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The carriage smells like old blood and wet leather. Nessa keeps her back pressed against the wall, trying not to look at Dorian sitting across from her. His coat's soaked through. So is hers. The rain started the second they climbed in, and now it's hammering the roof like it's trying to drown out whatever the hell just happened back there.
She can still hear the warden screaming.
"Where are we going?" Her voice comes out rough. She clears her throat, hates that it shakes. "You said seven nights. Seven nights until what?"
Dorian doesn't answer. He's staring at his wrist, at the mark that wasn't there an hour ago. It's black now, twisting up his forearm like ink spilled under skin. The edges pulse faint red every few seconds. Same rhythm as hers.
Nessa looks down. Her own mark is still burning, a slow ache that hasn't let up since the oath snapped into place. The sigil she stole three months ago—the one that got her locked up, the one the guild ripped out of her chest and sealed in a vault somewhere—it's back. She can feel it humming under her ribs, awake and hungry.
"Dorian."
"Shut up for a second." He says it quiet, but there's an edge. His jaw's tight. He's scared.
That makes two of them.
The carriage hits a pothole and she braces against the wall. Outside, the city's a blur of gaslight and rain. They're heading north, maybe. She doesn't know Veyra's blood district well enough to tell. Never had a reason to. People like her don't get invitations to the upper wards, and blood heirs don't slum it in the southside unless they're looking to get stabbed.
"You changed the execution order," she says. "You rewrote it in blood. That's a capital crime even for you people."
"I didn't." Dorian finally looks up. His eyes are darker than they were on the platform, almost black in the dim light. "Someone else did. Someone who wants me dead and doesn't care who else goes down with me."
Nessa laughs. It comes out bitter. "So you dragged me into it. Great. Thanks for that."
"You were already dead." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. The mark on his wrist flares brighter for a second and she feels it—an pull low in her gut, like a hook catching. "I gave you a chance. You want to waste it complaining, or you want to hear the terms?"
She swallows. Her mouth tastes like rust. "Terms."
"Seven nights," Dorian says. "That's how long the binding lasts before it collapses. When it does, the weaker half dies. That's you, in case you're wondering."
"Binding." Nessa touches her wrist. The mark's hot under her fingers. "You mean the marriage contract."
"I mean the blood oath underneath it." He pulls his sleeve back further. The black lines go all the way to his elbow now, branching like veins. "The contract's just paperwork. This is what's keeping you alive. My blood, your sigil, all tied together. You break the deal, you die. I die, you die. Simple."
It's not simple. Nothing about this is simple. Nessa's seen blood oaths before—back when she was still running sigils for the southside crews, before she got caught. They're old magic, the kind the guild banned two generations ago because people kept using them to settle feuds and frame rivals. You can't fake a blood oath. Can't break it without killing everyone involved.
"What deal?" she asks. "You didn't tell me what you actually want."
Dorian smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "I want you to crack open my mother's vault. The one in the Rook estate. The one that's been sealed since she died."
Nessa stares at him. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
He doesn't. He looks like he's about three seconds from putting his fist through the carriage wall. Nessa runs her tongue over her teeth, thinking. The Rook family vault. She's heard stories. Every sigil breaker in Veyra has. It's supposed to be uncrackable—layered wards, bloodline locks, traps that'll burn you from the inside out if you so much as breathe wrong near the door.
"Why me?" she asks. "You're a blood heir. You've got money, connections. You could hire someone who won't get you killed."
"Everyone I could hire is either dead or working for the people who want me dead." Dorian's voice drops. "You're a black-market breaker. You've cracked bloodline seals before. And right now, you're the only person in this city who's got more to lose than I do."
That's true. She hates that it's true.
The carriage slows. Dorian glances out the window, then back at her. "We're here. You've got two choices. Sign the full contract, do the job, and I'll clear your record when it's done. Or refuse, and I'll leave you on the street. The binding will kill you in about six hours."
Nessa's heart kicks hard against her ribs. "You said seven nights."
"Seven nights if you're tied to me. Six hours if you're not." He pulls a folded paper from his coat, sets it on the seat between them. "Your call."
She looks at the contract. It's written in blood—his, probably. The words are too small to read in the dark, but she doesn't need to. She knows what it says. Marry him, crack the vault, get paid in freedom. And if she says no, she's dead before sunrise.
Her hand moves before she can think about it. She grabs the knife from Dorian's belt—he doesn't stop her—and drags the blade across her palm. Blood wells up fast, dark and hot. She presses her hand to the contract.
"There," she says. "Happy?"
Dorian's already cut his own hand. He covers hers, fingers locking tight. The blood mixes, soaks into the paper. The mark on her wrist flares white-hot and she bites down on a scream. It feels like something's crawling under her skin, burrowing deep, sinking roots.
When it stops, she's shaking. Dorian lets go. His hand's healed already—no scar, no blood, just the black mark pulsing steady. Hers is still bleeding.
"Here." He pulls a strip of cloth from his pocket, wraps it around her palm. His hands are cold. "You'll heal faster now. One of the perks."
Nessa doesn't answer. She's staring at the contract. The words are moving, rearranging themselves, burning into the page until there's nothing left but ash. The oath is done. No taking it back.
And then she hears it.
A voice. Low, raspy, like it's coming from inside her own skull.
*Seven.*
She jerks back. "What the hell was that?"
Dorian's face goes pale. He heard it too. "The countdown," he says. "It's started."
"What countdown?"
He looks at her, and for the first time since she met him, he looks genuinely scared. "Seven nights," he says. "That's all I've got left. Someone cursed me three weeks ago. Every night, the countdown drops. When it hits zero..."
He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to.
Nessa's stomach drops. "You didn't tell me you were dying."
"I just did."
"You said seven nights to crack the vault. You didn't say—"
"It's the same thing." Dorian leans back, closes his eyes. "The vault's the only place the cure is. My mother hid it before she died. I get in, I live. I don't, we both die. That's the deal."
The carriage stops. The door swings open and rain pours in, cold and sharp. Outside, there's a mansion. Tall iron gates, stone walls, windows dark. The Rook estate.
Dorian steps out first. He doesn't look back. "Come on. We don't have much time."
Nessa follows, because what else is she supposed to do? Her hand's still bleeding through the cloth. The mark on her wrist is burning. And somewhere in the back of her head, that voice is still there, waiting.
*Seven.*
She climbs down into the rain and looks up at the mansion. The front door's open. There's no light inside. Just dark, stretching back like a throat.
"Dorian," she says. "What's really in that vault?"
He stops at the gate. Turns. The rain's plastered his hair to his face and his coat's dripping, but he's smiling again. That same cold smile.
"Guess we'll find out," he says.
And then he walks inside, and she has no choice but to follow.
Behind them, something moves in the street. A shadow, too tall to be human. It watches them go. Waits.
And then it starts counting too.