Page 102 of Feral Gods
Without answering, I untie the pouch and carefully empty its contents into my palm. The copper-colored particles—all that physically remains of Thane—glimmer with subtle luminescence, pulsing in rhythm with my own heartbeat.
"It's warm," I breathe, extending my hand for them to observe. "And look—it's glowing."
Zephyr leans closer, scholarly interest instantly engaged. "Residual magical signature," he suggests, though uncertainty colors his typically authoritative tone. "The curse energy may have imprinted on the physical remains during transformation."
"No," Ravik counters, amber eyes narrowing as he studies the particles. "This is something else. The pulse pattern matches life force, not residual magic."
My heart leaps at the implication, hope rising so painfully I almost can't bear it. "Are you saying some part of him still lives in these remains?"
"Not lives, precisely," Zephyr cautions, tempering hope with scholarly precision. "But perhaps... persists. Essence rather than consciousness."
The Codex, quiet since the ritual's completion, suddenly pulses against my side where it rests in its makeshift satchel. I reach for it instinctively, and the ancient text responds—cover warming beneath my touch, pages turning of their own accord when I open it.
"It's showing me something," I murmur as knowledge flows directly from text to consciousness, bypassing conventional reading. "About essence preservation and reconstitution. About the nature of sacrifice and transformation."
The information arrives not as technical instruction but as intuitive understanding—concepts too complex for language rendered accessible through direct magical communion. I gasp as comprehension dawns, possibilities unfolding like flowers opening to sunrise.
"His sacrifice wasn't final," I whisper, wonder and terror mingling in equal measure. "The wildspont energy interacted with the curse in ways even Morwen couldn't have anticipated. Instead of destruction, it created transformation—conversion of physical form to pure essence, temporarily disembodied but not destroyed."
Hope blazes across Ravik's transformed features before caution reasserts itself. "If what you're suggesting were possible?—"
"It is possible," I interrupt with newfound certainty. "The Codex shows me clearly. Thane's essence remains intact within these particles—dormant but preservable, like seeds awaiting proper conditions for germination."
Zephyr's turquoise eyes widen with scholarly excitement tempered by ethical concern. "You're describing resurrection magic of the most fundamental kind. Not reanimation of deceased tissue but reconstitution of dispersed essence. The theoretical implications alone?—"
"Forget theory," Ravik cuts in with characteristic directness. "Can it be done? Can we bring him back?"
I close my eyes, allowing the Codex's knowledge to flow unimpeded through my consciousness. The ritual it reveals is complex beyond anything we've attempted—requiring precise magical harmonics, specific material components, and perfect synchronization between participants.
"Yes," I answer finally, opening my eyes to meet their anxious gazes. "But not easily, not quickly, and not without significant risk to all involved."
"What kind of risk?" Ravik demands immediately, protective instinct surfacing.
"The ritual creates a channel between life and non-life," I explain, struggling to translate intuitive understanding into comprehensible terms. "Those performing it temporarily exist in both states simultaneously—partially crossing the boundary to guide the dispersed essence back through."
"Meaning we would partially die during the working," Zephyr concludes with scholarly precision. "Fascinating from theoretical perspective, but practically speaking?—"
"Dangerous beyond measure," Ravik finishes, amber eyes troubled. "One misstep and all participants could be trapped in liminal state—neither fully alive nor properly dead."
"Like the stone sleep, but without physical anchor," Zephyr agrees, expression grave. "Consciousness adrift in the void between existence states."
Their concerns echo my own, yet something deeper than rational assessment drives me forward—an emotional certainty that transcends logical risk calculation.
"He deserves the chance," I state simply, gathering Thane's copper dust back into its pouch with reverent care. "He sacrificed everything for us. How can we not attempt the same for him?"
Silence follows my declaration, broken only by the steady patter of rain and occasional pop from the hearth's flames. The decision weighs heavily—not just practical risk assessment but fundamental questions about natural order, about what we have right to attempt, about where courage becomes hubris.
"What do we need for this ritual?" Ravik asks finally, decision evident in his straightened posture.
Relief floods through me at his support. "Specific location requirements, primarily. A nexus of elemental energies—earth, air, fire, and water in natural convergence."
"The Obsidian Falls," Zephyr suggests immediately. "Where volcanic activity creates steam pools beside the northern waterfall. Natural convergence of all elements in perfect balance."
"Remote enough to provide security during the working," Ravik adds, tactical mind already mapping logistics. "Defensible approaches, multiple escape routes if needed."
Their immediate problem-solving, their unquestioning support despite obvious risks, fills my chest with emotion too complex for simple naming. These beings who have transformed so profoundly since our first meeting—from cursed gargoyles driven by rage and revenge to partners willing to risk everything for love and loyalty.
"Thank you," I whisper, inadequate words for overwhelming gratitude.
