Chapter 23 · Blood-Stained Escape

"Don't move. Not a single muscle," the stranger whispered.

The blade was a sliver of ice against Silas's throat. Just enough pressure to draw a bead of blood.

Viviane froze. Her hands were still locked against Silas's chest, fingers curled into the ruined fabric of his shirt. The air between them was thick, charged with ozone and old sweat.

"Who are you?" Viviane's voice didn't shake. Her eyes scanned the room, hunting for an opening. "And why are you interrupting a private conversation?"

The stranger laughed. A dry, rattling sound. "Private? You're bound by a pact that makes your souls scream in unison, High Inquisitor. There's nothing private about your misery."

Silas shifted. Mistake. The blade nicked his skin. He hissed, his breath hot against Viviane's shoulder. "Get... away from her,"\ he managed to grate out.

"Still playing the hero?" The stranger leaned in. A mask hid everything but a pair of amused, gold-flecked eyes. "The convict is leaking blood, and the Inquisitor is shaking. This is the most entertaining loop yet."

Viviane didn't wait for the punchline.

She slammed her palm into the stranger's wrist—a burst of concentrated force that sent the blade flying.