Whisper Of The Soulbound

Rain fell softly on the ruined chapel roof, drumming a gentle rhythm over broken stone and ivy-clad walls. Emelai sat near the edge, her cloak pulled tightly around her. She wasn't shivering from cold—but from what she carried in her thoughts.

She unfolded a faded piece of parchment. The ink had long since bled in places, but the words were still legible.

"Dear Father…"

She didn't finish reading. She never could.

Asher approached, quiet as a ghost himself.

"Writing?" he asked.

She folded the page carefully. "Not anymore. These were letters I meant to send. Before the attack. Before I ran."

He sat beside her, gaze distant.

"I used to write too. Letters to Elira. After she died."

Emelai blinked. "Did she… read them?"

A pause.

"She said she did," he said, glancing at the spirit as she hovered near the old altar. "Said she'd find them. One way or another."

Inside the chapel, Elira floated before a cracked mirror. Her reflection shimmered faintly, not with her own image—but flickers of the past. Of herself laughing. Alive. Holding Asher's hand as they walked through a marketplace filled with warmth and life.

"You're fading again," Liaen said gently, stepping into the room.

She nodded. "Every time I call on more power, I leave more of myself behind."

"You don't regret it?"

"No. But I wish… I could have more time. With him. With her."

"You care about her now."

"She reminds me of what I could've been. If I hadn't died. If I'd had the chance to guide someone."

Liaen looked down. "She sees you. Not just as a ghost. But as a protector."

Elira smiled faintly. "Then I'll protect her. Until I burn away."

Outside, Emelai asked, "Do you think the world can change?"

Asher didn't answer right away.

"I think it already has. Just not in ways we expected."

She nodded slowly. "My mother used to say the world is a book written in blood. But she believed I could write a different chapter."

"Then maybe you still can."

She looked at him. "Do you believe that?"

He turned to her. "I'm trying to."

That night, Liaen prepared an elven tea that dulled nightmares. As they rested beneath the fractured dome, Elira cast one final barrier of soullight around them.

Emelai dreamed again but this time, not of faceless gods or ancient whispers.

She dreamed of her village. Of laughter. Of her mother weaving soul threads in the twilight. Of her father tending his herbs.

And in that dream, she finished the letter.

"I'm still here. I haven't given up. I carry you with me. Even in the dark."

She awoke with a tear rolling down her cheek.

And for the first time, she felt like maybe just maybe she could face the days ahead.