The man in the second cell begins to sob, thick, hopeless sounds that echo in the dungeon. The first one just stares, his fanaticism finally extinguished, replaced by a dawning, soul-crushing horror.
“There is another way,” I offer, the words a sliver of false mercy. “A quicker end, or a new beginning, depending on how you look at it. We are a spiritual people. We believe in the sanctity of the soul. You can offer yours to us. A willing sacrifice to our spirit grid. It will be… a different kind of existence. But your suffering will end. The choice is yours.”
The men stare at me, their eyes pleading. A long, agonizing death fueling our magic, or a quick, final escape. It’s not much of a choice.
“I accept,” the first one rasps, his voice broken. The second just nods frantically, tears and snot smearing his bloodied face.
I nod. It is done. I turn to face them both, positioning myself between the cells. I raise my hands, palms out, and begin the old words, the invocation that formalizes the offering. “Do you, of sound mind and broken body, willingly offer?—”
I don’t get to finish.
The stone floor beneath my feet goes ice cold. The air crackles, and the containment runes on the cells flare with a violent, silver-black light. Before anyone can react, tendrils of pure shadow, shot through with shimmering spiritual energy, erupt from the walls. They are not ghosts; they are the raw, hungry essence of the grid itself.
The tendrils lash out, ignoring the bars as if they aren’t there, and slam into the clearbloods. The men scream, a high, thin sound that is cut off as the energy envelops them. Their bodies convulse, arching in impossible angles as the light and shadow drains them. I watch, stunned, as their forms seem to desiccate, their life, their essence, their very souls pulled from them in a violent, silent torrent.
In seconds, it’s over. The tendrils retract, melting back into the stone. The light fades. All that’s left in the cells are two empty husks, withered and gray, their faces frozen in a rictus of terror.
My hands are still raised, the final words of the ritual dead on my lips.
I’ve never seen that before. Never seen the grid act on its own, with such… hunger. It must be starving, desperate to repair the damage from the attack. I wonder if it’s already invited in Elder Farrow.
I lower my hands, a strange feeling settling in my chest. I can feel it. A subtle shift in the dungeon’s atmosphere. The low hum of the wards is a fraction stronger, the air a little less thin. The grid is healing, feeding on the fresh spirits I just gave it.
Good.
I turn from the cells, feeling the weight of what just happened settle into my bones like cold iron. The grid has fed. We've gained strength from their sacrifice. This is the brutal arithmetic of our survival.
Brynn is staring at me, her face a mask of quiet horror, but I can’t deal with her delicate sensibilities right now. This is war. Horror is a luxury we can’t afford.
Nor can I face that other sensation—the one burning between my shoulder blades. Dayn’s eyes, watching me.
14
ESME
My boots ring on the stone steps as I leave the dungeon’s cold embrace. I need air that hasn’t been tainted by death and torture.
My mother waits at the top of the stairs, her arms folded. When I reach her, she places a firm hand on my wrist and steers me away from the main thoroughfare, down a quiet, lesser-used corridor that leads to her office.
Considering she’s head apothecary of the coven’s infirmary, it’s rather small. The circular room is lined with books, crowding the space further, and the air smells of old paper, dried herbs, and beeswax. A single, large window looks out over the inner gardens, where winter-pale roses cling stubbornly to their thorns.
She closes the door, the latch clicking softly, and the sounds of the academy—the distant shouts and hum of magic as people rush into damage control—fade.
“You’ve been through a lot, Esme,” she says, her voice low. She gestures to a worn leather armchair by the window. “Sit.”
I remain standing. “I’m fine. There’s no time.”
“Don’t lie to me, Esme.” Her voice is sharp, but not cold. “You’re anything but fine.”
I swallow. “These aren’t normal times.”
I walk to the window, staring out at the garden. The roses look like frozen bursts of blood against the gray stone.
“The spirit grid was ravenous,” I say. “Desperate… just like the rest of us.”
My mother comes to stand beside me, her reflection a pale ghost in the glass. “Humor me. I’m not asking for time. I’m asking for thirty seconds in which you don’t pretend you’re made of iron. Now sit and let me check you.”
I know when not to argue with my mother. My shoulders slump and I slide into the armchair. The leather groans under my weight, cool and smooth.
