Page 34 of Secrets of Graves and Gold

As far as I can determine, the writer was alive not long after the Great Retribution. They saw the effects of the destruction and kept their magic hidden because of a few early experiences where people reacted with horror.

There’s no mention of scourge sorcery, though. I suppose the writer had enough of their own problems without accounting for anyone else’s illicit magic.

Then I come to a page that’s nearly whole, just ragged along the edge.

…never asked for this. Did I want our world torn apart by those who use death for their own gain and seek to bend the entire continent to their will? Of course not. But to be turned into a vessel for the gods’ power—to be used like a weapon with no will of my own so they can defeat those villains, bringing down a hail of fire and destruction—and then left with my soul cracked open now that they no longer need me… Why have I been punished for serving our deities as they chose?

I stop at the end of the page and simply stare blankly, my breath halting in my throat. The writer can’t really mean…

It sounds like they’re saying the gods used them to fight the scourge sorcerers. That the effect of the divine power is what cracked their soul.

Not born that way as a lingering punishment, but purposefully created as a tool.

That contradicts everything I’ve read before about the origins of riven magic. Why would the gods let people who served them be shunned and driven to insanity?

Maybe this one was already going mad and had delusions clouding their mind. Or maybe they convinced themselves of this story to justify other destruction they caused with their magic.

I turn the page with a shaky hand, but the next few only vent about the hardships of a trek on the road between towns with no mention of magic at all. The several pages after have lost too many chunks for me to glean much of the subject. There’s a brief account of seeing the silvery mountain top and deciding to try to reach it.

And then I arrive at the end of the journal.

There’s nothing definitive, nothing to confirm his stories. They’re as likely to be the ravings of a near-lunatic as anything we should put any stock in.

What good would it do Ivy to bring up the possibility when I have no reason to believe it isn’t utter nonsense? I can’t trust a word of it unless I find other accounts that corroborate the writer’s story.

As I get up to search the shelves for any records that might give a clearer picture, a thud in the hall brings my head jerking around. I dash over to the doorway.

Rheave is kneeling on the floor a few paces down the hallway, his hand braced against the wall. He’s frowning at his knees, but he looks up at my arrival.

“I… My feet moved the wrong way,” he says. “I tripped right over them.”

I offer him a hand to help him back up. He shifts his weight tentatively and then stiffens.

“What?” I ask. “Are you all right?”

His frown deepens. “I think the creator of this body is trying to call me back.”

The daimon’s gaze darts up to meet mine again, panic flickering through his expression. “It’s only a faint tug right now, but what if they pull harder? How can I stop them?”

That… is a very good question.

I open my mouth and close it again, realizing I don’t know what to tell him.

Until a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed it was even possible for magic to create a living body to house a daimon that could pass for a human being. How would I have any idea how they might control it?

But the fact that he’s asking at all, that he cares this much, makes me want to help him. Is this how Ivy felt when she agreed to have him join us?

Gods above, how many other types of magic have I read about? I should be able to give him some sort of answer.

As I grope for the right thing to say, Rheave adjusts his posture in that slightly alien way that reminds me he isn’t used to having a body at all. He’s a creature of pure spirit trapped in a physical cage, as much as he’s come to enjoy his new home.

Perhaps the answers aren’t in the magic involved, but in the rights of possession. I watched my parents haggle with customers often enough to know that negotiating any kind of deal centers around claims of ownership.

My thoughts whirl and come together with a quiver of inspiration. “It’s your body they’re trying to take back, not your spirit, isn’t it? They can’t control what you think or feel?”

Rheave nods. “The body is the part they made.”

I tap his chest lightly. “But it’s yours now. They gave it to you. The more you can convince yourself of that, the more you may be able to pull away from their hold.”

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