Eve lifts her hands to her chest in mock surrender. “Archivists,” she corrects herself with a dip of her chin. “Who lack a sense ofhumor,” she adds in a mutter.
Despite my best efforts, a small smile curls my lips.
The line ofarchivistsstand, their hidden stares take on an expectant feel.
“Alright,” I say, shifting my weight in my seat as I pull my hands into my lap. “I’m searching for a ritual. Soul mending. Not the ritual for mending an animal’s soul, a mortal’s—a person’s. If such a ritual exists, I need it. I’d also like any recorded history of the ritual’s use, successful or otherwise.”
In unison, the constructs curtsy before streaking off in different directions. More constructs appear, materializing out of nothingness in bolts of silver-blue to speed down aisles and vanish between towering bookshelves. It doesn’t take long for the first to return, her arms stacked with leather-bound tomes.
With a silent snap of her shimmering fingers, the table clears—glasses, books, even the layer of dust pops out of existence, leaving our bracers untouched upon the table.
Slack jawed, I watch in silence as the construct sets her stack before Eve and me.
I’ve only seen the gods wield such ability.
Glancing at Eve, I discover we wear the same shocked expression. The ease with which theseconstructswieldAetheris perception changing. How can Aether grant such capabilities?
“Why would they help?” Eve asks, her eyes trailing after the construct as she speeds away. “You’re not High Empress yet.”
Again I shrug. “I’m not going to tell them not to,” I offer for lack of a better answer. “We could spend decades searching this place and still come up empty handed.”
I don’t have decades.
I barely have weeks.
“Then we’d better get to it,” Eve says, reaching for the stack of books. She pulls the top, placing the book before her.
A plume of dust from the pages bursts into the air as the cover strikes the table. I lean away as Eve waves a hand through the cloud, a severe grimace upon her face.
Following her lead, I set the next book before me, careful not to jostle its cover. There’s no title, author, or volume number—nothingto indicate what its pages hold. I would have never found what I need had I been left to search these shelves myself.
Bracing myself for the discovery of all nature of answers, I open the book, turn a few pages, and begin scouring the words.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It may havebeen hours, it may have been days—I couldn’t say. My grasp of time vanished long ago. Having lost myself in book after book searching, it isn’t until I heave a sigh of relief did I realize how stiff I’ve become sitting in the ancient chair.
Mending my soul is possible.
I’ve found the ritual.
But it carries tall demands and steeper costs, making my relief short-lived. It’s not a ritual I can do myself—not due to a lack of skill or even the costs of casting the ritual, but because for a soul to be mended, both pieces must stand on the cusp between life and death.
Which means the ritual requires veilwalking and alife tether—someone willing to expend their life energy to ensure death’s call falls upon deaf ears.
In the depths of my bones, I know it will be Ryc to volunteer for the task.
I won’t be able to convince him otherwise.
And it’sthatwhich gives me pause.
Flipping through a few pages, I heave a sigh. The runes on the page blur together as I delve into my thoughts. I know the horrors lurking in the veil—I used tobeone. While I’m confident Ryc has more experience handling cursed creatures than many other mortals of Eldoterra, it’s not enough to prepare him for veilwalking.
A life tether is pulled into the veil alongside their anchor and mustsurvive—for however long it takes to complete the mending ritual.
I flip another page. It’s filled with more details on how to sanctify the ritual space—arequirementbefore attempting the mending ritual.
And this ritual is complex.
