Chapter 1
Ashes flurry down from smokestacks just ahead that jut out from the crest of the mountain range. Like clockwork, the remnants of the dead paint the sleepy town cradled in rock down below. The townspeople out and about at this hour, they know better by now.
A harsh wind blows, swirling the ashes, and I pull my scarf up around my nose as I trudge forward through the gray-hued storm. The work bells will chime soon and I want to spend my last minutes of this break taking in the beauty of this false snow. See the glint of the last light fall upon the town before all that is left for me to enjoy is darkness.
It’s not that the town doesn’t have its charm at night. Glowing windowpanes with smoking chimneys. Stars that speckle and flow in an endless river above. But, there is something rather dreary about only ever seeing black. Never really getting the opportunity to see life bloom and buzz throughout the day.
When you live in the dark. as much as I do, eventually those little houses seem more like tombstones in a particularly quiet graveyard. Eerie. Forgotten.
The bells do eventually ring, and I am not the only one outside. At least a dozen other workers have taken shelter beneath a tree to eat or chat in the warmth of the sun’s rays. The choice to eat under these circumstances, while not uncommon, is still one I refuse to partake in.
Together we all shuffle inside our gray-stone building. We uncoil scarves and chuck back hoods as we enter. Some ash still makes its way inside by means of our clothes and boots and hair, smudging the entryway as we funnel through. There are cubbies and hooks along the walls by the door that each of us piles our things into. Men and women smile sheepishly as they about-face to push past the gathered crowd still waiting to stow away their own items.
Once settled in, we take our places around a snaking queue of corpses that wait for their souls to finally be released. Each of us has our own part to play in this morose parade.
A body is rolled before me. She is small and frail; preserved to retain the brown of her skin with hints of yellow just beneath. Someone already prepped the ink on her body. Long, careful brush strokes of black swirl and dot her sagging, wrinkled flesh. Frayed edges of a purple ribbon decorate her wrist with requests for her soul for me to fulfill.
I flip over the ribbon to read the scrawl on the back and my heart drops. What I am about to do is not what I had in mind when I first took on this work. Lately, it seems to be requested more and more for dead loved ones.
Taking a breath, I accept that what is to be done is not my choice. That I have to. That if I don’t, someone else will.
I pull power from deep within my bones. Feel it rise to the surface and sear its patterns onto my flesh. Murky hues of purple light shine from the newly made pathways on my skin. It pours down along my limbs and drips from the angles of my face, my fingers, my toes; pools on the stones beneath my bare feet, swirling as if to hold itself back before launching into oozing tendrils. They hover in the air, scoping out its assignment. Search for instructions written in the ink etched onto the dead woman’s skin.
An understanding comes into view. Through the ropey webbing of power we the body, reaper, and soul become one. I am thrown into a void between the mind and body of my assignment where my work is to finally begin.
In my liquid form I hunt for the essence of this being. The one still trapped and awaiting release. Except, there are other plans at work here. Ones that have no intention of freeing her soul.
Within this void I latch myself onto the specks of power that linger in its wake. A dusting of color that will guide me to this unfortunate being. It’s faint, but I can sense the flutter of relief and peace that her end of life left behind. It guides me to her formless aura. Power and life shimmering as one deep in all this blackness.
Wordlessly, she greets me with warmth. Kindness. I do my best to mimic her emotions. It is enough to drop her guard. She beckons me closer and I obey. I don’t want to do what I’m about to; and so, I procrastinate. I have her tell me the story of her life. She imprints all of her joys and sorrows into my wavering pool of self. I feel it flow through me. When she gifts me what little power she has left in her reserves, I accept it before I strike.
My smile fades as my head drops in shame. She senses the shift and tries to get away. Tries to scatter herself within the void, but it is too late. She is powerless before me. Glowing purple chains spring forth around her soul, tethering her to this empty void until either she or her body is destroyed.
The betrayal of me and her family’s actions drains all that beauty she shared with me out of her. Her once shimmering self now ensnared by my treachery sags and droops. Every second that passes strains the color out of her completely.
Heart breaking for her over the work I have yet to do, I proceed. My chains sew themselves through her soul. They stitch my magic through every piece of it into the void. Once the chains weld their ends together, I swear I hear her scream. Before I can do more harm, release myself and the remaining bits of my magic from within her corpse.
When I crack my eyes, her empty brown ones are open and staring lifelessly back at me. She’s strapped down and still recovering from the rigor, but I know she wishes me dead. If she could, she would hex me on the spot.
It’s as if she knows that I will never forget this moment between us, because when I drop my head and look away, her eyes finally snap shut once more. When my fingers curl around the cart that carries her, I whisper her my apology before dutifully moving her along.
Only when she is out of my sight does my magic finally release itself back into my core. I feel it sink back into my marrow.
Before I know it or have a moment to recover, another corpse rolls before me. My heart wants to give in for the day, but I am far from done.
The next corpse has a gray ribbon with a black dot tied around his wrist. I sigh wearily. This one is a fallen soldier. Ordinarily, it would be an honor to deal with one of valor if not for the black dot signaling that he is from the wrong side of the battlefront.
My instructions are, once again, not my favorite kind. His soul will be released, but the essence of the life he lived will be trapped inside a piece of soulglass before being sent back to the capital for interrogation.
The power comes more easily this time, linking me to this body even faster than before. This time there is no void. No trail to lead me to his soul. Instead, I am met with thick, twisting vines covered in monstrous spikes.
I’ve seen some interesting defense mechanisms before. Rivers of molten metal, massive serpents to swallow me whole, and torrents of water to wash me away have all greeted me in the past. While his barrier may not be very innovative, this soldier is more skilled in the details he includes. The thorns he’s built are dripping with poison. It may not seem like much, but should any of it make its way into the flow of power that links us, it will sap me of all of my magic and trap me here.
Well, it would if I was less experienced. I tug at the stream of power, weaving it around my hand before shooting out flames to burn away the gnarled vines. They try to creep back or thicken to block my path: but as time goes on, their source of energy dwindles. Eventually, they cease altogether and I am mere feet away from their creator.
He is in his living form. His build is short and his wide torso is thick with muscle that ordinarily I would not be able to fend off. But this is not the mortal realm. This is within his mortal husk. Without a connection to the living, he is powerless against me.
The hollows of his cheeks deepen. His dark eyes latch onto the piercing on my bottom lip. His lips do not move, but his voice rolls in from all around me like thunder. The words vibrating through me, “A thanaturge. So this is the end, after all.”
“It is,” my voice sounds hollow. It falls flat without the same rumbling that his has.
He takes in the rest of me. The shape of my hair. The ornaments pinning each bun atop my head. The colors I wear. He sees it all; all the signals that I wear to render me neutral, merely a servant. “Will your country release my soul?”
I have to force myself to stay still, but he catches the slight shake in my eyes, “They will.”
“But?”
This time, I do not allow myself to waiver as I answer truthfully, “But you will inevitably betray your homeland.”
His facial expression does not change upon hearing it. Dying in battle is known to have this consequence; and his comrades could not retrieve his body to prevent it.
A silence hangs between us. I respectfully wait for him to be ready. The angles in his face soften. Slowly, he hangs his head, as if in reflection.
When enough time has passed, I move forward. My steps are careful, but I am certain of any reservations or concerns he had about my intentions once he understood what I am.
His eyes do not open again. His head stays bowed, and then I hear him speak once more, “Go ahead. I am ready.”
The murky pool of magic is ready to sever his bond to his flesh. Tendrils wrap around the edges of his form, cocooning him in their embrace. All together they work to pry him from his bonds, setting his soul free to release its consciousness into the ether.
A circle of glass edged with twisting wisps of gold appears before me. My sticky tendrils pull at the essence of the soul his consciousness left behind. They thread it through the glass, weaving it into place. Once the last of it is stitched, the rest of the world reduces to a void. Only then do I finally make my exit.
When I separate myself from the soldier’s shell, I am still clutching the glass. I hold it up to inspect and admire. He may be gone, but my work is beautiful. The thin golden thread shimmers in my design. I chose to reflect the part of him that he used to fight and protect himself with. Golden, thorny vines snarled around a golden center.
One soul bound. One freed. This is balance.
