The pendant was heavier than it should be. Silver and cracked filigree, still stained with what might've been Elowen's blood. Seraphiel sat on the cot, turning it over in her hands, watching candlelight catch the damage.
Memories came whether she wanted them or not.
Elowen at twelve—all gangly limbs and gap-toothed grins, braiding flowers into Seraphiel's hair while chattering about some book she'd read. "Sera, do you think prophecy hurts? Like, when you see the future, does it *hurt*?"
"Sometimes," Seraphiel had said, not knowing how to explain the weight of it. "But it's worth it. To help people."
Elowen had looked thoughtful. "I'm glad I don't have the gift then. I'll just help people the normal way."
The day the guards came, Elowen had been in the gardens. She'd heard the commotion, come running. Saw Seraphiel in chains, being dragged toward the prison carriages.
"SERA!" Her scream had cut through everything else. She'd tried to run forward, small hands reaching—
Caelum had caught her. Knelt down, all gentle concern, holding her back while she thrashed. "Shh, little one. Your sister is sick. We're going to help her. I promise."
Elowen had believed him. Why wouldn't she? He was the Virtuous Shield. The kingdom's protector.
Seraphiel squeezed the pendant until the broken edges bit into her palm.
....
Korvath's war council convened in the largest tent—maps spread across a roughhewn table, commanders standing at attention. And Nyx, who absolutely should not have been upright.
He'd insisted and walked into the tent bare-chested except for bandages wrapped around his torso, face pale but expression fixed in that stubborn set Seraphiel was starting to recognize. The surgeons had protested. He'd ignored them.
"So," Korvath said without preamble. "The Virtuous Shield offers a trade. The Oracle's sister for the Oracle herself. Thoughts?"
"It's obviously a trap," said Rhen, one of the battalion commanders. Older, scarred, missing half his left hand. "We ignore it."
"We don't ignore it," Nyx corrected, voice rough but steady. "But we don't walk into it either."
"She's my sister." Seraphiel's voice came out sharper than intended. "I have to—"
"No." Nyx cut her off, those winter eyes locking onto hers. "You're bound to me by blood pact. Your life isn't yours to throw away anymore. Not for sentiment, not for guilt, not for anything. Caelum *knows* that. This is bait."
Heat flooded Seraphiel's chest. "You don't get to decide—"
Nyx stood. The motion made him wince... just barely, just enough to notice—but he still towered over her, all predatory focus. "I took three arrows for you. Arrows meant to kill. You're breathing because I chose your life over mine. So yes, I *do* get to decide. We do this smart, or not at all."
The tent went silent. You could've heard a pin drop. Seraphiel glared up at him. He glared back. Neither blinked.
"She's fourteen—"
"Seventeen now," Nyx said quietly. "Three years in his hands. You think she's the same girl you remember?"
That hit harder than any physical blow. Korvath cleared her throat. "Perhaps we could—"
"We have seven days." Nyx didn't break eye contact with Seraphiel. "We use them. I'll train you—*properly* train you. Teach you to fight like you mean it, not like some court oracle who learned decorative knife-work. You'll learn to control your Revenant magic instead of letting it control you. And we'll gather intelligence on where Caelum's really keeping your sister." He paused. "Then we infiltrate. Smart. Surgical. We get her out and make sure Caelum can't use either of you again."
"And if there's no time? If he hurts her before—"
"Then we adapt." His voice softened, just fractionally. "But you going alone is suicide. And suicide helps no one. Especially not Elowen."
Seraphiel's hands shook. She wanted to scream, to argue, to move. But he was right. Damn him, he was right.
"Fine," she bit out. "Seven days."
.....
Nyx's idea of training was brutality disguised as education.
He knocked her down seventeen times in the first hour alone. Didn't matter that she was still recovering, that her Revenant marks ached, that she'd barely held a weapon before. He came at her with dulled practice swords, with fists, with tactics that exploited every opening.
"Caelum will use your compassion against you," he said, offering a hand to pull her up for the eighteenth time. "Your mercy. Your hope. You need to be harder than that."
"I'm not—" She swung at him. He sidestepped, swept her legs. She hit the dirt.
"You're predictable. Telegraphing every move. Again."
By sunset, she was bruised, exhausted, and absolutely furious. Which, judging by Nyx's expression, was exactly what he wanted.
At night, after the physical training ended, came the magic.
Seraphiel practiced in a clearing away from camp. She didn't want to accidentally wither someone's tent. The Revenant magic responded more easily now, less chaotic. She could raise minor corpses—rats, birds, nothing bigger yet and watch them move with jerky, unnatural motions. Could see death-marks on the living if she concentrated on faint symbols showing how they'd die. Korvath had a sword-mark across her throat. Rhen would drown.
She tried not to look at Nyx's.
Blessed items corroded at her touch. She practiced on old relics Korvath scavenged—watching holy symbols rust, consecrated blades turn brittle.
"You're getting stronger," Nyx observed on the third night, watching from the treeline. "Good. You'll need it."
Then came the vision.
She didn't mean to trigger it. Was just trying to see Elowen's future, find some clue about her location. But the images hit like a hammer—
"A white room. Sterile. Cold. Elowen kneeling before a statue...
The statue was Caelum. Life-sized. Painted in reverent detail...
Elowen's eyes vacant. Glassy. She was praying...
"Thank you for loving me. Thank you for showing me truth. I am your vessel. I am your blade. Use me as you will..."
Her voice monotone. Worshipful. Wrong..."
Seraphiel crashed back to reality, gasping.
Oh gods. Oh gods!!.
He hadn't just imprisoned her. Hadn't just drained her gift. He'd twisted her mind until she believed he was savior, protector, god.
"No—" The word came out strangled. "No, no, no—"
Her magic exploded outward. Death-marks spreading across the clearing like wildfire. Plants withered to ash. Insects dropped mid-flight. The grass turned black.
Seraphiel screamed, all the rage and grief and horror pouring out—
Hands grabbed her shoulders. Nyx. He spun her around, gripped her face between scarred palms.
"Breathe." His voice cut through the chaos. "BREATHE."
"He broke her—he took her mind—she thinks he's—"
"I know. Breathe anyway."
She sobbed. Couldn't stop. Her magic pulsed, withering everything in reach. Nyx held on, anchoring her, his hands steady even as death-marks crawled across his skin.
"We'll get her back," he said quietly. Not gentle. Just certain. "And then we'll make him pay for every second of what he did. But first you have to *breathe*."
She clung to him. Buried her face in his chest—bandages and all... and tried to remember how lungs worked.
The magic slowly receded. The clearing stopped dying.
Nyx didn't let go until she'd stopped shaking.
...
Day seven arrived too fast.
Seraphiel stood in her tent at dawn, staring at blank parchment. Around her, camp stirred—soldiers preparing for drills, breakfast fires crackling.
She picked up the quill.
"Caelum,
I accept your terms. I will surrender myself at the Mourning Chapel at dusk today. Alone. In exchange, you will release Elowen unharmed to the northern border, where your authority ends.
I trust you'll keep your word as the Virtuous Shield.
—Seraphiel"
This was a smooth lie. She sealed it, addressed it to the royal envoys still camped a mile south.
Then she wrote a second letter. This one shorter.
"Nyx,
Some debts can't be paid with strategy. This is mine to settle.
I'm sorry.
—S"
She left it on the cot. Took only her cloak, a dagger, and Elowen's pendant. Guards were now at their posts, but groggy. She'd watched their rotations for three days. Knew the gaps.
Seraphiel slipped between tents, past the perimeter, into the forest. By the time the sun cleared the horizon, she was six hours gone.
....
Nyx woke to Korvath shaking his shoulder.
"She's not in her tent."
He knew before he saw the note. Felt it in the blood pact—the pull of distance, growing.
The parchment crumpled in his fist.
"Fuck."
Korvath's expression was grim. "The southern scouts reported movement at dawn. Single rider, heading toward the capital."
Nyx was already moving, ignoring the screaming pain in his back. "Get my horse. Full armor. Rhen's strike team ready in ten minutes."
"You can barely walk—"
"She's walking into a trap. Alone. To save a sister who's been brainwashed to worship her executioner." He grabbed his sword, started strapping it on one-handed. "So I don't care if I can walk. Get. My. Horse."
Korvath didn't argue, he had no time to do so. He just ran.
Nyx stared at the note one more time.
"Some debts can't be paid with strategy."
"Idiot," he muttered. But he was already calculating routes, ambush points, how fast he could ride without tearing his stitches.