He didn’t like to recall how aggressively the wraiths had fought at Centerpointe Rock. Before that, Morkai had demonstrated his ghastly army’s capabilities on the very charred field the wraith wandered over now. Proved how deadly they could be when he forced a servant to face his hoard.
“How did he get the wraiths to follow him?” Teryn asked.
“He did what he’d always done. He used a blood weaving. He burned the castle garden to ash, offering death for life.”
“And that’s all they needed to fall under his command?”
“No, it was more complicated than that. He shared a connection to those wraiths, through his father. The wraiths he called to him were the souls of those who’d fought in El’Ara for Darius.”
Teryn remembered what Morkai had said about the wraiths during his demonstration.
Spirits from a nearly forgotten war.
They died trapped between two realms…
Now they serve me.
“They died in the fae realm,” Emylia said, “yet their souls were tethered to the human realm. Their heart-centers were torn from them, leaving them as empty, hollow spirits, unable to cross to the otherlife. Without one’s heart-center, they have no attachment to the otherlife, no reason to go home. Yet without a heart-center, they remain forever hungry. Lost. That is where tales of vengeful and violent spirits come from.”
So that was why wraiths were so different from ghosts. Ghosts had unfinished business like Emylia or were desperate to cling to the lives they’d had like some of the ones he’d seen in the castle. Wraiths, on the other hand, had lost the very thing that made them want anything. They were hungry but didn’t even know what for.
Emylia spoke again. “He used that hunger to his advantage. With his own blood, he wove an attraction enchantment that called the wraiths to Ridine. The wraiths were drawn to his blood because they sensed their former master’s in it—Darius, the king they’d served and fought for, the man who’d fueled their sense of purpose when they’d been alive.
“Once Morkai drew the wraiths to the castle grounds, he sacrificed the garden and gave them sentience, and the ability to act as if they were alive, able to wield their weapons and end lives. After that, they chose to follow him. He gave them what every wraith craves—a purpose. He promised them a battle that would help them atone for the mission they’d failed to complete for their former master. Furthermore, he’d end their wandering torment by giving them the peace they couldn’t find on their own. Once he had the power of the Morkaius, he would lay their etheras to rest.
“Lay them to rest? How would he do that?”
“Magic can exorcise spirits, though I don’t know if Morkai had truly cared enough about their fate to plan that far ahead.”
“That’s really all it took for him to gain an army of souls? Spill his blood, give them a purpose that harkened back to their former lives, and promise an end to their wandering?”
“No, there was more to it than that. His army was flawed at first. They could only maintain sentience for short stints once they began fighting, and if they were defeated in combat, that would often be enough to end their bloodlust. That was when he forged a connection between them and his Roizan. It allowed them to reanimate again and again, never tiring.”
He stared down at the wraith, watching as it wandered aimlessly over the charred field. “Are the wraiths still dangerous? If he sacrificed the garden to give them sentience, do they still have it? Can they still kill, or can they only wander the field that gave them life?”
“Maybe they could be dangerous if they had a purpose again, but that died with Morkai.” Emylia frowned, turning narrowed eyes to him. “Why are you so interested?”
Something dark echoed in his chest, and he realized he wasn’t questioning Morkai’s actions out of idle curiosity. There was a part of him that wanted to figure out what he’d done, to study it from every angle. And a much smaller, quieter part of him that wondered if he could do it too.
He’d already painted with blood. He’d worked blood magic and now knew how simple it was. Not easy, but simple. Just a pattern. A formula.
“Do not lust after blood magic,” Emylia said. “There’s a reason it’s forbidden. There are repercussions.”
She was right, and he shuddered at his own thoughts. At how alluring they were, despite knowing he shouldn’t have them. Yet something in him had changed last summer, as subtle a change as it was. He’d greeted death. Had danced with it. Defeated it. It didn’t repulse him the way it once had, and there was a faint piece of it that stayed with him still, evident in his ability to see spirits. Was that one of the repercussions Emylia was referring to?
He glanced at the warrior wraith again. It walked in slow, hapless circles at the center of the field.
Then it halted.
Turned around.
And lifted its hollow, eyeless gaze to Teryn.
His breath caught as he was struck with a sudden yearning for…
For what?
He didn’t know, nor was he sure the yearning was coming from him. It almost felt as if it was coming from the wraith.
