Chapter Thirty-Two #3
The floors, the walls, the arches—everything’s cleaved from obsidian. It feels too much like the Tower, and despite knowing it isn’t, sharp unease circled in my chest anyway.
Out here, it doesn’t feel as smothering.
Out here, I can breathe.
“Ryc hasn’t returned?” Eve sounds surprised.
“Not yet.” More paper rustles as Cyran answers. A chair drags against the floor. “It may take him some time to reach Captain Hazelwind, having to trek through the citadel. He’ll tell him to return in two days.”
“You think we’ll be able to go home that soon?” she asks, her voice growing closer. “We don’t know how long this ritual takes, or how long Ves will need to recover. Will that be enough time?”
“It’s what he hopes for,” Cyran replies.
It’s what I hope for, too.
I want this to be done and to go home.
“Patriarch Cenviri will do everything in his ability to ensure il-akiv is as she should be,” Zirzol says, his low voice a coarse rumble.
There’s a brief pause before Eve asks, “What does he get out of it?” It sounds more like a demand. “It’s not guilt driving him. Nor is it the goodness in his heart. There’s something else. There always is. What is it?”
“It is his Fate,” the First General answers with little hesitation. “Il-akiv is the first of many Fated souls Patriarch Cenviri must restore.”
“The first? Has he not mended a person’s soul before?” Cyran asks, concern growing in his tone.
“Mending a mortal’s soul is simple,” Zirzol replies. “Il-akiv is no mere mortal.”
“Makes sense,” Eve says with a huff. “She’s a demigod. Not like there’s a slew of them walking about.”
Fated to mend the souls of those Fated?
The cyclical nature of the thought is sure to inspire a headache.
Who am I to question Nektos and her web of weavings?
“Should we be concerned?” Cyran asks.
“As long as Patriarch Cenviri is kept safe during our time in the veil, no harm will come to your queen.”
The soothing rainfall fills the silence, or perhaps their voices fade into it. Either way, the sound sinks into my bones as I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of the night.
Whoever she is—whoever I was—this creature harboring a deep cold, heartless rage—she doesn’t belong in the living realm. She’s become an errant soul, lost in the veil for at least twelve centuries. Part of me is sympathetic to her plight, but a larger part is selfish.
I will not allow her to ruin me or the life I’ve created here.
Nor can I continue to exist separated from her.
“Hey,” Eve’s soft greeting and gentle touch to my elbow cause me to jump. Her brows furrow as she steps in beside me. “You alright?” She asks, drawing her hood to protect her hair.
“Today has been… a lot,” I answer, my voice low.
“Yeah, I’d say,” Eve says with a small, huffed laugh. “But let’s be honest… this whole year has been a lot.”
I crack a smile, nodding. “It has.”
She pitches herself at the waist, leaning her elbows upon the rail to peer at the wilderness below. “Went to the market. Brought back food if you’re hungry. Learned there can’t be business hours if nothing ever closes.”
“Why close when undead rarely tire?” I laugh.
“I mean I get it… but seeing it?” Eve replies in hushed bewilderment. “They have no eyes, Ves. It’s unnerving.”
“Neither do the constructs in Illa Ysari,” I counter with a teasing grin.
“And I don’t like them either!” Eve says, bursting into laughter. “But there’s a marked difference between a construct of Aether and using a soul to reanimate bones.”
“Perhaps.” I shrug. “But when placed on a list of things to be concerned about, undead and old magic constructs are low compared to the legion of demons skulking about.”
She shoots me a scrutinous glance before heaving a sigh. “Point made.” She shifts to peer up at me. “Cenviri mentioned finding your crystal here. And if you’re Cerwiden, it would make sense. You look more Cerwiden fae than Eldoterran.”
“If I am from Cerwiden, I remember no such thing,” I reply quietly.
“Cenviri could pass as your brother,” she says and I scoff a laugh. “Don’t tell me you can’t see it. Silver hair, light eyes, pale skin. He even has the same cold stare you do.”
I shake my head. “The resemblance is coincidental.”
She barks a sharp laugh. “We’ll see. And I’m not beyond gloating when I’m right.”
Eve’s eyes narrow as she studies me.
“You’re scared,” she says, her voice quiet and soft.
I purse my lips as I release a long, long exhale. “Yes,” I finally say.
There are too many points where things can go drastically wrong—the veil, the mending, who I’ll become after…
She straightens herself, surprise lifting her brows.
She expected me to lie… or deflect.
In most other cases, I would have.
But not today. Not in this.
It’s easier to be honest for once.
“Mortals are not meant to be in the veil,” I say. “Every trespass is a breach of Order and countless lives have been punished or lost for it.”
“If this is your attempt to talk me into staying behind, save your breath,” Eve counters with a flat glare. “Not going to happen.”
“The threats that await in the veil are part of the problem,” I reply, my tone firm. “This other half of me, she’s been left to rot. Why?”
Eve blinks a few times. “Do you not want to mend your soul?”
What a wild question to hear.
I shake my head. “No, I have to. If I don’t, I risk burning out like an undead construct.”
A particularly gruesome end I’d rather avoid.
The fact I haven’t already is a blessing.
I heave a sigh, unsure how to say what I want without sounding foolish. “I’m scared who I’ll become won’t be who I want. The kind of creature consumed by stagnant rage. What if it’s not me who returns?”
I pull the bloodstone dagger from my thigh and set it upon the rail between us. The moonstone in the hilt and the black blade take on a gleam in the rain. A long pause stretches between us before Eve finally lifts her glare from the dagger, honing it against me.
“What about Ryc?” she demands, her tone sharp and cold yet kept low. She doesn’t want Cyran to overhear. “Have you talked to him? Told him you’re going to do this again—no, told him you want me to do this?”
“I don’t want you to,” I argue, yet her expression doesn’t soften. “But I cannot pretend this isn’t a possibility. Ryc knows how I feel, what my thoughts are.”
He knows all of it, even without me voicing them.
And it doesn’t matter to him. It doesn’t matter what kind of monster I become, he would protect me. Love me. Keep me beside him. No matter the cost.
I can’t do that.
Not to him.
Or Eve, or Cyran.
I need a contingency plan in place.
Eve snatches the dagger from the rail and slides it between her breastplate and bandolier with a severe scowl upon her face.
“Dammit, Ves, you better find a way to make sure I don’t have to do this,” she mutters.