It echoes through the passage in a way that makes it impossible to ignore, rising sharp and breaking into something hoarse before fading into a low, strained sound that lingers beneath everything else.
Nyara exhales slowly. “That’s encouraging.”
Petunis does not turn. “The scouring is necessary,” she says simply, as though that explains the sound.
We descend further, then further again. The air thickens as we reach the lowest point, the scent meeting us before anything else does. Mineral and old, the kind that belongs to places that have never seen light.
The chamber opens around us. It is vast, though not in the way of the throne room. Wells fill the floor. Dozens of them, arranged in careful rows, each one identical, their edges worn smooth by time or design. Thick yellow steam rises from within them, curling slowly upward.
Figures stand beside each one, still and waiting. Their robes fall in dark lines to the ground, their faces partially obscured, their presence quiet in a way that does not feel passive.
"Mortide," Petunis says, her voice carrying easily. “They conduct the scouring. It is their purpose."
Another scream cuts through the chamber, closer this time.
I glance toward the nearest well. The steam parts just enough for me to see what lies beneath. The liquid inside churns. It is yellow and thick, bubbling in a way that suggests heat far beyond what the body should withstand. It looks as though it would strip flesh from bone.
Nyara lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You cannot be serious.”
Petunis steps forward, her staff resting lightly against the ground as she moves. “The purpose of the scouring is to remove what does not belong. Disease. Residual magic. Contamination from the outside world.”
She pauses near one of the wells, the rising steam curling around her as though it recognizes her presence.
“Alarna has remained untouched because we do not allow foreign influence to take root. We do not share immunity with the world beyond our wards. Exposure must be managed carefully, or it destroys us.”
Nyara folds her arms. “And this is your version of careful?”
“It is our version of survival.”
Another scream rises, then breaks.
Nyara glances at me. “Well. If I die in there, I expect you to make it everyone’s problem.”
“You will manage that yourself,” I say.
She huffs something that might be a laugh.
We step forward together.
The Mortide assigned to me inclines his head slightly, then gestures toward the well.
I move closer. The heat reaches me first, pressing against my skin in waves, sharp enough to sting, heavy enough to make each breath feel thicker than it should. The scent intensifies here, something metallic layered beneath the sweetness, something that settles at the back of my throat.
I hesitate, aware that this matters in a way I cannot fully name. Nyara meets my eyes once, her expression composed with an intention that does not need to be spoken.
“On three?” she mutters.
I nod, though we don’t count before we step forward together. The heat takes me all at once, rising fast enough that I expect it to burn, to tear through me as soon as it touches.
Instead, it closes around me in a way that feels consuming without destroying, pressing inward as though unraveling something beneath the surface of my skin rather than breaking it.
My breath leaves me as light rises through me, beginning deep and moving outward, filling every part of me at once. It spreads with a force that feels boundless, as though something I have only ever touched in fragments has suddenly been placed fully within my reach.
My power. I feel it without restraint. It stretches outward, threading through space in ways I have never allowed myself to follow, connecting to things I cannot see but somehow understand.
It is vast and endless in a way that feels both exhilarating and terrifying. The sensation turns. I see it differently now. Moments begin to surface, fragments of memory. The light shifts.
The ways my magic has moved through me without control, shaping things I never meant to shape, touching lives I never meant to reach.
