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Chapter 3

IRIS

The slice of the knife against my palm stung for only a moment, the sound of blood dripping onto the cellar floor echoing in the silence.

Zinnia pulled her seat closer, dipping another cloth into the bowl of water. “You won’t be able to drain while we’re away, dearest. You must get it all out tonight.”

I sat atop an ancient trunk in the underground chamber beneath our home, staring at the dirt beneath my feet greedily absorbing the blood that dripped. It was a few days earlier than usual, but since my magic took only days to replenish fully, a session was warranted before we left. It wasn’t actual siphoning, as blessed by the goddesses, but it served the same purpose.

To drain my Threading magic completely.

Not that you could actually separate the power out. It all was housed in our essence; each classification only harnessed the pool of magic differently.

Temperi .

Able to manipulate the known world, morphing it to their whim.

Scriptors .

With mental connections allowing them to communicate far past Etheran means.

Innatus .

Possessing another form entirely, metamorphosing into a physical manifestation of their power.

Arcanists .

Creators who required nothing but their own essence to summon raw magic and sculpt it into being.

Every sliver of magic gifted by the goddesses fit into one of the four, based on how it was wielded. Elementalists, who manipulated the environment, fell under the Temperi. Linguistics, who translated any known language, into the Scriptors. Alati and their winged forms among the Innatus.

And Threaders, with our golden strands, into the Arcanists.

Side by side with Spellbinders and their permanent enchantments, Illusionists with spun realities from air, and Wayfarers with pathways carved between realms. No need for an element to bend or mind to touch. Our magic existed in its rawest form, waiting to be shaped.

With it, Threaders wove.

Shimmering strands of tangible magic twisted and sang within our grasp.

Alone they were insignificant, but when stitched together in complex patterns, our Threads became barriers, architecture, weapons—even life-debts.

The scope of what a Threader could create was limited solely by the speed and intricacy in which they could weave. A skill of finessed beauty—capable of immeasurable destruction.

I had seen that destruction firsthand.

Been that destruction.

As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t remove only the Arcanist magic. No, to lessen the thrashing of it against my skin, I had to drain my essence in whole. Down to a fragment, no more than I what I needed to speak with animals.

I’d never let go of that. Thankfully, the power required for it was minimal.

The process allowed a few days of relief before the Threads came roaring back, pushing against my skin in a rage.

I rubbed my fingers together, then plunged a single glowing Thread into my bloodstream, seeking the barrier locking my magic in place. It unwound with practiced ease.

A hum filled the chamber as the first pull of raw magic bled from my veins.

“There it is, my sweet dove.”

Zinnia’s fingers combed through my hair as she dabbed the sweat from my neck with a damp cloth.

“I know how tiring it is, but I am so proud of you. You are not them, I promise.”

Simply summoning the Threads would be less taxing. Less messy too, without the blood.

Filling endless glass jars with the singing strands had worked for years. But I couldn’t—shouldn’t—trust using the blessing normally anymore. This workaround that accessed my essence fully, pulling out the very core of what made me Ethera, was far more thorough. And controllable. No need to try and rein the untamable magic I fought against every time I tried to use the Threads these days.

Safer for everyone.

I shuddered with the intrusion, the Threads working in tandem as they latched onto my essence.

A necessary evil , I reminded myself.

Altaerra knew the lost Sunchosen was a Threader, and though my identity remained secret, flaunting the ability would be reckless.

More than that—it felt tainted. That sliver of magic gifted by Lux. The same goddess who had branded me with the mark, burning her decision on my fate into my skin.

I despised it.

I wanted nothing to do with the power-hungry corruption of Solyndra or the Goddess who had created it.

I’d barely escaped their depravity disguised as virtue.

Maybe that was why the power had become so calamitous within me, it had been tarnished long ago.

A weapon I couldn’t trust myself with, lest I become like them.

The singsong hum of the Thread filled the room as it worked to pull the raw magic out, an eerie melody shifting with the strain of the weave.

It was the best part of the magic. The only one I looked past my disdain for.

The harder the Threads worked, the more intricate the patterns created, the more lovely it became. A beautiful ballad or a crashing crescendo, both told the story of what was being formed by the strings of magic—similar to that of an instrument.

Against my mother’s wishes, I always hummed along.

Softly, barely above a whisper, I harmonized with the steady composition of the siphoning spell. The Threads glowed golden, pulsating in time with my voice as they wove through the air.

One final pull, and a shimmering fragment of raw magic unraveled from my essence. It squirmed as it was drawn into the glass jar before me, golden and restless.

I repeated the process again and again until the jar brimmed with glowing embers of pure power, writhing against their enclosure.

It was mesmerizing.

Even Arcanists never saw raw magic. The power we shaped became our creations before we could witness it in this state. My limbs trembled with exhaustion as the last chords died out.

“I shall take this to be destroyed while you sleep,” Zinnia murmured, sealing the final jar.

I nodded sluggishly, my head too heavy to lift. She picked up the salve beside me and gently smoothed it over my palm. The shallow wound knitted together instantly, leaving no trace of a scar.

I stumbled as I stood, my mother slipping one arm underneath my shoulder to keep me upright as we headed toward the stairs. The apothecary’s floor groaned beneath our steps as I fought the pull of sleep.

I hadn’t drained myself this thoroughly in years.

My reserves were so low I would be lucky to achieve communicating with the smallest of creatures, should I encounter them in Kacidon.

I barely registered Zinnia’s exasperated shake of her head as I collapsed onto the bed, the blanket she retrieved from the foot of my mattress falling around me in waves.

For a fleeting moment, I felt like a child again.

I suppressed a pang of longing for that time, that innocence. I missed the nights when she told me stories by candlelight. The warmth of her voice. The scent of strawberry tarts.

Even grown, I supposed there would always be moments you craved the comfort of your mother.

“Kacidon is pretty,” Zinnia mused, tucking in the edges of the blanket “The capital, Arcton, especially so. There are dazzling ballrooms, exquisite finery…”

I sighed into my pillow, eyes fluttering shut.

“Iris.”

Her voice snapped me back to consciousness.

“I’m sorry, dove.” Remorse softened her tone. “But it’s important you remember who these people are. What they stood for in the old war. Their choice to impose a bonded life-debt on another, and then to call in our debt after so long with no explanation…”

She sighed, weariness sinking into the lines of her face. “We cannot trust them.”

“I know, Mother,” I rasped. “Trust me—I find what they’ve done to you reprehensible.”

She smiled softly, brushing my hair from my forehead.

“Greed is a powerful magic.”

“I’ll be careful,” I promised. “We’ll finish this quickly.”

The bed creaked as she stood.

“You and I,” she called from the doorway.

I barely managed a whisper of “Against the world,” before falling into oblivion.