Chapter 6 #3
My head doesn't ache. My magic doesn't feel like a hollowed-out well. I feel… actually energized. How is that possible? The combination of our powers didn't just protect us but seemed to reinforce us.
I stare in wonder, and for the first time, I can’t help but truly wonder what else our magic might be capable of.
“The theory held,” Dayn says, his voice sounding satisfied, though he doesn't let go of me. He’s looking at the landscape with a sharp focus.
We’re standing on a wooded slope overlooking a lake that looks like a sheet of silver in the early morning light. The village of Sarkusen is a cluster of distant, flickering lights on the far shore, nestled into the crook of the mountains.
But right below us, tucked into a grove of ancient, weeping willows… is a small wooden house. I spot it instantly. It’s weathered, the gray shingles covered in green moss, and the porch has begun to sag toward the water. It looks like a ghost of a building, a memory that hasn’t quite yet faded.
“That's it,” I whisper, my throat tightening. “The summer house.”
I pull away from Dayn, my boots crunching through the tall, frost-tipped grass as I head down the slope. The closer I get, the more the silence of the place seems to weigh on me. This was the one place my parents felt safe. The one place where they weren't soldiers.
I reach the porch, the wood groaning under my weight.
The front door is locked, its weathered oak surface marked with decades of rain and neglect.
I trace my fingertips over the darkblood seal—a black serpent embracing a dagger—etched deep into the tarnished silver handle.
The metal warms beneath my touch, a faint violet glow spreading through the intricate lines of the emblem as ancient family magic recognizes my blood.
With a soft click and the whisper of tumblers falling into place, the mechanism disengages, surrendering to me.
Slowly, I push the door open.
The air inside is stale, thick with the smell of dust and old wood. Furniture is draped in yellowing sheets, looking like a gathering of specters in the dim light. I walk into the small living room, my gaze scanning the sparse area. My parents took almost everything with us when we left this place.
I walk into the center of the room, my boots leaving clear prints in the thick layer of dust. The silence here is heavy, pressing against my eardrums. I reach out, my hand slightly unsteady, and clutch the back of a high-backed wooden chair.
It’s a simple thing, hand-carved with a smoothed-down headrest where my father must have rested his head a thousand times.
I feel the grain of the wood. I feel the chill of the unheated room. But that’s it.
There is no spark. No rush of warmth or melancholy. I stare at the chair, waiting for the ghost of a memory to settle over me—the sound of his laughter, the scent of his aftershave—but the chair remains just a chair. An object. A piece of timber.
I move to the window, sliding my fingers along the painted sill.
The white lead paint is flaking away in jagged scales.
I know, intellectually, that I used to stand here on tiptoe, watching the rain dance on the lake.
I know I used to climb up and press my forehead against the glass until it fogged.
But the knowledge is dry, like a report filed in a cabinet. Esme Salem, age three, liked the rain.
It frustrates me. A sharp, jagged spike of irritation flares in my chest, the strongest thing I’ve felt since we stepped through the portal.
I want to mourn. I want to feel the ache of the years we lost in this place and the choice that forced us to leave our quiet sanctuary.
Instead, I’m like a stranger in my own skin, touring an old museum.
Dayn is standing by the dead hearth, his golden eyes tracking my every movement. He doesn't try to fill the silence. He simply watches, his presence a constant, low-thrumming heat in the cold room. I’m sure he sees the way my jaw sets, the way my fingers twitch against the empty air.
“I’m going to look upstairs,” I say, my voice sounding brittle.
He nods once, and I turn. The stairs groan under my weight, each creak sounding loud in the stagnant air.
The second floor is a narrow hallway with three doors.
One is a bathroom, the porcelain tub stained with rust. The second is my parents' room, the bed stripped bare, a skeleton of a mattress staring up at the ceiling.
The third door is smaller. It’s painted a faded, peeling shade of cornflower blue.
I push it open.
The air in here is different. It’s thinner, smelling of old wool and the faint, sweet scent of pressed flowers.
The walls are a pale, sun-bleached yellow, decorated with the faint outlines of where drawings must have once been taped.
I scan the room, my gaze landing on a small wooden shelf in the corner.
The dust patterns on the shelf are uneven.
There’s a circle where something round used to sit—a lamp, perhaps, or a clock.
My eyes drift downward, following the line of the floorboards.
Near the foot of the small, wrought-iron bedframe, one board sits slightly higher than the rest. It’s a minute detail, but I find myself walking toward it as if pulled by a magnet.
I kneel, the joints of my knees popping in the quiet. I hook my fingernails under the edge of the loose board and pry it up. It gives way with a soft, woody sigh.
Tucked into the dark hollow beneath is a small bundle wrapped in a scrap of moth-eaten silk.
I reach in, my fingers brushing against something cold and hard.
I pull it out, and the silk falls away, revealing a half-finished wood carving.
It’s a bird—or it was meant to be one. The wings are lopsided, one side sleek and the other still blocky and raw.
The beak is a sharp, crooked point. It’s a clumsy piece of work, clearly the labor of a child liberally helped by an adult.
The moment my skin makes full contact with the raw, unpolished cedar, something shifts—like a hairline fracture appearing in a sheet of ice. A tiny, microscopic fissure that lets in a single, piercing ray of light.
I feel a sudden, sharp ache in the center of my chest. It’s not like the Ide’s cold or Dayn’s heat. It’s a localized, agonizing throb of mine.
I remember the knife. It was a small, blunt thing my father gave me, his large hands guiding mine as I tried to shave the wood.
I remember the resistance of the grain, the way the cedar smelled as the curls fell into my lap.
I remember wanting to make something beautiful for my mother, something that could fly.
My eyes remain dry, but my throat tightens, the muscles constricting until it hurts to swallow. This bird... it wasn't a weapon. It wasn't a tool for our coven. It was just a bird. It was a piece of me from before I learned that my worth was something to be proven on missions.
A shadow falls across the cornflower-blue door.
Dayn stands in the doorway. I didn’t hear him approach, but his presence now feels like a quiet weight in the corner of my vision.
He leans one shoulder against the frame, his gaze fixed on me, noticing the way I’m gripping the carving.
I’m sure he sees the hitch in my breathing, the way my shoulders have dropped two inches from their usual composed posture.
“I believe that’s it,” he says, his voice low.
“This bit of scrap wood my father helped me ruin?” I reply.
“It isn't ruined. It’s unfinished. There’s a difference.”
I look up at him, and he pushes away from the doorframe and walks toward me, his footsteps quiet on the worn floorboards.
“May I?” he asks, extending a hand.
I hesitate for a second, then place the lopsided bird in his palm. His fingers curl around it carefully, as if it's made of something fragile rather than wood.
“Your father carved here,” he says, tracing the smoother wing with his thumb. “And here.” His nail follows the curve where the neck meets the body, where the lines flow more naturally. “The rest is pure Esme. Stubborn, determined, refusing help.”
I can’t help but smirk. “True.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips.
“Anyway, unfinished doesn't mean ruined,” he says, returning the bird to my palm. “It means there's work yet to do.” His eyes catch mine. “Perhaps now’s when this bird finally takes flight.”
The weight of his gaze settles on me, heavy with meaning I'm not sure I can decipher.
“This is it then? The Personal Anchor?” My voice barely carries across the space between us.
He nods once. “It will serve as your Baseline Resonance. In ritual terms, this functions as a reference point for your pre-interference soul-state. The original 'note' of your soul.”
His tone is scholarly, but it doesn't mask the undercurrent flowing beneath his words—something deeper I can’t quite place. I slip the wooden bird into my pocket, its rough edges pressing against my thigh.
“Okay, well, first ingredient secured,” I say, steadying myself. “Then… what’s next?”