Kane woke to searing pain.
It was not his wounds that hurt.
It was something deeper—as if another skeleton were growing inside him, crushing his own bones.
Every nerve carried two signals: his own, and something alien.
He opened his eyes and saw a ceiling carved with intricate rose patterns.
The crystal chandelier was unlit, but moonlight through the window gave him moonlight through the window gave him enough to see: a four-poster bed, silk drapes, and air thick with cedar and old books.
A vampire's bedroom.
He tried to sit up, only to find his wrists chained to the bedpost with silver.
The chains were long, granting a three-meter radius of movement.
Professional work. No room for escape.
Fabric rustled to his left.
Seraphina sat in a high-backed chair by the window, her silhouette cut pale and sharp by the moon.
She had changed into a simple ivory nightgown, her long hair loose.
A silver chain bound her left wrist too, the other end fixed to an iron ring in the wall.
"Twenty-one minutes," she said without turning, her voice dry. "That's how long you've been unconscious, puppy. Quicker than I expected."
Kane tried to flex his fingers. His joints were stiff, but the faint pull of claws still stirred beneath his skin.
He looked down at his chest—his wounds were stitched closed with fine black thread, and a steady throb pulsed under the bandages, in time with his heartbeat.
No. Not his heartbeat.
Two heartbeats.
One in his left chest, another slightly to his right.
The second beat slower, around forty times a minute.
He looked at Seraphina.
Her right hand pressed unconsciously against her own left breast.
"You feel it too," Kane said.
Seraphina finally turned her head.
She was deathly pale in the moonlight, her golden eyes dim like tarnished brass.
"First stage of the bond: shared life. Your healing is speeding my recovery; my blood replenishes your lost blood. Efficiency at roughly thirty percent."
"How do you know all this?"
"*Hymn of the Eternal Night*, Chapter Seven, line twelve forty-four," she recited softly. "When foreign blood mingles by relic power, two hearts shall beat as one, two lives shall breathe in sync, until balance or ruin."
Kane fell silent.
The werewolf sagas held similar lines, but the elders had always called them metaphor.
The chains clinked softly.
Seraphina stood, walked to the edge of the Persian rug in the center of the room, and stopped—the chain would let her go no farther.
She looked down at Kane. "The Judgment the gargoyles spoke of is, in vampire records, an ancient punishment for lawbreakers. It lasts ninety-nine days, worsening every midnight."
"Punishment for what?"
"Deep cross-species connection."
She lifted a hand, her fingertip brushing a shallow scar above her collarbone—one Kane did not have. "In creation myth, the three original races were forbidden from sharing essence. Those who disobey suffer the agony of clashing bloodlines until one kills the other… or both break."
A bell rang outside.
Notre-Dame's bell. One a.m.
Agony exploded on the final chime.
It felt like molten lead being poured into his veins.
Kane arched his back, his teeth grinding so hard they creaked.
Red blurred the edges of his vision, and a wolf's howl rang in his ears—not from outside, but from the memory of his blood.
He heard Seraphina's sharp intake of breath, thin as a blade scraping glass.
He turned to see her on her knees, fingers digging into the rug, her nails tearing the fabric.
She bit her lower lip until a bead of blood welled up—only for the wound to heal itself far too quickly, unnaturally so.
"Look at me," Kane forced out.
Seraphina did not move.
"Look at my eyes!" he roared.
She lifted her head slowly.
Something churned deep in those golden irises, like undercurrents beneath ice.
Kane held her gaze, forcing himself to ignore the pain, to fix only on what he saw—staring, unblinking.
Little by little, the two heartbeats began to sync.
The pain did not vanish, but it split.
Part stayed inside him, part flowed across the link of their eyes.
He saw Seraphina's shoulders slump.
"Visual anchoring," she whispered, sweat beading on her forehead. "Temporarily tricking the bond into dividing the pain… Where did you learn that?"
"Combat first aid. Give a wounded man a focus, and you can delay shock."
Seraphina let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Using human medicine against an ancient curse. How ironic."
The tide of pain receded after ten minutes.
Both collapsed, breathing heavily.
Kane found he could faintly sense Seraphina's exhaustion—as if watching a shadow through frosted glass.
The bond was deepening.
"We need information," he sat up, the silver chain clattering. "The Alps the gargoyle mentioned—where exactly?"
"I don't know," Seraphina wiped blood from her lip. "But I might know who does."
She glanced at the fireplace on the eastern side of the room.
A row of leather-bound books stood on the mantel, but the spine of the third was slightly darker—signs of being pulled out often.
"Leah Twilight, my adjutant. She runs the archives and has read every forbidden text." Seraphina paused. "If she's still alive."
"What do you mean?"
"I caught Victor's scent before I blacked out." Her voice turned cold. "My uncle, leader of the Traditionalist faction on the Vampire Elder Council. He's always opposed me inheriting the family seat. If I were 'gravely injured in an accident,' he'd seize the archives immediately."
Kane thought of the ambush at the bank.
"There's a traitor among the wolves too. Eric said the guard shift gap was eight minutes, but the gargoyles awakened—and they need far longer to prepare."
"So we were both trapped," Seraphina stood and walked to the bookshelf.
The chain was just long enough for her to pull out one book.
She flipped to a page, tore it out, and pulled a brass key from between the pages.
"There's a secret passage under the floorboards, leading to the old underground river canals. Used for smuggling a century ago." She tossed the key to Kane. "The lock is at the base of the bedpost."
Kane found the keyhole.
The key turned with a greasy click.
The silver chain fell away.
He rotated his wrist; his wounds stung. "You could have unlocked this anytime?"
"Needed two hands." Seraphina held up her still-chained left wrist. "It was designed that way. Clever, isn't it? Makes sure no prisoner can escape alone."
Kane stepped over to inspect the iron ring in the wall.
The welds were fresh, but the ring itself was rusted—installed only recently.
He grabbed the chain and tensed his muscles.
"Don't waste your strength. It's a silver-infused alloy, specifically—"
Kane growled before she finished.
Not a full shift, but his arm muscles bulged, silver veins rising beneath his skin.
The chain went taut, and the wall around the iron ring began to crack.
Plaster dust showered down.
Seraphina's pupils contracted. "You…"
"After Verdun," Kane gritted out, "I learned to control how far I shift. The price is pain."
The iron ring tore free from the wall, taking a chunk of brick with it.
The chain still circled Seraphina's wrist, but the other end was free.
She stared at the broken ring, silent for two heartbeats.
"That part wasn't in your file."
"Files are never complete."
A soft click sounded outside the window.
Both turned at once.
It came from the roof—not a bird, but the heavy thud of something landing on tiles, followed by the scrape of claws.
Slow, cautious movement.
More than one source.
All around them.
Seraphina moved soundlessly to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain.
Moonlight lit half her face.
"How many?" Kane whispered.
"At least six on the roof. Two in the courtyard." She let the curtain fall. "Not vampires. Their steps are too heavy. Not werewolves either. Wrong build."
Kane sniffed the air.
Through the cedar and blood, he caught the dust of stone chips… and the damp smell of wet earth.
Like something just dug up from underground.
"Gargoyles," he said.
"But they should still be recovering." Seraphina frowned. "The *Chronicles of Stone Heart* records they need at least a week to regain full mobility after awakening—"
Someone knocked at the door.
Not a violent crash, but three polite, rhythmic taps.
A pause. Three more.
Seraphina and Kane exchanged a look.
Neither moved.
A voice came from outside—young, genderless, with a strange resonance. "Princess Seraphina? Warden Mara Wingshadow requests an audience. I represent the Reformists. I am unarmed."
Kane looked to Seraphina.
She nodded faintly.
"The door's unlocked," Kane said, slipping into cover beside the door.
The knob turned. A female gargoyle stepped in—shorter than the ones they'd seen at the bank, her wings folded like a stone cloak.
Her skin was pale gray, close to marble, her eyes dark and pupil-less.
She took in the room: the broken iron ring, the fallen chains, their guarded stances—and her stone face did not shift.
"The bonded live," Mara said, her voice like two smooth stones grinding together. "Good. That means the Judgment is still in its first stage."
"Are the ones outside also Reformists?" Seraphina asked.
"No. Trackers from the Traditionalists. Sent by Elder Granik."
Mara stepped to the center of the room, pulled a shard of slate from her waist pouch, and set it on the rug. "They're waiting for you to leave the building. Watchers in human form block every exit in the district."
Glowing lines appeared on the slate, slowly forming a map of Paris's 5th arrondissement.
Six red dots flickered around the Line mansion.
"Why help us?" Kane asked.
"Because balance does not mean slaughter." Mara's obsidian eyes turned to him. "Granik believes the bonded must be destroyed to 'correct the mistake.' We believe the bond itself may be the chance to fix it."
She pointed to a spot on the eastern side of the map, beside the Seine.
"A barge is docked here. It leaves for Rouen before dawn. The captain owes me a favor. Once aboard, go downstream to Le Havre, then take a ship to Switzerland."
"Switzerland?" Seraphina asked.
"There is a conclave of mixed-blood scholars in the Alps. They've studied ancient bonds for three hundred years." Mara paused. "But there are two problems."
"Say it."
"First, you must reach the barge in twenty minutes. Second—" she looked at Kane "—what's your current life-link radius?"
Kane blinked.
"The first stage of the symbiotic bond forces both parties to stay close," Mara continued. "Cross the critical distance, and the shared life force begins to reverse-drain. Weakness first, then organ failure. According to records, the initial radius is usually no more than—"
Seraphina suddenly staggered, catching herself on the back of a chair.
Kane felt dizziness almost at the same instant, as if a string were tugging at his heart.
Distance—he and Seraphina were roughly five meters apart.
He'd felt nothing earlier.
"Fifteen meters," Mara said. "Your critical distance is fifteen meters. Cross it, and the punishment triggers."
Tiles shattered outside.
Closer.
"The Traditionalists are coming," Mara turned toward the fireplace, pressing her fingers against a specific brick. "The passage starts here. It's narrow, only one person at a time. You must stay within fifteen meters—single file, connected by rope."
The inner fireplace wall swung open, revealing stone steps descending downward.
The smell of mildew and running water flooded out.
Kane looked at Seraphina.
"You go first."
"No." She walked to the desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out a roll of silk rope—decorative rope used for dancing, but strong enough. "You lead, I follow. Ten meters between us. Three tugs if I need you."
"And if you tug?"
"Cute puppy. If that happens, it means I'm dead." Seraphina tied one end around her waist. "Don't look back. Just run."
Mara had already vanished into the passage.
Her voice floated up from the dark. "I'll wait thirty seconds. After that, I seal the entrance."
Kane glanced one last time at the room.
Moonlight had shifted to the bedpost, illuminating the broken end of the silver chain.
The edge of the link glistened wet—not rust, but something dark red and crusted.
He hadn't noticed it before.
Like dried blood, but far too fresh.
Whose blood?
Seraphina shoved him forward. "Move."
They slipped into the passage.
The stone steps dropped steeply, walls weeping cold droplets.
Kane counted his steps. On the thirteenth, he heard the muffled thud of the fireplace swinging shut above.
Then another sound—something smashing through glass, bursting into the room.
The Traditionalists had arrived.
Darkness swallowed everything, save for the tug of the rope around his waist, and Seraphina's cat-soft footsteps behind him.
And the two heartbeats, growing clearer by the second.
In the absolute black, Kane realized something suddenly:
He could no longer tell which heartbeat was his.