8. Cost My Soul

eight

Cost My Soul

Alessia

D on’t make me beg . The voice fills my mind. It’s been too long. You can’t keep ignoring me.

“Shush,” I mutter, my annoyance building. “It’s your fault we’re stuck down here.”

You’ll feel so much better once we—

“La, la, la, la,” I sing obnoxiously, drowning out the noise.

I’ll be quieter if—

My boots slam heavily against the stone as I stomp, purposely trying to be loud. The louder I am, the less I have to listen to that infuriating little voice.

The shadow roils, protesting against my skin. It wants out. It craves more sacrifices to fuel its strength—it’s growing desperate.

After reading confirmation in Enid’s words last night, I’m rattled: strengthening the magic is said to be done through sacrifice.

Focusing on my own thoughts instead of the nagging little voice inside me, I make my way purposefully through the main hallway of Spiritus Court. I’ve yet to clean the many rooms and labyrinth-like halls that lead away from the main space and my bedchambers. I should branch out and clean the rest of the court, but it’s a daunting task. It overwhelms me. Plus, I don’t need all this space. I’ve mainly stuck to my chambers, the kitchen, the study, and the libraries .

Today, I’m headed to the muniment room. I’ve been there before, but I hadn’t made sense of the documents I found on my first visit. But now, after reading the journal, I know they’re death records of Avylon’s fae.

My shadow simmers down, and the silence grows deafening, broken only by the echoes of my footsteps as I stride deeper through the corridor.

The high ceilings resemble a cathedral, giving the court a hauntingly majestic quality. Tree branch sconces with half-melted candles light my way, casting long shadows that dance along the stone. A chill caresses my neck, and I wrap my arms around myself, sinking into my sweater.

In times like these, when I haven’t been above ground for a few days, the loneliness seeps in extra. The quiet cuts deep, a reminder of what I’ve lost rather than the peace and freedom I’ve gained.

I miss Rainer. I want nothing more than to see that secret dimple he reserves for me, to feel his slender fingers caressing my skin.

My flesh pebbles at the mere thought.

At first, I genuinely believed I needed to discover my true identity before fully committing to him. But instead of learning myself, I’m fighting not to lose myself.

My shadow-self lashed out at Ezamae and choked Tynan without my will. It refuses to return to me when I call. It openly seeks destruction—death. And that’s not something I will allow to be around my friends.

Unfortunately, I can’t even risk seeing Rainer in my dreams, considering his bite once lingered beyond the dreamscape. If my shadow-self lashes out and hurts him, I worry it’ll be real in waking life.

If it hurt him, it’s not something I can live with. My experience with lucid dream has come in handy, allowing me to craft my own dreamscape without running into him. If only controlling my shadow was as easy as manipulating my dreams.

The corridors twist and turn, eventually narrowing and sloping deeper into the earth. Finally, the path comes to an end. A sturdy door stands before me, built into the stone. It’s different from the ornate wooden doors lining the other halls—this one lacks a handle and detailing.

It tempts me, begging me to open it. I step forward, and my skin heats. A zing of magic surges through me as a dark tendril seeps out from my pores, lashing forward and shoving the door open with a loud creak. I jolt, surprise smacking me. For a moment, I freeze. But before I can react, the shadow recoils back into my flesh, curling inside me like a dog near a cozy fireplace.

I swallow the lump in my throat, unease trickling down my spine.

“Stop it,” I command weakly, exhausted from fighting with it. “Stay inside of me.”

It doesn’t reply, but it doesn’t need to. I know it won’t heed my request. It never does.

It’s a reminder of why I’m better off down here.

Alone.

With a heavy exhale, I forge forward.

The muniment room boasts an array of private records and artifacts. The air is thicker here as if weighed with the memory of thousands of souls.

I wonder if Eoin found peace, tethering to a Soultree and sinking into the Otherworld .

It won’t bring him back. I can hear your thoughts—it’s not your fault he’s dead. Let it go.

“Leave me alone,” I mumble.

He deserved it—

“Hush!” I focus on my breaths, blocking out the nagging voice inside me—an uncanny imitation of my voice.

My vision locks onto the small drawers built into the wall, floor to ceiling, before me. The sconces flicker, a soft, ethereal light allowing me to see the room’s contents. Though much of my new home is still in disarray, having been abandoned for gods know how long, it’s easy to see the intricate beauty in every nook of the court.

A stone table sits in the center of the room, with ink pots and quills scattered atop it. Glass cabinets stand opposite the drawers, showcasing various items like vases, jewelry, weapons, and what I presume are other family heirlooms.

I approach the wall of drawers. Each is a delicately carved rectangle about the length of my forearm and only a fist high. I’ve explored many of them. Inside are parchments that document deaths from the past.

Locating a specific drawer on the right-hand side, I gently pull it open and reveal a collection of yellowed parchment. A plume of dust wafts up, and I cough, waving it away.

The ink on the paper is fading, but it’s still legible.

These are the death ledgers mentioned in Enid’s journal—records of the fae who have lost their lives and passed through Spiritus Court.

My eyes roam the pages, taking in the list of names, dates, courts, and magic. I flip through the records until I find one with open space. I carry the parchment to the table, use my arm to wipe away the filth, and set it down, smoothing the curling edges with a deep inhale.

Maybe I should’ve done this sooner. Perhaps it would have helped me move on and make peace with my mistakes.

I’m not a murderer.

But I’ve directly taken two lives, and even more have indirectly lost their lives because of me.

My hand trembles as I reach for the ink pot. I blow off the dust and twist the lid open. Surprisingly, the ink hasn’t dried out even after all this time. I peer into the pot, studying the murky, viscous liquid. The way it appears is exactly how I picture my insides—a thick, inky sludge coating my organs, threatening to spill out of my skin and stain everything around me.

Eoin previously stated that Rainer’s magic stained Avylon. He was mistaken.

It’s my magic that stains Avylon.

Tears prick at my eyes. I blink them away, plucking a quill from its resting jar and gripping it tightly.

I’m angry at myself—at my shadow-self.

I’m afraid of making more mistakes—of hurting others. Even if it’s not malicious or purposeful, it doesn’t matter. Intentions don’t matter to the dead.

Carefully, I dip the quill into the ink pot. Then, steadying my hand, I scribe a new record: Eoin Glenn Orion , Prince of Terra Court , Empath .

Guilt and sorrow blossom in my chest, spreading like muck through my veins. I blow gently, helping the ink dry .

Once it’s no longer wet, I numbly trudge over to the drawers, tuck the paper safely inside, and shut the drawer.

“Rest in solace, Eoin,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. “I hope your spirit finds peace in the Otherworld.”

The reminder that Eoin died without magic weighs on me. Did the tree still absorb his spirit even without magic? Was he able to cross into the Otherworld and find peace?

Suddenly feeling too heavy—too stifled in my skin—I rush to the door and blow back into the hallway. Let this be the first and last name I will be personally responsible for adding to the ledgers.

I’m not a murderer.

Yet, I am conscious that my shadow-self will continue to claim lives if I don’t control it.

And Eoin will be just the start if I let it. The lord and the lady will pale in comparison of what my shadow is capable of.

The two souls satisfied my shadow’s thirst, but it’s clear it won’t last forever. Already, the damn thing is begging for more.

Tilting my head up, I let out a roar of frustration. My hands ball into fists, and I slam them down my thighs. Pain blossoms there, giving me an external sensation to focus on. Tears free fall, cascading down my cheeks in troves.

“I can’t do this forever,” I whisper.

A light breeze ruffles my hair. The faint, familiar scent of fresh air and pine hits my nose. My head jerks up, and I quickly wipe my tears away, blinking my vision clear. But there’s nothing and nobody.

Glancing down at myself, I take in my wrinkled clothing.

Gods, I’m a mess .

I’m losing my mind. When was the last time I bathed and changed my clothes? My mission has utterly consumed me despite getting nowhere. Perhaps I should eat and wash up before continuing my explorations.

There must be an answer somewhere down here in one of these journals. There has to be.

Otherwise, the price of using my magic is to be a killer. But that’s not the only cost. If I continue down this path, tempted by the ease and power of the magic inside me, I fear it will cost my soul.