Bailey Baz's Arc

Chapter 34 of 44

Bailey knew the last pages of his mother's writing now, but not where the seal came from. Malachar had named the thing in his chest. His mother had made it. And the only record of how she made it sat in the hands of Maren Lossel, locked in her cell, refusing to speak. Bailey needed those pages. Maren would not give them for mercy. So he stopped asking for mercy. Cora met him outside the cells, wand cracked in her fist, robe still stained from the swamp. "She wants her freedom," his sister said. "You can't give her that." Rufus stood behind her, red beard damp, cradling a small glass vial. Pale ash swirled inside it like trapped smoke. "Found this with your mother's things too," his cousin said quietly. "Wraith ash. Burn it under a soul that owes a debt, and it drags the debt out of them. Maren served the dead King. She owes plenty." He pressed it into Bailey's hand. "It won't hurt her body. It'll just make her feel what she buried." Crane unlocked the cell. Maren sat on the stone bench in her white robes, hands folded, spotless even here. Her smile came slow and cold. "The boy king," she said. "Come to beg again?" Tyrek shut the door behind them and set his back against it, arms crossed, watching her like a wolf watches a snake. "No," Bailey said. He set the vial on the floor and pulled the dark stopper. Ash rose into a thin gray thread. Rufus struck a spark to it. The thread lit without flame, a pale glow, and Maren's folded hands finally came apart. She gripped the bench. Her breath went shallow. "What is this?" she whispered. "Every man who died for the old King," Bailey said. "The ash remembers. So will you." The glow bent toward her. Maren's spotless calm cracked. Her eyes filled with things she had spent a lifetime folding away. She shook. Tears cut down her powdered face. "Stop it," she gasped. "Stop it, and I'll give you the pages." "Where." "Sewn into the hem. My robe. The white one." Her hands clawed at the cloth at her ankle. Cora crossed and tore the seam open. Folded parchment slid out, three thin pages in his mother's shimmering hand. Bailey capped the vial. The glow died. Maren slumped against the wall, hollowed out, her silk tongue gone silent at last. Bailey unfolded the pages by torchlight. His mother's ink shivered under his marsh-blood eyes. The words came clear, and his stomach dropped. The seal in his chest was never meant to hold forever. It weakened each year he stayed whole. And there was only one place left to close it for good. He rolled the pages tight. "Get the elk ready," he told Tyrek. "We're going back to the deep water."