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"You're bleeding on my floor."
The voice came from everywhere. From the stone. From the dark.
I pressed my back against the sealed door, heart hammering, palm slick on the rusted handle. The ruin had looked empty from outside. Collapsed archway. Vines growing through cracks. No wards, no glyphs, no Guild marks.
Wrong.
"I said—" The walls shuddered. Dust rained down. "You're bleeding on my floor."
"Didn't mean to," I said. Kept my voice steady. Didn't look at the cut on my arm. "I'll leave."
"Too late."
The floor bucked. I hit the ground, tasted copper and grit. When I looked up, the shadows at the far end of the hall were moving. Not drifting. *Assembling*. Stone grinding against stone, chunks of rubble lifting, slotting together like bones finding their sockets.
A guardian.
Old-world construct. Kill-on-sight if you weren't keyed to the ruin. And I sure as hell wasn't keyed.
"Look," I said, scrambling back, "I'm just a kid. No pact. No bond. I'm nobody."
"That," the voice said, "is why you'll die easy."
The construct stepped into the light. Ten feet tall. Shoulders wide as a cart. Fists the size of my chest. Its face was a blank slate of cracked marble, no eyes, no mouth, just the faint glow of a sigil carved into its forehead.
I ran.
Not toward the door—it was sealed, wouldn't budge—but deeper into the ruin, toward the only gap I could see: a split in the wall, narrow, jagged, barely wide enough for me to fit.
"Running makes it fun," the construct said.
I didn't answer. Saved my breath. Shoved myself through the gap, felt stone scrape my ribs, my shoulder, the cut on my arm screaming as it caught on an edge. Behind me, the construct's footsteps boomed, each one shaking the floor, shaking my teeth.
The gap led to a smaller chamber. No door. No windows. Just four walls, a collapsed ceiling, and—
*Oh.*
In the center of the room, half-buried in rubble, was a cage.
Not iron. Not wood. Something black, something that drank the light, that made my eyes ache when I tried to focus on it. And inside—
"Help me," it said.
Not out loud. In my head. Soft. Hungry.
"What—" I started, but the wall behind me exploded.
The construct stepped through, shoulders hunched to fit, rubble crunching under its feet. It tilted its head, looking at me, then at the cage, then back at me.
"Stupid," it said. "Stupid and unlucky."
I backed toward the cage. Felt the cold of it against my spine, like pressing my back to a frozen river.
"Let me out," the thing inside said. Still soft. Still hungry. "Let me out and I'll save you."
"You're a Voidling," I said.
"Yes."
"If I let you out, I'm dead. The Guild—"
"If you don't," it said, "you're dead *right now*."
The construct lunged. No warning. Just a fist the size of my chest, coming fast, coming for my head.
I threw myself to the side. Hit the ground. Rolled. Felt the impact behind me, felt the floor crack, felt the shock travel up through my bones.
"Okay," I said. Gasped. "Okay, deal. How do I—"
"Touch the lock," it said. "Say yes."
The lock was a knot of black tendrils, writhing, twisting, reaching toward me like they knew I was close. I could feel them pulling, tugging at something under my ribs, something I didn't have a name for.
The construct turned. Raised its fist again.
I grabbed the lock.
It was cold. Colder than the cage. Colder than anything I'd ever felt. It burned, the way ice burns, the way frostbite sets in fast and doesn't let go.
"Yes," I said. "Yes, fine, whatever, *yes*—"
The cage shattered.
Not broke. *Shattered*. Exploded outward in a spray of black glass that hung in the air for a heartbeat, frozen, beautiful, and then dissolved into smoke.
The thing inside stepped out.
Not stepped. Unfolded. Stretched. It was small—smaller than I expected. The size of a dog, maybe, but wrong. Too many legs. Too many joints. Its body was black, slick, like wet leather or oil, and its eyes—
No eyes. Just two pits, deeper than the cage, deeper than the dark.
"Run," it said.
I didn't argue.
I ran. Back through the gap, back into the main hall, the construct's roar chasing me, the Voidling's laughter—was it laughing?—ringing in my skull.
Behind me, I heard the fight start. Stone cracking. Something wet and heavy hitting the floor. The construct's voice, booming, furious: "Abomination—"
And then silence.
I stopped. Turned.
The Voidling was sitting in the doorway, licking something off its claws. The construct was gone. Just rubble. Just dust.
"You killed it," I said.
"I ate it," the Voidling said. Tilted its head. "You taste better."
"Don't."
"Won't." It stood. Stretched again. "We have a pact."
"I didn't—" I stopped. Looked at my hand. The one that had touched the lock. It was covered in black lines, thin, branching, spreading up my wrist, my forearm, disappearing under my sleeve. They didn't hurt. But they were *there*. Permanent.
"Oh no," I said.
"Oh yes," the Voidling said. "You're mine now. I'm yours. That's how it works."
"The Guild—"
"Will kill us both," it said. "If they find us. So don't let them find us."
It walked past me, toward the sealed door. Pressed one claw against the stone. The door groaned. Shuddered. Swung open.
Sunlight poured in. Blinding after the dark.
"Go," the Voidling said. "I'll follow."
I went.
The street outside was empty. Late afternoon. The kind of quiet that comes right before the markets close, right before the night crowds start. I pulled my sleeve down, covered the marks, and started walking.
Fast. Not running. Running draws eyes.
Two blocks. Three. I could see the main square ahead, the fountain, the Guild outpost on the far side—
And then the alarms started.
Not close. Across the city. But loud. Piercing. The kind of sound that makes everyone stop, makes everyone look.
"They know," the Voidling said. In my head. Not beside me. I couldn't see it. "They know something's awake."
"Where are you?"
"Closer than you think."
I turned the corner, head down, hands in my pockets, trying to look like I belonged, like I wasn't the reason the alarms were screaming.
And walked straight into her.
She didn't move. Didn't step aside. Just stood there, blocking the alley, one hand resting on the gun at her hip.
Guild coat. Black, high collar, silver buttons. Hair pulled back tight. Eyes the color of winter.
"Kael Thorne," she said.
I froze.
"You're bleeding," she said. Gestured at my arm. The cut. The one I'd forgotten about. "And you smell like a ruin. Want to tell me why?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't. My mouth had stopped working.
She smiled. Didn't reach her eyes.
"That's what I thought," she said. Drew her gun. Leveled it at my chest. "Hands up. Slow. Don't make me—"
The Voidling materialized behind her.
Not walked out. *Materialized*. One second she was alone. The next, it was there, crouched on the wall above her head, claws dug into the brick, eyes fixed on her neck.
"Don't," I said. To the Voidling. To her. To both.
She didn't turn. Didn't flinch. Just cocked the hammer.
"Tell your friend," she said, voice flat, "that if it moves, you die first."
The Voidling hissed.
She pressed the muzzle against my sternum.
"I'm Inspector Mira Vance," she said. "And you just signed your death warrant."