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Her smile had been warm the day he buried her. Now it flickered in candlelight, stitched from memory and madness.
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The scent of copper and burnt myrrh clung to the underground air like rot to bone.
Thane Myralis stirred the elixir with a trembling hand, each swirl of the thick crimson fluid reflecting the flicker of dozens of candle flames. They hissed and fluttered against the cavern walls, shadows slithering like serpents over books, bones, and half-formed homunculi.
"Again," came a whisper. Her voice.
He froze. "Talyra?" His voice cracked.
No answer. Just the simmer of alchemical heat. Just the smell.
He touched the chain around his neck—her ring, blackened from the fire. Seven years had passed, and still her voice haunted the corners of his mind like a curse never lifted. He was a man of science once, sworn to balance. Now he trafficked in heresy, drinking whispers and blood in place of reason.
He poured the elixir into a carved basin, the runes etched into the stone pulsing faintly.
"Ash to ash," he muttered, "soul to tether."
He placed the bone fragment—a sliver of her rib—into the basin and stepped back. The light dimmed. The blood hissed.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the air tore open with a shriek.
Dark fog burst from the basin, coiling like a dying woman's scream. The shadows thickened, and a face began to form—feminine, twisted, not wholly her. Not Talyra.
"Why do you disturb me again, Thane?" the voice rasped, deeper now, distant.
He fell to his knees, shaking. "Because I cannot bear the silence, love. I need to bring you back. Whole. Not a whisper. Not a ghost."
"Then serve him."
Thane's jaw tightened. He knew who she meant. Dren Talovar.
The cursed heir, the monster with a crown of flame and eyes like winter. Dren had found him two years ago, offered him asylum when no one else would. But Dren's mercy came with chains. And expectations.
Dren wanted something from the Inquisition vaults—something only Thane could replicate. The Shadelock Grimoire, the last surviving codex on infernal resurrection.
"You swore an oath," the spirit rasped.
"I know." He stared into the flickering image of her face. "And I will not break it."
Outside the cavern, a footstep echoed.
Thane whirled.
A man stepped into view—dark armor streaked with ash, a sword carved of obsidian slung over one shoulder.
"Are you talking to ghosts again?" the voice was dry, amused. "Or do you just enjoy moaning to shadows?"
It was Valen, one of Dren's Black Sentinels.
Thane sighed. "What do you want?"
"Your time's up. The heir wants a status report. Now."
"I need more time."
Valen's expression didn't change. "That wasn't a request."
By midnight, Thane stood in the ruins of Ashengar, where moonlight filtered through the broken stained-glass dome of the old throne hall. Dren Talovar sat atop the cracked obsidian steps, a goblet of bloodwine in one hand, the other stroking the silver hilt of his blade.
"Did it work?" Dren asked, without looking up.
Thane swallowed. "No. Not yet. The tether is unstable. The spirit won't hold."
Dren turned his head slightly. His pale eyes gleamed like twin moons. "Then you'll need better ingredients."
"You promised me—" Thane began, but the words caught in his throat as Dren rose to his feet.
"I promised you a chance," Dren said coldly. "Not success."
"I need something from the Inquisition vaults," Thane said, voice low. "The Grimoire. And her necklace. You know which one I mean."
Dren was silent for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
"I'll get you in," he said. "But only if you help me get her out."
Thane's stomach turned. "Lysara Vale."
The name was ash on his tongue.
Dren nodded. "She is the spark. Everything burns after her."
"You still want her."
Dren's gaze grew distant. "She still dreams of me. I'm only returning the favor."
That night, Thane returned to the chamber alone.
He lit a single candle and looked at the mirror embedded in the wall. His reflection flickered.
But it wasn't his face that looked back.
It was hers.
Talyra's face. Stitched together from memories and spells, lips parted as if to speak.
His breath caught.
"Soon," he whispered. "Soon I'll bring you home."
But even as he said it, doubt curled like smoke in his lungs.
Because he no longer knew whose voice whispered from the dark.