Chapter 13 Esme
ESME
The screaming finally stops, replaced by a wet, gurgling sound that is somehow worse. Brynn returns to my side, her face pale. A moment later, Byzu steps out, wiping a smear of blood from his jaw with the back of his hand.
“They didn’t know much,” he reports, his voice flat.
“Strictly need-to-know. Their orders were to fire all three projectiles from different angles. Probe for weaknesses. See where they could inflict the most damage.” He glances back into the cell at the broken man sobbing on the floor. “It was a kamikaze mission.”
I step forward, my boots silent on the stone, and peer into the cells. Both men are conscious, their bodies mangled but their minds intact. That’s important. Their eyes, wide with pain and terror, follow my every move.
“A kamikaze mission,” I repeat, the words cold and precise.
“You came here with a high expectation of death.” I look from one man to the other, letting the silence stretch.
“You have no idea how much worse you have it. The kamikaze dies with the mission. A quick, clean death in service to your cause.”
I stop in front of the first cell, my fingers brushing against the cold bars. “You two failed. And we don’t take kindly to acts of war. You won’t die quickly. You won’t die for a very, very long time.”
Brynn shifts uncomfortably behind me. I ignore her. This is my duty. This is our way.
“We have healers,” I continue, my voice a calm, clinical murmur.
“They can keep a body alive for far longer than it should live. We’ll mend your bones just enough so they can be broken again.
We’ll keep your minds sharp, so you can appreciate every single moment.
Your pain… your terror… they’re things we can harness and use—resources to us.
They could even help feed our wards. And maybe we’d shift you full time into the Stimulus Annex, where we train to refine sensation into spellwork… ”
The man in the second cell begins to sob, thick, hopeless sounds that echo in the dungeon. The first one just stares, his fanaticism finally extinguished, replaced by a dawning, soul-crushing horror.
“There is another way,” I offer, the words a sliver of false mercy.
“A quicker end, or a new beginning, depending on how you look at it. We are a spiritual people. We believe in the sanctity of the soul. You can offer yours to us. A willing sacrifice to our spirit grid. It will be… a different kind of existence. But your suffering will end. The choice is yours.”
The men stare at me, their eyes pleading. A long, agonizing death fueling our magic, or a quick, final escape. It’s not much of a choice.
“I accept,” the first one rasps, his voice broken. The second just nods frantically, tears and snot smearing his bloodied face.
I nod. It is done. I turn to face them both, positioning myself between the cells. I raise my hands, palms out, and begin the old words, the invocation that formalizes the offering. “Do you, of sound mind and broken body, willingly offer—”
I don’t get to finish.
The stone floor beneath my feet goes ice cold.
The air crackles, and the containment runes on the cells flare with a violent, silver-black light.
Before anyone can react, tendrils of pure shadow, shot through with shimmering spiritual energy, erupt from the walls.
They are not ghosts; they are the raw, hungry essence of the grid itself.
The tendrils lash out, ignoring the bars as if they aren’t there, and slam into the clearbloods.
The men scream, a high, thin sound that is cut off as the energy envelops them.
Their bodies convulse, arching in impossible angles as the light and shadow drains them.
I watch, stunned, as their forms seem to desiccate, their life, their essence, their very souls pulled from them in a violent, silent torrent.
In seconds, it’s over. The tendrils retract, melting back into the stone. The light fades. All that’s left in the cells are two empty husks, withered and gray, their faces frozen in a rictus of terror.
My hands are still raised, the final words of the ritual dead on my lips.
I’ve never seen that before. Never seen the grid act on its own, with such… hunger. It must be starving, desperate to repair the damage from the attack. I wonder if it’s already invited in Elder Farrow.
I lower my hands, a strange feeling settling in my chest. I can feel it. A subtle shift in the dungeon’s atmosphere. The low hum of the wards is a fraction stronger, the air a little less thin. The grid is healing, feeding on the fresh spirits I just gave it.
Good.
I turn from the cells, feeling the weight of what just happened settle into my bones like cold iron. The grid has fed. We've gained strength from their sacrifice. This is the brutal arithmetic of our survival.
Brynn is staring at me, her face a mask of quiet horror, but I can’t deal with her delicate sensibilities right now. This is war. Horror is a luxury we can’t afford.
Nor can I face that other sensation—the one burning between my shoulder blades. Dayn’s eyes, watching me.