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TWELVE

CASSIAN

T he land grew hungrier the farther south they walked.

Cassian felt it in his bones. The earth beneath their boots had turned from moss-soft to cracked, blackened shale. Trees here were skeletal things, branches clawing at the gray sky like they’d been trying to crawl away before something caught them.

Even the wind stank—like rust and old fire.

It was two days’ march from the Sablewing ruins to the edge of the Deadrun Marshes, and every step felt like they were walking into a trap with its mouth already open.

No one spoke much. Even Brann had gone quiet. But the silence was loud. Uneasy. Especially after what Malrik said.

Seven pieces.

Before they could even think about getting the first one, they needed a blood key.

Cassian watched Seraphine from the corner of his eye as they hiked over a ridge. Her expression hadn’t changed since they left the ruins—stone cold, eyes sharp, like she’d shoved whatever feeling she had back into the vault where all the Drakar heirs kept their humanity.

She walked like she was made of war.

But he could see it—just under the surface. The strain. The hesitation. And he knew something else was coming.

Sure enough, when they set up camp that night under the twisted shadow of a dead wyrm tree, Seraphine stood and faced them, arms crossed, cloak whipping around her in the rising wind.

“We need to talk,” she said.

Lira grunted. Alek just kept sharpening his blade. Brann looked up like a kid waiting for bad news.

Cassian stayed quiet, but he was already on alert.

Seraphine looked at them one by one. “To make the blood key… we have to kill something ancient.”

Brann paled. “Ancient how?”

Seraphine’s voice didn’t waver. “Old magic. Pre-Veil. Wild. Half-flesh, half-memory. They’re called Eidolichs.”

Cassian had heard the name before. Once. In a forgotten book with too many wards etched into its cover.

“You’re serious?” he asked.

“They don’t live. They persist. ”

Brann swallowed. “You want us to fight one?”

“No,” Seraphine said. “I want me to fight it. With Cassian. The rest of you will stay outside the boundary circle.”

Lira stood. “With all due respect?—”

“No.” Seraphine’s tone turned iron. “If you step inside, it won’t just take your body. It’ll rewrite your past. You won’t even remember who you were.”

That shut them up.

Cassian stepped closer. “How do we kill it?”

Seraphine finally met his eyes.

“We don’t. We bleed for it. We trap it in a ritual circle, offer it one memory for every line of power. Seven lines. Seven truths. It drinks them. Then, if we survive… it gives us the blood.”

He studied her face. “And how many people walk out of something like that?”

She didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.

That night, while the others slept, Cassian sat beside her at the edge of camp, watching the coals burn low.

“You ever done one of these before?” he asked.

Her jaw ticked. “I’ve studied the rite. We all do. But no. Not like this.”

“And you were just gonna go through with it alone?”

“I’ve always gone through with it alone.”

Cassian shook his head. “You say that like it’s a badge of honor.”

She looked over, face softer than he expected in the firelight.

“It’s not.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to prove anything, you know. Not to them. Not to me.”

Seraphine’s laugh was dry. “I have to prove it to the dead.”

That sat heavy between them.

He didn’t say more.

They reached the edge of the marsh the following afternoon.

It was worse than he expected—choked with fog and bones, the water slick with decay. The trees here were dead but watching, somehow. Their twisted trunks arched toward the sky like they’d died screaming.

Cassian had seen war, but this place? This was rot soaked into the bones of the world. A place the gods had clearly abandoned.

Seraphine didn’t hesitate.

She stepped close to the brackish water, drew her dagger—a curved blade made from bleached dragonbone—and sliced open a thin line across her palm. Whitefire flickered along the wound as she dipped her fingers in her blood, then the ink.

She knelt and began carving the first of seven ritual lines into the ground.

The marsh sizzled at the touch of it.

“Seven truths,” she murmured. “Seven lies turned honest. That’s the cost.”

Cassian knelt beside her. “You sure you want to do this?”

“No.”

But she met his gaze, fierce and unyielding.

“I’m still doing it.”

Gods help him— He respected the hell out of that.

He offered his hand.

She hesitated, then took it. Her grip was strong. Warm.

Together, they drew the remaining six lines. An enclosed circle of power, symbols twisting into something that pulsed with ancient memory. It looked alive. It felt wrong.

Cassian’s heart kicked harder the second the final symbol snapped into place.

The air dropped ten degrees. The wind stopped. Even the shadows held their breath. Then the center of the ritual began to boil.

No fire or flash. Just... silence.

Then sound. Deep. Wrong. Like a drum made of bone echoing from beneath the world.

The Eidolich rose from the ground.

It wasn’t a creature.

It was a shape. A thing made of dripping memory and bone-white tendrils, half-shadows, half-human features that blurred and flickered. Its voice wasn’t spoken—it was felt. Everywhere.

“What will you give?”

Cassian gritted his teeth. “Fuck me.”

“No talking,” Seraphine snapped, eyes focused. “It feeds on fear. Don't speak unless it's to answer.”

The Eidolich slithered forward. One long finger extended toward her. Not touching—just waiting.

Seraphine raised her chin. “I give you my first scream. The one I didn’t let out when they made me burn.”

The Eidolich shivered —a movement like paper tearing.

It slithered to Cassian.

“And you?”

He clenched his fists. “My mother’s lullaby.”

It recoiled, trembled. Then moved again.

Seven offerings.

One by one, they bled memories into the circle.

Cassian gave pieces of himself he hadn’t thought he still carried—his first stolen kiss behind a broken windmill, the smell of his father’s coat before he disappeared, the day he realized no one was coming back for him.

Seraphine offered darker things.

Her mother’s voice, the feel of her own name whispered like a curse in her father’s war room, the sensation of fire chewing through her veins the first time she was told she couldn’t cry.

When the final truth hit the circle?—

The Eidolich screamed.

It solidified —bones erupting from mist, muscle knitting over old magic, teeth sprouting like iron needles.

It attacked.

Seraphine shouted a ward. Cassian leapt in front of her, stormfire flaring from his arms, slamming into the thing with the force of a godsdamned bolt.

The Eidolich absorbed the first strike. Shrieked. Lunged.

Cassian spun, drove his blade into its chest—but it didn’t have a chest. It bent backward, maw yawning, clawed hands tearing into the earth around them.

“Seraphine—!”

She hurled her glaive in a wide arc, whitefire lashing the beast’s legs. It staggered. Screamed again. The magic in the circle flared to life, pulsing like a second heart.

“It has to be bound in the blood!” she shouted. “Cut your palm!”

Cassian didn’t question.

He sliced into his hand, grabbed hers.They slammed their palms into the center symbol. Light exploded.

The Eidolich writhed, shrieked, tried to escape. But the circle held. And when it collapsed into a pool of rotting magic and memory— a shard of bloodstone remained.

Beating.

Alive.

Seraphine knelt and picked it up, breath ragged.

“The blood key,” she said.

Cassian sank to the ground beside her, every muscle trembling.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

They’d survived.