Page 47 of Architecti
“Alistair,” I shriek.
My heart pounds in my chest.I am not trained in necromantic defence.But my body moves anyway.My hands furl and twist, making shapes I didn’t even realise I knew.Dark shadows materialise, peeling off the courtyard buildings.They lurch and jerk through the air as I try to control them.But my practical magic is so much more juvenile and unpractised than my contracts work.
I whisper words of the dead, but my pronunciation is off.The caustic tone needed to coax and control the campus’s magic efficiently is missing.
I dig deep, throw my hands towards Bastien and finally, the magic responds.It wraps around his leg, holding him in the mortal realm as Alistair leaps in front to seal the rip.His hands work fast.But my strength wanes faster.
My knee buckles, my nose bursts, blood leaking in rivers to the ground.The wraith screeches at the smell of it.But it doesn’t want to let its prize—Bastien—go.
“Alistair, hurry,” I plead.
His hands move faster, the tear resealing inch by inch.
I’m on my knees, sweat pouring down my back.
Midnight pulls a scythe out and lunges towards Bastien.
“No,” I cry out, knowing damn well the wraith could attack her.But I’m too weak to do anything other than hold on to the shadows gripping Bastien.The wraith screeches again and drags Bastien closer to the Veil.His foot crosses the threshold.
Midnight hurls herself forward and whips her scythe right across the wraith’s neck.
A shrill keening rents the air.A sound that rattles my teeth and makes the hairs on my arms rise.
On the far side of the courtyard, the new students drop to the floor.Bastien lashes out with a vicious kick of his free leg and hits the wraith, booting it clean into the Veil as Alistair flicks his wrists one final time, stitching the Veil shut.
Finally, I release the campus’s magic and sag all the way to the ground.
Midnight kneels beside me, her hands ready to pick me up, but Alistair sprints over, his face lined with concern.“Professor Corvine?”he says.
Midnight blinks, once, twice.Her face tightening with realisation.
Static pebbles my vision as Midnight frowns at me.
“Wait.What?Corvine?As in…You’re… You’re Ignatius Corvine’s daughter?”
“Yeah,” I say and promptly black out.
16
Architecti
As dark as the underworld is, the celestial realm is light.Listen, I understand it’s a cliché, but I’m not a god.I didn’t design our realm, I just live in it.
I was four the first time I realised there was something different about my twin.
Fresh blades of luscious grass tickle the base of my feet as I sit in the middle of the glade.Watery morning light showers my cheeks in warmth, the scent of daisies, spring blooms and dandelion fur fill me with delight as I play.
Other children run and dance and fly through the glade, sing-song laughter drifting on the breeze.
My wing feathers graze the grass, soaking up the warmth as I build a play castle.
I pull beams of light, bending and twirling and shoving them into place, my tongue poking out in concentration.I suck dew from the air into the walls, making the light glisten, and rainbows paint the grass.Taller and taller I build, stitching stardust and debris into the crenellations and windows until a masterpiece stands before me.
I stare at it, my hands on my hips.Something is missing.
“Interitus, come see,” I call to my sister.
I pluck another beam of light from the air and squish it up, forcing it to shine like the moon, and place it above the tallest turret.
