Phantom Heart (The Ethereal Bonds Saga #1)

Prologue The Price of Spite 6

Prologue

The Price of Spite

The cell smells like blood and the particular rot that comes from watching hope die.

I’ve been here so long I’ve stopped counting days. Instead I count the things they’ve tried to break me with.

First, the experiments. They tried to siphon my magic directly. That went badly for everyone involved.

Then, resonance testing—channeling my power through crystalline matrices. All but one brought pain beyond bearing.

Threshold experiments came next: how much agony before my magic lashed out defensively?

Ability isolation. Forced triggers. Documentation of every power they could wring from me.

The Arena. Combat against other captives. Ones already broken, already lost.

And once I hit puberty, the mating bond attempts. Wealthy mages, warlocks, anyone who could pay the price to try and claim me. Most of them weren’t gentle about it.

What they never understood—luckily for me, too bad for them—is that consent isn't optional. You can't force a bond. You can't buy one, threaten one, or breed one into existence. It has to be chosen.

Their tiny, power-hungry brains couldn't wrap around that concept. So all their auctions, their experiments, their carefully orchestrated attempts to use my body as a vessel for their ambitions? Worthless. Every single one.

Though, none of that compared to when they'd find my weak spots. Drag them in and see if the protective rage would unlock something new. It always did.

And, no matter how much they beat me, sold me, and studied me like a butterfly pinned to a board, I smiled through it all. Or sneered. Or spat blood in their faces and laughed. Because they would never own me.

And that “fuck you” they kept trying to torture out of me? It never went away, it kept me alive.

Sadly, spite only gets you so far in this hellish existence.

I run my fingers over the stone floor to pull me out of thought spirals that do nothing but send me into depressive episodes.

One hundred and twenty grooves, carved by moonlight. One hundred and twenty nights of scraping metal against stone, hiding the evidence under the hay they throw down to soak up what’s left of me after their torture. Or—sorry— experiments .

They never noticed the grooves. Why would they? To them, I’m just a prisoner. An experiment. A stubborn bitch who won’t break.

I have friends here. They don't know that either. I don't know their names. I don't want to. Names are leverage. Names are people they can hurt.

They also don’t know about the journal, usually hidden in a crevice behind the stone where the mortar crumbled years ago. Pages and pages of my own handwriting. My thoughts, my fears, my desperate hopes. A record of who I am, in case I forget.

The ritual carved into this floor is the thing that will either save me or unmake me entirely. I found it in a text smuggled in the same way as the metal. The instructions were clear: carve the runes, spill your blood, speak the words, and pay the price.

The price is everything.

Every memory. Every name. Every face I’ve ever loved. Every scar, every victory, every moment of joy or pain that made me who I am. The ritual will strip it all away, leaving me nothing but a blank slate.

If it works.

If it doesn’t, I’ll die here, and something much worse will rise in my stead. A power that they want to free. A power that needs to stay buried.

I can’t let that happen.

So I’ll pay the price. I’ll forget who my mother is, the name I was given at birth, I’ll forget the friends who died trying to save me. I’ll forget the taste of sunshine and the sound of rain and every small, beautiful thing that made life worth living.

But future me, if there is a future me, won’t be completely alone.

The journal. The crystal.

I pull it from its hiding place now. It’s the only crystal that proved a welcome relief in all their resonance testing.

They threw it away, thinking it was useless.

I know it’s not. It’s from somewhere else.

Some when else. If I can reach through the pain of the ritual and tether my life force to it, if I bind myself to that distant, dreaming realm, I might survive the void.

And the journal, in the hands of one I love, locked with the same crystal, might guide whoever I become back to herself.

It’s a gamble. A desperate, insane gamble.

But it’s the only one I’ve got.

The cell door creaks. I don’t flinch anymore. Flinching is for people who don’t have something to protect.

It’s her. Bella. The human they assigned to tend my wounds, feed me slop, and keep her distance. She did two of those things as well as can be expected under the circumstances.

I tried to keep my distance, to keep her safe. In the end, it was futile. She’s the only person I’ve ever truly loved. One of the many I’m doing this for.

Her hands find mine in the dark. They’re shaking.

“Tonight?” She whispers.

“Tonight.” I say.

I press the journal into her palms. The lock hums against my palm and I draw the meager energy I had stored in it out, locking it tight until I’m there to open it again.

“If this works,” I tell her, “you know the price.”

Her breath catches.

“But she’ll have the facts. She’ll know what they did. What they wanted. And what’s coming if they win.” I squeeze her hands. “That has to be enough.”

“What if it’s not?” She asks through trembling lips.

I don’t have an answer. So I give her the only thing I have left, the truth.

“If I stay, they win. Not just over me. Over everyone. There’s something they want to wake up. Something worse than any of this.” I gesture at the walls, the blood, the life they’ve carved out of me. “If I fall, it rises. So I can’t fall. Even if I have to become someone else to stand.”

Her body shakes and I feel the cold hilt of a blade press into my palm. By morning they'll know it's missing. If I don't accomplish what I've set out to, everyone will pay.

I press my forehead to hers. One breath. Two. The only prayer I have left.

"I'll keep it safe," she whispers. "The journal. Every page. Every word. Even if you don't remember me, even if you never know my name again—I'll keep it safe until you're ready.”

My chest feels like it caves in at her words. This is goodbye. Not just to her, but to us, to this version of me. To every stolen moment, every whispered secret, every time her hands were the only gentle thing in this hell.

"That has to be enough," I manage.

She nods, tears sliding down cheeks I'll never touch again. "It will be. Go be someone who gets to live."

She slips out. The door clicks shut. I'm alone with the runes and the smell of decay.

By morning, when they find the blood and the empty cell, the others will have their chance.

I don't know if this will work. I don't know if there's anything on the other side. But I know what's on this one, and I won't stay for it.

Soon, the hour comes and my jail quiets. The guards rotate in the predictable way I memorized years ago.

The knife slices into my wrists, the blood pours out and into the runes. At first the pain is manageable, a sharp ache, then the runes turn hungry, drinking something from deep inside of me.

The pain grows into something that steals my voice entirely. It’s beyond anything I could have imagined. I feel myself coming apart, not dying, but unmaking.

Somewhere, as my very existence unravels, I think I hear Bella’s voice. "Go be someone who gets to live." I hold onto it like a hand in the dark.

Then, I look beyond the pain and focus on the crystal hanging on a chain around my neck. Through its facets I search until I find a crack. A tear in the world. Light that isn’t light, space that isn’t space.

I pour myself through it.