The academy grounds are quieter than usual. The other students have listened to the memo. The courtyard is empty, the main path deserted, the covered arcade echoing with my footsteps and nothing else. Above the treeline, the sky has gone a specific shade of gray that isn't weather. I know weather. This issomething else, something that moves against the wind instead of with it, something that sits at the upper atmosphere like a bruise that can't decide whether to spread.
I'm checking the third ward post when I feel the first pull.
It comes from the ground, a vibration, low and rolling, the kind that bypasses your ears entirely and goes straight to the base of your spine. The grass around the ward post goes flat as if pressed by an invisible weight. The ward flickers. Then it goes dark.
I step back from the post. My absorption flares automatically, reaching for something, anything, the residual energy in the ward's anchor stone, the trace magic in the soil. It finds nothing. Whatever is coming is not just breaking the wards. It's eating them.
"Get inside."
The voice comes from my left. Ryder Ashford is fifteen feet away, standing at the edge of the path with his coat open and his hands already moving, death magic rising around him in those familiar dark ribbons that curl upward and spread outward like smoke that knows exactly what it's doing. His eyes are on the treeline.
"I was checking the wards," I say.
"They're gone. Get inside."
"All of them?"
He turns his head just enough to look at me, and whatever is in his expression is not the carefully maintained coldness from class. "All of them. Move."
I don't move, because something comes out of the trees before I can, and it isn't one thing, it's several, dark shapes that don't hold consistent form, that shift and blur at the edges and move across the ground without making any sound at all. Wraiths. More than I've ever seen referenced in any text, more than the controlled specimens behind glass in the Reaper wing'scontainment cases. These are full-formed, free, and moving with the kind of coordinated purpose that means someone or something is directing them.
"Ashford—"
"I see them." His magic expands. The dark ribbons thicken and sweep outward in an arc, and the nearest wraith hits the edge of his power and shreds apart. Two more take its place immediately. "There are students on the east path. I need you to—"
One gets past him. It moves fast, faster than the others, and it comes straight at me, and my absorption does what it always does when something with power gets close: it reaches out and pulls.
The wraith doesn't have power the way magic does. What it has is absence, a hollow, consuming nothing that my absorption grabs and immediately doesn't know what to do with. It hits my chest like swallowing ice water and I go down to one knee before I can stop myself, my hands hitting the ground, cold spreading up my arms.
Ryder's hand closes around my arm and yanks me back up. The wraith dissipates, shredded by the death magic that followed his grip, and I'm standing again with my palm pressed to his forearm and his magic running hot against my skin where we're touching.
My absorption doesn't hesitate. It pulls from him instead.
It's nothing like the wraith's hollow cold. His magic is dense and alive, the specific signature of reaper death power, and it comes into me like breath after being underwater. My absorption takes it and amplifies it the way it amplifies everything, the same function that made me a battery for my family's rituals, and the power doubles somewhere between his skin and mine and pushes back out.
Ryder makes a sound I've never heard from him before. Not pain. Something closer to the opposite of it.
"What are you doing?" His voice is low and tight.
"I don't know. Don't let go."
He doesn't let go. His grip on my arm tightens and his magic surges again, and my absorption catches it and amplifies it again, and the death magic that goes back out into the air around us is twice what it should be, three times, a field of it that makes the remaining wraiths pull back from the edge like something that recognizes its own destruction coming for it.
Three wraiths break from the retreating group and come at us together. Ryder moves and I move with him, his arm pulling me into the arc of his body so we're facing them side by side, and he throws the amplified death magic in a wide sweep and the wraiths come apart at the seams, their forms unraveling in the field like dark thread pulled too fast from a spool.
There are more. There are always more. They come from the treeline in groups, and we hold the perimeter together, his magic going out and coming back amplified through my hands where I'm gripping his arm, and I realize after the fourth wave that we've stopped being two separate people trying to fight in the same space. We're doing something else entirely. His power goes into me and comes back out bigger, and I'm directing it the way I direct absorbed magic, pushing it where the wraiths are thickest, pulling it back before it spreads to the ward anchors and damages the foundations.
"Left," I say.
He pivots left. The magic follows.
"They're regrouping at the north post."
"I see it." He adjusts the angle and the amplified death field sweeps north, and the cluster at the post shreds apart in one hit that would have taken him three passes on his own.
We're standing close enough that I can feel his breath. His coat sleeve is pushed back where I grabbed him, skin against skin, and the connection between his magic and my absorption has settled into something that almost feels like a rhythm, almost feels like something that's been doing this for longer than the last four minutes. His power moves and mine catches it, and the whole thing hums with a frequency I can feel in my sternum.
The last wave comes.
