Page 39 of Architecti
Because I have a score to settle, and a soul to steal back.
The central aisle has to be the longest walkway in history.Every eye left in the room follows me as I make my way towards the stage.
There are whispers.Slurs.“Reaper.”“Gravetether.”“Ashkisser.”
I absorb it all.They think it weakens me, that they can rid the world of another reaper.
But their hate only strengthens me.Makes me burn hotter, fuels the pools of fury that simmer in my gut.
Iwillcomplete this rite for no other reason than to spite them.Philosophers say spite is a negative, that we should use positivity to motivate us.Well, fuck that.I’ve never seen a more motivated being than a woman scorned and filled with spite.
I climb the steps, not to my death, but to my future.
Professor Malifax leads me through the door into a dark room with bare walls save for the splats of blood and what looks like chunks of vomit.
The room stinks of charred leather, stale sweat and ammonia that clings thick to the air.The upside is the vomit is covered.The downside is that the stench rubs in my nose like a cold sore.
Professor Malifax passes me a scythe.“This scythe is imbued with Finis Tower’s magic.You are to cut through your sternum to the heart of your soul and slice off a sliver.”
Cut a piece of my soul?No wonder students didn’t make it out.The blade is heavier than mine.Though I can’t work out if it’s the obsidian stone or the metaphysical weight it bears having killed so many candidates and bled so many souls.It’s warm to the touch; I thought it would be cool.
Malifax continues.“Should you complete this successfully, the blade will transform into a needle and Finis Tower will open for you, bearing its heart so that you can, in turn, stitch your soul with its.”
This sounds…difficult.I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
“Should you complete the stitching, there is one trial left.You must share a truth with the Tower.Think wisely because the Tower must accept your truth for you to gain entry into Finis.”
Malifax closes his hands and lowers his head, mumbling words that sound like nonsense but I’m certain would have Lex squealing with delight.
I sling the blade in my pocket for the stitching and pull out my own.Fuck using a blade every other candidate has.
The ground rumbles, peels of dark ribbons split from the wall.Long, necrotic fingers made of the shadows of gods tiptoe towards me.They undulate in rhythmic patterns, the ribbon-arms must stretch twenty feet from the wall.I want to touch them, bend them around my hands and wield them.
I see the allure now.The awe and wonder that Lex cradled in her gaze.
I close my eyes, bringing my scythe to my sternum.I have torn so many souls from their owners that this should be second nature.
But it’s different when it’s your own.I guess that’s why murder is so much easier than suicide.
Survival instinct wails deep inside me.A protective reflex, making my limbs heavy and my muscles twitch.
I bring the point to my skin.So many times I’ve done this to others and never felt the sharp sting myself.A light press and the blade slides into my chest.
Hot lacerations surge through me.My veins bulge and pop as my consciousness tries to resist.
The agony is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.Every nerve sets itself on fire.Heat blisters its way through my chest and buries itself in my limbs, my bones, my veins.It eats its way through every fleshy fibre.
There’s a disembodied scream.It’s hollow, piercing, shattering.It rattles in my skull, my teeth chattering against the pressure.
It’s me.I’m howling so loud I swear the cells in my throat split and tear and leak blood into my gut.
As I slice through my soul, every memory, every moment I’ve lived surges through me, a tidal wave of visions.
I buckle under the weight of choices.
Of possibilities.
All of them swirling and dancing before me.
