“It’s not the cards we’ve been dealt, but what we make of them,” I say. “You do have a choice, Viola. You just never choose you.”
My words must strike something, because she steels her shoulders, head facing the wall. “Olivia wouldn’t want this for me. She’d want me to leave and start a new life. I don’t want to do this anymore. Once we stitch their bodies and find the puppeteer, I’m leaving Bale.”
A painful silence settles between us, weighed heavy by the finality of her decision and my unspoken feelings. “Let’s not waste any more time then,” I say without thinking. I take two side strides to put some distance between us. My heart races with every step away from her.
As we walk back to the stairwell, I make sure to keep my distance, while occasionally glancing at her. Railesza awakens, gently pricking my skin. Only then does my mind clear with the lone, soul-crushing realization that I don’t want Viola to leave.
Breaking News:DOTS offers a hefty 1,000 coins for every poacher’s tracking device recovered. Rules of magic do not apply in regards to poacher hunting—use any and all means. Kill them before they kill you.
THE DAILY MAGE, ISSUE 1910.23
twenty-one | viola
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1939
Everything about Sylas Archyr feels like a sin. The softness of his hands on my skin, the steady rhythm of his heart when he’s next to me, and the faint scent of mint and vanilla that wraps me with warmth. Then I remember the clipped tones, the threats, Olivia’s warning, and I realize that Sylas Archyr is a sin I can never indulge in.
Nearly losing my mind to the ghosts made me realize that Gorhail is not the place for me. I am fighting an uphill battle with unsharpened tools, trying to solve a murder when I can’t sort out my own wants. I pray to the Gods that we catch the puppeteer when we go to Albion for Beau’s and Victor’s bodies. With that, I’ll have avenged my sister, and Sylas will have his brother back. Then I’ll seal my magic in Osneau, and this life will be a distant memory.
You just never choose you. Sylas’s words simmer in my mind until they bubble over. Leaving Bale means I am choosing me.
The moment we step out of the iron doors of the catacombs, Sylas extends his hand. “Your cuff.” His tone is as cold as the aspiers he wears.
“Why?” As soon as I ask, I understand. I sigh, unclasping the cuff. I don’t know how to break out of ghost paralysis without relying on themagic of the catacombs. Out here, there’s no river of magic, only angry ghosts yearning to be heard, and I am still a novice.
Our fingers brush when I press the cuff into his hands. “Thank you,” he snaps.
We walk through the dank hallway until we reach the base of the Poisoned Stairwell. The lights cast a warm glow on the intricate designs of the railing. As we climb up, I notice that every flight has its own story, from the metal railing to the unique engraving in the wooden steps. Gorhail’s history, dare I say, is beautiful. Etched in the metal are a visual of the tales Nan used to read to me when I was a child, and carved in the wood are the corresponding stories in old Balish calligraphy. After Olivia would fall asleep, I’d crawl into Nan’s bed and she would pull out a big book of old tales. I remember the soft leather bookmark and the gilt edges so well. She would tell me the same stories over and over, never tiring of my asking for more. I wish she were still alive so she could see me here, in the place she loved so much.
A yelp up ahead snaps me out of my reverie, followed by sobs. We’re already back at the House of Poison, the passageway door half open, spilling the faint light from Founder’s Room onto the landing.
When I walk in, Lyria is kneeling on the floor, crying in front of Beau, who keeps trying to comfort her in vain. She sees me, jumps to her feet, and crashes into me with a tight hug. I glance at Beau, and he gives me a soft smile.
“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” Lyria says between sniffles. I wear the filth of the catacombs, yet she doesn’t seem to mind at all. She pulls away, thanking me at least three more times. Each time slaps me with guilt, because their reunion is eating me from within.
I am not jealous of their happiness. I am sad that I don’t get to share any of this with Olivia. I wish more than anything to speak to her one last time, to hug her and tell her I love her.
The fireplace crackles every time Victor sticks his hand through it. He stands next to the fire, his shoulders slouched, his eyes blankly watching the flames dance. Like me, he probably feels out of place. I have half a mind to sit by him and ask him about my sister’s days at Gorhail.
“I’m impressed.” Victor looks up at me from the fireplace. “It takes years of training for a whisperer to walk through the catacombs so seamlessly.”
“Or sheer luck and a good teacher,” I reply nervously, glancing at Lyria.
She looks back and forth between Victor and me, then narrows her eyes. “Did you anchor to a ghost?”
“No.” I roll my eyes. Why did both she and Sylas ask the same question? If I had anchored to a ghost, I would’ve known by now. “I only listened to Sylas’s voice.”
Deep down, I begin to question myself. Did I accidentally anchor to the woman’s ghost by listening to her story?
Sylas clears his throat, and I’m grateful for the change of subject. “Faro’s Cuff is missing.” He frowns at Lyria, and her head snaps up at him, eyes flared.
“Did you take it out?” she asks.
“Of course not,” Sylas answers. “Did you?”
“Sy, I don’t even know how to access the Ronin vault. Paltro had the relicsmith fashion a second lock a couple of months ago,” she says. “And this one opens withhisaspier.”
“Why would he do that?” Sylas’s shoulders relax. “I thought…” He trails off.