The kiss was a collision of blade against bone, hungry and merciless.
Malakor’s mouth took hers with an unbridled ferocity born of battles fought in the mud and the ceaseless fear of her absence. Aurelia gasped into the heat of him, her fingers tangling hard into the damp strands of his dark hair, dragging him down until there was no space left between them for breath or doubt. The cold air of the crypt vanished, swallowed entirely by the furnace of his skin.
He backed her against the ruined dais until her thighs met the jagged edge of the stone. His free hand clamped onto the curve of her hip, his bare fingers biting through linen to grip her flesh with possessive certainty. Every line of his body was coiled wire, a hunter pinning what he had bled to claim.
"You speak of ruin so easily," he growled against her lips, his voice ragged, catching on the rapid flutter of her breathing. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, his amber eyes dilated until only thin rings of gold ringed the darkness of his pupils. "You have no idea what it would cost to put you back together if the Veil took you whole."
"Then let it take me," Aurelia whispered, her chest heaving against the cold steel of his cuirass. A wild, reckless tremor thrummed in her blood, intoxicating and sharp. "Or hold me where I stand. You do not get to do both, Malakor."
His answer was a low, possessive sound deep in his chest—part oath, part snarl. His mouth trailed down the curve of her jaw, planting searing pressure against the sensitive hollow beneath her ear where her pulse thrashed like a caged bird. Aurelia arched beneath the onslaught, her nails digging into the scarred leather of his shoulders, an involuntary shiver raking down her spine as his teeth grazed the soft skin of her throat.
Beneath them, the temple shuddered again.
The violet fissure in the altar stone tore wider with a sharp, sickening crack that echoed like lightning through the rafters. Silver mist poured upward in thick, churning billows, carrying the scent of ancient moss and rotting cedar. The wailing of the wraiths below pitched higher, scratching at the threshold of the mortal plane with invisible claws.
Malakor paused, his forehead resting against hers. His breath came fast and uneven, cooling against her flushed skin. The war outside had caught up to the perimeter; above the mountain ridge, the dull thud of dread-catapults began to hammer the pass, shaking loose showers of limestone dust from the vaulted ceiling.
"The Vanguard is breaking the outer barricade," Aurelia murmured, though she did not release her hold on his neck.
"Let the vanguard come," Malakor said, but the cold calculation of the warlord was already bleeding back into his features, sharp and lethal. He reached down without looking, catching the hilt of his great sword in one smooth motion, setting the heavy steel between them and the weeping rift. "We break the gate first. If the abyssal gate opens behind us while we hold the breach, there will be no kingdom left to rule."
Aurelia pulled away reluctantly, her skin burning where his hands had rested. She looked down at the twin warding glyphs etched into her palms—the silver lines were bleeding light, responding directly to the resonance of the rift.
"The binding requires a sovereign's blood to anchor," she said, looking back up to meet his dark, unyielding gaze. "Not just mine. Yours."
Malakor smiled, a harsh, wicked slash across his scarred face that promised violence to anyone who dared test their combined wrath. He drew the dagger from his belt and reversed the blade, offering the hilt to her without hesitation.
"Take whatever you need to seal it," he said, stepping into the edge of the rising mist. "And when the gate is shut, we carve our way through the army waiting outside."