They rode through the night like demons were chasing them. Maybe they were—Caelum's reinforcements, or just the curse eating through Seraphiel's skull. Hard to say which was worse.
She'd stopped screaming around midnight. Started convulsing instead, body arching against Nyx's chest as he held her in the saddle. The seal on her forehead glowed like a brand, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
"How much further?" Nyx's voice, tight with something that might've been worry.
"There." Korvath pointed ahead. A cave mouth, dark and uninviting, but defensible. "We need to stop. The horses are dying."
They were. Foam-flecked and stumbling. Push them harder and they'd collapse.
Inside the cave, Korvath laid Seraphiel on a bedroll while the others tended horses and set watch. She examined the seal by torchlight, face grim.
"Divine magic. Blessed curse." She traced the air above it without touching or even getting close made her fingers twitch. "It's burrowing. Eating through her skull toward her brain. She has maybe five days before it reaches something vital and kills her."
Nyx punched the cave wall.
His knuckles split. Blood spattered stone. The soldiers went quiet—they'd seen him take arrows without flinching, watched him endure surgery without anesthetic. This loss of composure was new. Frightening.
"There has to be a way to remove it." Not a question. A demand.
Korvath hesitated. "There is. One person might be able to."
"Who?"
She met his eyes. "But you swore you'd never deal with her again."
Nyx went very still. "Who, Korvath."
"Malachrae. The Marrow Witch."
The name landed like a stone in water. Ripples of recognition through the soldiers. Someone muttered a prayer. Another made a warding sign.
"No." Nyx's voice flat. Final.
"She's the only one who can—"
"I said no."
"Then what?" Korvath's patience frayed. "We watch the Oracle burn from the inside? Let the blood pact kill you both when she dies? Because that's the alternative."
Silence. Just Seraphiel's ragged breathing and the crackle of torchlight.
"What's the Marrow Witch?" Rhen asked quietly.
Korvath didn't look away from Nyx. "Dark sorceress. Lives in the Bonewood—cursed forest where the trees are bone-white and decorated with skulls. She deals in... prices. Ten years ago, Nyx needed her help." She paused. "He won't say what he gave her in trade. But he came back different."
"Korvath—"
"She's dying, Nyx. You know she is."
Seraphiel chose that moment to wake. Barely. Eyes unfocused, fever-bright.
"Elowen..." Her voice cracked. "Didn't recognize me... called him Father... she looked at me like I was nothing..."
Tears streaked her temples. She didn't seem to notice.
Nyx knelt beside her. Took her hand—careful, like she might shatter. "We'll fix her too. But first, you. Stay with me."
"Hurts..."
"I know." His thumb traced her knuckles. "But you're tougher than this. Remember? You melted blessed chains. Survived three years dead. You can survive seven more days."
Her eyes found his. Focused, barely. "Promise?"
"Yeah. I promise."
She passed out again.
Nyx stood. "Korvath, take the others back to camp. I'll take her to Malachrae alone."
"Nyx—"
"That's an order." He was already gathering supplies. "The Bonewood doesn't tolerate crowds. And if Malachrae demands what I think she will..." His jaw clenched. "You don't need to witness it."
Korvath stared at him for a long moment. Then nodded. "She'll demand something awful."
"I know."
....
The Bonewood lived up to its reputation. With trees like calcified bone, white as sun-bleached skulls, branches twisted into shapes that hurt to look at. Actual skulls hung from the limbs—human, animal, things that were neither swaying in a wind that didn't exist.
Nyx carried Seraphiel through it all. She'd stopped waking. Just burned, the seal pulsing brighter with each hour.
"Almost there," he muttered. To her, to himself. Hard to say.
The cottage appeared without warning—just suddenly *there*, like it had been waiting. Made entirely of vertebrae and skulls, mortar that looked disturbingly organic. The door was a ribcage. It opened right before Nyx could knock.
Inside, impossible warmth. Firelight from a hearth built of femurs. And standing beside it was a Malachrae.
Ancient and beautiful the way sharp things are beautiful. Ageless face, too-perfect features, eyes that reflected light like an animal's. When she smiled, there were too many teeth. Far too many.
"Nyx Valdren." Her voice like honey poured over razorblades. "Ten years since you darkened my door. And you've brought me a Revenant Oracle." She inhaled deeply. "How delicious."
"She has a divine curse." Nyx laid Seraphiel on a table that might've been made from a single massive bone. "Seven days until it kills her. Name your price."
Malachrae circled the table slowly. Her fingers traced the air above Seraphiel's body without touching.
"Oh, this is exquisite work. Caelum Thorne's craftsmanship. He's gotten better since last we crossed paths." She leaned close, studying the seal. "Removing it will require..." That terrible smile widened. "A trade. Memory for curse."
"What kind of memory?" Nyx's hand on his sword.
"Specifically, her most precious death-memory." Malachrae's eyes gleamed. "You see, she died once. In the Pyre. Her resurrection left a scar—a memory of that moment frozen in her soul. It's the *core* of her Revenant power. Give it to me, and I'll remove the curse."
"And without it?"
"Her death-magic will be diminished. Still functional, but..." She shrugged. "Weaker. Limited."
Seraphiel's eyes fluttered open. Took a moment to focus on Malachrae's face hovering above her.
"What..." Her voice barely a whisper.
"You're dying, child. Divine curse eating your brain. I can save you. For a price." Malachrae's smile softened into something almost kind. Almost. "Your death-memory. The moment you burned. Give it to me."
Understanding dawned slowly. "That's... that's how I came back. How I survived. If I give it up—"
"You'll be weaker. But alive."
Seraphiel looked at Nyx. He shook his head slightly. Your choice. Not mine.
She thought of Elowen's empty eyes and monotone voice.
She thought of Caelum. His patient smile as the chapel doors closed.
"Do it."
Malachrae's grin stretched wider. "Delightful."
The ritual began without ceremony. Malachrae plunged her hand into Seraphiel's chest—not physically, but the wrongness of it made Nyx step back. Spiritual violation, intimate and terrible.
Seraphiel screamed.
Malachrae's hand closed around something inside her ribcage. Pulled. Slowly. Like extracting a splinter made of light and agony.
A shard emerged. Black as obsidian, glowing with negative light. Inside it, images played—
Seraphiel bound to a stake. Caelum's face, sad and beautiful, as he lit the torch. "This is necessary," he said.
Flames crawling up her body. Flesh melting. Pain beyond description.
Her last coherent thought: "This is necessary. Only the twice-dead can kill the Undying Saint."
Wait—
"Another figure in the shadows behind Caelum. Hooded and watching. Giving a subtle nod."
Caelum turning to the figure while bowing. "As you commanded, Master."
Seraphiel's eyes went wide. "There's someone above Caelum. Someone controlling—"
Just as she was figuring who the person was, the memory shattered. Malachrae swallowed it whole, the shard sliding down her throat like a living thing. Her eyes rolled back, expression pure ecstasy.
"Oh yes," she moaned. "Such exquisite pain. Such *purpose*."
The curse-seal on Seraphiel's forehead cracked. Splintered and fell away as ash, dissolving before it hit the table.
The burning stopped.
Seraphiel gasped, dragging in air like she'd been drowning.
Nyx caught her before she could fall off the table. "Easy. You're okay. You're—"
"There was someone else." She grabbed his shirt. "In the vision. Someone gave Caelum orders. Someone above him. A Master."
Malachrae laughed, still savoring the stolen memory. "Oh child. You think the Virtuous Shield acts alone? That a man could orchestrate all this—the oracle hunts, the political murders, the ascension rituals... without guidance?" She licked her lips. "Caelum Thorne is powerful. But he's a *puppet*. And someone very old, very patient, is pulling his strings."
"Who?" Nyx demanded.
"That," Malachrae said, smile turning sly, "would cost you another trade. And somehow, I don't think you're prepared to pay what I'd ask."
Her eyes slid to Nyx.
He stared back, expression carved from ice.
Then turned away. "We're leaving."
"So soon? But we have so much to catch up on—"
"We're. Leaving."
He lifted Seraphiel, carried her toward the door.
Malachrae's laughter followed them into the Bonewood. "Give my regards to your daughter, Nyx! I do so wonder how she's grown!"