Chapter 20
[Embercrown 30th (8/27), Year 1356 of the Arcane Calendar]
| 6:00 PM |
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[Celestara, gardens]
Spirit–soul contracts were unlike any ordinary agreement sealed with ink on parchment.
They were bindings of spirit threads, woven between mortals beneath the gaze of the Goddess Auralis. To some, her blessing; to others, her curse.
The ritual began with offerings, each chosen with deliberate care.
Flowers were selected by the day of the week, always freshly bloomed within two nights of the rite.
Grains and fruits were laid as sustenance, but not always common ones. Some contracts demanded rarities, like the Seryth Apple, a crimson fruit that ripened only under starlight once in a decade. These offerings bore weight, for the greater the contract's conditions, the greater the sustenance required.
Honey was placed for sweetness, milk for innocence, oil for vitality, and water drawn from a flowing stream for renewal.
These were not left scattered. Each was shaped with intent.
Grains were traced into a ritual circle, marking the ground with lines of sustenance and life. Within its boundary, honey and milk were mixed with flour, kneaded until a doll took shape—a vessel of intent.
Moonlily petals, symbols of devotion, were pressed into its chest; strands of white lilac were wound into its limbs for clarity; and marigold dust was scattered upon its crown, granting endurance. Incense burned in a ring, its smoke spiraling upward like unseen hands carrying prayers to the heavens.
At the circle's edge, three candles were coloured: white, light blue, and yellow.
The white Candle belonged to the one bound, who poured oil upon it in intervals while speaking the prayer aloud.
The blue candle belonged to the binder, who mirrored the act.
The yellow candle was sacred to the Goddess alone. It was used to consume the parchment inscribed with the terms, written in the blood of the one bound. When the parchment was fully reduced to ash, the binder would spill a single drop of blood directly onto the yellow flame, sealing the appeal to Auralis.
Each verse of the chant had to be spoken fully before the oil was given, the words and fire feeding one another until the doll's form was sealed.
The chant was simple, but it carried a terrible weight:
"O Auralis, Spiritual Mother, hear us.
By sweetness and innocence, this vessel takes form.
At the still hour, when night yields to dawn, let the flame burn with vitality.
Bind spirit to contract, as soul is bound to soul.
O Auralis, guide us. O Auralis, keep us."
Timing was crucial. Between three and five in the morning—the Still Hour—when the world was hushed and the veil between realms thinned, spirits lingered nearest to mortal breath. Even the months mattered, for alignment of time and season could strengthen or weaken the rite.
Adepts called it the Hours of True Harmony. Many devoted themselves to training in these hours, refining their essence and deepening their spiritual reservoir in preparation for such rites.
When the final chant faded and the doll stood complete, the Goddess decided.
If she was pleased, the pact was sealed—an invisible tether drawn tight, unbreakable, binding two spirits under the terms set between them. Not a merging of soul-spheres like an Oneiric Step.
If she was displeased, the ritual unraveled. Smoke dispersed, the circle broke, and the doll crumbled into husks of lifeless paste.
For those who succeeded, the bond was formed according to the parchments' terms. Two spirit souls, entwined by sacred condition, until the agreed terms were fulfilled.
These types of instructions and methods are controlled by their church and generally not open to the public, as it would become very problematic, but some families in power at present or in the past have such knowledge through inheritance.
Many do not know these rituals exist, even in a family like mine, I'm sure Lena and Diana do not know it calix knowing it is very possible.
The only reason I even knew about spirit–soul contracts was because of Selene.
When Kyzen was thirteen, he was still innocent—gentle, trusting, the kind of boy who believed smiles were sincere. And Selene… she was his fiancée. He loved her then, certain she felt the same.
She suggested the ritual one night, presenting it like a secret vow between them. "A promise no one can break," she whispered. "Just ours." Kyzen thought it was sweet. Something romantic, even.
But as the ritual unfolded, a sliver of doubt slid into him.
The circle traced in the grain, the small doll pressed with flowers, the smoke rising from the incense—everything looked far too serious for a child's game. When she pressed a needle to his finger, not just a prick—the needle went more than half a centimeter through—he froze.
A drop of blood welled up, crimson against the candlelight, and for the briefest moment, the air itself seemed to shift.
A chill ran down his spine.
It wasn't just the prick—it was Selene's face. In the flickering glow, her smile seemed to change.
No longer girlish and playful, but sharp, intent, her eyes gleaming with something he didn't understand. For a moment, Kyzen swore she looked like a stranger.
But he shrugged it off. He was thirteen, in love, and the thought that she could mean harm never crossed his mind.
So he smiled back, even as his heart pounded. He told himself it was nothing.
It was just a silly ritual, a game with the girl he loved.
He couldn't have known then how much it would make him suffer.
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I stepped back, putting space between us.
"Had to make sure my friends didn't get suspicious," I said—each word slow, deliberate, a shield against her madness.
Selene's chuckle was a soft, cruel thing, like the rustle of dead leaves. She tilted her head, brown hair spilling over one shoulder in a cascade of blades.
"Ah, yes. Wouldn't want them to see what a good little fiancé you are."
She stepped closer, and the air grew heavy, pressing against my chest. Her eyes gleamed with a hunger that twisted her beauty into something venomous.
"Or maybe…" her voice dipped lower, the edges sharp with glee, "…you wouldn't want them to see how much fun I have making you squirm?"
My hands tightened at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I forced myself to stay still, unmoved. "We both know neither of us wants this arrangement, so let's stop wasting each other's time." My voice was cold, a blade drawn.
As weak as my argument sounded, if it were me—Oliver—I'd just slap this bitch and be done with it. But I wasn't me. Not here. Kyzen wouldn't do that. And if I slipped, if I acted like myself in front of her, it'd be risky. Too risky.
Still, from Kyzen's memories, I'd learned something unsettling.
Selene knew far too much about rituals. The details, the process, the precision—things no ordinary child should have had in her grasp at that age. Her family tree had no ties to ritualists, no priesthoods or mediums to pass such knowledge down. Yet Selene carried it like second nature.
Which meant she'd either learned it from someone in the shadows… or something else had taught her.
Her smile widened, a perfect curve stretched too far. But her eyes remained void—hollow, consuming, pits that swallowed light.
"Oh, but Kyzen…" she whispered, and before I could stop her, she seized my hand. Her fingers laced through mine, locking us together. Her grip was iron, nails digging into my skin as if to brand me.
I flinched despite myself. My body trembled—not from desire, but from years of learned fear—and that single shiver lit her eyes like fire.
She leaned in close, the swell of her chest pressing deliberately against me, warmth bleeding through layers of fabric. My pulse spiked. I tried to step back, but the wall met my shoulders, cold and unyielding. I was trapped.
Her lips hovered just inches from mine, trembling not with restraint but with madness barely contained. Her grin spread wider, teeth flashing with hunger and cruelty.
"Watching you dance in your cage is my favorite game," she breathed. "The way you resist, the way you pretend you still have control—ah, it drives me wild."
Her breath ghosted hot across my cheek as her thumb stroked the back of my hand with mock affection. My body shook harder, every instinct screaming to push her away, yet trauma welded me in place.
"You hate me, don't you?" Her voice was velvet and venom. Her eyes blazed with fever-bright lust. "But that hatred—that's what keeps you mine. That's what makes this…"
Her lips parted, and the last word slid out like poison and honey both, trembling with hunger.
"…delicious."
Her smile twisted as she said it—smug at first, then unraveling into something darker. It stretched too wide, trembling at the corners, her pupils blown wide until her gaze was nothing but feral light.
It was sinister and giddy all at once, a mask of sadistic delight that made her look less human, more predator.
And the worst part was how my body betrayed me—shaking under her touch, feeding the sick pleasure she drank from me.
"You're really twisted, you know that?" I forced the tremor down, clamping it under control until my body finally stilled.
She giggled, light and cruel, stepping back as though she'd already won.
But when she saw me regain my composure, her face shifted. The madness smoothed into something unnervingly calm, her gaze razor-sharp. "I prefer the word passionate," she said, her tone mocking, her eyes glinting with something dark and unreadable.
I exhaled sharply, air hissing through my teeth. "Fine. Play your games. But don't think I'll just sit back and let you win."
Selene tilted her head, her lips curling into a thin smile. "So, you want to kill me."
She let out a soft chuckle, almost pleased by the thought, then turned away. Her voice drifted back over her shoulder, airy and dismissive:
"I've lost my interest today."
And just like that, she walked off, leaving the air heavy, my skin still crawling where her fingers had touched me.
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"Seventy-three… seventy-five… seventy-six—"
Huff...
Huff.....
Huff....
Liam dropped onto the mats, sweat rolling down his face, chest rising and falling in steady bursts.
"Great. Guess you widened the gap again." My voice came out ragged. "Thanks, Liam. Real nice of you—just when I thought I was catching up."
"I'm just giving you motivation, Dain," Liam smirked. He wasn't even winded. Infuriating bastard.
Groaning, I sprawled onto my back. "You guys aren't human. Can we call it quits already?"
"Come on!" Reis laughed, towel slung over his shoulder. "You're close to breaking sixty, right?"
"Fifty-three," I muttered. Pride stung worse than the ache in my arms. Out of all of us, only Kyzen lagged further behind.
Dragging myself upright, I grumbled, "Why are we even training like this? We're mages. Shouldn't we be buried in books, not dying in a sweat pit? And Liam, why'd you even join Celestria?"
"Because elves are born attuned to magic," Liam shot back. "But a strong body strengthens veyl flow. Only an idiot relies on spells alone."
"Sure, sure. Bet you joined because your crush said she liked mages better than warriors—right after Kyzen enrolled."
Victor, mid-sip of water, choked violently. "PFFT—HA!"
"Shut up," Liam growled, his jaw tightening.
We staggered toward reception, dripping with sweat. Towels landed with a wet thud in the bin. My eyes still stung, and my legs were jelly.
"Guys, I think Liam's actually gonna kill us," I chuckled, trying to cut the tension. "How 'bout a swim?"
Before Liam could snap, Reis slung an arm over my shoulder, his face suddenly solemn.
"Dain," he said in a mock-sergeant's tone, "when one of our brothers develops a crush, what is the proper reaction as friends?"
I blinked. "Uh… shock? Betrayal?"
"Correct." Reis nodded gravely, leaning in with the seriousness of a priest about to give last rites.
"But we are not the type to be jealous. We are good friends. Brothers. So what do we do?"
I swallowed, waiting.
Reis's voice dropped to a whisper. "We remind him of that crush every second of every day… until his life becomes absolute hell."
Victor raised a solemn thumbs-up.
I braced for Liam's fist—but instead of snapping, his expression softened, eyes shifting past us.
"What's wrong?" I asked, following his gaze.
Above us, an arrow sign dangled from two chains, pointing left. Bold letters read:
ICE-CREAM
Ah. That explained it. Ice cream—the only thing stronger than his temper.
"Alright," I sighed. "I'm done. I need sugar before my soul leaves my body. Let's get ice cream."
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Reis pulling a familiar candy from his pocket. The stuff was practically a drug for us now—his fault, of course. Ever since he introduced it, we'd been hooked.
"Oh, if you want, I've got—" he started.
I caught his wrist, muttering low so only he could hear. "Not now. As much as I love it… not now."
He paused, then slipped it back.
"Of course," Victor chimed in, pretending not to notice. "Our senior will pay, obviously."
"Yes," I added with fake solemnity, puffing out his chest. "For it is a senior's sacred duty to care for his precious juniors."
Reis groaned. "Seriously, stop. I'll pay. Just don't cringe me out." He muttered under his breath, "If only Felix were here, we could split the bill."
"Stop being cheap, senior," Liam said flatly.
Reis finally gave up and fished out his wallet.
The "ice-cream shop" sat tucked into a corner of the gym lobby.
A joke petition by some random student had somehow gotten approved—and honestly? Best decision the academy ever made.
Minutes later, cones in hand, we stepped outside. The night air hit instantly—cooler, sharper, a thousand times better than the sweat-soaked heat of the gym.
Stretching lazily, arms overhead, Reis said, "I've gotta head out. Something to take care of. Don't wait up."
"Don't worry, we're not gonna ask you for more money," Victor added dryly.
Reis waved him off. "It's not that."
"Skipping the swim?" I asked, raising a brow.
"Tomorrow," he grinned, and with that, he disappeared down the path to the left—leaving just the three of us: me, Liam, and Victor.
We started down the wide stone path outside the gym.
Lanterns along the walls flickered, throwing uneven shadows that danced across Liam's face.
He walked stiffly, scowl set deep, eyes locked on the cone in his hand—seriously making sure the ice cream didn't drip onto his shirt.
Nudge...
The jolt wasn't much, but enough. Liam's grip faltered, and the cone tilted. A smear of melting ice cream streaked across someone's shirt.
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
Liam stared at the cone—what was left of it—his jaw tightening, breath sharp. Then his gaze lifted.
The other boy wasn't looking at the cone. His eyes had already dropped to the stain spreading across his shirt, the white smear catching the glow of the lantern light.
The silence between them grew heavy, thicker than the humid night air, till their eyes met.