Inside the hut, Ysar sat cross-legged on the floor, gently oiling the blade he still refused to part with. A cloth draped across his knee. The small tin of oil sat open beside him, its sharp scent mixing faintly with the old woodsmoke in the room.
It was another day in the hut.
Elsha sat nearby, wrapped in a thick shawl, eyes fixed on the steam rising from her cup. The firelight caught the side of her face, reflecting in her eyes. Her posture was steady. Her movements, careful. Measured. Quiet, smooth—perhaps too smooth.
Ysar glanced up at her, then down at the blade again. His hands moved slower than before, more precise.
He looked different now. The hollowness had faded from his cheeks. There was more color in his skin. The hard edges in his expression had softened since the day he’d arrived at this door, dragging death behind him.
At the far end of the table, Grimoire sat still, her quill hovering over a half-filled journal. A thin line of ink pooled beneath the nib, waiting. She didn’t write. She watched the page. She was the one who had kept them here, tethered. Or perhaps, it was the hut itself.
The sound of the fire filled the room between breaths.
Elsha took a sip of tea, then tilted her head.
“Those constructs Lucian used—the iron puppets,” she said. “Do you have any idea what they really are?”
Ysar looked up. “You remember them?”
“How could I not?” she replied lightly. “Iron bodies, marching through the fields without pause. Relentless. I think I took down… thirty of them?”
“Thirty?” He gave a soft laugh. “Are we comparing kill counts now?”
Elsha raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. “Would you like to?”
Ysar returned the smile. “I think I stopped counting after the first dozen.”
“At least I took down one of their generals,” she added, with just enough pride to sound like herself.
Ysar rolled his eyes. “Mmm-hmm.”
A log shifted in the hearth. Sparks stirred. Grimoire’s quill scratched once against paper, then stilled again.
She glanced up. “Iron bodies?” she asked. “Moving?”
Ysar nodded. “Yeah. They weren’t clunky, either. Smooth. Too smooth. They didn’t bleed when you cut them, but they moved like people. Or close enough.”
Elsha lowered her cup. “Like they were carrying something,” she said.
Ysar tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
She folded her hands in her lap.
“Planar transference, maybe.”
Ysar blinked. “What?”
“Everything alive has planar,” Elsha said, as if continuing a thought. “Sixfold elemental pattern. When we cast magic, we draw from ambient planar—not the type that’s tied to breath, memory, identity. What Lucian’s doing must be different. Stored planar. Anchored planar. That would mean someone’s essence—maybe not the soul, but something—is being preserved. And forced into those machines.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It just settled. Like dust.
Ysar tilted his head back. “You sound like a professor.”
Elsha smiled faintly. “I’ve been reading a lot, remember?”
Outside, a gust of wind moved past the window, brushing the panes with a dull hum. The trees creaked above the roofline.
Across the table, Grimoire’s hand paused mid-sentence. She said nothing.
Elsha rose, pulling the shawl closer around her shoulders.
“I’m going for a walk,” she said. “It’s feeling better—almost like before the resurrection.”
Ysar looked up. “Want me to come with you?”
Elsha turned toward the door. “It’s alright. I’d love some time alone… need to think.”
“…Alright. See you soon.”
She gave them both a gentle smile before stepping out, hands folded neatly behind her back. The door shut with a soft click.
Grimoire watched her go. Her eyes narrowed.
“Iron bodies…” she muttered, still looking at the door. “Planar binding into non-organic vessels?”
She reached for the cup Elsha had left behind. It was still warm. The steam swirled faintly above it, undisturbed.
The door had closed behind Elsha several minutes ago. The latch clicked once. No footsteps followed. Just wind passing across the siding and the soft groan of branches beyond the window.
The table was left half-set. A cup sat near the edge, untouched since breakfast. The fire had dimmed low, more ember than flame now, its warmth thinning.
Grimoire hadn’t moved. Her seat hadn’t shifted since Elsha rose.
The journal in front of her was thick, older than most of the ones she kept in the house. Its cover was scored with narrow creases and curling at the corners. The name was written across the first page—Marelis, in a sharp, practiced hand.
She opened it carefully, sliding her hand beneath the cover so the spine wouldn’t tear.
She turned to a bookmarked page. The paper here had thinned from years of being handled—stained in one corner, stiff in another. She ran a finger beneath a line of text written near the top.
“The sixfold elemental pattern must be stabilized before lattice resonance is invoked.”
Her hand stayed where it was. The rest of the room didn’t move.
A moment passed. She turned the page.
Glyphs lined the outer margin—each with precise angles and even spacing. The ink had cracked where the quill had pressed too hard, leaving shallow grooves in the paper. Some of the symbols ran over one another, layered or revised. A few were followed by short notations, symbols she recognized from summoning work, though their sequence was uncommon.
The body of the text dealt with planar shaping. Not theory—method. Step by step, it described the reinforcement of structure in raw planar essence, followed by steps to bind and store it within a compatible living vessel. There were diagrams drawn in faint brown ink: a human silhouette, crossed by curling lines that intersected at the chest and skull. Below it, notes on retention thresholds, elemental alignment drift, and the necessity of breath to initiate integration.
Stolen story; please report.
She turned one more page, then closed the journal.
She stood and crossed to a shelf beneath the window, running her hand along a row of smaller bindings. She pulled one free—a thinner book, bound in twine, wrapped in a scrap of oilcloth. She returned to the table and set it beside the older journal. When she opened it, the pages lay smooth and even. The ink inside had not yet faded.
She opened a drawer under the table and took out a thin shard of quartz, a pin with a worn iron head, and a bundle of silverbloom stalks bound with twine. She placed each item in a row beside the newer book.
She set down the candle holder, centered the blank page, and uncapped the ink.
The brush dipped once.
The first mark was a circle, drawn slowly to keep the lines from dragging. Then six strokes around its edge, evenly spaced, pointing inward like petals or spokes. Each curled in, but none touched. She drew a second ring, overlaying the first with care. A spiral followed, offset just slightly, looping close but never intersecting. Beneath the whole, she added a single hinge mark—straight, then curved. Her hand paused just before lifting the brush.
The house creaked faintly in the silence.
Ysar stepped out from the back room. His hair was damp, and his sleeves were half-pulled up.
He rubbed the side of his neck, eyes scanning the table.
“You working on something?” he asked. “Looks like spellwork. Or a diary with too many rules.”
Grimoire didn’t answer at first. She reached for the silverbloom and laid a single stalk across the upper curve of the circle.
“Nothing dangerous,” she said.
Ysar scratched his cheek, glanced once at the old journal, and stepped back into the hall.
The wind shifted. Through the window, the trees moved, their tops brushing against one another like cloth. On the table, a corner of the journal lifted, then fell.
The brush rested near the ink. The page was still wet. The spiral in the center gleamed faintly in the candlelight. The lines held. Nothing bled.
The chamber smelled of stone and iron.
A lantern hung from a hook above, casting a steady glow across the floor. The old chalk work remained, but new lines curved through it—tighter spirals, mirrored hooks, a second circle etched just outside the first. More deliberate. More layered.
Elsha stood near the wall, arms folded. Her gaze passed over the glyphs once. She said nothing.
Grimoire gestured to the center. “Ysar.”
He stepped forward, boots silent on the stone, and lowered himself cross-legged into the inner ring. Grimoire adjusted one glyph stone, then tapped the chalk gently against the edge.
The glyph awoke with a low flicker.
Inside the inner circle, a faint pale green strand shimmered—slow, steady, drawn from his chest. The Pale Thread. The outer circle stayed blank.
Grimoire crouched beside him. “Still hurting?”
Ysar nodded. “Left lung.”
“How often now?”
“Twice today. It’s sharp. Just a few seconds.”
Grimoire glanced at the thread. The color was clearer than before. Defined. But still singular.
“Your thread’s more vivid now. It’s developing.”
“Developing sounds better than decaying,” Ysar said, trying to keep it light.
Grimoire didn’t smile. “Developing corruption always smells worse.”
She clicked her tongue and stood.
“And twice today… That’s a shift. You didn’t flinch the first week.”
Ysar didn’t respond immediately.
“…We still don’t know how to deal with it, right?”
“No. But I made something to dull it.”
She pulled a small cloth pouch from her coat and handed it to him.
Ysar opened it. Red pills filled the lining.
“One per day,” she said. “Try one now.”
He picked one out, swallowed, and waited. Nothing.
“…Feels like nothing.”
“It’s not magic,” Grimoire said. “It takes time. Might slow the planar drift.”
From the edge of the room, Elsha spoke.
“Slow it down? How?”
Grimoire turned, quiet for a breath.
“Cloudroot. Maren bark. Both stabilize planar patterning. I think they help the signature hold.”
Elsha raised an eyebrow. “Never heard of that.”
“You’re not a planar researcher. You rode with a caravan.”
“Fair enough.”
Grimoire turned back. “Done, Ysar.”
He stood, brushing off his coat. His eyes flicked toward Elsha.
Grimoire didn’t wait. “Elsha.”
She looked over.
Grimoire’s voice was flat. “Your turn.”
Elsha hesitated. “I feel fine.”
“You’re the one who came back,” Grimoire replied. “That means your condition needs closer watching than his.”
Ysar added, “Just let her check. It’s not that bad.”
A pause.
Then Elsha stepped forward. Her movements were precise. The hem of her robe never touched the chalk.
She entered the circle and sat. Her hands rested neatly on her knees.
Grimoire circled once, redrawing faded glyphs and sharpening edges. One symbol—set between the rings—was new: a small, closed hexagon.
She tapped the chalk to the glyph.
The circle stirred.
In the inner ring, six faint colors shimmered briefly—white, violet, red, yellow, blue and green—blurred and uneven, like smoke trying to hold shape. They faded quickly.
In the outer ring, a pale green thread bloomed to life. Brighter than Ysar’s. Stable. Calm. It pulsed slow and deep. Its edges moved inward.
The lines connecting the rings began to glow.
One glyph—near the top—lit up fully and stayed lit. It didn’t flicker. It held. A bright white mark surrounded in silver, steady and cold.
Elsha looked down at the circle.
She didn’t ask.
Grimoire didn’t explain.
She stepped back once. The chalk in her hand did not move.
“Who are you.”
Grimoire’s voice was quiet.
Not uncertain.
Cut from stone.
The glyph still glowed—green threads steady in the outer ring, pulsing slow like a heartbeat. The inner circle flickered—sixfold colors nearly gone, pale as smoke. And at the top, the white sigil rimmed in silver still burned.
It hadn’t blinked.
It hadn’t dimmed.
Elsha looked up. Her face unreadable. Calm.
“I don’t understand the question,” she said.
Ysar stepped forward. “Grimoire, what is this?”
She didn’t look at him.
Elsha’s voice came again, softer, too soft.
“I’m Elsha. Ysar called me back.”
Grimoire raised her hand and pointed at the burning sigil.
“That rune tells me otherwise.”
Elsha turned to look. Her eyes widened—not fear. Not confusion. Something sharper. Calculation.
“And the circles…” she murmured. “You layered the detection…”
She looked back to Grimoire, smiling faintly.
“That’s… clever.”
Grimoire didn’t blink.
“It shows two planar sources,” she said. “One breaking down, one overriding. One fading. One claiming space.”
Ysar’s voice cracked. “What are you saying?”
Elsha turned toward him, gently. “I’m right here.”
“You’re not her,” Grimoire said. “You’re—”
She hesitated.
Then, softly:
“—Mother.”
Silence fell.
Then came the laugh.
Low. Rolling. Uncontained. It started beneath the ribs and climbed to the walls.
Ysar flinched at the sound. The fire behind him hissed.
“You always were too clever,” the voice said. “Too curious. Too precise.”
Elsha stood straighter. But it wasn’t Elsha anymore. Her posture, her poise—something ancient rested in her frame now. Measured. Vast.
“I’m impressed,” the voice said. And it meant it. “Layered resonance detection… and planar distinction glyphs? You stitched a dual-thread lattice into a standard binding circle. With a fail-surge and planar recoil ring. Honestly—brilliant.”
She took a breath, then added, colder:
“But you built a prison.”
Grimoire’s fingers curled tight around the chalk. “How did you get in.”
“I didn’t,” Elsha said.
She pointed to Ysar.
“He did.”
Ysar froze.
“When he lit the ritual,” Elsha continued, “my planar—shaped, sealed, waiting—was still here. In the stones. In the walls. In the books. You brought the vessel. He brought the power. I brought the will.”
Grimoire’s voice trembled. “You stole her.”
Elsha smiled. “She faded. Quietly. She didn’t even scream.”
Ysar’s voice cracked. “You’re lying.”
“She wanted to come back,” Elsha said. “But she wasn’t strong enough. So I did.”
Grimoire struck the chalk to the floor.
The circle blazed. Glyphs flared. Light snapped around the inner ring in a wall of planar containment—white fire rising.
“You’re not leaving,” Grimoire said.
Elsha paused. Then slowly, deliberately, began to clap.
“Well done,” she said. “You built it to hold a soul, not a spell. That’s advanced.”
She stepped back into the ring.
“But I didn’t come unprepared either.”
She raised her hand.
Snap.
The floor shook.
Above them, the ceiling ruptured—stone and timber split open in a single thunderous crack.
Then they fell.
Two constructs—towering, seamless, headless—crashed into the room, wrapped in green planar threads. They landed hard. One footfall shattered half the glyph. The other cracked the stone tiles beneath.
One of them moved without waiting.
It lunged toward Grimoire.
Its fist swung.
And connected.
Grimoire flew sideways, slammed into the wall with a wet sound. Blood hit the floor first.
But then—
Elsha raised a hand. Sharply.
“Enough.”
The golem froze mid-motion.
She glared at it, sudden and sharp. “That is my daughter.”
The golem stopped. Slowly, its hand lowered. It didn’t move again.
The second construct stepped forward and extended its arm. Elsha climbed into its grasp, slow and graceful, as if stepping into memory.
She looked down at Grimoire’s crumpled form.
“You remind me of myself, you know,” she said. “You even improved my designs. I couldn’t be more proud.”
Then she looked at Ysar.
“She was a good girl. Your friend.”
A pause.
“But sadly, what you did is giving me her body, and killing her soul.”
Ysar’s voice tore from his throat. “No—!”
But the golem launched upward, through the broken ceiling. The second followed, crashing through the rafters behind her. The hut groaned. Dust rained down like ash.
The glyph lay ruined.
The circle, gone.
From the floor, Grimoire stirred. Blood smeared her mouth. Her arm barely moved.
Her voice scraped out:
“Meriles…”
But the name was already gone—lifted away by wind and stone and fire.