Chronicles of the Untalented

Silas woke in the dim darkness of morning, breath catching before thought returned. The faint warmth on his chest told him the healing ritual had ended; he'd slept deeper than intended.

He sat up.

The bed beneath him was rough-cut wood, the smell of herbs and iron clinging to the air. His bandages, though still tight, no longer burned. And as per the usual custom—leave the clinic if you can walk—Silas found himself already outside the medical post before he'd fully registered he had moved. Space was precious, and danger could knock at any moment.

Today was the day.

The day of refinement.

He walked, quietly, toward Velira's library.

---

Inside, the dusty air was still. Shelves leaned like crooked teeth. No birdsong greeted him—none ever did in this city—but the silence still pressed heavily.

Silas pushed the door open without knocking.

Velira didn't even flinch.

She looked up from her table, eyes half-lidded, already used to his entrances.

Velira: "Nervous?"

She asked with a weird tilt to her voice—half-teasing, half-shaky.

Silas: "Yeah. A little. The path forward is despair."

Velira let out a hollow chuckle.

Velira: "When has our life not been despair? Doesn't matter if we succeed or not—we'll all die in the end. So who cares?"

Her words were hard, but Silas noticed her arms trembling slightly.

Silas: "You can put up a tough front for someone else. But not for me."

He paused, then added with a forced grin,

"Anyway, enough stalling. You're first."

Velira: "Obviously. We don't know what'll happen when it's your turn. You'll probably explode."

She muttered the last part just loud enough for him to hear.

Silas: "Heard that."

Velira: "Good."

She walked over to the corner of the room and picked up a rusted sword, lightly tossing it into her other hand.

Velira: "I already told the clergy I'd be refining today. All they did was hand me this and say, 'Good luck.' Can you believe that?"

Silas: chuckling

"Of course I can. In their eyes, you're just dead weight that refuses to die. I can't blame them, really. We've caused them plenty of trouble."

Velira: smirking, distant

"Yeah... if it weren't for you guys distracting them while I 'borrowed' things to sell, I'd have been dead a long time ago. Maybe that's what they're hoping for. But let's annoy them again—by surviving."

Silas simply nodded.

---

They descended to the basement—stone-floored, stale-smelling, lit only by thin streaks of filtered morning light through the ceiling slits.

Velira knelt near the center of the room, pulling out a container of bone-dust chalk, and began carefully drawing two circles. The larger one surrounded her, and the smaller one cradled a blank mannequin—an effigy vessel. Between them, eight chalk lines stretched like veins.

Every line was steady. Measured. Intentional.

Silas watched silently as Velira began inscribing sigils into the effigy. Her hands trembled, but the chalk didn't falter. Her chanting began low—syllables from a tongue most had forgotten. The effigy pulsed faintly, flickering like a heartbeat.

The symbols she used shimmered blue, reacting to the moisture in the air. She smeared crushed salt into the chalk, then a drop of her own blood. The room began to change. The air thickened, like it was holding its breath.

The circles began to glow.

She rushed to the larger circle, kneeling into a meditation pose. The moment she closed her eyes, a low hum echoed in the walls.

Silas, already gripping the sword, felt a weight settle on his shoulders. It wasn't fear—not yet. But it was close.

---

The ritual intensified. The lines shimmered until they became blurry trails of light. Then… the shadows around the walls moved.

They lengthened. Twisted. Began to drip off the stone like liquid ink.

And from those shadows, they came—creatures born not of flesh, but of soul-hunger. Their bodies writhed like smoke given form. No eyes. No mouths. Just gaping absences.

Silas recognized them instantly.

Soul beasts.

He stood, raising the sword—its edge made of soul-reactive silver. They were practically relics. He gripped it tight.

He remembered what they'd taught in school: soul beasts are impervious to regular magic. They appear only during soul-splitting. If the ritual is strong… the beasts will come stronger, too.

He didn't have to win. Just buy time.

One beast lunged—he sidestepped and slashed. The blade passed through like fog, but the creature recoiled, tendrils burning.

Another pounced. Silas ducked, twisting to strike again. Every movement cost him energy. Sweat ran into his eyes.

Then—

Both Velira and the effigy rose into the air.

Light streamed from the circles in jagged, blinding pulses. The final stage had begun: the soul split.

The beasts reacted violently. They howled without mouths, their bodies warping. They turned feral.

One beast lunged straight for Velira. Silas intercepted it mid-air, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. Another slipped behind him. He turned, swinging wildly, only to feel a cold bite on his left arm.

It wasn't pain. It was worse.

His body remained whole—but inside, something tore.

His soul screamed.

He gasped, dropping to one knee. But he kept swinging. He had to. Velira hovered, suspended like a puppet in the storm, tethered to her soul.

Then—

It ended.

The effigy dropped to the floor, gently. Velira followed, gasping as if surfacing from drowning.

The soul beasts vanished—no longer drawn to her.

---

Silas dropped the sword and collapsed beside the ritual lines, breathing like he'd run for miles. His vision blurred. His arm ached—not physically, but in the marrow of his spirit.

He hadn't killed a single beast.

They were too strong. His swings only delayed them. And if Velira had radiated even slightly more strength… they both would have died.

But they hadn't.

She sat up, slowly, brushing the sweat from her brow. Her eyes glowed faintly, and across from her, the effigy stirred—its once-hollow shell now alive with power, a subtle shimmer of water rippling across its skin.

She had done it.