All three of my guys just stare at me.
“I don’t understand,” Cassian says. “I thought you can only move on if you get revenge on your killer. That way you balance out the karmic score, and you can finally rest.”
“That’s what I told you,” I say.
“And that was… a lie?” Talon asks.
“Somewhat,” I reply, backing up a couple of steps so I can sit on the sofa. The guys still choose to stand in front of me, like they need to keep their footing for whatever comes next. “I didn’t know it back then, but the difference between a soul that died with unfinished business and a wraith is minimal. And a human psyche is so complex that it’s hard to predict how to approach it when it’s in a state of stress and anguish and—“ I cut myself off and pull in a slow breath.
Calm down, Skye. Approach this calmly. It is a revelation, yes, but it is not a bad one.
“Death needs to give the souls who do not want to move on a purpose,” I say. “Without one, everything they’ve been harboring turns into energy, a surplus so violent that the soul starts to distort. That’s why he’s built this narrative that a victim has to wait for their abuser’s death and retaliate. It helps soothe the ache. It gives the pain a direction.”
None of them looks any less confused. If anything, it feels like I’m planting new questions in their heads faster than I can answer the old ones.
Talon is the first to push forward. “But if that’s true, then way more souls would be unable to move on. What about people who died naturally but still had all this bitterness inside them? People who hated someone so much they can’t let go?”
I nod.
“How come they don’t turn into Grim Reapers, you mean?” I clarify.
“Yeah, basically,” he says.
“That’s because the karmic imbalance is the key,” I tell him. “It’s what creates the pressure point, the thing that forces a choice and makes the release possible.”
Nathaniel folds his arms.
“Hold on,” he says slowly. “You just said Death gives souls a purpose so they don’t distort. But if the imbalance itself is what forces the choice, then isn’t Death just delaying the inevitable? The distortion still happens if they don’t pick revenge or forgiveness.”
I hesitate. “Technically, yes. But they always choose. That’s the point of the system.”
Talon lets out a short, humorless breath. “A system that depends on emotional instability to keep working? That sounds like containment, not mercy.”
“I don’t think the system is perfect.”
Cassian narrows his eyes at me.
“And what about you?” he asks. “You said you merged your soul. That means you broke out of that system. So why aren’t you distorting right now?”
The question punches through me. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
Nathaniel leans forward. “You said wraiths are souls that don’t have a purpose. That means if Death’s purpose is the only thing keeping a soul stable, what’s keeping you stable, Skye? Because I doubt you give two fucks about Death’s missions anymore.”
A silence stretches. Their eyes stay fixed on me.
“I…” My throat tightens. “Because I gave myself one,” I manage finally. “I made my own purpose.”
Nathaniel doesn’t blink. “And what purpose is that?”
I shift on the sofa, suddenly too aware of my body, the space between us, the fact that I can’t hide when it comes to this. I knew the question would come sooner or later. I just didn’texpect saying it out loud to make me feel this exposed. I mean, I already told them I love them, so it should be obvious.
Are they slow or something?
“Well,” I say, forcing the words out through my nerves, “you three.” I meet their eyes one by one. “My purpose is to be with you three, no matter what happens.”
The second it leaves my mouth, heat crawls up my neck and I feel ridiculous for being that direct. It is not the same as confessing love. It lands heavier, sharper, and packed with far more implication. Because what I really said, underneath all that simplicity, is that if one of them dies, or betrays me, or leaves, then I might not just hurt. I might become an actual wraith.
No pressure, right. Just the very core of my being depending on our relationship.
