Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
The apartment feels smaller than I remember.
The air hangs heavy with city soot and candle smoke, a harsh contrast to Lunoreth’s fresh, biting air.
Night has fallen outside, the hum of footfall teetering into silence, and I stare outside the window at the city that surrounds us, reminding me that we’re back in the world of stone and iron and consequence.
A world where I have to hide my hair, and with it, my heritage.
Stryx perches by the window, her ears curved inward as she traces shapes in the condensation, her expression tight.
“You know we should go after the cult,” she says at last. “We have strong leads now. The tattoos, the deaths—all of it ties back to that group. If we can find them, maybe we can stop whoever’s–”
“No.”
I sit down at the table, leaning over the scattered pages of my notes and sketches, my hair falling into my face, illuminated by the flickering firelight. The white strands catch the light like threads of glass, and for the first time in my life, I find myself appreciating the beauty of it.
“Stryx, we’ve been chasing scraps for too long. All we’ve found are corpses and riddles. We still have no tangible evidence. If I can access the victims’ memories, I might be able to see what happened. My aunt said it could be possible now, if I use the right kind of magic.”
Stryx turns, frowning. “It’s also dangerous.”
I take a breath, forcing my hands to still. “I can access it now. I have to try, Stryx. Someone out there wants to tear the Veil apart, and if those memories hold even a fragment of truth, it might tell us who.”
Stryx studies me for a long moment. The faint shimmer in her eyes gives away the worry she’s trying to hide.
“You really think you can pull their memories back?”
“Not all of them. Just...echoes, maybe. Like the ripples left after a stone hits water. Like Osiris said, there’s always something that can be recovered.”
Stryx folds her arms. “And what if what you find drowns you instead?”
I look up at her, tired, but resolute.
“Then you’ll have to drag me out again, won’t you?”
That earns me a reluctant huff of laughter from Stryx, more air than sound, but it breaks the tension enough for her to nod.
“Fine,” she mutters. “But if your aunt finds out I let you try this without practicing first she’ll turn me into a damn tree spirit.”
I laugh with a slight edge of hysteria. “Do I want to know what that is?”
She shakes her head seriously.
Comforting.
We fall into an awkward silence and I busy myself by gathering the papers into a neat stack, my mind already spinning with possibilities.
Outside, thunder rolls across the city, soft, but close, like the sound of something waking inside the heavy mists.
Stryx watches me from across the room as the rain begins to patter softly against the window.
She breaks the silence first.
“You’ve barely said a word about Lunoreth since we came back.”
My mouth twitches into something that I think almost resembles a smile. “You’d think finding out I’m not who I thought I was would leave me with more to say.”
“It’s nothing to joke about, Octavia. You’re half Echofae. That’s…extraordinary.”
I look up at her sharply. “It’s impossible.
Or at least, it was supposed to be. I grew up believing my parents were ordinary mortal people.
That I was ordinary. And now I’m being told that my dreams aren’t actually dreams, but somehow I’ve been astral projecting, and that I’m part of some ancient lineage with a world-ending prophecy attached to my name.
” I shake my head, laughing once—a hollow sound.
“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel. ”
Stryx stands and steps closer, her eyes softening.
“You don’t have to know. Not yet. But pretending it doesn’t matter won’t make it go away.”
“I’m not pretending.” My voice steadies, firm now.
“I just…can’t let this be everything. Not when people are still dying.
Not when I don’t even know what the prophecy means.
Maybe if I finish this case—if I find who’s behind the murders—it’ll make sense.
Maybe then I’ll finally get some closure on all this. ”
Stryx studies me a little longer, then nods slowly. “You always were stubborn.”
“And you’re not?” I laugh, my friendship with Stryx feeling even stronger now I’ve come to learn how much we truly have in common.
A small, weary smile passes between us, fleeting, but real. Outside, the rain deepens, tracing patterns against the glass. The sound fills the silence between us, and for a moment, it feels almost peaceful.
Then I stand, pulling my cloak from the chair.
“Come on. If I’m going to be the child of a prophecy, I might as well start acting like one.”
Stryx sighs with a wary chuckle, snatching the cloak back out of my hands. “Even the child of a prophecy needs to sleep, Octavia. We’ll go in the morning.”
Her tone offers no negotiation, so I try a different tactic. “Fine, as long as you tell me what the deal is with you and Osiris.”
She throws my cloak back down onto the chair in a huff. “There is no deal. We’ve been friends since we were younglings, and he’s convinced we’re mates, that’s all. He’s delusional.”
Mates?
I gape at her. “By mates, you mean–”
“Destined to be together forever, all that rubbish, yes,” she finishes for me, and I laugh incredulously.
“And the feeling isn’t mutual, I’m assuming?”
“Of course not!”
I bite my lip, my eyes darting to her little shrine in the corner. “So, care to explain why that mushroom he gave you has pride of place?”
Her eyes widen. “How do you know about that?” she hisses, marching over to grab it and shoving it in a different spot. I continue laughing, refusing to answer, and she narrows her eyes at me.
“This conversation is over,” she says firmly, pointing at me. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I put my hands up in surrender, trying to stifle my laughter. “Sure, see you in the morning.”
As soon as her bedroom door is closed, my smile instantly drops, the awful weight of everything immediately bearing down on me again.
Now I’m alone, the noise in my head quickly becomes overwhelming, and it’s only a matter of minutes before I can no longer bear it.
Before I can change my mind, I grab my cloak, shove Quill into a pocket and walk straight out the door into the night.
I wave goodbye to the Eidolon Moth, hoping my message is swiftly answered as I march through the darkened streets of Eidravelle towards the morgue.
I lied when I said I wasn’t focused on everything I learnt in Lunoreth—it’s been eating me alive.
And right now, for some inexplicable reason, despite everything he’s done, there’s only one person I want to see.
The only person in this world who can understand what I’m going through, who knows what it’s like.
I only hope Stryx forgives me when she wakes up and realises I’m gone.
I push down the guilt that threatens to strangle me and straighten my shoulders. I’ve got a job to do, and finally a means with which to do it.
Quill wriggles in my pocket incessantly, trying to squirm his way free, but I know better than to risk anyone seeing him, even in the dark of night.
I don’t want to perform any Mindweaving anymore—the thought alone terrifies me—so from now on, I’m insisting he joins me everywhere I go on this case so he can take meticulous notes instead.
The Division is quiet at this hour. The corridors that by day hum with footsteps and chatter now lie still, echoing only with the hollow drip of that damn leaking pipe somewhere deep in the walls.
I move soundlessly through the gloom, my cloak brushing my knees, my hood still secured to conceal my white hair, the faintest flicker of candlelight tracing my path.
I finally let Quill free and he floats above my shoulder as I walk, his white feathers twitching with what I assume to be irritation.
“Give it a rest,” I whisper sharply, glancing toward the end of the hall as I swat at him half-heartedly. “You can whine about it to Stryx later.”
He ceases his fidgeting and I shudder as the morgue door creaks open beneath my hand—the chill always takes me by surprise no matter how many times I visit.
A single lantern burns on the side table, its light barely reaching the rows of shrouded bodies.
It’s certainly been a busy couple of weeks for Maevick.
I swallow thickly and force myself forward.
I don’t exactly feel like I’m trespassing—whilst my presence is still unwelcome to most, no one can punish me for being here anymore.
Yet, as I move between the tables, the chill that crawls up my spine reminds me I’m no longer entirely mortal, and ironically I feel like more of an intruder now than I ever have.
“All right,” I murmur, setting Quill’s parchment down on the table as I try to recall what Amari told me before we started trying to unlock my magic. “She said I’d have to open the channel first, then focus on what was taken. Intent is the key.”
I locate one of the bodies, take a deep breath and spread my palms over the seer’s temples as Quill writes dutifully on his parchment.
The magic hums beneath my skin, faint at first, like static.
My eyes constantly dart towards the door, but my message remains unanswered for now.
I try to push him out of my mind and concentrate.
It takes me three attempts before my magic starts to respond, which is a serious improvement to the hours it took me before. The air prickles and the lantern’s flame shivers as a faint blue aura begins to seep from the seams of my hands, tracing delicate filigrees across the dead woman’s skin.
My breath catches.
“It’s working!” I whisper excitedly to Quill, who’s furiously writing everything down as it happens.
But my moment of excitement is all it takes for me to lose the link.
I huff in frustration and try again, doing my best to focus.
It takes another few attempts, but eventually I manage to maintain the connection.
The light brightens, then threads of magic begin to coil between my fingers. I squeeze my face in concentration, encouraging my new magic to seek out what I need, then suddenly, my mind is filled with a thick, dense fog. I inhale sharply.
I’ve done it.
I’ve entered her mind, her memories…or lack thereof.
I don’t have time to marvel at the feat though before blurred fragments—half-formed and trembling—scatter into view, appearing so fleetingly I can’t tell what they are.
I push my magic further, trying to latch onto anything tangible, and I watch as the flickers slowly take shape: a street, the glint of a tiny blade, the sound of footsteps somewhere close…
then something dark lurches at me through the fog and I scream.
It’s my Shadow. Only, it’s not mine.
It's hers.