Page 92 of Ashen Wings

“If I’m supposed to walk the astral plane can you just help me out?” Whether I’m speaking to ghosts, Astora, or my owned damned self doesn’t matter, because only silence obliges an answer. My toes curl into the stone tiled-floor, my thighs tense and every muscle in my body seeps with rage.

Stupid. Useless. Nobody.

I have no place in this world, nor in the cosmic plane. Time and again I’ve battled a way out of myself, and yet when I finally feel a sliver of freedom—a shred of who I truly am—I’m left with nothing. There is no Nova outside of the mercenary. Outside of the slave. Outside of the selfish, angry woman I’ve become.

When the violence simmers and the blood is wiped from my hands, I’m left facing a truth that threatens to break me irreparably. I am no one of relevance—no friends, no family, no deity. Just a carcass painted with old scars on her back. Would anyone care if I simply ceased to exist?

Would I?

I’m a fucking shell, and no matter how often I refill myself, I’ll always be empty. Nova the mercenary. Nova the slave.

Nova the hollow.

Silently, I retrieve the vial from the room’s center and return it to rest on the mantle.

Why fight when there’s nothing left to live for?

I wrap my arms around myself, clinging to the pieces before they shatter to the floor. Darkness floods the room, and the fireplace lies vacant and frigid. My hands shake beyond control. So does my body.

Tears fall, but I don’t swipe them away. I deserve to feel this pain, this humiliation, this isolation. Did I expect a drop or two of sacred water to fix me?

That phantom voice in the tomb—maybe a guardian rider, maybe not—must’ve been mistaken. And yet a glimpse of hope burrowed its way in, leaving me dangerously close to the edge. Now I’m in free fall.

My knees crack on the floor when I collapse. I don’t feel the pain. I don’t scream or sob or trash the room. I simply tuck in my thighs and let the seconds creep by without me.

Now would be the perfect opportunity for Astora to send her blessing or a vision of a long dead parent. My heart quakes my throat and I offer a silent plea for someone, anyone, to pull me from the void.

But there’s no one. No magic or cosmic blessing. If I’m to keep from falling apart, it’ll be my own hands that hold the fracture.

I watch the glass vial, pleading for some sort of divine intervention. Time ticks by.

I keep staring. Still there’s nothing.

My knees ache as I finally claw myself up and pace to the armoire. If this was entirely a waste of time, I might as well pack for tomorrow’s journey, at least that’ll keep my hands busy.

I throw open the doors and rummage through the various hanging clothes, occasionally retrieving a tunic or pair of trousers from their hooks and tossing them into a pile beside my satchel.

When the evening light has diminished beyond visibility, I light a match. It sparks to life, illuminating the room in copper-hued flickers.

Something rattles on the mantle.

The flame in my hand eats away until my fingertips burn and my heart stutters.

The water glows, swirling and writhing in faint bluish hues as if it breathes, as if it has a pulse. A pain reaction has the match falling to the floor, extinguishing on impact in a curl of smoke.

The vial vibrates like it contains the essence of the cosmos. I risk a step closer, praying that any slight movement won’t scare it back to sleep.

“Find me. Find me.”

A voice, or many shiver through the room, now louder than a draft through broken glass.

“W-what?”

“So tired…So tired…must sleep now.”

I lunge for the vial as it shakes once more, balancing haphazardly close to the mantle’s edge. Its contents flare to life with an intense flash of crystalline blue. Then it settles and fades, leaving me blinking and frozen.

Either I’ve lost my damned mind or the water spoke to me. My eyes narrow. The room is vacant, still, just as it was before. Did that truly happen? Did I hallucinate? Maybe the stress and exhaustion finally won.