Chapter 4 #2
My eyes snap open and my body locks into place as if his cruel words have turned me to stone. The engagement ring that Valen gifted me this morning weighs heavily on my hand. This is why Vincentius would not meet my gaze and why my father was so relaxed. They knew. They all knew and said nothing.
I was sold to be a wife and out of my father’s hands forever. My fate was so carelessly tossed aside despite my life’s training to become the Heir.
That scum of a would-be-brother leans back and fucking smiles, the room exploding in celebration.
The Order rushes forward to congratulate him and I am shoved to the side in the resulting chaos.
I stumble, my eyes locking with Alasdair’s filthy mother.
The bitch smiles, slow and cruel, the only thing she ever needed to do to remind me that I am the Archweaver’s bastard daughter.
Unworthy, no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I succeed, no matter how much I need it, it never matters.
Aunt Vi was wrong. I am not to herald in a new era of magic.
I am an abomination that survived childhood, only to be hidden away and forgotten about until death claims me.
My eyes opened fully to the reality that I’ve suspected all my life.
The Order would never accept me. They would rather embrace mediocrity than me.
They will suffer for their choice. I swear to the Weave itself, the Order will fall.
I’m shaking, but my grimoire is stable in my hands.
I can taste it, the magic threads within.
My mouth waters and the power tingles beneath my skin.
The burning within my heart stings in a sharp, yet oddly delightful way.
My Entropy Thread dances along the spine of my dear book, its darkness glinting like the sheen of oil.
A cruel smile stretches my mouth and I bring the book to my lips, my eyes never leaving the illustration of Alasdair. My voice tingles with magic.
“I warned you, did I not?”
Shadows dim the edges of my vision. Inky oil smears and seeps into the pages from where my thumbs press against it, like branching veins, until the red ink turns black.
My eyes cool and I know the green and whites of my eyes are shifting until they reflect the same matte darkness. My voice distorts when magic sucks harshly from my soul as my curse drinks with greedy gulps without my familiar present to protect me.
“You take what is mine and I’ll ruin you.”
Hissing slowly penetrates my awareness. The soft whispering from the books before me. A warning.
I throw myself to the side seconds before something massive and black hits the bookshelf.
The force of it knocks me off course. I shriek, the slate ground unforgiving as my elbow slams down first to take my full weight.
Then my head crashes into the meat of my arm.
I draw in shuddering breaths, heart pulsing haphazardly and my ribs tightening, as a sharp pain shoots through my chest from the sudden disconnection from my grimoire.
I flex my fingers to summon a spell, but the pain is blinding. The disruption mid-feeding my curse has left me drained. My Soul Threads are writhing, and the burning worsens as each attempts to destroy the other to gain dominance over my soul. I swallow, my shaking hand clutching my chest.
I should’ve waited to do the communion slowly with Jinx, who would’ve protected both my body and my soul during the communion. But there’s nothing that can be done about that now.
I roll, my teeth gritted hard together, and scramble to my feet to face my attacker. “Who the fuck…” But my words run dry and my blood goes cold.
Feeding the curse awoke The Arachnomicon.
The priest’s grimoire is no longer a book with legs—it’s a foul, spidery beast, massive and fast. Easily the size of a horse, it turns to me.
Fear drips down my insides, bile surging in my throat.
I never wanted to know what a spider’s face looked like up close and here it is in all its horrific glory.
I’m going to die.
No, fuck that. I snarl, teeth bared as my magic stutters into existence. The pain in my heart and in my soul nearly robs me of sight, but I force through it to roar, “Transform back!”
I’m ignored. The spider surges at the same time my knees give out and my left hand swings down to the slate floor.
My fingers sink into the stone, my vault recognizing my flesh and magic, and I grip until my joints ache.
I pull, Transformation magic pulsing through me.
A chunk of slate slams up, hitting the spider’s abdomen and sending it ramming into the ceiling.
I bolt to the door, my fingers slipping free of the stone and the spell dissipating.
The spider crashes to the ground with a hiss.
My exit is only a few steps away, but the spider is fast. My legs knock out from under me.
I crash into the iron door, the momentum swinging it open.
I rise on my forearms but hit the ground again as my leg is yanked back.
Two long forelegs have my boot in a vice grip, dragging me towards disgusting fangs with long tendrils of green slime dangling from the sharp tips.
Oh fuck no.
My nails scrape uselessly along the floor, right arm screaming in pain.
It’s mottled and wrong looking and my heart is still beating oddly after being torn so indelicately from my grimoire.
I’m lucky that I’m alive. I try to sink my fingers back into the stone, but the fucking thing is dragging me too fast into the vault to get purchase.
I scream, the sound echoing through the stone, “LUCAS!” And even louder, I call down the invisible thread that connects my soul to my familiar, JINX! GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE AND HELP ME!
I don’t wait for a response, flipping and whipping my left arm out. A spell surges from it and hits the spider square in its disgusting face. The exoskeleton glows and absorbs the power like a sponge in water.
My eyes widen as the spider metabolizes my magic to strengthen itself.
A sharp crack echoing through the basement snaps me out of it. I have just enough time to cover my head before fire roars above me, golden threads encased in flames arching across the room, the heat singeing my shirtsleeves.
The spider shrieks, releases me, and flees up the side of the basement wall. Its dark, inky body perfectly camouflages with the high ceilings.
A strong hand grabs my right arm and I scream. Lucas drops me, eyes wide, before snapping his gold threads towards the spider again to keep its grasping front legs and repulsive pedipalps from getting closer.
“We have to run, Tor!”
But I’m not listening. This book is way more than what my research described.
Could it be a priesthood-founding doctrine that escaped the purge?
I didn’t get a good look at the grimoire’s core before and I’m not passing up the opportunity a second time.
Light sparks in my irises, growing brighter as I ignore my pain and pour more precious energy into them.
It takes seconds to spot the spider hiding along the ceiling, its long legs tucked up as it watches and prepares to strike.
The priest’s Soul Thread that bound the book glints.
It’s just as difficult to identify the magic source as before and I don’t hold back.
More and more of my dwindling power pours into my endeavor, my brain aching with the effort, until I spot it.
Within the core of the creature is not one thread of magic, but two. Entropy and Transformation. A Dual Thread grimoire, the legacy of a powerful Dual-Threaded priest.
My eyes sparkle, my lips parting. I’ve spent years looking for evidence of other Duals surviving to adulthood and mastering any sort of magic, only to encounter the same accounts of children horrifically dying.
After all, the Soul Thread is the primary source of power, an anchor for all spells to orbit around.
It’s why Preservation and Transformation weavers cannot wield each other’s magics.
Their sources are in direct conflict. Same with Creation and Entropy.
That is why Duals have such tragic fates.
When there is more than one thread within a soul, they war with each other for dominance, making proper mastery of either source deadly or difficult.
The Dual who created The Arachnomicon must’ve been a force of nature and ancient. Only decades of pouring potent and powerful magic into a grimoire could transform it into such a thing. Their secrets held within those pages could be the key to my long-term survival.
A tremor courses through me when a flicker of hope sparks.
I must read that book. I need to know more about this legacy of Duals that is not filtered through Order lore.
For I am of Creation and Entropy, raised by the Order to believe that I am doomed to become a destructive explosion of conflicting sources.
Yet, Viola always believed I was something more.
Something wondrous. And this is the evidence I need to prove her right.
With fiery determination burning within me, I slam my left hand over my throbbing arm and clamp hard. I grit my teeth against the pain and pulse with magic. Light glows, magic knitting my cracked bone together with tiny tendrils, my forehead beading in sweat.
I step beside Lucas. “Douse your flame. We need that book intact.”
Lucas turns sharply towards me. “Are you insane?”
It’s the moment the spider was waiting for, and it jumps.
My breath ceases, eyes wide. My magic is locked in my healing spell and time slows to a crawl as I once again try to tear away from an incomplete spell. My heart sears and my mouth opens wide in a silent scream.
Lucas’ shoulder rams into mine, the strength of him sending me careening to the side. I hit the ground again, this time rolling so I can whip my head back up to witness his plan. The fire extinguishes from Lucas’ threads to wrap around the spider’s massive body as he attempts to throw it from us.
The spider grabs on and Lucas’ feet lift from the floor as he goes tumbling with the creature.
My heart pounds, pulsing fear through my body in a wave of cold nausea as Lucas grapples with the creature. My arm’s healing is imperfect, but it’s enough for me to disentangle from the spell without further damaging myself.
Ignoring the jolt of lingering pain, I slap my palms flat on the stone floor and speak the ancient words of the Weave, beseeching its blessing as my soul sings.
The walls begin to ripple with Transformation magic, stone shifting as it answers my call.
I want to corral it in a stone prison, but can’t with Lucas in the way.
He tries again and again to disentangle from the creature, but to no avail.
My throat goes dry, sweat beading along my forehead as I grip the spell with both hands.
I mumble, “Come on, Lucas… Get out of the way…”
A familiar whispering reaches my ears. Slowly, I turn away from Lucas to my wide-open vault with its fallen bookshelf and tumbled books. There, in the very center, lies my grimoire. Vulnerable.
No, I cannot risk my grimoire being damaged. The vault needs to be secured to keep it safe from the fight and, in case this goes south, the spider book. With its power, The Arachnomicon is capable of devouring other grimoires.
With one last look at Lucas, I release my hold on the stone and bolt to the open vault. I’m not far, but each step feels like a mile as Lucas battles to physically force the book into submission. He’ll be fine. I can do this.
My magic hums from me, righting the bookcase and the other grimoires.
My precious book swoops up into my hands and I almost send the whole bookcase back down with the force of my impact.
With shaking hands, I shove my book back with the others and it once again seamlessly blends in.
If the spider manages to break into my vault, it shouldn’t be able to sense my adolescent grimoire when surrounded by much tastier options.
I don’t have time to feel relief. As fast as I can, I run from the vault and slam it closed. My palms press hard against the seal. With a flare of light, it activates. I exhale, forehead touching it, and my shoulders slump. I did it. Thank all the nonexistent arachnid gods.
A scream tears through the basement and freezes my heart cold.
Lucas.
I whip around and a shattering within cripples me as I behold the creature pinning my friend down with its grasping forelegs, its mouth lowered to his chest.
Lucas’ hand falls limp to the ground, the golden glow of his rings fading until they are a magicless, dull black.