Chapter 1

"You will." Inquisitor Varric didn't move his boot. He pressed harder. "You were the best suture-surgeon in the Empire before you decided to play god. Now prove it."

I couldn't breathe right. My hands were cuffed in front of me, raw at the wrists. In front of my nose, maybe two feet away, was the table.

No. Not a table. An altar.

And on it — pieces.

"What the hell is that?" I choked out.

"Your patient," Varric said. "Your salvation. You stitch him, you live. You refuse, you die here with him. Simple math, heretic."

He finally lifted his boot. I gasped and pushed up on my elbows. My arms shook. They'd had me in the black cells for three weeks. No light. No tools. No thread.

And now they wanted me to do taboo surgery.

The thing on the altar wasn't human. It was too big. The torso alone was seven feet long, even with the bottom half missing. Skin like polished obsidian, cracked with veins of dull red light. Like lava under glass. One arm, severed at the shoulder, lay beside it. Claws still twitching. The chest was open. Not cut open — torn. Ribs like black iron bars, and inside, no heart. Just an empty cavity that pulsed anyway. Empty and hungry.

"You want me to suture an Abyss King?" I said. My voice cracked. "Are you insane? That's not surgery, that's suicide. The binding will kill me."

"The binding is the point," a new voice said.

I jerked my head up. Augustus stood in the doorway. Imperial Inquisitor. White coat, gold sigil, smile like a knife.

"Sylvia Crowe," he said, soft. "The girl who tried to suture a soul back into a dead child. And failed. They stripped your license for that, didn't they? Called you taboo."

"She lived for three minutes," I snapped. "Her soul held for three minutes. That's more than anyone else has ever done."

"And now you'll do better," Augustus said. He stepped closer. His shoes didn't make a sound. "This one is already dismantled. His soul is shattered into pieces, just like his body. You will bind him. Thread to thread. Soul to soul. Share a body, share the senses, share the heartbeat. That's what your forbidden research promised, yes?"

"You read my notes?"

"We burned them," he said. "After we memorized them. Pick up the needle, Sylvia. Show us why you were worth keeping alive."

The needle was on the tray next to the altar. Not steel. Bone. Black bone, curved like a claw, with thread that glowed faint silver. Soul-thread. Illegal to make, illegal to own, illegal to even think about.

My hands shook so bad the cuffs rattled.

"I can't," I whispered. "If I bind to him, I won't be me anymore. He'll hollow me out."

"Then die as yourself," Varric said. He drew his pistol. Clicked the hammer back and pressed it to my temple. Cold circle. "Last chance, little surgeon."

I stared at the chest cavity. That empty pulse. That light. It was calling. God help me, my fingers twitched the way they always did before a surgery. Muscle memory. Stupid, hungry muscle memory.

"Fine," I hissed. "But you take these off. I can't suture with cuffs on."

Augustus nodded once. Varric unlocked the cuffs.

My wrists screamed when the blood came back. I grabbed the bone needle. It was warm. Alive.

"You better pray this works," I said to Augustus. "Because if he wakes up, he's going to kill you first."

"I am counting on it," Augustus said. And smiled.

I turned to the altar. Up close the smell was worse — ozone and hot iron and something sweet, like incense burning. The skin of the Abyss King was hot to the touch. It burned my fingertips.

"Okay, okay, okay," I muttered to myself. "Suture points. Anchor the soul-thread at the sternum, loop through the aura, tie off at the—" I swallowed. "Screw it. I'm making this up as I go."

"Talking to yourself now?" Varric said. "Charming."

"Talking to my patient," I snapped. "You ever done a soul suture? No? Then shut up and hold the light."

He actually held the lantern closer. The red light inside the chest pulsed faster. Like it heard me.

I threaded the needle. My hands steadied. That was the weird part. Always. No matter how scared I was, once the needle was in my hand, I went calm. Quiet.

I leaned in. The edge of the soul was visible — a thin silver film over the wound, torn like paper. My thread had to catch it.

"This is going to hurt," I whispered. Not to them. To him.

I pushed the needle through.

Pain exploded up my arm. Not his. Mine.

"Ah!" I jerked but didn't let go. The thread pulled taut and lit up white-hot. It burned through my palm, up my veins. I could feel it stitching not just flesh but something deeper. Something that screamed.

"Sylvia?" Varric said, alarmed. "Your eyes—"

"Don't touch me!" I shouted. My voice doubled. Echoed. The thread was moving on its own now, dragging my hand. One stitch. Two stitches. The silver light raced from the altar into my chest.

My heartbeat stuttered. Then doubled.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Two hearts. One in my chest, one right on top of it. Beating out of sync, then slamming together.

"What did you do?" I gasped. I tried to drop the needle. I couldn't. My fingers were locked around it. The thread was sewn straight into my own wrist now. Into my veins.

"It's binding," Augustus breathed. He sounded thrilled. "Look. It's sharing."

The torso on the altar convulsed. The claws flexed. The empty chest cavity suddenly had something inside it — a flicker of silver that matched the thread in my hand. My thread. My soul.

"No, no, no, get it out!" I yanked. The thread yanked back. It pulled me forward until my forehead hit that burning hot skin. I could smell him. Smoke and storm.

And then — silence.

Too much silence. Like the whole dungeon held its breath.

A voice slid into my head. Not through my ears. Inside. Deep behind my eyes, where no one should be.

"Little surgeon," it said. Low. Amused. Furious. "You have very soft hands for a grave robber."

I froze. My breath stopped.

"Did — did you hear that?" I whispered out loud.

"Hear what?" Varric said. He had his gun up again, pointing at the altar. "What did you do to it?"

The voice laughed inside my skull. It vibrated through my teeth.

"They can't hear me, vessel," it said. "Only you. You stitched your soul to mine. You opened the door. You invited me in."

My knees gave out. I hit the floor hard, but I didn't feel it. I felt him. Weight. Heat. Pressure all over my skin, like someone huge was lying on top of me, breathing with my lungs.

"Get out," I hissed, clutching my head. "Get out of my head!"

"You first," he said. "You are in my chest, little surgeon. I can feel your heart hammering against my ribs. So loud. So fast. Are you afraid of me?"

"I'm not your vessel!" I snarled through gritted teeth. My eyes burned. When I blinked, I saw double — the dungeon, and something else. A throne room made of black glass, burning.

Augustus crouched in front of me. He grabbed my chin, forced my face up. His eyes were wide, hungry.

"What is he saying to you?" he demanded. "What does he call you? Tell me exactly—"

"He says—" I choked. The second heartbeat was pounding so hard I thought my chest would split. "He says I'm his—"

"Mine," the voice purred, and this time it wasn't just in my head. My own mouth moved with it. My own voice, but layered under his, deep and resonant. "She is mine now. And you, Inquisitor... you should not have woken me."

Varric stumbled back, gun shaking.

Augustus didn't let go of my chin. His grip tightened until it hurt. His smile was gone.

"Excellent," he whispered. "Say his name, Sylvia. Say the name he gave you. Say it and I will let you live—"

The altar behind me cracked down the middle with a sound like thunder, and the hand with the claws — the severed hand — suddenly shot out and grabbed my ankle, and the voice in my head laughed and said,

"Well, vessel, shall we show them what a real taboo looks like—"