Page 31 of Bought By the Manticore

In Thanatos’s Temple, it was utterly quiet.

It wasn’t the silence of a sleeping village or the hushed stillness of Iaso’s infirmary before dawn. This was a weighty form of nothing. It pressed against my ears, swallowing the faint rustle of my dress and the scrape of my bare feet against the stone.

It wasn’t quite as potent as what I’d felt when I passed through the wards. But it was close. And what made it all the more unbearable was the way the temple looked now.

A damp mist drifted around my ankles, carrying the scent of turned earth and dried leaves. Beneath the mist, the ground wasa seamless expanse of dark basalt. Thick roots crisscrossed the stone, forming a tangled web that stretched into the shadows.

It was a flawless replica of the place where Skaros had held me. The Temple had pulled the image straight from my mind, building the sanctuary my heart had asked for.

But it was only an image.

I sank to my knees. The stone was biting cold. I reached out, pressing my palms against the thickest root near my thigh. Once, it had held the steady, rumbling pulse of death energy that mirrored a heartbeat.

But the wood under my hands was dead. No matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t reach Skaros. Not here.

The bark was rough and dry, flaking away beneath my fingernails like old paint. It carried no vibration. I pressed my cheek against the curve of the root, straining to hear the low hiss of his voice.

There was nothing.

I pulled back, wrapping my arms tightly around my chest. The invisible walls of Thanatos’s Temple severed this space from the dirt of the city. Skaros was out there somewhere, scattered and starving, and I was locked in a prison built from my own memories. We were separated by an unbreakable cage.

A jolt of pain shot through my body. My veins tingled, and a sharp, twisting ache seized my chest, threatening to steal my breath.

I knew that feeling. I’d lived with it for years before the asphodels ever found me. Without Skaros’s touch, and with Eryx’s last draught fading from my blood, the Thorn-Sickness was waking up.

I dropped against the roots, leaning forward and resting my head in my hands. The sickness twisted deeper, tightening a knot around my heart. I gritted my teeth, refusing to scream in the empty room.

As I shifted my weight, my elbow brushed against something solid resting on the ground beside me.

I opened my eyes.

A smooth wooden cylinder lay on the stone. It was a scroll, tied with a frayed, dark leather cord.

It had not been there a moment ago. I stared at it, temporarily forgetting the imminent threat of the Thorn-Sickness. The Temple shaped itself to the soul seeking refuge, manifesting the things that brought comfort. It had built the garden, and now, sensing my rising panic, it had pulled the last physical object that had given me clarity in the waking world.

The gift Aion had brought me.

My fingers trembled as I reached out and pulled the leather cord free. The heavy parchment unrolled across my lap. The ink was dark, written in a steady hand.

Aion had told me these were the writings of his father, Charon. They were created to teach a newly awakened bronze colossus what it meant to exist as a person, rather than a machine.

I traced the first line of ink, forcing myself to focus on the words instead of the twisting vines under my skin.

Charon had written about the nature of the Woven. He stated that a construct, a tool, was merely a vessel shaped to serve a purpose. A vessel accepted whatever was poured into it. It remained exactly where it was placed. It had no voice, no desire, and no right to refuse the hands that wielded it.

But a soul was different.

A soul,Charon argued,is defined by the terrible burden of choice. To possess a soul is to hold the right to walk your own path. It is the right to choose your own companions, to face your own risks, and to make your own mistakes, even if those choices lead straight to ruin. To deny someone their choice under the guise of protecting them is to treat them as a vessel. It strips away the very essence that makes them whole, reducing a living spirit back into an empty cup.

I read the passage twice. The air in my lungs burned, and the thorns dragged mercilessly against my ribs. But my mind felt sharper than it had in days.

Eryx wasn’t protecting me. He was turning me into a vessel. He had decided my choices were invalid because they didn’t align with his medical texts. So he had simply placed me on a shelf where I couldn’t hurt myself.

The mist near the far edge of the garden began to swirl.

I rolled the scroll up, holding it loosely in my hand. I didn’t stand up. I didn’t have the strength to fight him physically. Even making the attempt would only prove his theory that I was wild and irrational. I remained on the ground and waited.

Eryx emerged from the shadows, the dark blindfold covering his eyes. His obsidian serpents shifted in lazy, troubled arcs. In his right hand, he carried a small flask.