Chapter 11: Of Blood Bonds and Bad Timing
It started with a scream.
Not the kind of scream that you might expect from a startled noble or an overdramatic bard. No—this was a deep, guttural, bone-shaking scream, one that rattled the windows of Lysandra's tower and sent a murder of enchanted crows flapping madly into the sky.
Maribel sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding. Across the room, Lucien was already on his feet, dark eyes wide and glowing faintly in the moonlight that filtered through the glass.
"That sounded like it came from the northern wing," he said grimly, already pulling on his boots.
Maribel didn't bother with shoes. She snatched up her wand, flung a robe over her nightdress, and ran.
The halls of Lysandra's sanctuary—usually a place of quiet study and forbidden knowledge—were now a frenzy of alarm spells going off and apprentices running half-dressed and half-awake in every direction. A book familiar shrieked past her ear, flapping its spell-bound pages in panic.
"Out of the way!" barked Lucien, charging past several bewildered necromancers-in-training as if this were just another battlefield.
They skidded into the northern hall together, the scent of burning incense and wet stone thick in the air. A crowd had gathered around the heavy oak door to the reliquary—a room that was supposed to be protected by seventeen layers of wards and the ghosts of three overprotective librarians.
All of those protections were currently failing. Badly.
The door was cracked in two. Smoke poured from the seams. One of the librarian ghosts floated nearby, wringing spectral hands.
"I told her not to touch it!" the ghost wailed. "I told her it was warded with sixteen flavors of don't-you-dare!"
Maribel pushed through the crowd and looked inside.
And there, in the center of the wrecked room, stood a girl.
She was young—no more than sixteen—with messy red curls and a look on her face that suggested she had no idea why everyone was yelling. She was holding an ornate black dagger in one hand, glowing with blood-red runes that should have been sleeping beneath twelve layers of enchanted lock.
Lysandra stormed in behind them, her midnight robes flaring like wings. She took one look at the scene and let out a very unladylike snarl.
"By the blistering bones of Baltazar," she muttered, "why is she holding the Blade of Mourning Banter?!"
"Excuse me," the girl said, "but I think it called to me."
Lucien blinked. "You're holding a sentient dagger that consumes the souls of the overly sarcastic. And you're smiling?"
"Oh, she's always smiling," said a tall figure emerging from the shadows. He wore the garb of a rogue—tight-fitting, well-worn, and heavy on hidden daggers. "That's sort of her thing."
Lysandra groaned. "Not another one."
"I'm Rell," he said with a bow. "And that little menace is my sister, Tilda. I believe she's just become the next Blood-Bonded Host of the Dagger of Ultimate Inconvenience."
Maribel stared. "That's not a real artifact."
"It is now," Lucien muttered.
Tilda beamed. "It's actually quite friendly."
Behind her, the dagger made a sound that could only be described as a chuckle. A very unsettling, echoey, murderous chuckle.
"This complicates things," Lysandra said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We were supposed to lay low. No magical drama, no dark artifacts, no triggering ancient prophecies by accident."
Tilda raised her hand. "About that—there was also a scroll with my name on it. It said something about me being the Chosen Disruption."
"Oh, for the love of Lichdom," Lucien muttered.
"Let's not panic," Maribel said, though her voice was tight. "We've handled cursed lutes, accidentally resurrected ex-boyfriends, and an angry mob of sentient cupcakes. We can handle this."
Tilda waved cheerfully. "I like you. You don't yell as much."
Lysandra snapped her fingers. "Fine. Rell, Tilda—you're both under magical house arrest until I figure out what sort of apocalyptic nonsense this dagger is tied to. In the meantime, I want everyone else out of the reliquary. Now!"
The crowd dispersed in a flurry of robes and whispered gossip.
Later that night, after Tilda and her brother were locked in a magically reinforced guest room guarded by three sarcasm-immune golems, Maribel and Lucien sat in the study, trying to make sense of the disaster.
"She's clearly bonded to the dagger," Maribel said. "The runes glowed in sync with her aura. There's no breaking that kind of link—not without serious consequences."
Lucien leaned back, arms folded. "We don't have time for this. The Necrotic Assembly's watching us, Lysandra's tower is barely keeping its wards up, and now we've got a cursed teenager running around waving a soul-devouring joke-knife."
"She's not just a cursed teenager," said a voice from the shadows. Lysandra entered, carrying a thick tome and two cups of something that smelled like burnt cinnamon and regret. "She's also a magical anomaly."
Lucien raised a brow. "Of course she is."
Lysandra slammed the book down. "The dagger is a relic of the War of Whimsy—a forgotten conflict where chaos magic was weaponized. Tilda's aura matches a recorded frequency from that time."
Maribel blinked. "You mean she's a descendant of the original prank warcasters?"
Lysandra nodded. "And if the Assembly finds out, they'll use her."
Lucien's expression darkened. "Then we protect her."
There was a beat of silence. Maribel reached over and took Lucien's hand. "We're getting good at this whole protecting-the-doomed thing."
Lucien chuckled. "Don't get cocky. We still have to survive the dinner party with my undead father next week."
Maribel groaned. "Do we have to go?"
"Yes. He insists. And he's bringing his newest bride."
"Oh gods," Maribel said. "Is she at least not a skeleton this time?"
Lucien shrugged. "Too early to tell. But knowing Father, she probably sings opera and eats dreams."
The three of them sat in silence, the flickering fire casting strange shadows across the study.
Outside, the storm returned—soft rain tapping against the glass.
Another prophecy had awakened. Another burden had fallen into their laps.
But for now, they had each other.
And that was something.