Chapter 7: The Price of the Soul
The silence beneath Valmire was the kind that pressed on your chest—like the weight of centuries trying to remind you that you did not belong. What once were burial halls for kings and saints had become a crypt of secrets, steeped in the stink of damp earth, decay, and a thousand unspoken sins. As they descended deeper, torches flickered against the arched stone ceilings, casting long, dancing shadows that almost seemed to move with a will of their own.
Dorian walked behind Adrian, his eyes locked on the strange symbols that littered the catacomb walls—sigils carved not by tools, but by hands desperate, frenzied, blood-soaked. Some were prayers. Others… curses. The Zeolat cult had made this place their cradle and their grave.
"They brought the children down here," Adrian muttered, his voice hollow. "Stripped them of everything. Names, clothes, memories. They forced them to walk blindfolded in circles for hours. Some never came back." He ran a finger across one of the carvings. "This one… it says: 'To forget is to be reborn.'"
Lyra shivered and wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "This place reeks of despair. It's like the walls remember every scream."
"They do," Adrian replied without turning.
Eventually, the tunnel widened into a vaulted chamber—its architecture a strange fusion of cathedral and prison. In the center, a throne of bones loomed, rising from the stone like something grown rather than built. Skulls lined its armrests, and the faint glimmer of candlelight illuminated vertebrae wound into the backrest. Upon it sat a man—or at least, something that had once been one.
Malrick.
He was unnaturally still, like a painting waiting to animate. His skin was stretched thin over a skeletal frame, yellow and papery, and his robes were layered in colors that had long since faded into an oily black. His eyes—one red, one clouded white—glowed beneath his hood. When he smiled, it wasn't with joy. It was with hunger.
"Adrian," he rasped, his voice like sand dragged across glass. "You return. And not alone, I see."
Adrian remained silent, standing tall in spite of the tension coiling in his limbs.
Malrick's gaze moved to Lyra. "A witch-child," he murmured. "And…" His eyes settled on Dorian, and for the first time, he sat forward with interest. "Ah. You. I know your soul. A tangled, bleeding thing. You reek of loss… and something deeper. Ah, yes. Betrayal."
Dorian took a single step forward, his jaw set. "We're not here for theatrics. We need answers. Evelyn—her soul is bound. We want to break the ritual. Free her."
Malrick chuckled, and the sound echoed unnaturally around the room. "You seek to unmake what death has sealed? How… charming." He tapped a bony finger on the skull beside him. "But knowledge comes with price, young thief of fates. Do you think I hold secrets for free?"
Lyra narrowed her eyes. "Then what do you want?"
Malrick's smile widened. "A memory. A true one. Something precious. Love. Fear. Suffering. A memory steeped in pain or longing. I devour such things. Offer me one, and I will give you what you seek."
Dorian exchanged a glance with Lyra and Adrian. "And if we give you this memory... we lose it? Completely?"
Malrick nodded, slowly. "Forever. It becomes mine. You will not even remember what you lost."
Adrian stepped forward. "Take one of mine. I've lived long with pain."
But Dorian stopped him with a hand. "No. If we save her… she'll need you to remember. She'll need something left of the person she once was."
He turned to Malrick. "Take mine."
Lyra caught his arm. "Dorian…"
"I made her a promise," he said softly. "Even if she's only a ghost now… I need to keep it."
Malrick clapped once, delighted. "Ah! Such drama. Very well, boy. What will you give me?"
Dorian swallowed. His voice was quiet. "The last time she kissed me. The night I told her I loved her."
Lyra gasped—barely a breath, but it carried the sound of heartbreak.
Malrick's eyes glinted. "Delicious."
He raised a withered hand, and black smoke curled from his palm, dancing like snakes toward Dorian. The tendrils slipped into his mind, and Dorian staggered back, gasping as if plunged into icy water. His knees hit the stone, his breath coming in shallow gulps. For a few agonizing seconds, nothing existed—only a great emptiness pulling something vital from him.
Then the smoke dissipated.
Dorian stood, shaky but silent.
"It's gone," he murmured. "I don't remember… what I lost."
Malrick nodded. "As agreed. Your pain is now my pleasure. And in return—your answer."
He gestured to a mural etched behind his throne. It showed a figure—Evelyn—bound in a circle of blood and glyphs, her eyes wide, her body writhing. Around her, robed figures chanted, and at the center was a mirror—twisted, veined with silver and shadow, reflecting not her body, but her soul in torment.
"The ritual did not bind her to death. It tethered her will, her essence, to a soul mirror—an artifact of void-forged magic. As long as the mirror exists, she will never be free. Her spirit will drift between here and the abyss, unable to rest or heal."
"So we destroy the mirror?" Lyra asked.
"Yes," Malrick hissed. "But know this—the mirror does not shatter easily. It is guarded. Not by the cult, but by Evelyn's own sorrow. Her regrets. Her rage. You will face the very worst of her. You must survive her fury to save her soul."
Dorian nodded grimly. "And if we break it?"
"Her soul will be unbound," Malrick said. "But damaged. She will not return whole. To survive, she will need an anchor—a living soul willing to take in her burden. Her sorrow, her guilt, the residue of the curse."
Adrian didn't hesitate. "Then I'll be her anchor. I swore to protect her once. That vow still holds."
Malrick tilted his head. "Do not speak lightly. You will not just carry her pain—you will become it. If she is freed, you may lose yourself."
Adrian's voice was unwavering. "It doesn't matter."
Dorian looked at him, not with envy or competition, but with a deep, solemn respect. They both loved her, in different ways. And both had failed her.
But this was their chance to make it right.
"Where is the mirror?" Dorian asked.
Malrick's face darkened. "Deep within the cult's final stronghold—the Hall of Sorrow, hidden far beneath the northern wastes. The temple's heart is soaked in grief. Only those who bear love twisted by tragedy can find it."
"What kind of defenses are we talking about?" Lyra asked.
Malrick's grin returned. "Only the most treacherous kind—the ones within your own minds. The mirror reflects not what you are… but what you fear you've become."
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Then Dorian broke the silence. "Then we end this. For her."
Adrian nodded, and Lyra took his hand and Dorian's, binding them in unity.
From behind the throne, a new passage opened—a tunnel leading deeper into the dark.
The journey ahead would not just test their strength.
It would test the weight of their hearts.
And somewhere far away… a mirror began to hum.