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She used to sing in the garden. Now her laughter curdled in blood and dreams. He couldn't tell if she was memory… or demon.
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The candle had long since died.
And still, Thane sat in the dark.
He stared into the hollow of the basin, where the elixir had dried into a crusted scar, and the echoes of Talyra's voice still lingered like rot. He could feel her beneath his skin. In the thrum of blood in his ears. In the thud of every cursed heartbeat.
"Your touch is weaker," he whispered. "Are you slipping away… or coming closer?"
He pressed his palm to the stone. The warmth of the last ritual had faded. And yet, he could hear her.
Find it, Thane... or I will forget you.
A shudder ran through him.
He knew what she meant. The Grimoire. The relic Dren had promised.
But Dren had also promised pain.
Later that morning, a raven arrived at the alchemist's hollow, its claws bound with parchment. The seal wasn't Dren's—a jagged sun encircled in a serpent. Inquisition markings.
Thane frowned, snatched the scroll, and broke the wax.
It wasn't from Lysara.
But it was about her.
Inquisitor Vale has taken custody of the Ashen Reliquary.
She moves toward the Shadelock vaults by nightfall.
The Grimoire will be locked within three nights.
If you want it...
Bleed the mountain.
His jaw clenched. It was a trap—or worse, an invitation.
He couldn't let it go.
He needed her alive. But he needed the Grimoire more.
Ashengar's Undermarket—a city beneath a city, where light had no dominion.
Thane descended into the gloom wearing his cloak of bloodwoven glyphs, each thread a whisper of power. He passed thieves and flesh-binders, demon callers and bone traders. But none dared touch him.
They knew what he was.
He found the merchant where he always did—under the broken statue of the Mother of Mercy, whose eyes had been gouged out centuries ago.
"I need a death-wrought key," Thane said.
The merchant blinked. "Vault work?"
Thane nodded once. "Shadelock."
The man paled.
"Those keys need a life," he whispered. "A real one. One that loved you. Or hated you. Blood with weight."
Thane didn't hesitate.
"Take mine."
That night, Thane opened the locket hidden beneath his robe. Talyra's image stared back—smiling, radiant, full of promise.
The last time they spoke in life, she'd begged him to stop.
To let her die.
And he hadn't listened.
He never had.
I'll make it right, he thought. Even if I burn for it.
He cut deep into his palm, letting blood spill onto the obsidian key. It hissed, drank, and ignited with silent flame.
When the pain subsided, the key pulsed softly—alive. Bound.
Outside the Vault
The Shadelock Vault loomed like a tomb carved into the roots of a dead mountain. Warded. Cursed. Impossible to enter without branding your soul.
Dren had not joined him.
He was alone.
Or so he thought.
"You shouldn't be here."
The voice hit him like a whip.
Thane turned. His heart dropped.
Lysara Vale.
She stood in silver-plated armor trimmed in midnight blue, her blade drawn, crimson gaze burning through shadow.
"Thane Myralis," she said. "I should've known you crawled back to your sins."
He didn't speak at first. Her presence overwhelmed him. Her voice still had the same cadence—sharp, cold, righteous.
She pointed the blade at his chest.
"Step away from that door."
He looked at the key in his hand.
"I can't," he said. "You don't understand—"
"I understand betrayal," she snapped. "I understand monsters pretending they're the victim."
He flinched.
"You think Dren is using me?" he said softly. "You think he's the only one playing games?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Speak clearly."
Thane raised his hand, palm still bleeding.
"I want her back," he whispered. "The woman I loved. Not a wraith. Not a voice. I need the Grimoire."
"You'd risk everything for a ghost?"
He met her gaze.
"No," he said. "I'd risk everything because I was the one who killed her."
The words hung between them like poison.
Lysara's expression shifted—only slightly. But it was there. A fracture.
"I should kill you," she said.
"I know."
"Give me one reason not to."
He stepped forward. Close enough to see her breath catch, just slightly.
"Because I'm not the only one haunted by the past," he said. "You keep chasing Dren like he's a criminal. But you haven't let go of the night you spared him."
She didn't move.
He whispered, "You still dream of him, don't you?"
Her blade shook.
And in that moment, Thane didn't see the high inquisitor.
He saw a woman buried under armor. A woman who had made a choice seven years ago that never stopped bleeding.
So did he.
Later, inside the vault
The door opened.
They stood in silence before the Grimoire—bound in stitched leather, glyphs carved in obsidian and bone.
Thane reached for it.
Lysara didn't stop him.
But her voice was low. Quiet. Measured.
"If you open that book," she said, "there's no turning back."
He didn't look at her. Just touched the cover, trembling.
"I turned back once," he whispered. "And she died screaming."
The book pulsed once.
And opened.