The sound itself is a weapon, slamming against my spectral form with force that would have staggered me if I were solid.
Shadows erupt from her fingertips—not the elegant darkness that Cassius commands, but somethingwrong. Corrupted. Tendrils of void that scream as they stretch across the battlefield, each one carrying the weight of stolen souls and borrowed power. The darkness drips with malice so thick it's almost visible, leaving stains on reality wherever it passes.
They surge toward Gabriel with the speed of falling stars, intent on tearing the chalice from his grasp before he can?—
Gabriel's voice booms across the realm.
WHAT WAS UNITED SHALL DIVIDE AND CONQUER.
WHAT WAS STOLEN AND FORBIDDEN SHALL RETURN AND VANQUISH.
WHAT WAS WICKED SHALL REMEMBER AND EMBARK ON THE ROAD TO LOVE.
The words that leave his mouth aren't any language I recognize, yet I understand them in mymarrow.
Ancient Infernal—the first language, the tongue of binding and creation that our parents spoke when they shaped this Academy from nothing but will and love. Each syllable carries weight that makes the air itself bow, reality restructuring around the sounds like iron filings aligning to a magnet.
"Starting," he whispers like a sacred hymn, raising the chalice high as power older than the Academy itself begins to wake, "with Death."
The chaliceresponds.
A soft click echoes across the battlefield—impossibly quiet yet somehow louder than thunder.
The artifact opens, just a fraction, just enough for golden light to spill through the crack like sunrise bleeding through a doorway.
And then the sonic wave hits.
It doesn’t make a sound.
Nor does it shine light.
It's something between—a pulse of pureexistencethat slams into everything and everyone with the force of a collapsing star.
The wave passes through me, and for one infinite instant, I feel my soul peel away from my body like wet cloth being stripped from flesh.
I watch myself from outside.
My physical form stands frozen mid-step, silver hair suspended in air currents that no longer move, eyes locked wide in an expression somewhere between terror and wonder. But themethat observes—the consciousness, the spirit, whatever fundamental essence makes meGwenievere—hovers separate and aware.
I'm a ghost.
The realization arrives with eerie calm.
My spectral form glows with soft luminescence, and when I look down at my hands, I see them covered in incantations. Golden symbols pulse across every inch of visible skin—royal script matched with divine sigils, each one telling a story of bloodline and destiny that I'm only beginning to understand. They breathe with their own rhythm, expanding and contracting like living tattoos, some flickering between visibility and shadow as if uncertain whether I'm real enough to bear them.
The symbols extend beyond my hands—I can feel them crawling across my arms, my torso, my face. Every inch of my spectral form has become a canvas for magic older thanmemory, power that was always dormant within me, finally manifesting in visual form. Some symbols burn with the same crimson as Atticus's blood magic. Others shimmer with Mortimer's golden dragon fire. Still others pulse with the void-dark of Cassius's shadows or the frost-touched silver of Zeke's feline essence.
I am all of them.
And they are all parts of me.
But it's my bond marks that truly steal my breath.
The mark on my neck—Cassius's claim—pulses with shadow that bleeds into starlight. I can feel him through it even now, his consciousness suspended but present, his protectiveness a blanket wrapped around my soul. The mark on my wrist—Atticus's territory—burns crimson with blood magic that tastes of copper and eternity, his devotion a fierce red thread connecting us across dimensions. The mark on my chest—Nikki's gift—shimmers between gold and silver like the surface of the sacred waters, their dual nature reflected in the bond that never asks me to choose one aspect over another.
And newer marks, still settling into my skin—Mortimer's dragon flame burning with scholarly intensity near my shoulder blade, Zeke's frost-kissed devotion leaving delicate patterns near my hip—each one a door connecting me to someone I've claimed and who has claimed me in return.
Strings.
