Page 96 of Magic in My Bones

And we had brought it right to him.

I whirled around, my heart leaping into my throat. “Ren, you must…”

I trailed off when I saw Ren standing rigid, his eyes glazed and unfocused. His lips moved soundlessly, as if in response to some unheard whisper, one hand jammed in his pocket.

“Ren?” I called out, my voice sharp with concern. “Ren, what's wrong?”

But he didn't seem to hear me. His gaze was fixed on some distant point beyond the chamber's walls. I hurried to his side, my hands gripping his shoulders as I tried to shake him from his trance. But he remained unresponsive.

My eyes darted to Ren's pocket, where his hand remained buried, clutching something unseen. A wave of dread crashed over me as I reached out, my fingers trembling, and slowly, gently, extracted his hand from his pocket.

There, in his fist, was the Chain of Echoes.

32

Depths of Identity

Ren

The world fell awayas I slipped deeper into the trance. Only Dorian's desperate voice calling my name anchored me to reality, though even that seemed distant now. The Chain of Echoes pulsed in my grip, the runes flickering with an eldritch light. Around me, tortured spirits swirled in a maelstrom of anguish and rage, their ghostly figures distorted by the twisting currents of necromantic energy.

The spirit who had sought my aid materialized in front of me. Gratitude emanated from its being, a warm glow amidst the turbulent sea of tormented souls.

“Ren Wickens,” the spirit said. “I cannot thank you enough for bringing me here.”

Relief washed over me, momentarily quelling the doubts that had plagued my mind. Perhaps I had made the right choice after all, despite the unsettling nature of my surroundings. The spirit's appreciation felt like a validation of my efforts, a glimmer of hope in the darkness.

But then, something shifted. The ethereal figure began to morph and twist, its features rearranging themselves into something grotesque. His skin glistened with a sickly sheen, slick and rubbery like the hide of some deep-sea monstrosity. Bulbous, unblinking eyes stared at me, devoid of humanity, while gills fluttered grotesquely at the sides of his neck.

The horrifying creature let out a wet sigh of relief, the sound a distorted mix of bubbling water and rasping breath. Its transformation was complete, and where the benign spirit once hovered now stood a thing of nightmares, towering and unnatural. I stumbled back, my grip on the Chain of Echoes tightening instinctively.

“Ah,” it crooned, its voice still carrying the faint echo of the spirit's earlier tone but now warped, guttural, and dripping with malice. “Finally, free of that pathetic guise. You have served your purpose well, Ren Wickens.”

The gills on its neck flared as it inhaled deeply, as if savoring the air of the ritual site. A cold dread slithered down my spine, the weight of my mistake crushing me. My voice wavered as I forced out the words. “What… what are you?”

The creature's grotesque lips curled into a facsimile of a smile, revealing rows of jagged, uneven teeth. “Notwhat,boy.Who.I am Alistair Grimshaw. Or at least, what remains of him. You were so eager to help me, and here we are.”

“Alistair?” came Dorian’s shaky voice behind me. “But I don’t understand. If you were bound in the Chain of Echoes, then who’s been doing all this? Who set up this ritual? Who—”

The creature—Alistair—let out a gurgling chuckle that sent shivers racing across my skin. “You still haven't figured it out, have you, Dorian? And here I thought you were the clever one.”

A figure emerged from behind one of the towering stones that ringed the ritual site. My heart plummeted as I recognized thefamiliar face of Dean Vane. He stepped into the flickering light, his usually pristine suit replaced by black robes.

Fisk let out a shriek of terror and dove into the water.

“Hello, Ren,” Dean said, his voice like silk sliding over sharpened steel. “I must admit, I'm impressed. I never thought you'd make it this far.”

I gaped at him, my mind reeling as I tried to process the betrayal. Dean Vane, head of the very department where I’d been studying, Dorian’s boss. He had been working with Alistair all along.

“Why?” I rasped, my voice trembling under the weight of my anger and disbelief. “Why would you do this?”

Dean Vane’s eyes glinted with a dangerous fervor, his expression carved from equal parts arrogance and contempt. A twisted smile curled his lips, more sneer than smirk. “You really are clueless, aren’t you?” he said, his tone laced with mock pity. “The academy has lost its purpose, itsprestige. We’ve been reduced to pandering to mediocrity, shackled by trivial notions of ethics and morality.”

“Ethics and morality arenottrivial!” Dorian snapped, his voice steady but brimming with indignation. “The dead deserve dignity, not exploitation!”

“They’re dead,” Vane spat, his face twisting in disdain. “What value does dignity have to those who no longerexist? The living should command their legacy, not cower before it!”

Alistair stepped forward, his webbed fingers trailing along the cold, rough stone as though drawing power from it. “The academy was a beacon once,” he intoned, his voice rich with disdain and nostalgia. “Before it fell to the weak men like you, Professor Crowe. Men who poison greatness with their obsession for equality, ‘spirit rights,’ and compassion for the dead.Pathetic.”

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