Page 22 of Orc’s Gallows

The passage opens into an underground crypt—old, older than the Execution Hall, older than Blackhook itself. The ceiling is low, the walls carved with symbols I don’t recognize. Ending magic saturates the air, thick enough to taste.

This is where I take the bodies after execution. The ones with no family to claim them, no graves to fill. They’re interred here, in niches cut into the stone, their remains left to feed whatever power lurks beneath the city.

She’ll hate this place. But it’s safe. The council won’t follow us into a death-soaked crypt—not when they know what she is, what she can do with the power concentrated here.

I stop at the far wall, pressing my hand against a stone that looks identical to all the others. It swings inward, revealing a narrow staircase leading up.

“My quarters.” I gesture her through. “The council doesn’t know about this entrance. We’ll be safe there until I can figure out our next move.”

She pauses at the threshold, her gaze finding mine in the shadows.

“You claimed me.”

Not a question. A statement, heavy with implications I’m not ready to address.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you were right.” The words come out rougher than intended. “The gallows were hungry. The presence beneath it wanted your death. If I’d pulled that lever, I would have fed the very monster you warned me about.”

“So this was strategic.” Her words carry an edge I can’t interpret. “A tactical decision. The most efficient way to preserve a useful asset.”

Is that what you think?

I don’t answer. Can’t. Because the truth is more complicated than strategy, more dangerous than tactics. The truth involves a sigil that’s been dormant for twenty-three years.

The passage opens into the lower levels of the Execution Hall. Familiar territory. My domain. I’ve walked these corridors a thousand times, surrounded by the names of everyone I’ve killed.

Now I’m bringing a death witch home.

“The council will be furious.” Her words echo in the stone corridors. “They’ll declare you rogue. Put a bounty on your head. Everything you’ve built⁠—”

“Is already destroyed.” I stop, turn to face her. “The moment I ripped that noose from your neck, everything changed. There’s no going back.”

She stares at me. The brand on her collarbone throbs in counterpoint to the one on my neck, a rhythm that mirrors shared heartbeats.

“You knew that when you did it.”

“Yes.”

Silence stretches between us. The torchlight casts dancing shadows across her face, highlighting the exhaustion in her features, the pain still lingering from the claiming.

“The mating mark.” She touches her collarbone, fingertips tracing the edges of the brand. “I felt it. When you pressed your hand against me. I felt you.”

My pulse quickens. “What do you mean?”

“Your certainty. Your decision.” Her purple-flecked gaze finds mine in the darkness. “You weren’t thinking about strategy or assets or feeding monsters. You were thinking about…” She trails off, searching for words. “Mine.” You were thinking that I was yours.”

“The claiming isn’t a decision.” My words come out rough. “It’s instinct. Recognition. The sigil knows what it knows, and I⁠—”

“You what?”

I’ve been alone for twenty-three years. I searched three cities and never found you. I gave up on the very concept of a mate, built my entire identity around that absence.

And now you’re here. Real. Marked with my sigils, bound to me by magic older than this city.

And I still don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for what I did.