The Spire of Bone

Elian woke to the sensation of rising.

He was in a glass elevator, shooting upward along the exterior of a massive black skyscraper. Below him, the smog-choked city of Nocturne spread out like a cancerous growth. Above him loomed the penthouse of the Spire of Bone, the fortress of the Obsidian Syndicate.

The elevator doors hissed open.

Elian was shoved into a room that was less a home and more a mausoleum. The walls were black marble, the floor polished obsidian. In the center of the room, on a bed of crimson velvet, lay a man.

Kaelen Voss. The Reaper.

Elian had heard the stories. Kaelen had united the criminal underworld of Nocturne through sheer, terrifying brutality. He was a mage of unparalleled power, fueled by the purest Ichor.

But the man on the bed didn't look like a god. He looked like a corpse.

Kaelen’s chest was heaving. His skin was gray, veined with black lines that pulsed rhythmically—*Ichor Rot*. The magic was eating him alive. But the immediate problem was the gaping, jagged wound in his abdomen. It sizzled and smoked, resisting the natural clotting process.

"Fix him," the lieutenant said, shoving Elian toward the bed. "Or the tenement burns."

Elian approached the bed. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves he had synthesized himself—one of the few comforts he had recreated from Earth.

Kaelen’s eyes flew open. They were the color of refined Ichor, a glowing, toxic violet.

"Who are you?" Kaelen rasped. He grabbed Elian’s wrist. His grip was weak, but the intent was lethal.

"The man who is going to save your miserable life," Elian said, checking Kaelen’s pulse. "If you let go."

Kaelen glared at him, then his hand dropped. "If I die... my men have orders to level the district."

"Charming," Elian muttered. "You have a perforated bowel and a cursed laceration. Standard magic won't work because the curse reflects the spell."

"I know," Kaelen gritted out. "That’s why you're here. You're a Binder. You don't cast spells. You absorb."

Elian looked at the wound. It was nasty. A Cursed Blade had done this. To heal it, Elian would have to knit the flesh with his magic, which meant he would feel the blade entering his own gut, over and over again.

"I need hot water, alcohol, and light," Elian barked at the lieutenant. "Now!"

Elian opened his bag. He pulled out a scalpel and a needle driver. He wasn't just going to use magic. He was going to use science. Magic would seal the curse, but sutures would hold the meat together.

"This is going to hurt," Elian told Kaelen.

"I don't feel pain," Kaelen sneered.

"I do," Elian replied.

He placed his hands on the wound.

The scream tore from Elian’s throat before he could stop it.

It felt like a hot poker being driven into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping, but kept his hands firm. He channeled the *Hum*. He wove the torn blood vessels back together, forcing his own life force to act as the bridge.

Kaelen watched him. Through the haze of his own fever, the warlord studied the small, trembling doctor. He watched Elian’s face pale, watched the sweat drip from his nose, watched the way he bit his lip until it bled to keep from passing out.

Most Binders begged for mercy. This one was cursing in a language Kaelen didn't understand (*English*), calling him a "stubborn son of a bitch" while stitching him back together with a silver needle.

Elian finished the final stitch. He poured antiseptic over the wound—causing Kaelen to hiss—and collapsed into a chair.

The wound was closed. The black veins of the Rot receded slightly, fed by Elian’s vitality.

"You're alive," Elian wheezed, clutching his own stomach, where a phantom ache throbbed. "Now call off your dogs."

Kaelen sat up slowly. He looked at the impossible suture work. He looked at Elian.

"The district is safe," Kaelen said. He snapped his fingers. "Lock him in the East Wing."

Elian stood up, swaying. "What? We had a deal."

"The deal was I don't burn the city," Kaelen said, lying back down. "I still need you. The Rot is still there. You're staying until I say you leave."

"You arrogant—"

Two guards grabbed Elian and dragged him away. Kaelen watched him go, a flicker of obsession lighting up his violet eyes. He had found a battery that didn't run out.