Soulbound

6

Avery stumbled back through the rift, chest heaving, knees threatening to give out beneath them. The Veil spat them out like something unwanted, and for a moment the world tilted, shadows and light twisting in unnatural spirals.

When their vision cleared, they were back in the barren stone hall where missions began and ended. The silence here was worse than battle. Worse than the Wraiths.

They had failed.

The corrupted soul’s scream still echoed in Avery’s skull, sharp and mournful, like a knife scraping glass. They couldn’t shake the image of it thrashing against their tether, almost within reach before being ripped away.

Almost.

The sigil on their palm still burned faintly, its light pulsing with accusation.

Kael stood several feet away, scythe still faintly glowing from battle, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak at first—just stared, as if weighing every word. Avery forced themselves to meet his eyes, though it felt like staring at a storm they couldn’t withstand.

“I almost had it,” Avery said hoarsely. The words sounded pathetic even to them.

Kael’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a sneer, wasn’t quite pity. “Almost doesn’t matter. Not here.” He tapped the blunt end of his scythe against the ground. “That soul is gone. You don’t get second chances with the Veil.”

Avery’s throat tightened. “I—”

“Don’t,” Kael cut them off sharply. “Excuses won’t keep you alive. Excuses won’t restore balance. All you’ve proved today is that you’re too weak to follow through.”

The words stung worse than claws. Avery’s fists clenched, nails digging crescents into their palms. “I was trying to save it,” they snapped, louder than they meant. Their voice echoed against the stone. “It wasn’t just… a thing. It was someone. I could feel it.”

Kael’s eyes narrowed, pale fire flashing. He stepped closer, until Avery could feel the cold radiating from him. “Do you think I don’t know that?” His voice was a low growl. “Every soul begs. Every one of them screams. If you listen to that instead of doing your job, you doom them—and yourself.”

Avery flinched, but Kael’s words struck deep. Some part of them knew he was right, but admitting it felt like surrendering the last shred of their humanity.

“You’re not human anymore,” Kael said quietly, as if reading their thoughts. “Stop pretending you are.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Avery’s chest rose and fell, each breath jagged.

From the shadows above, the Council’s presence stirred. The air rippled with their attention—icy, suffocating. The obsidian thrones remained empty to the eye, but their voices filled the hall like a storm of whispers.

“You return empty-handed,” the central voice said, echoing through Avery’s bones.

Avery bowed their head instinctively, throat dry. “I—tried.”

The chorus hissed. “Tried is failure. Failure corrodes the balance. Do you understand what has been unleashed?”

Kael stepped forward, inclining his head. “It was my oversight. The fledgling wasn’t ready. I’ll take responsibility.”

A low murmur passed among the Council, a sound like chains dragging over stone. Finally, the central voice replied, “No. The fledgling carries their own burden. Each reaper is bound by their failures as by their oaths. They will carry this weight.”

The sigil seared against Avery’s palm, pain biting deep into flesh. They gasped, clutching their hand, as the burning carved something deeper—an addition to the mark, a line of shadow curling like a scar.

“Each lost soul binds you tighter,” the chorus intoned. “Lose too many, and you will become the very thing you hunt. A Wraith.”

Avery’s heart froze. They looked up sharply, horror twisting their gut. “What?!”

Kael’s gaze flicked toward them, sharp and warning, but the Council’s voice rolled on.

“Every hesitation, every failure, every broken tether frays your humanity. That path ends in hunger, chaos, oblivion. Do you wish to test the truth of this?”

“I—I didn’t know—” Avery stammered, but their words were drowned beneath the thunder of the Council’s fading presence. Shadows receded into silence.

The hall was empty once more, except for the two of them. Avery’s knees gave out, and they sank against the cold floor, breathing hard.

“A Wraith…” they whispered, staring at the new scar etched into their sigil. The thought clawed at them. The very creatures they had fought—monstrous, howling things without reason—could be their fate.

Kael finally spoke, his voice quieter than before. “Now you understand why hesitation is death.”

Avery shook their head, eyes burning. “I can’t… I can’t just shut it off. Pretend they’re not people. How do you do it? How do you not feel it?”

Kael’s jaw tightened. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then he turned away, his silhouette sharp against the dim light.

“You stop asking questions like that,” he said.

Silence pressed in. Avery swallowed hard, the ache in their chest sharp and raw. But as the silence stretched, Kael finally turned back, his eyes softer—not kind, but less merciless.

“You won’t survive like this,” he said, almost reluctantly. “But maybe… you can learn.”

He extended his hand, palm upward. A swirl of shadow and light formed in the air, solidifying into a training weapon: a smaller scythe, thinner, meant for beginners. Its blade shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Take it,” Kael said. “You’re not ready for the real thing. But you’ll learn to handle this before the Veil swallows you whole.”

Avery stared at the weapon, chest tight. Their hand trembled as they reached out, wrapping their fingers around the cool, weighted handle. The instant they touched it, the sigil flared, threads of energy snapping into the blade.

It felt alive. Heavy. Terrifying.

Kael studied them, his expression unreadable. “Training starts now. You won’t get another chance.”

Avery swallowed, gripping the weapon tightly, determination flickering in their chest even through the fear. For the first time since their death, something sparked inside them—a stubborn, fragile defiance.

They would not become a Wraith.

No matter what it took.