Page 127 of Ashen Souls

The pages were thick, yellowed, the ink faded but stubborn. The looping, elegant handwriting belonged to someone who believed their words were meant to endure. I turned a few pages.

Then I found it.

A full-page sketch.

It was the ring: drawn in strict lines, the band marked with the ridges I recognized instantly. The same shape, the same weight even in illustration. And inside it, engraved with precision, was the sigil.

My sigil.

Harper’s gaze traced the edge of the page, her tone taking on a forced neutrality that only made my nerves worse. “Read what’s under it.”

My fingers slid down the page. Under the drawing, written in a bold script, was a heading that read less like a title and more like a threat.

THE RITE OF BLOOD AND ASH.

My eyes locked on the ink, picking out the first letters.

Rite. Blood. Ash.

“RBA,” I breathed.

Harper’s head snapped up. The memory of sitting on this exact rug, drinking prosecco and staring at the black diary my dad had given me, crashed between us.

“Rite of Blood and Ash,” Harper repeated. “That’s what it stands for. That’s the acronym your ancestors left under the sigil.”

I swallowed and read aloud.

“‘This ring is not a creation of the spell, but its anchor. The sigil it bears is ancient, existing long before the magic that utilizes it. During The Rite of Blood and Ash, when the vows are sealed, the spell draws the crest from the metal and burns it into the flesh. There are many spells that imitate affection: glamours, obsessions, enchantments that twist desire into compliance. But the Rite is not an imitation. It is an absolute binding.’”

I paused, tracing the next lines as the text turned into a severe warning.

“‘It is a magic rarely invoked, for it demands absolute truth. Should the Rite sense even a fraction of falsehood or hesitation during the casting, or should the union be forged for alliance, power, or anything less than pure, unyielding devotion, the spell will invert. It will incinerate both bride and groom, reducing their very souls to ash.’”

I stopped reading, the brutality of the warning sinking in. They had known. Avelia and Daeren had stood in front of each other, fully aware that a single thread of doubt, a single heartbeat of hesitation, would burn them out of existence. They had risked total annihilation just to be together, and they hadn't hesitated. It was an unconditional, all-or-nothing surrender.

I stared at the page, a conflicted throb settling in my chest. I didn't even know what to call it. Grief for the tragic ending of a love that immense? Or a sick jealousy that they had possessed a certainty I had never known?

Harper leaned closer, her shadow falling across the yellowed pages. “Keep going.”

“‘A bind of this magnitude cannot be forged by the immortal hand,’” I read, the ink pressed so hard into the paper it had nearly torn it. “‘Should the greater power attempt the casting, the weight of their magic would incinerate the mortal vessel, or strip them of their will entirely.’”

My voice faltered on the next sentence.

“‘It must be initiated by the weaker flesh. An act of absolute, uncoerced free will. For to invoke the Rite of Blood and Ash is to forge a law that even death cannot void.’”

I stopped reading. The memory of Mr. Caldwell in the shop hit me with sudden clarity.

“Even in ash, it binds,” I said quietly.

Harper frowned. “What?”

“That’s what Mr. Caldwell’s grandfather with dementia mumbled when his mind drifted.” My fingers traced the heavy black ink. “He was reciting the spell.”

Harper rubbed the back of her neck. “The weaker flesh. That means Daeren couldn’t have forced this on her even if he wanted to.”

“No. It was Avelia. She was the one who pulled the trigger.”

I looked back down, my fingers lingering on the brittle edge of the page as I reached the next paragraph.