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The first corpse lunges before Mara can finish her warning.
Rowan drops, rolls left. The dead guard's sword carves air where his throat was. He comes up with his blade drawn, heart hammering so hard his ribs hurt. The thing shambling toward him wears city patrol colors and a face slack as wet dough. No breath. No blink. Just the grinding shuffle of boots dragging stone.
"They're not staying down," Mara snaps. She's already moving, positioning herself between him and the second corpse rising from the blood-slick cobbles. Her blade catches moonlight, clean and sharp. "Don't let them corner you."
"Yeah, I'm getting that." Rowan sidesteps, keeps his back to the alley mouth. The screen in his vision pulses red. Five hours forty minutes until city reset. His hands are still shaking from the last death. The rope burn around his neck feels like it never left. "How many?"
"Four down here. More up top." She doesn't take her eyes off the shambling guard. "You die again, you leave me alone with this."
"Wasn't planning on it."
"You weren't planning on the gallows either."
Fair point. The dead guard swings again. Rowan parries, feels the shock rattle up his arm. The thing has no technique, just weight and momentum. It stumbles past him, crashes into the wall. Rowan drives his blade through its spine. The body jerks, drops. Stays down this time.
Mara takes hers through the eye socket. Efficient. Brutal. She kicks the corpse off her steel and turns just as the third one clears the rubble pile.
"Rowan, left!"
He spins. The fourth guard is already on him, clawed hand reaching for his face. Not a hand anymore. The fingers are too long, joints bending backward, nails black and split. Rowan jerks back, but the thing's faster than it looks. Claws rake across his collarbone, tear through his jacket, bite into skin.
Pain flares white-hot. He hears himself shout, hears Mara curse. Then she's there, blade flashing, severing the arm at the elbow. The corpse doesn't scream. Doesn't bleed. It just keeps coming.
Rowan slams his boot into its knee. Bone cracks. The thing buckles. He drives his sword down through the base of its skull, pins it to the ground. His chest is heaving. Blood soaks his shirt, warm and sticky.
"You good?" Mara's voice is tight.
"Define good." He pulls his blade free, staggers back. The claw marks burn like acid. His screen flickers. New line of text: Minor corruption damage. Regeneration delayed.
"Can you move?"
"Yeah." He tests his shoulder, winces. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"I've had worse." He has. The gallows. The thing with the broken bottle in loop three. The harbor fall in loop seven. This is just another scar waiting to happen. "We clear?"
Mara scans the alley, blade still raised. Her jaw is set, eyes hard. She's got blood on her cheek, someone else's. "For now."
Rowan leans against the wall, tries to catch his breath. His pulse is still hammering. The screen in his vision keeps pulsing. Five hours thirty-eight minutes. "What the hell were those things?"
"Dead guards." She sheathes her blade, moves to the nearest corpse. Crouches. Examines the twisted hand. "Someone's using them."
"Using them how?"
"I don't know." She prods the blackened nails with the tip of her dagger. "This wasn't natural. Someone turned them."
"Turned them into what?"
"Into weapons." She stands, wipes her blade on the corpse's sleeve. "Into things that don't stay dead unless you put them down hard."
Rowan watches her. She's calm. Too calm. Like she's seen this before. "Mara."
"What."
"You knew they'd get back up."
She doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the corpse, jaw working. Then she looks at him. "Yeah."
"How?"
"Because I've killed them before." Her voice is flat. "Three loops ago. Maybe four. I stopped counting."
The air between them goes cold. Rowan straightens, ignoring the burn in his shoulder. "You remember."
"Pieces." She steps closer. Close enough that he can see the exhaustion in her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. "I remember you dying. I remember the bell. I remember—" She stops. Swallows. "I remember you bleeding out in my arms and telling me to run."
"Which loop?"
"I don't know. It hasn't happened yet. Or it already did. I can't—" She shakes her head, frustrated. "It's all scrambled."
Rowan's chest tightens. He wants to reach for her. Wants to grab her hand and make her look at him. Wants to ask if she remembers the dock warehouse, the rooftop chase, the time he dragged her out of the burning council hall. But he doesn't. Because if she doesn't remember, it'll just sound insane. And if she does, it means she's been carrying the same weight he has.
"We need to move," she says. Turns away. "More could be coming."
"Mara, wait."
"We don't have time."
"Make time." He catches her wrist. She goes still. Doesn't pull away, but doesn't soften either. "If you remember, then you know what's coming. You know what happens at midnight."
"The reset." Her voice is barely a whisper.
"Yeah. The reset. And whatever's turning these guards into puppets doesn't want us stopping it." He lets go of her wrist, steps back. Gives her space. "So either we trust each other, or we both die when the clock runs out."
She stares at him. He can see her weighing it. Can see the suspicion fighting against the memory of some other version of him, some other timeline where maybe he wasn't the enemy.
"I don't trust you," she says finally.
"Good. I don't trust you either." He grins, sharp and bitter. "But I need your instincts. And you need someone who knows how to die and keep coming back."
Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost. "You're an idiot."
"Yeah, well, you're stuck with me."
She exhales, long and slow. Then nods. "Fine. But if you die on me again, I'm leaving your corpse where it drops."
"Deal."
They move together this time. Up the alley, toward the main street. The city is too quiet. No bells. No patrol shouts. Just the distant groan of the sea wall and the wet scrape of something dragging itself across stone.
Mara stops at the corner, raises a hand. Rowan freezes. She peers around the edge, then pulls back fast.
"What?"
"Three more. On the street. Circling the jail."
"The jail?" Rowan's blood goes cold. "Elia's in the jail."
"I know."
"If they get inside—"
"They won't." She meets his eyes. "We're going to put them down first."
"Three on two."
"You've had worse."
"I've *died* worse."
"Then don't die." She draws her blade, rolls her shoulders. "Stay behind me. Watch the flanks. And for hell's sake, don't let them bite you."
"Bite?"
"Trust me."
She moves before he can argue. Out into the street, blade low, steps silent. Rowan follows, keeps his breathing shallow. The three corpses are spread across the jail courtyard. Two in patrol leathers. One in a merchant's coat, face half-caved in. They're not shambling anymore. They're waiting.
Mara doesn't slow. She goes straight for the nearest one, drives her blade through its throat, rips sideways. The head comes half off. The corpse drops.
The other two turn. Fast. Too fast. Rowan barely gets his guard up before the merchant lunges. Claws scrape steel. He shoves it back, slashes across its chest. No blood. Just the wet sound of split meat.
The third one circles behind him. He hears it coming, spins, parries the downward strike. The force drives him to one knee. His shoulder screams. He grits his teeth, shoves upward, throws the thing off balance.
Mara takes its legs out from under it. It crashes down. She pins it with her boot, drives her blade through the back of its skull.
Rowan finishes the merchant. Sword through the eye, angled down. It jerks once, goes still.
Silence.
He's panting. His shoulder is on fire. Blood drips from the claw marks, soaks into his shirt. Mara's breathing hard too, but she's already moving, checking the courtyard, the jail door.
"Clear," she says.
Rowan leans on his sword, tries to catch his breath. His screen flickers. Five hours twenty minutes. "How many more?"
"I don't know."
"Great."
She crouches by the last corpse. The one in the merchant's coat. She tilts its head, examines the caved-in side of the skull. Then she goes still.
"Rowan."
"What."
"Come here."
He limps over. Looks down. The corpse's mouth is moving. No breath. No sound. Just the slow grind of jaw muscles, lips forming shapes.
Mara leans closer. "It's saying something."
Rowan kneels, ignoring the spike of pain in his shoulder. He watches the mouth. The lips move again. Slow. Deliberate.
E. L. I. A.
"Elia." His voice comes out hoarse. "It's saying Elia's name."
Mara grabs his arm. "Rowan—"
The corpse's hand snaps up. Points. Not at them. At the jail. At the narrow barred window on the second floor.
Then it goes limp.
Rowan stares at the window. His pulse is roaring in his ears. His screen flashes red.
Warning: Target acquired. Loop anchor detected.
Mara's grip tightens. "What the hell does that mean?"
He doesn't answer. Can't answer. Because the last corpse just pointed straight at his sister's cell, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a horrible thought is taking shape.
What if Elia isn't just bait?
What if she's the reason the loop keeps turning?