The souls bargain
1130 Words
“Where love endures, even death must bow.”
Inscription upon the Tomb of the Silent Queen
The mountain halls of Burkhan rumbled with the echo of footsteps. Lucius crossed the gates at dawn, carrying what remained of his heart in his arms. Morgana lay still, wrapped in torn silks and ash, her hair matted with dust that once glittered like stars.
The dwarves who met him did not speak. They saw the ruin in his eyes, and their silence was reverent. The King of Burkhan stepped forward, his braids heavy with iron rings. He bowed once, deeply.
“Bring her within,” he said softly. “We shall build her rest.”
They chose a chamber deep under the mountain, where the stone hummed with quiet strength. For seven days and nights the dwarves worked beside him, carving pillars, setting silver veins into the floor, shaping a sarcophagus from white granite. They said nothing of the curse, or the god she had slain, only that she had died saving the world above.
Lucius helped them, though his hands trembled. He cut his palms raw carrying stone, mixed his blood into the mortar, and laid each tile himself. When the tomb was finished, he knelt beside it for a long time.
He could not light the pyre they offered. “She feared fire,” he whispered. “She will rest in stone.”
So they sealed her in silence.
The dwarves placed runic lanterns around the tomb blue flames that would never die and withdrew, leaving Lucius alone beneath the earth.
Days passed. Or weeks. Time meant nothing.
He sat before the sarcophagus and spoke to her as though she could hear him. Sometimes he told her stories of the world she had saved. Sometimes he cursed the gods. Most often he said nothing at all.
The dwarves brought food. It went untouched. Sleep came in fragments, haunted by dreams of her voice. He awoke with her name on his lips and emptiness in his chest.
Once, when they tried to move him, he drew Heartbane and warned them away. After that, they left him be.
He prayed, though he no longer believed. He begged any power listening to undo what fate had done. None answered.
Until the night he heard the whisper.
Two dwarves, unaware that he lingered in the shadows of the hall, spoke in low tones.
“…the witch beyond the eastern wood,” one said. “The one who cursed the bloodline of the seer’s kin.”
“The one who lives between worlds?” asked the other.
“Aye. Some say she can call the dead to speak.”
Lucius’s breath caught. The world seemed to tilt.
The witch who had doomed Morgana’s line, the one whose curse had begun it all might also be the key to ending it.
He rose that same hour, took his sword, and left the mountain halls without a word.
The land beyond Burkhan was a grave of fog and pine. He followed old paths until the stone roads gave way to roots and mire. Days blurred together in cold and hunger, his body half dead already. He no longer feared beasts; they shied from him, scenting despair heavier than blood.
When at last he found her dwelling, it was no hut but a hollow in the forest, a ring of withered trees surrounding a pool of black water. Mist clung to the ground like breath from an unseen mouth.
A voice rose from the dark: low, ancient, and not entirely human.
“You bring the scent of sorrow, mortal.”
The witch stepped into view. She was small and thin, her skin pale as birch bark, her hair long and colorless. Moss and shadow clung to her garments. Her eyes were old amber, seeing both him and through him.
Lucius fell to one knee. “You’re the one who cursed her blood.”
“I am the one who warned her mother,” she corrected, voice like rustling leaves. “The curse was born of disobedience. Why come to me, bearer of grief?”
“I would bring her back,” he said simply.
She circled him once, silent. “Many men have come to me with such words. None returned unchanged.”
“I have nothing left to change.”
The witch stopped. For a long moment she studied him. “Her soul is bound, you know. The beast’s ashes coil around her in the realm beyond. She cannot pass to peace nor be called to flesh.”
“Then send me there,” Lucius said. “To the realm beyond.”
She tilted her head. “You would die?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
A smile, almost kind. “Death is not so simple. You may walk the border once, but not both ways. To bring her soul back, yours must stay behind.”
Lucius’s hands tightened on the hilt of his sword. “If death is the price for her life, I’ll pay it.
“Without hesitation?”
“There’s nothing left of me to hesitate.”
The witch turned toward the black pool. The air thickened, humming faintly. Shadows gathered around her as she spoke in a language older than kings. The water rippled, then stilled into a mirror.
“This is the veil,” she murmured. “Cross it, and you will find the land where the dead remember their chains. Seek her by the light she carries. But know this, when you take her hand, your place will be hers.”
Lucius stared into the water. He saw nothing but his reflection, gaunt, hollow-eyed, a ghost already. “Will she know me?”
“If her love was true, yes.”
He took a breath, the first steady one in weeks. The wind stirred, carrying faint whispers, her voice among them, distant but unmistakable.
He looked at the witch. “Thank you.”
She gave a small bow. “Love is the oldest magic, and the cruelest. Go, mortal. May it be worth what you lose.”
Lucius stepped to the water’s edge. The surface shimmered faintly, silver and cold. He thought of Morgana’s laughter, of her hand reaching for his, of the promise she had made amid ruin: I’ll never leave you.
He whispered, “Nor I you.”
Then he walked forward.
The water did not splash. It swallowed him whole, silent as breath. Light folded over him, and the world of the living fell away.
The witch watched until the ripples died. The pool turned still once more, showing only the reflection of the empty sky.
In the depths below, a faint glow flickered. two souls drawing near again, at the edge of life and death.
- Writer
