Page 46 of Too Dangerous To Die

Old. Crude. Bleeding black.

Three interlocked crescents, broken down the center. My breath catches, my claws flex.

The mark of the Wraithborn.

My stomach twists.

I move closer, and the stone flares faintly as if sensing my presence. Glyphs shimmer into visibility—an ancient ward, hiding more than it protects. With a sharp pulse of my magic, the illusion breaks.

Behind it is a chamber. Cold. Reverent. A shrine to something dark and long-forgotten.

And there on the far wall, etched in blood that refuses to fade—is a record.

A memory.

A curse.

It’s not just history. It’s a warning.

There, in script only the old warriors would know, I read it aloud to myself, each word like a blade in the gut.

“By blood and bone, she made the pact.

By fire and soul, she broke the world.

By name and binding, she shall be reclaimed.

Medea, O Bride of the Bound, you are Ours.”

I stagger back, heart hammering, bile rising.

Nora. Medea. She—they—made a pact with the Wraithborn.

And worse… it wasn’t to destroy them.

The truth crashes into me, cold and cruel: she didn’t just betray me in the past. She chose them. Shebound herselfto them.

And they’re coming to collect.

My fists clench, talons slicing into my own palms. The scent of my blood fills the chamber, thick and iron-sweet.

I should tell her. Warn her.

But the image of her standing there, shoulders squared, mouth bloodied from the beast’s attack, triumphant—flashes in my mind, and something darker curls beneath my ribs.

Jealousy.

Not of the power. Not even of the Wraithborn.

But of theconnection.

They think she belongs to them.

She doesn’t.

She’s mine.

And gods help me, I’ll rip the world apart before I let them touch her.

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