Page 56 of Magic in My Bones

I frowned, trying to grasp its meaning. “The Veil? How does it tear?”

The spirit’s tone remained unchanged, as if it were recounting facts it had no emotional attachment to. “The rift pulses with his hunger. Spirits caught in its pull are torn, fused together. They scream in agony as they bind to one another. They become something… else. Something not of their own.”

A cold shiver crept up my spine. The image the spirit painted was horrific, and I could almost feel the agony of those trapped spirits bound by Alistair’s rituals.

“They lash out,” the spirit explained in the same detached tone. “The pain of being forced to take forms they do not recognize is overwhelming.”

Ren’s breathing quickened, his lips parting as though trying to speak, but no words came out. He shifted, caught in the current of magic. I could feel the tension in the room rise, like the air before a storm.

“They are fragments of themselves,” the spirit continued. “They are victims of a most grievous crime. Never allowed to heal. Never allowed to…become. And so, they lash out.”

“Become what?” I asked in a whisper.

“Who they are,” the spirit answered. “All things mustbecome. It is the nature of being. These spirits have not been allowed to evolve naturally into their true forms. Instead, they’ve been twisted, forced into shapes they do not recognize.”

I turned to the spirit, my voice tightening. “Why Ren? Why him? Why did Alistair choose him?”

The spirit’s answer came, void of warmth, but unmistakably clear. “Pain. Loss. Despair. Vengeance. These are the spirits you must seek for answers. I know only hunger. Desire. I know his is dark. It…festers. He hungers for life, for retribution, for revenge.”

I gritted my teeth, the weight of the spirit’s words sinking deep. This was never just about power. It wasn’t just some abstract hunger for dominance. Alistair’s thirst for vengeance had only worsened over the years, growing into something dark and sinister. And now, he’d found himself a target.

“Ren,” I whispered, my heart aching as the truth unfolded. “He was chosen to hurt me. He knew it would tear me apart to watch someone I…” I stumbled, unwilling to finish the thought aloud. “To watch him suffer.” I clenched my fists. “How do we stop him?”

The spirit’s voice drifted, thick and slow, echoing like the drip of water in an endless cave. “He seeks a hollow shape… a vessel without shape or voice. But this one…” Its hollow eyes roamed over Ren on the dais, as though admiring a fine piece of art, though twisted by envy or hunger. “This one is not hollow. Not yet.”

I leaned closer, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why does he need Ren?”

“Because,” the spirit murmured, its words almost a sigh, “In his hunger, the dark master does not fill; he consumes. He cannot…become. Without a vessel, he will be consumed by the hunger that drives him.”

I clenched my fists, heart racing. “Then we need to break that bond. Sever the tie between them.”

The spirit’s form flickered, its expression unreadable as it lingered over Ren, the words slow and deliberate. “Find the place where the tether was cast. The ritual site where the darkness anchors him. Disrupt the flow of energy, shatter the chains that bind, and the bond between them will falter. But be wary. Treading upon sacred ground rarely goes well for interlopers.”

“How can I find the ritual site?” I demanded.

The spirit’s eyes glittered darkly, its whisper like the rustle of dead leaves across forgotten graves. “Seek the place where the tides of time have swallowed the dreams of men, where the boundary between land and sea blurs into an endless twilight. There, in the depths of the drowned house of knowledge, you may find the answers you seek.”

I frowned, trying to decipher the spirit's cryptic message. A place where the boundary between land and sea blurs? Where the tides of time have swallowed dreams? It sounded like the ramblings of a mad seer, but I knew better than to dismiss the words of the dead.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” I asked, my voice steady despite the unease crawling up my spine. “Anything at all.”

The spirit tilted its head, regarding me with an unsettling intensity. “The ritual site lies beneath the shadow of the Blackstone, where the first seeds of knowledge were sown. But beware, necromancer. The waters there are deep and dark, and they hold secrets best left undisturbed.”

With those ominous words, the spirit began to fade, its form dissipating like mist in the morning sun. I reached out, as if I could somehow grasp the fleeting tendrils of its essence, but my fingers passed through empty air.

Ren stirred on the altar, his dark lashes fluttering as he slowly emerged from the depths of the trance. A soft groan escaped his lips, his body heavy with the lingering weight of the spirits' presence. I moved to his side, my hand finding his fingers intertwining in a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Easy now, mo stóirín,” I murmured, my other hand brushing the damp strands of hair from his forehead. “You're safe. I'm here.”

Ren's eyes opened, hazy and unfocused at first, as if struggling to reconcile the physical world with the ethereal realm he'd just traversed. He blinked slowly, his gaze finally settling on me.

“Dorian?” His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. “What... what happened?”

I helped him sit up, keeping a steadying arm around his waist as he swayed. “You did beautifully, Ren. The spirits spoke through you, offering guidance.”

He leaned into me, his head resting on my shoulder as he caught his breath. “I remember... bits and pieces. It's like trying to hold on to a dream as it fades away.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “There was a name. Alistair.”

I flinched at the mention of my former student’s name.

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