the lapel of her white cloak and yanked her closer, forcing her to look me in the eye.
"Who did this to you, Viviane?" I dropped my voice to a low growl. "You didn't walk into a forbidden circle for fun. Someone chained a dog to its hunter."
Her expression hardened. The pride of the See fought its way back. "I am no one's dog."
"Then why are you terrified?" I countered. "You've got the sword. You sent me to the block. But right now, you're looking at me like I'm the only thing keeping you from screaming. We're in the same grave, Inquisitor. We just haven't been buried yet."
She wrenched herself away, the sword returning to my throat in a blur of silver. The power shifted back in a heartbeat. She was the predator again, but she was sweating.
"I will take you back to the spire," she said, her voice trembling. "I'll search the archives. I'll find a way to break this without killing us both. Until then, you are my prisoner. Not a convict. A tool."
"A tool?" I snarled. "I don't do well with chains. Especially not ones held by people who want me dead."
"You don't have a choice." She reached into her belt and pulled out a pair of heavy, etched iron shackles. Dampening runes. The air around them felt dead. "Put these on. Now."
I looked at the iron, then at her. "And if I don't?"
"Then I'll see if the pact cares about a severed tongue," she said. She didn't even blink.
I sighed and held out my hands. "Fine. But let's be clear. You can lock my hands, but you can't lock the link. Every time you feel a spike of panic, every time your heart races because you realize your life—"