Chapter 39 Wren?
WREN?
Wren Loughty no longer knew where the shadows ended and her soul began. She searched for remorse. For remnants of the girl she had once been. But it came up empty. There was nothing left.
Nothing.
So when she banished August and watched him stride out of the tent, leaving her behind, the only thing she felt surging in her heart was fury. The white-hot embers of rage. The desire to rip apart the seams of the afterlife and torch what remained.
It is better this way. The Soulless One’s voice leaked into her mind, drifting through her, though this time, it was different.
She no longer just heard him—a distant voice lingering in the recess of her mind—but felt him, as if he were a part of her, his soul threaded through hers. He will never understand.
Wren stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were vacant. Her soul hungry.
“I don’t want to speak of him.”
Very well.
Wren looked into her eyes and it felt as though she were staring through herself, into her soul, straight into the Soulless One.
“I do still have one question.”
His voice rumbled in the back of her skull.
I’m listening.
Wren flexed her hands and shadows slipped between her fingers.
“Why me?”
The Soulless One hummed, though it felt more like a purr, the sound dripping down Wren’s limbs in a vibrating warmth.
I was wondering when you’d ask. The Soulless One paused, a deep sigh fluttering in Wren’s mind.
You see, though Silas had grown to think of himself as a god, he was, and is, nothing more than a man.
Flawed. Capable of error. And when he chose your soul—when he forced your death and dragged your soul to Blackwood—he made the greatest mistake of his existence.
There was a tense beat. A weighted silence.
He hesitated.
Wren cocked her head.
“He…hesitated?”
When he approached you on the road that night, when he bent down to steal your soul from your dying body and thrust you into Blackwood…
something in him faltered. Though the doubt didn’t last long, it was enough to distract him.
And when he cast death’s kiss upon you…something went wrong.
A drop of his magic entered your soul. The tiniest amount.
So small he didn’t even notice the moment it burrowed into your soul.
But it’s been there, from the beginning. Waiting inside you.
Wren traced her index finger along one of the jagged black veins marring her forearm.
“I don’t see how a fraction of his magic living inside me changes anything.”
The Soulless One chuckled—a deep and velvety rumble of laughter.
Patience, sweet catalyst. I’m getting to that.
“Go on, then,” Wren instructed. “Get to the point.”
I am the only one who can wipe the slate clean.
The Soulless One’s voice grew louder, resounding within her skull.
Who harbors the power to burn Blackwood to the ground.
But I can’t do it without you. You are the link.
The key. There was a strange hesitancy in his voice, something oddly human.
I…require something. A ring. Silas stole it from me—many years ago—and keeps it hidden within a box.
The box only opens through his touch…through his magic.
Understanding bolted through Wren.
“And I carry a droplet of his magic in my soul.”
You can open the box, Wren. A wretched desire burned beneath the Soulless One’s words, an untamed yearning. You can unleash my full power. And once you find the ring…you must bring it to me.
“But how?” Wren asked. “Don’t you…don’t you only exist in my head?”
The Soulless One exhaled. Wren swore she felt it brush upon the nape of her neck.
No, my sweet catalyst. I have a physical form. But it is fragile. Only a fraction of the power I should wield.
“Then…how do I find you?”
I’ll be waiting for you in Blackwood. His next words were more of a promise than a warning. I will find you.
Wren parted her lips to speak, but the entrance to the tent fluttered open without warning, and just like that, she felt her connection to the Soulless One waver. It wasn’t severed…it would never be severed. But he grew dormant. Quiet. Waiting patiently in the shadows of her mind.
Edith strode into the tent, fitted in armor.
A chain-mail hood had been placed over her midnight-black hair, shadow crown positioned atop it.
A leather cuirass cinched her waist, the Demien Order sigil etched into the hardened black leather.
Scalloped trim and rivets accented the front, while a set of buckled straps adorned the sides.
As her eyes landed upon Wren, they widened for a fraction of a second, a momentary flash of surprise, though it quickly vanished when her lips curled into a smirk.
“You clean up nice.”
Wren rolled her eyes.
“You can save the sweet talk, Edith.” Wren sauntered closer, a delicate stream of shadows flowing out of her with every step. “I harbor no ill will for the torture you put me through. I see now that it was necessary.”
Edith’s smirk faltered. A faint crinkle of fear.
“I’m glad,” she muttered through a tight-lipped smile. “Though I never doubted you would see reason. Either way, I have a gift for you.”
Edith snapped her fingers and two guards entered the tent. But they weren’t alone.
“Let go of me!” Quinn cried, kicking her legs uselessly as one guard tossed her in Edith’s direction. The High General gripped Quinn by the neck, holding her in place with a shadow blade pointed at her throat.
The other guard had a firm grip on Arthur’s wrist, and he kicked Arthur squarely on the back, sending him to his knees. A security cuff had been placed over his wrist. His magic nullified. He couldn’t defend himself.
“Ah.” Wren stared down at him, head cocked. “I see. It’s our traitors.”
At this accusation, Arthur’s head snapped up. He stared at Wren, pleading.
“It was my idea.” The words tumbled out of him quickly. “Quinn had nothing to do with it.”
“No!” Quinn choked out. She tried to move, but Edith pressed the blade harder, and she froze, sucking in a sharp breath as Edith drew blood. “That—that isn’t true.”
“I’m the one who knew how to dismantle the security cuff.” Arthur slowly pushed himself onto his feet. “I was the one who was going to do it. Not Quinn. Me.”
“Artie.” Quinn groaned as she fought against Edith’s grip. “Don’t do this.” But Arthur seemed determined. He kept his gaze anchored on Wren.
“Quinn had nothing to do with it.”
Wren hummed and approached him. She could offer them mercy, but…
No, the Soulless One growled. No more mercy. No more forgiveness.
“A price must be paid for your betrayal.” Wren traced a finger against Arthur’s cheek, and one of her shadows slowly slithered around him. “For your insubordination.” Arthur shivered as the word echoed between them. “But what a waste…to simply destroy you. Don’t you agree?”
Quinn seemed to understand the true meaning behind Wren’s words. She let out a feral scream, clawing at Edith, but the High General’s grip remained unchanged. “No!” Quinn cried, voice hoarse. “Wren! Please! Stop this!”
Tears welled behind Arthur’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Do what you need to do…just…don’t hurt Quinn.”
Bravery, Wren thought with a chuckle. How incredibly foolish.
“Then…let’s make you a bit more compliant, shall we?”
Her hands cupped his face. She saw the fear etched in his eyes. The agony.
More, the Soulless One murmured inside her. Give me more.
A broken scream tore from Arthur’s throat as the shadows poured in through his mouth, his ears, his eyes, his nose. All at once, they consumed him. Eating away at him. Somewhere in Wren’s periphery, Quinn screamed. But her pathetic cries of grief meant nothing to Wren. If anything, they fueled her.
Wren watched, enraptured, as Arthur’s face gave way to the shadows bursting inside him. As he became the shadows. A vessel for the Soulless One’s control. A creature forged from hatred.
Until Arthur Alexander Ellington was no more.
In his place stood Wren’s creation.
The Aberration let out a resounding shriek and Quinn howled, a guttural cry that seemed to blend with the creature’s roar. Feel something, a part of Wren, somewhere deep inside her, begged. Feel.
But all Wren felt was the power their suffering provided. The hunger for more.
Edith snapped her fingers and a pair of guards picked Quinn up by her elbows, dragging her from the tent as she continued to cry out. Meanwhile, Wren approached the Aberration that was once Arthur with slow, methodical steps. She cocked her head, examining her work with glistening pride.
“Find him.” The Aberration blinked in understanding. “Destroy him.”
The shadow creature curled into itself, its mass of shadows ebbing and flowing until it became a vortex of darkness. From one blink to the next, it vanished. Wren knew where it had gone…who it was looking for.
Edith approached Wren.
“You sent it after August?”
Wren hummed.
“He’s no longer any of your concern.”
Edith’s brows furrowed.
“But—”
“Unless…” Wren interjected, eyes narrowing on Edith, “…you’re worried about him?”
Edith flinched at the accusation.
“I’m not.”
“Because that would be most worrisome to the Soulless One,” Wren mused, relishing the way Edith squirmed beneath her gaze.
She hadn’t been lying—she didn’t resent the girl for what she’d put her through—but it was still fun to return the favor.
“We don’t want complications due to any pesky lingering… feelings.”
To give Edith credit, she didn’t break beneath Wren’s line of questioning. She molded her face into one of complete indifference, lips curling back into that same careful smirk. Because if there was anything Edith Hughes was good at—it was pretending.
“I can safely say, without a single doubt, that feelings won’t be an issue here.” The muscles in Edith’s neck tensed as she continued. “I simply wonder if we made a mistake in letting him go. He knows things. Too much, some would say. What if the Aberration isn’t successful?”
The thought had crossed Wren’s mind, not that it mattered anymore. She’d made her decision.
“He’s too late, either way,” she muttered. It was the truth. Nobody could stop her now. “Whatever plan he has is useless. Futile. It won’t help them in the end.”
This seemed to be enough to please Edith. She approached Wren tentatively, pausing only a few feet in front of her.
“The Order is ready.” She dropped her voice lower, a gleam of excitement radiating behind her dark eyes. “All of the units are in position. All we need is your command. If the Soulless One says it’s time…then we strike.”
Wren felt him then—the Soulless One’s delicate caress. The warmth of his breath.
I am ready.
Wren hummed.
“Good…so am I.”
Edith’s eyes raked her face, confusion furrowing her brow.
“Did the Soulless One…say something? Did he speak to you?” There was a reverent quality to her voice, an almost pathetic desperation.
Wren smiled.
“He says it’s time.”
A blazing exhilaration lit up Edith’s face. “So…what do you suggest?”
The shadows in Wren’s hands ebbed and flowed, twisting until they’d formed a pair of long, jagged swords—two gleaming onyx blades marked by a bloodred hilt.
Wren wrapped her hands lazily around the handles, a stream of shadows twirling around the pointed steel.
Flames snaked through the shadows—crimson and black intertwined, a vortex of searing power cascading down the swords.
“Well, you know what they say,” Wren muttered, and the shadows rose inside her—more, more, more. “When the infection spreads to the root, sometimes there’s nothing left to do but to burn the fucker to the ground.”
Edith smiled.
“I couldn’t agree more.”