Father brought all manner of strange and arcane books into our home. When I was a girl, I studied them. Even after his death, I never stopped reading, and I remember this circle. It gave me nightmares for weeks.
It is soul magic.
Unwillingsoul transfer magic.
They mean to bind my soul in some object: a book, a quill, a weapon. Anything useful. But I will not be useful. Soul magic requires consent; without it, the object becomes unstable, dangerous. And I? I shall be dangerous indeed.
I have never approved of sentient objects. I find the practice barbaric. Some families imprison their dead in grimoires or tombs so that knowledge or power is not lost,but some knowledge and dangerous magic deserve to fade. I have seen enchanted artefacts misused and others gathering dust on Father’s shelves.
I do not want to share their fate.
I need to get out of this damned circle.
I need to get home.
Another tear falls.
“Oh, look, she’s crying,” the shifter sneers. “Are you sad I killed your pathetic husband?”
No, I am not sad for William. I am too angry for that. I mourn myself—what I was, what I may yet become.
The mage utters the final syllables and steps forward, a ceremonial knife glinting in the candlelight. The floorboards creak as he enters the circle and straddles my hips, the toe of his boot pinning my upper arm to the wood.
I wince.
He studies me, cruel satisfaction lighting his face. My magic missed him; not a mark mars his skin. A pity.
“You recognise the circle, Hestia?” His moustache twitches. “How fitting that you were named for the goddess of hearth, home, and hospitality. It is as though fate fashioned you for this very task.”
As he speaks, he twirls the knife—tight little circles, then side to side.
“Do you wonder what you will become? Which vessel will hold your soul?” He crouches, the blade dangling from loose fingers. “I have searched for years, and we can no longer wait for a volunteer or a natural death. The Magic Collective needs a sanctuary now, and only the strongest soul can sustain such power. Regrettably, that soul is yours—you, a mere woman, are the most potent mage of yourgeneration. Together we will make history, creating the world’s first magical house.”
A house.
My stomach lurches. He does not intend to trap me in a trinket; he means to make mea house. A dwelling bound to a soul, mythic, impossible.
If I were allowed to use my voice, I would curse him, curse them all.
He lifts the knife. “Thank you for the magic, Hestia Howard. All you must do now is die.”
The blade plunges.
There is no pain, only pressure—a punch to the chest—and then silence.
I hover above the circle, looking down at my body. The sigils glow, and the spell grinds on. I cannot move. I am trapped, bound to this room.
The mage steps back, knife dripping, wand raised, and begins a fresh chant.
It begins.
Agony.
My soul screams as it unravels. Threads of light tear away, seeping into the unfinished walls. Though eyeless, I see filaments scatter—strands unspooling like a wool jumper tugged apart by invisible hands.
Pieces of me slide into rafters, plaster, and floorboards. I am being absorbed intothishouse, this half-built shell.
Oh no.
