Chapter Thirty-One
It may have been hours, it may have been days—I couldn’t say. My grasp of time vanished long ago. Having lost myself in book after book searching, it isn’t until I heave a sigh of relief did I realize how stiff I’ve become sitting in the ancient chair.
Mending my soul is possible.
I’ve found the ritual.
But it carries tall demands and steeper costs, making my relief short-lived. It’s not a ritual I can do myself—not due to a lack of skill or even the costs of casting the ritual, but because for a soul to be mended, both pieces must stand on the cusp between life and death.
Which means the ritual requires veilwalking and a life tether—someone willing to expend their life energy to ensure death’s call falls upon deaf ears.
In the depths of my bones, I know it will be Ryc to volunteer for the task.
I won’t be able to convince him otherwise.
And it’s that which gives me pause.
Flipping through a few pages, I heave a sigh.
The runes on the page blur together as I delve into my thoughts.
I know the horrors lurking in the veil—I used to be one.
While I’m confident Ryc has more experience handling cursed creatures than many other mortals of Eldoterra, it’s not enough to prepare him for veilwalking.
A life tether is pulled into the veil alongside their anchor and must survive—for however long it takes to complete the mending ritual.
I flip another page. It’s filled with more details on how to sanctify the ritual space—a requirement before attempting the mending ritual.
And this ritual is complex.
Closing the book, I tap a nail along its spine.
I’m getting ahead of myself.
There’s no promise Cenviri or anyone in his House would be willing to perform such a ritual, not with the current climate between his House and Vaelyn. Venturing into the veil comes with additional threats for him now—the risk of being dragged to the hells by Death Bringers or Vaelyn himself.
“What is it?” Eve asks gently, ice blue peeking at me through the corner of her eye.
“I found the ritual,” I answer, unable to devise a believable lie.
She straightens herself, peeling herself away from the table as her face lights up. “Ves, that’s great,” she says, smiling. She pauses, her brows creasing. “Why do you look like this isn’t great?”
“Well… it’s not the worst outcome I anticipated,” I reply with a scoffed laugh. “But it’s damn close. I knew I’d need a necromancer. But I’m not convinced Cenviri is trustworthy. He and Vaelyn have centuries of history between them.”
Eve shifts in her seat, swiveling in my direction.
“You heard him, neither he nor anyone in his House holds a contract with Vaelyn,” she says. “He refused to sign and killed anyone who did.”
“Eve… I can’t take a necromancer’s word at face value. Especially one with close ties to Vaelyn,” I reply with a sigh. “And neither should you.”
“What’s Druka’s stance on Vaelyn?” Eve asks, pitching an elbow over the back of her chair. “Would he be the reason she fled the hells?”
“Her reasons would be many,” I answer, my mind traveling to centuries past. “Vaelyn would undoubtedly be counted among them.”
“Then it doesn’t make sense for her to escape the hells and hide in a House if the patriarch is contracted to Vaelyn,” Eve counters, her stare firm.
“It’s not enough—”
“No, I agree,” Eve interjects. “But it’s a start. It’s more than you’re going to get searching for a necromancer elsewhere.”
I rise from my seat, tucking the book with the needed rituals into the nook of my arm.
“Either way, I’m now expected to listen to what he has to say,” I sigh. “I’ll decide where I stand after.”
After I’ve asked a few questions and heard his answers.
“Before you go,” Eve whirls in her seat, returning to the open book before her on the table. “I found this.” She points to the page. “It says soul sundering can be the result of channeling too much Aether. Could that be what happened to you?”
Peering at the page, I purse my lips as I shake my head.
“I’m no Aether wielder,” I reply, my voice quiet. “And if I was, I’ve no recollection of it.”
No.
My earliest memories are of the hells—of signing my contract.
But that doesn’t mean it isn’t possible. It would explain my ability to sense magic, the veilflowers, and how easily I can grasp at my innate here.
“Celesta was an Aether wielder,” I voice the thought, mostly to myself.
“Do you think she would know?” She shifts in her seat, her eyes meeting mine briefly.
I mull over the question for a moment, remaining silent.
“Perhaps,” I say, scanning the rest of the page. “But I doubt she’ll tell the truth about it.” I shake my head.
I’d have to find her to ask.
For all I know, Vaelyn has found her already.
The cover of the book swings shut with a swift flick of Eve’s wrist. Rising from her seat, she gestures with a swing of her head in the direction of the Ferry Gate.
“We’re getting close to finishing this,” Eve says, offering me a small smile. “Let’s see it through.”
?????????????
As we approach the Ferry Gate, my brows crease.
Through the portal, a slew of old magic constructs stand unnaturally still in the center of the round room. Neat rows, neat ranks, as silent as death. Like the archivists and the servant in the hall, they’re nearly transparent—their armor, swords, and shields having the same shimmering runes.
My skin prickles as I step through the portal into the gatehouse, the wash of magic like a pouring of cold water over my head. With Eve at my side, I make my way toward the Ferry Gate across the room—toward Ryc.
Cyran strolls along the front line, silently inspecting the garrison standing at the ready as if they were the Royal Guard of Erus. Hood and cowl lowered, his curiosity and caution sit plain upon his face.
Ryc lingers near the Cerwiden gate, apparently in low conversation with Cenviri. The distinct lack of Druka is easy—and pleasing—to note. Her towering figure and glittering red skin lie nowhere to be seen.
But this—the exchange between Ryc and Cenviri—it’s unprecedented. Eldoterra and Cerwiden have been removed from one another for centuries and now two powerful figures stand in talks. A historic moment that will never appear in any historical text.
Eve nudges me gently with an elbow, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Any idea why these sentinels are appearing now?” she asks in a low whisper.
I shake my head. “Like the servant and the archivist, perhaps it’s because there are people on the grounds once again.”
“You think they recognize you’re to ascend?” she asks, swinging her wary stare to the rows of constructs.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I answer. “But Ryc did say they weren’t here when he came to pledge his oath. If that were the case, wouldn’t they have recognized him then?”
“What happens if they attack?” The question tumbles out of Eve in a rushed whisper. “How would we fight against them? Can they even die?”
I offer a small smile. “They can die, but not in the traditional sense you’re thinking. They can be unwoven.”
“And can you do that? Can you unweave them?”
“No,” I answer honestly. There’s no point in lying. “Never had to learn that.”
“Then we’re dead,” Eve scoffs a sharp laugh. “Got it.”
I gesture to Cyran. “We’ve a small hope, he’s studying their runes.”
Knowing Cyran, he studies them with the intent to understand what it takes to unweave them.
“I never picked up old magic,” Eve says as she watches the Captain of the Royal Guard. “I’m thinking I need to reconsider.”
Not an unwise decision.
Especially if we’re to live here.
With a quick departing glance, Eve swings her step to the side, joining Cyran. He greets her with a genuine smile—not the stoic glare I expected. As much as they grate against one another, there’s at least mutual respect between them.
Ryc turns from the Ferry Gate, his golden gaze meeting mine through the ghostly bodies of the sentinels. Cenviri peers around Ryc, noting my approach.
A small grin tilts the necromancer’s lips as his sharp eyes stay fixed in my direction and he says something low, too low for me to hear. Ryc chuckles, nodding.
Immediate suspicion snakes through my chest.
Ryc greets me with a soft kiss to my brow as I reach him.
“Find what you seek, il-akiv?” Cenviri asks, noticing the book in my arm.
“I did,” I reply, giving him a less than warm stare. “And now I’m here to listen.”
“Your cris and I have been talking,” he says and the casual integration of Malbolge causes my brows to lift.
Heart.
He’s calling Ryc my heart.
“Getting to know one another,” Ryc says, and his hand falls to the small of my back.
“I am envious of how right the world must feel at each other’s side,” Cenviri says and there’s a degree of mourning in his voice. “I still search for my cris. Thought I found her at one point… I discovered I was wrong.” His stare grows distant, his smile no longer reaching his eyes.
He returns to the present with a small shake of his head.
“Forgive me, these last few months following the release from my contract have been plagued with glimpses of a past once forgotten.” He shifts his weight on his feet, adjusting the neckline of his robes.
“And it is on that,” he gestures to my waist—to the leather pouch secured at my hip, “I need to speak and you must listen.”
I resist the urge to draw my cloak around me, tucking away the pouch. It contains my soul crystal. Leaving it behind in Ollora didn’t feel the wisest choice.
“If the gods discover what you carry, you and your loved ones will no longer be safe,” he says, his mossy green eyes volleying between Ryc and me.
“How do you know what I carry?” I ask, my voice scathing.
Beside me, Ryc tenses. Eve and Cyran appear on our flank and three of Cenviri’s Generals stride up behind the necromancer. A tiny vibration in my chest serves as a warning—Cenviri’s House will not tolerate disrespect of their patriarch.