The pyre's distant glow painted the alley in flickering shades of orange and black, but the cold bit deeper than the flames could reach. Kael crouched in the shadow of a splintered cart, his breath fogging the air as he watched Aria. She sat hunched against a crumbling brick wall, knees pulled to her chest, her gaze fixed on the blood drying on his hands—his blood, black and iridescent, like oil under moonlight.
He'd dragged her here, half-conscious and shuddering, after the Veilwarden fell. She hadn't spoken since.
"Aria." His voice scraped raw. He reached for her, then froze when she stiffened. Her eyes—still glassy with fever—flicked to his face, then away.
Who are you?
The question hung between them, unspoken.
He let his hand drop. "We can't stay here."
No response. The fissure in her chest pulsed faintly, its light dimmer now but no less cruel. He'd wrapped it in strips torn from his coat, but the fabric was already stained through.
She's dying. And it's your fault.
He shoved the thought down, along with the gnawing hunger in his veins. The Bloodprice's power had faded, leaving him hollowed, less. But the glow beneath his skin remained—a map of crimson threads, faint but undeniable.
Aria shifted suddenly, her breath hitching. "Smoke," she whispered.
He followed her stare. Across the alley, tendrils of gray seeped through a cracked cellar door. Not pyre-smoke. Cookfire. Someone's here.
His stomach twisted. Strangers meant danger. But the cold was leaching into Aria's bones—he could see it in the blue tinge of her lips.
"Stay close," he said, rising.
She didn't move.
"Aria. Please."
The plea cracked something in her. Slowly, she stood, swaying. He reached to steady her, but she jerked back, her shoulder hitting the wall. The sound she made—a trapped, animal whimper—lodged like a knife in his ribs.
"I'm still me," he said, too quietly.
She said nothing.
The cellar stank of mildew and burnt thyme. An old woman knelt by the fire, her back to them, stirring a pot of watery broth. Her hands were gnarled, veins bulging like roots, and the air hummed with the static of half-formed wards scratched into the dirt floor. A hedge-witch. Or a charlatan.
Kael's fingers brushed the dagger at his belt. "We need shelter. Just for the night."
The woman didn't turn. "Shelter's costly, boy."
He hesitated, then tossed a silver coin—stolen weeks ago from a Church collection plate—onto the stones. It clattered, spinning.
The woman went still. "That'll do."
Aria hovered in the doorway, her arms wrapped tight around herself. Kael guided her to a moth-eaten pallet near the fire, ignoring how she flinched from his touch. The heat did little to ease the chill in his bones.
The woman ladled broth into a chipped bowl. "Your sister's got the rot."
It wasn't a question. Kael stiffened. "She's fine."
"Liar." The woman nodded at Aria's chest. "Veil-rot eats you from the inside. First the mind, then the flesh." Her milky eye gleamed. "You'll need more than rags to stop it."
Aria curled tighter, her face buried in her knees.
Kael's jaw tightened. "What do you know about it?"
The woman smiled, revealing blackened teeth. "Enough to know you're desperate. Enough to know what you've done." Her gaze flicked to his hands.
He stood abruptly, the stool screeching against stone. "We'll leave."
"Sit down, Bloodprice." Her voice sharpened. "Before you draw them here."
The word hung in the air. Bloodprice. Aria's head lifted, her eyes widening.
Kael froze. "How do you—"
"Saw it in the smoke." The woman tapped the side of her nose. "You stink of borrowed time. How many years did you burn, boy? Ten? Twenty?"
He didn't answer. The number was carved into his skull, relentless. Five. Five years gone, like pages ripped from a book. He'd felt them tear loose in the square—a scream trapped behind his teeth as time itself peeled away.
Aria was staring at him now, her face pale. "What did you do?"
He turned away.
Night deepened. The old woman snored in her corner, a bottle clutched to her chest. Aria slept fitfully by the fire, her breaths shallow but even.
Kael sat against the far wall, sharpening his dagger. Or pretending to. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Five years.
He'd read about the cost, but the texts hadn't mentioned the hunger. A gnawing void where the years had been, devouring every thought, every memory. He closed his eyes, chasing fragments:
Aria at six, laughing as she chased him through the market.
Their mother's voice, singing lullabies in a tongue long forgotten.
The smell of ink and dust in the Godclimb Archive—
Gone.
He gripped the dagger harder. The blade bit into his palm, black blood welling.
"You'll drop that if you're not careful."
He stared. Aria stood over him, her arms crossed. The firelight softened her edges, made her look younger. Like the sister he remembered.
"You should sleep," he said.
She sank down beside him, careful to keep a sliver of space between them. "You first."
A joke. Or the ghost of one.
He almost smiled. "I'm fine."
"Liar." She hugged her knees, staring into the flames. "What happened back there… what you did. Was it from the book?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
"Why?"
The word was barely audible. He wanted to tell her about the Veilwarden's blade, the alley, the terror of losing her. Instead, he said, "I didn't have a choice."
"You always have a choice." Her voice cracked. "You taught me that."
He flinched. She was right. Years ago, when she'd begged him to steal medicine for their sick mother, he'd refused. We don't steal, he'd said. We're not like them.
And their mother had died.
A log collapsed in the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks. Aria tensed, her fingers brushing the bandages at her chest. "It's getting worse, isn't it?"
He followed her gaze. The fissure's glow had spread, threading up her neck like ivy.
"No," he lied.
She laughed bitterly. "You're terrible at this."
"At what?"
"Lying to me."
He swallowed. "Aria—"
"Tell me what happens next." She turned to him, her eyes too bright. "When the rot takes me. Will I forget you too?"
The void in his chest yawned wider. "You won't die."
"That's not what I asked."
He had no answer.
Dawn crept in gray and sodden. The old woman was gone, her fire reduced to embers. Aria slept again, her head pillowed on Kael's coat. He'd draped it over her when the shivering started, ignoring the way his own skin prickled in the cold.
His dagger lay abandoned on the floor. In his hands, the Godclimb lay open, its pages whispering promises he couldn't unread.
Bloodprice: Tier II.
Sacrifice a memory. Gain a day of clarity.
He traced the words, his throat tight. A memory. Any memory. The price seemed smaller, now. What was one more loss?
Aria stirred, murmuring something—a name, maybe his, maybe not.
He closed the book.