Ch. 142

Ch. 142
"Hello?" I call, my voice betraying me with a slight tremor. "Perris? Is that you?"
A whisper comes in response, so faint I might have imagined it had the water not suddenly gone still around me, as if holding its breath to listen.
"...alone..." it says, the sound seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "...always alone..."
A chill, unrelated to the cold water, runs down my spine. I turn in a slow circle, trying to locate the source of the voice, but the mist shifts and flows around me, obscuring more than it reveals.
"Who's there?" I demand, forcing strength into my tone.
Another shadow flickers at the edge of my vision, and then another. The mist begins to take on shapes—vague, humanoid forms that move with deliberate slowness, circling me. They're insubstantial, more suggestion than reality, but growing more defined with each passing second.
"...the orphan..." a new voice whispers, this one closer, more distinct. "...the girl in her tower..."
My breath catches in my throat as I recognize the words—the same taunts that have followed me through the halls of Widdershins for years. The shapes in the mist take on more definition, becoming recognizable as figures draped in tattered shrouds, their faces hidden in shadow.
Ether wraiths. They're not supposed to be here. They were banished to whatever pit they crawled from when the vault’s perimeter wards reset.
But these look real enough, and their whispers cut deep, finding the most vulnerable parts of me with unerring accuracy.
"...never belong..." one hisses, drifting closer. "...pretending to be human..."
"...no one is coming back for you..." another adds, its form billowing like smoke caught in a draft. "...ran from the truth of what you are..."
I back away from them, but they're all around me now, a circle of shifting, spectral forms herding me in a direction I hadn't intended to go. The water grows deeper with each reluctant step, now reaching my waist, slowing my movements even further. The wraiths press closer, their whispers growing louder, more confident as my fear rises.
"...the prophecy is a lie..." one sneers, its voice echoing with the tones of Perris's aristocratic drawl. "...you could never be important enough to fulfill it..."
"...even your precious dragon left you behind..." another taunts, this one sounding disturbingly like Professor Bellamy at his most academic. "...because he knows what you really are..."
"And what am I?" I demand, anger flaring hot in my chest, temporarily burning away the fear. "Since you seem to know so much about me."
The wraiths pause, their forms rippling with what might be surprise. Then they press closer, their whispers becoming a chorus of hissed insecurities.
"...freak..."
"...monster..."
"...abomination..."
"...unwanted..."
"...nothing..."
Each word lands like a physical blow, finding purchase in the darkest corners of my mind where these exact fears have lived since I was a child and first realized I was different, just by virtue of being alone. The wraiths feed on my reaction, growing more substantial with each flinch, each quickened breath, each spike of doubt.
I continue backing away, the water now reaching the middle of my chest, making movement even more difficult. Something brushes against my legs beneath the surface—something larger than before, deliberate in its touch. I glance down and catch a glimpse of scales sliding past, and the flash of eyes watching from beneath the murky water.
The wraiths have herded me into deeper water where something waits. Something predatory.
Panic surges through me, my heartbeat accelerating to a frantic drumming in my ears. The wraiths press closer, forming an almost solid wall of shifting shadow and whispered hatred, blocking any path back to shallower water. Their taunts become more specific, more personal, as if they're pulling the words directly from my deepest insecurities.
"...they’re all going to die because of you..."
"...your fault, your arrogance, thinking you could matter..."
"...left behind because you're worthless..."
"...the scion of nothing, the mate of no one..."
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps now, my mind racing with fear and confusion. How do they know these things? How can they possibly know about Coach, about the mate-bond, about my questions surrounding my own identity?
And then, in a moment of clarity, I understand. They don't know. They can't know. They're not reading my mind; they're reading my fear. These aren't independent entities with knowledge of their own—they're manifestations of my own insecurities, given form by the strange magic of this place and powered by my own spiraling anxiety.
They're not real. Or rather, they're only as real as I allow them to be.
I stand straighter, forcing myself to take a deep, slow breath despite the water pressing against my chest. "You're not real," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "You're just fear-given form. My fear."
The wraiths hesitate, their shifting forms wavering as if caught in a sudden breeze.
"And I'm not afraid of what I am anymore," I continue, taking a step forward, pushing against the resistance of the water. "I'm tired of running from it. Tired of hiding."
The wraith directly in front of me shrinks back, its form becoming less substantial as I advance. The whispering falters, growing less certain, less cutting.
"I don't know exactly what I am yet," I admit, taking another step. "But I know I'm not nothing. I know I matter to Coach, to Professor Bellamy. And whatever this prophecy is, whatever part I'm supposed to play in it, I'll figure it out on my own terms."
I keep moving forward, one difficult step at a time, the water gradually receding to my waist, then my thighs as I push toward the shallower areas. The wraiths continue to fade, their whispers becoming indistinct murmurs that lack the power to wound. Some of them dissipate entirely, wisps of shadow returning to the mist they formed from.
I've almost reached the edge of their circle when a real voice cuts through the swamp's strange acoustics—Perris's voice, high and sharp with alarm.
Something is very wrong.