Chapter Thirty · The Vessel of Souls

Dawn came without warmth.

The limestone slope lay still beneath the morning mist. Red poppies burned bright between patches of white gravel.

In the distance, fragments of shields and rusted weapons marked the remains of a battlefield long forgotten.

Lyra and Sion crouched low, gathering the last of the flowers. Before long, both baskets were full, tied to either side of the saddle.

Sion lifted one and made a face.

“You sure the horse can handle this?”

Lyra brushed the dust from her hands.

“He’s the strongest warhorse in the kingdom.”

Sion turned a poppy between her fingers.

She hesitated. “He mentioned your crown…”

“Are you a princess? Or a queen?

No… you’re too young to be a queen.”

Lyra looked at her.

“After this… if I’m still myself,” she said, “I’ll tell you.”

Sion froze.

An old memory flickered through her.

Years ago, her aunt had said the same thing.

When she was older, she would understand who she was.

The brightness faded from Sion’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Lyra asked.

Sion tightened her grip on the basket strap.

“Maybe… you shouldn’t do the ritual.”

Lyra set a hand on her shoulder.

A gentle pat.

“Stay away when it begins.”

Her gaze lingered a moment too long.

Sion stilled.

The weight of it settled in her chest.

Lyra didn’t say anything else.

She turned away, tightening the saddle straps.

After a moment, she said, “Let’s go.”

The two girls left the slope and made their way back to the tomb. The ritual would begin soon.

There would be no room left for hope or regret if anything went wrong.

It was a gamble. A dangerous one.

But if she won, she would earn Aulith’s trust.

It didn’t take long to make it back.

Oil lamps burned at the four corners of the chamber.

The mage stood before the stone coffins, head bowed.

At each tomb, he had laid a bundle of freshly cut barley. Pale-gold stalks rested against the cold stone.

He straightened, leaning on his staff as he regarded the two girls.

“You’re back.”

He gestured to the baskets.

“Scatter the red poppies around the tombs.”

Sion swallowed.

“What does that mean?”

“Barley is the flesh of Aulith,” the mage said.

His gaze dropped to the red flowers in their hands.

“And poppy… is the blood of Aulith.”

When they finished, the preparations were complete.

The mage raised his staff.

A thin line of light appeared before the largest coffin. Slowly, he traced two overlapping triangles. Lines of light crossed and locked into an ancient sigil, suspended in the air.

He turned to Lyra.

“Do you regret it?”

She took a deep breath, held it, then let it go.

Then she shook her head.

She glanced at Sion.

“Stand by my sword.”

On the far wall, opposite the coffins, Lyra’s blade had been propped upright.

Sion moved to it and took her place beside it.

Lyra stepped into the center of the glowing sigil.

The mage approached the coffins. He placed a hand on the lid of the largest, then shoved it aside with his staff.

He opened the other four in turn.

Inside, five bodies lay still, their skin pale and waxen.

But their chests rose and fell, faint and steady.

The High Lord and the four elders had grown long hair and beards over the years, bleached white like frost.

They were breathing. But there was no sign of awareness.

The mage stepped back behind the coffins.

He struck his staff against the stone.

“The ritual begins.”

A low chant rose from the mage’s throat and filled the tomb, ancient and low.

The flames in the oil lamps flared, burning higher.

The barley and poppies lifted, hovering in the air.

The coffins began to tremble, a faint shudder running through the stone as if something stirred beneath the floor.

Lyra felt a rush of cold spill from the five coffins.

It touched her feet first. Sharp.

Then it climbed her spine. Her hands went numb.

Her chest tightened.

The air grew heavy, thick as stone.

Across the chamber, Sion stood by the wall, hands clenched together.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Beside her, the sword shuddered within its steel sheath.

A thin, high note slipped from the blade, ringing out, stretching long until it fell into rhythm with the pulsing air.

Light spilled from the High Lord’s brow.

Then one from each of the four elders.

Five pale strands, thin as mist, drifted free from their bodies and hovered for a breath.

And then—

they drove straight into Lyra.

The scar at her wrist pounded, a rapid drumbeat beneath her skin.

Her fingers curled tight.

The mage raised his staff, his voice rising above the chant.

“Fragments of souls sealed far from here…

return to your origin.”

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

light streaked through the tomb’s entrance as if drawn from far beyond.

Streams of color tore through the doorway like falling stars and slammed into her.

Two forces converged within her.

One from the coffins.

One from something far outside the tomb.

A crushing weight drove into her, like a vessel filled past its limit.

Her arms shook. Her knees buckled.

Sion lunged forward.

The mage’s staff struck the stone.

A barrier of light flared between them.

Sion hit it and was thrown back.

“Stay back,” the mage said, his voice still carrying through the chant.

“You’ll harm her.”

Sion had no words.

She stood. Sat. Stood again.

Her face went tight. Her eyes lost focus.

Inside the sigil, the world tilted.

Visions flooded Lyra’s sight.

Blood. Bodies. A battlefield burning red.

Screams filled her ears.

Lyra looked up. Aethrador stood before her.

“Good,” he said, his voice cold. “From this day on, Thrudor will protect Aulith.”

He held out his hand.

“Prove your loyalty. Give me a piece of your soul.”

A voice cut through her mind.

You’re a liar.

Another voice followed, sharp and cold.

Hypocrite. We hate you.

A blade of light formed in her hand.

She struck, hard and fast. Again. Again.

She couldn’t stop.

Her arm no longer obeyed her.

Heat surged through her blood. Voices crashed over one another.

Kill him. Kill him.

Lyra squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head.

The vision shifted.

A child. Three years old.

The child laughed, running circles around Lyra.

Something in the child’s face felt achingly familiar.

“Come here,” a man’s voice called, warm.

The child turned and ran forward, arms open.

Then she vanished.

Something broke inside Lyra’s chest.

It was the same pain as the day she left the palace without a word to her father.

Only heavier.

The vision changed again.

Fields of barley, dry and withered.

The ground cracked open.

Bodies crawled across the dirt, starving. Too many to count.

Her hands seized her head.

“No!”

“I won’t stay trapped in that sphere!”

“Aulith will not live as slaves!”

Her fists drove into her chest, again and again.

The world lurched.

A crack split the largest coffin in front of her.

Her vision flared white.

Then red.

A thin voice slipped into her mind.

I want to die.

Let me go.

Her hand rose to her throat.

Her fingers clamped tight around her throat, unbidden.

“No…”

Not mine.

I don’t want to die.

This can still work.

If I keep control, I can finish this.

Aulith can still be saved.

Other voices pushed their way in.

Images overlapped, shattered, and reformed.

Lyra tensed, then forced both arms behind her back, locking her hands together.

Her grip slipped.

She locked them again.

Pain tore through her chest.

“AAAAH!”

Her scream shook the tomb.

Light burst from her mouth.

It streamed outward.

Then it drove back into the bodies waiting in the coffins.

Lyra’s body went suddenly weightless.

Her strength gave out. Her limbs went slack.

The barrier in front of Sion vanished. She rushed forward and caught Lyra.

“Please… no.”

The mage stopped his chant.

He hurried over and dropped to his knees beside Lyra, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Then he raised his staff toward her chest. A faint light spread from its tip, soft, almost soothing.

Her eyes slowly cleared, but her breathing stayed shallow.

The mage’s eyes glistened.

“In all my years… I have never seen such strength.”

Then—

a loud crack split the air.

The High Lord’s stone coffin shattered.

The man inside jerked upright, his long white hair and beard falling over his shoulders.