NOVEL NEXT Chapter 171: [171] Ghosts in the City's Records
The apartment smelled like mold and forgotten dreams. Naomi had found it three days ago in the lower terraces of Hearthome, a place where the volcanic vents barely reached and the city's warmth died to a bitter chill. The registry had burned in a clerical fire seven years back, making it a ghost in the city's records—invisible, untraceable, perfect for hiding.
She sat cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, counting their remaining silver coins for the fourth time. Twenty-three pieces. Enough for maybe two days of food if they ate like sparrows. Ashley lay on the room's single bed, her breathing shallow and irregular. Golden fractures traced faint lines along her jawline where her Guardian Covenant had shattered, pulsing weakly like dying embers.
Margaret knelt beside the bed, her blue hair falling forward as she pressed a damp cloth to Ashley's forehead. The usual brightness in Margaret's turquoise eyes had dimmed to something harder, more focused. She'd been like this since Ashley collapsed maintaining that interference field—no jokes, no cheerful observations, just grim competence as she monitored Ashley's condition.
"Temperature's dropping again," Margaret murmured, wringing out the cloth in a cracked basin. "That's good. The fever broke about an hour ago."
Naomi nodded, though Margaret wasn't looking at her. She'd learned to read the subtle signs in Margaret's voice over the past few days. The way her words carried just a hint of relief meant Ashley was improving, even if slowly.
The apartment's single window faced north toward the noble quarter, where warm light spilled from crystal chandeliers behind stained glass. Naomi could see the fortress towers rising against the mountain's slope, their windows glowing like distant stars. Somewhere up there, Calypso waited in silk and jewels, playing the role of a willing bride while counting down to her own destruction.
"He should be back by now," Margaret said, settling into the room's only chair. The wood creaked under her weight—everything in this place was old, worn down by years of neglect.
"Xavier knows how to take care of himself." Naomi's voice carried more confidence than she felt. The plan had been simple: infiltrate the archives, find answers, regroup. But nothing had been simple since they'd fallen through that gate. Every victory came with a price, every answer raised three new questions.
Ashley stirred on the bed, her eyelids fluttering. The golden fractures along her skin brightened for a moment before dimming again. Margaret leaned forward, ready to offer water or medicine, but Ashley's breathing settled back into its steady rhythm.
"She's been like this for hours," Margaret said. "Conscious but not quite awake. Like she's fighting something in her dreams."
Naomi had seen similar symptoms back in their world—Essentia burnout, they called it. When hunters pushed their abilities beyond safe limits, their bodies sometimes shut down to prevent permanent damage. But Ashley's situation was different. Her power hadn't just overloaded; it had fundamentally changed, evolving from protection into something else entirely.
A soft knock at the door made both women freeze. Three short taps, then two long ones—Xavier's signal. Naomi moved to the window first, checking the street below for any signs of pursuit or surveillance. Empty cobblestones gleamed with moisture from the volcanic vents, but no guards patrolled this forgotten corner of the city.
She opened the door to find Xavier looking like he'd crawled through hell's sewers. His borrowed noble clothes hung in tatters, stained with mud and worse things. Grime covered his face except where sweat had carved clean tracks down his cheeks. His black hair stuck to his scalp, and his blue eyes held a haunted quality she'd never seen before.
"Close the door," he said, stumbling into the room. "Lock it. Barricade it if you can."
Margaret was already on her feet, moving toward him with her healer's instincts engaged. "You're hurt. Sit down, let me—"
"I'm fine." Xavier waved her off, though Naomi could see the lie in the way he favored his left side. "We have bigger problems than a few scrapes."
He pulled something from inside his ruined shirt—a leather journal bound with brass clasps. The cover was scorched in places, and the leather felt wrong somehow, too cold for something that had been pressed against human skin.
"I found Torval's research," Xavier said, placing the journal on the room's small table. "All of it. The truth about what happened to the original Lady Selene. About what happened to us."
Naomi felt her stomach clench. She'd suspected they weren't the first to inhabit these bodies, but suspecting and knowing were different creatures entirely.
"Tell me," she said, moving to stand beside Margaret. Ashley remained unconscious on the bed, but something in her breathing suggested she was listening.
Xavier opened the journal to a page marked with a strip of torn cloth. His fingers trembled as he traced the handwritten lines, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of terrible knowledge.
"Five years ago, Lady Selene Flameheart awakened Essentia abilities that marked her as a perfect vessel for something called the Winter Queen. The Winter Court wanted to use a thirteen-year-old girl as a host for their fallen ruler." Xavier's jaw clenched. "Torval couldn't let that happen. So he and his sister Elara performed a ritual to displace Selene's consciousness, hiding it between worlds where the Winter Court couldn't reach."
Margaret's hand flew to her mouth. "They ripped a child's soul from her body?"
"To save her life, yes. The displacement was supposed to be temporary—a few months at most while they found another solution. But Elara died powering the ritual, and Torval couldn't reverse it alone." Xavier turned the page, revealing diagrams of binding circles and consciousness anchors. "So he kept Selene's body in magical stasis, waiting for the right moment to bring her back."
"And then we fell through the gate," Naomi said.
"Seven displaced souls looking for new homes. Seven empty vessels prepared by Torval's ritual." Xavier's voice grew bitter. "We didn't steal these bodies, Naomi. We were invited. Torval modified the displacement field to catch us, to give his daughter and six other children new lives while we got second chances."
The room fell silent except for the distant rumble of volcanic activity. Naomi stared at the journal, processing the implications. She wasn't Naomi Phillips wearing Nessa's face. She was a cosmic refugee squatting in a dead girl's body while the original owner waited in limbo.
"Where are they?" Margaret asked. "The original souls, I mean. Selene and the others?"
"Suspended between realms. Alive but not living, aware but not conscious." Xavier closed the journal with a soft thud. "And that's not even the worst part."