Page 94 of Ashen Souls

And Daeren.

Whatever bound us had a label now, but no instructions.

“I hate this part,” I muttered.

Harper glanced at me. “The part where it gets complicated?”

“The part where the truth keeps flirting with me and then ghosting.”

She snorted. “Yeah. That tracks.”

I rubbed my temples, trying to ward off an incoming headache. “I really thought this would be it. I thought we’d open the diary and just find a manual. Some neat explanation about the mark, Daeren, and why my life suddenly derailed.”

Harper nudged my foot with hers. “That was optimistic. Old magic and generational trauma don’t usually come with bullet points.”

It felt exactly like being handed half a map and being told the rest had burned a thousand years ago.

“So what now?” Harper asked.

My eyes drifted to the laptop beside the journal.

“…Wait.”

Harper narrowed her eyes. “That tone usually means you just remembered something we should’ve thought of two hours ago.”

I sat up. “Why didn’t we just Google it?”

Harper gaped at me in stunned silence, then burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” she groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “You’re telling me we’ve spent the entire evening emotionally bonding with a cursed family artifact, and neither of us thought to use the internet?”

“In my defense,” I said, grabbing my laptop, “I was raised by an archivist. I thought ancient secrets required dusty libraries and suffering.”

Harper reached for her prosecco. “Congratulations to us. We just remembered the twenty-first century exists.”

I snatched my phone and pushed back my sleeve.

Harper scooted around the coffee table, peering over my shoulder. “Smile. You’re about to confuse the hell out of an algorithm.”

“I feel honored.”

I took three photos from different angles, making sure the glare from the lamp didn't wash out the geometry.

I AirDropped the best shot to my laptop and dropped the image into the visual search bar.

The screen populated with a grid of visually similar results.

It was a chaotic mix of alchemy wikis, Pinterest tattoo boards, and obscure occult forums. I scrolled through rows of diagrams, logos, and religious glyphs. A few of them shared similar shapes: a familiar curve here, a mirrored angle there. Some were close enough that I craned toward the screen, squinting to check the details.

But nothing was an exact match.

Harper propped her chin on my shoulder.

“Nope,” she said, staring at the screen. “Not that one. That looks like something you summon tax demons with.”

I scrolled down.

“Also no. That one feels too medieval.”