A burning red ‘X’ spreads out from where my ghostly finger pierces it.
Far above us, a shelf adjusts to make room for the three books he has on loan as they reappear in the Arcanaeum—summoned back from his home. One has been on loan for years.
Magic,how do I know that?
Ackland gapes like he’s lost his voice. He clearly has no idea how this has happened, which makes two of us.
“Kyrith, I—” His words are cut off with a screech as his body is wrenched out of the Vault and deposited beyond the boundaries.
The others try to run, but they’re old, and the Arcanaeum has sealed them in. Their barrier spells don’t work on me, now that I amwhateverI am. One by one, the process repeats. Their cards are revoked, their loans are returned, and they’re evicted.
Only Edmund has the gumption to fight back, but his conjured lightning passes through me as if I’m not even here. It singes a shelf behind me, and the Arcanaeum rattles with anger. It won’t tolerate damage to its charges.
I can’t help the tear that escapes my eyes as I summarily banish him from the Arcanaeum.
It’s done.
Only it’s not.
Now that they’re gone, I can feel the building tensing. Straining.
Somethingis happening. I press hard against my sternum as if that can alleviate the sudden discomfort swelling behind it—the first thing I’ve truly felt since I revived.
My hand passes straight through my chest.
The unexpected shock is enough to distract me from the odd pull, until it disappears entirely, replaced by something…else.
I can only describe the new sensation as rootlessness. And it’s not my sensation at all. It’s as if whatever tethered the Arcanaeum to the university—to the very ground itself—is gone.
We’re adrift.
Far from scaring me, it feels safe.
If the building isn’t there, they can’t force their way back in.
I float back towards the altar without meaning to until I’m standing beside my own still-warm corpse. My dark eyes are closed, but my face is twisted, caught forever in an expression of terrified agony. The untameable wisps of my hair now lie limp, and without the pins to hold it in place, my long braid has fallen over my shoulder. My new ghostly hands brush over the tip of my nose, then down to the soft pink of my parted lips—already turning blue.
A sob tears free, but it brings no catharsis. Even crying feels empty.
A breeze drifts through the shelves, spectral but warm, as if the Arcanaeum itself is trying to offer comfort. From the tip of the inverted spire, a single drop of some glimmering pale liquid falls, splashing onto the handle of the golden dagger still embedded between my breasts. It’s vaguely reminiscent of the white light from earlier, and I watch as the mysterious substance slides down the blade, across the slope of my chest, only to defy gravity and rollupmy chin, straight into my mouth.
Minutes later, the colour begins to leech from my corpse. It’s the strangest thing, as if I’m watching myself turn to glass. My body remains, but soon it’s entirely translucent and hard like a diamond.
A memorial, as I believed this place was earlier.
Only it’s a memorial to me… and to the others who must have died here.
Around me, the building sighs with sadness and regret, and I get the sense that it’s mourning with me.
One
Kyrith - Present Day
The knock at the door comes at exactly ten o’clock, as I knew it would. Every year on October first, they try again. And every year, I stare down at their latest offering and deny them.
The Arcanaeum sighs, books flapping lightly on their shelves as it reflects my exasperation.
“Which door?” I ask softly.
