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Where’d he go?
Lily let her arms fall to her side, befuddled. Her hand brushed a lump in her pant pocket.
Shit! She completely forgot about the graft; let alone the fact she had to bind it. She gently fished it out from the bag to hold it up to the sun, the soul trapped inside like a colored vapor dropped in a pool of water.
Lily’s attention drifted from the graft to the marketplace. It was bare of any children, the crowd intensifying at the end where the street narrowed. She stood there for too long before remembering he wasn’t her problem. She was going to leave him anyway.
She sighed, most of it a mutter under her breath. He could still be of use, she told herself, ignoring the worried tick in her heart at his absence. Slipping off a glove to gnaw on a nail, she moved toward the center of the square.
Grafts were a unique ghosted artifact, exclusively made in Reave’s lower districts. They were crafted using shards that were split into hundreds of pieces. Runes carved along the shell granted users abilities inaccessible through Flare magic. Because of the parasitic properties of ghostsoil, grafts could also affect others besides the one fused with them. Some were larger, containing an entire shard’s worth of power, but only the wealthy could afford one with such longevity. They were highly sought after in the lower districts. The technology was dismissed by imperial nobility, though Lily wasn’t entirely sure why. She wondered if they knew they existed at all.
Lily examined the markings etched into the ghostsoil to make sure she was given what she was promised. Vanishing. Perfect.
Her eyes wandered to birds flying above the tallest steeple toward the port. Tattered banners hung from ropes above her, traversing from one end of the market to the other. Each portrayed the same emblem, images less crude than the defaced mural in the abandoned plaza—a black beast curling around itself against a forest green background, baring its fangs for all that passed beneath.
She hissed, dropping her hand from her lips. A sliver of blood beaded at the edge of her nail. She ignored the purple vapor and pressed against the break until a solid drop formed, and she plopped it onto the graft. It slipped into the crevice between the glass and the ghostsoil. Within, the blood circulated into the soul, blending one cloud into another.
Her breath caught. A rush of energy flew into her veins like her body had another heart to mind for, calling out for release with every step. Her thumb grazed over the curve of the glass holding back the energy.
“How much for the angel? I can pay double!”
Angel. A golden soul marked by the Guardian. Or worse—
Her head snapped up. She was beside a store with pinkish stained-glass windows behind a shining new fence. On the second level of the building was a long balcony, and atop it, four glass jars with ghosted bases were neatly placed for all to see. Each held what could’ve been mistaken for a flame suspended in space. Three were Dusk souls—two green and one orange. The last was the coveted yellow—the only Dawn soul.
If not for the crowd, Lily would be able to hear their velvety whispers.
A wave of agitated remarks broke out after the comment, the words ranging from vulgar insults to unsolicited begging. Souls of all shades clamored outside of the fence while a man behind the jars ogled the chaos as if he relied on it to rise every morning. Lily turned away after spotting several women with swollen bellies jumbled in the fray.
Near the back of the crowd, she spotted the boy—staring up at the display with no regard for the needed secrecy of his soul. Pocketing the graft, she pushed over to him. When his eyes landed on her, they softened with a gentle glisten.
“Lily,” he said.
She wanted to scold him, but for what? Scaring her? Running off and leaving her hostage-less if a Stalker or sentinel crossed her path? His gaze shifted to the base of the shop.
Beyond an ornate fence, a hulking figure was hunched beneath a canopy. Swallowed by darkness, a pair of empty, white eyes stared blindly at the crowd. Coils of ghostsoil jutted out from what used to be the nude body of a man. His chest lifted and dropped with labored breaths. Through the shadows, a rogue soul thrashed wildly beneath his skin.
“It looks like that man you hit yesterday,” the boy commented.
“It’s a specter.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Waiting. Him, up there”—Lily pointed to the peddler—“controls it using his shard from the Guardian.”
“Why does he control him? Can’t he move by himself?”
“He’s been attached to ghostsoil for too long. If he didn’t control him, he’d run wild.”
“Does he want to be like that?”
“Some do. Some don’t have a choice…” She trailed off, taking in his confusion. “You’ve never seen one before? Aren’t they what mine ghostsoil in Failen?”
He scowled, though his face wore hurt rather than disgust.
What other monstrosities had Failen cooked up? Lily placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come on. We need to keep moving.” He obeyed but kept his head craned behind them. “Is that why you ran off?”
“Lily?”
