Page 25 of The City Of Fractured Memory

“The Echofae have this myth,” she murmurs, her voice a gentle echo in my mind. “I always thought it religious pandering, but it is said that if a being is to die by their own hand, their soul will be incarcerated in the Voyd instead of joining with the mists of the Veil. So maybe it works the other way too? If they died by another’s hand, could the fog left in their minds be their souls uniting with the mists of the Veil?”

I think about that, and an old memory surfaces. “I’m sure I’ve heard that before, in a children’s story? But even if it is true, it doesn’t exactly help us find their killer.”

“No,” she agrees, floating back towards the book. “Let’s keep looking, there must be something here that can help us.”

I shut the book with a thud that echoes through the cavernous space and wrestle it into my arms to return it to the shelf, Stryx sticking close to me as I venture further into the stacks.

“It’s very quiet in here,” Stryx comments, shifting about nervously. “Not in a good way.”

I can’t help but agree as I run my finger along the various titles, an odd feeling in my gut starting to churn as I note how long it’s been since Cyril left us to locate the restricted books.

The silence of the Archives is almost reverent, broken only by the whisper of pages and the scratching of my pen as I jot down my observations on a scrap of parchment. The smell of dust and vellum clings thick in the air, as though centuries of knowledge have sunk into the stones themselves. Stryx and I continue to examine the various titles with as much luck as we started with. My mood plummets with every dead end, and my anxiety slowly increases as I note how much time Cyril has been gone.

The sound of boots scuffing on the stone floor draws my attention, and my head snaps up as Stryx’s tiny form presses in close to me.

“Quick,” I whisper sharply, lifting the phial and gesturing for her to return inside. She shoots in immediately and I stuff the phial into my cloak less than a second before Xavier comes striding round the shelves.

I exhale a breath of relief as he stops beside me, noting the numerous books I have laid out on the desk.

“Any luck?” he asks, absently running his fingers over the closest tome.

I shake my head in disappointment. “No. I assume you’re the same?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” he says, nodding his head noncommittally.

“What is wrong with him today?” Stryx whispers into my mind, as if she’s worried he can hear her somehow. I’ve been wondering that too, but when I look up at him, he finally gives me his usual smile, and I find myself relaxing a little. It’s been a crazy few days, he must just be exhausted, that’s all. Gods know I am.

As soon as that thought enters my mind, my Shadow materialises, and my anxiety increases tenfold. Though I know Xavier can’t see him, it still makes me nervous, like I’m going to slip up and give myself away. No one other than Stryx knows of my condition, and I want to keep it that way.

“So, where do we go from here–”

“White hair!” The voice, cracked with age and sharpened by contempt, hisses from behind us, cutting Xavier off.

The words land like a curse, and I realise too late that my hood is still down after I pulled it back earlier to stop it falling into my eyes whilst reading. We both turn to find an old man glaring at us, his eyes, yellowed and rheumy, fixed on me with revulsion.

“An abomination skulking in sacred halls! And you–” His gnarled finger jabs at Xavier. “–to walk beside her without a collar on her throat? Have you no shame?”

I freeze. It’s not the first time my hair had earned me suspicion—it’s why I religiously keep my hood up—but never here, never in the Memosyne. My jaw clenches, words rising sharp and hot. “Careful with your tongue, old man–”

But Xavier cuts across me once again, smooth as ever, his voice low and warning. “That’s enough,” he snarls at the man. “You’ll mind your words in my presence.” He steps forward, the picture of chivalry, as though I’m some fragile creature in need of protection.

My hands curl into fists. The old man’s insult doesn’t sting half as much as Xavier’s interference. Again. Always speaking for me, as though my voice carries less weight.

“No,” I snap, my glare shifting to Xavier. “I don’t need defending.” My raised voice cuts through the Archive’s stillness as I turn back to the old man. “You dare mistake me for something you fear? Call me abomination again, and you’ll learn the consequences of insulting me firsthand.”

The old man staggers back a step, startled by the fury in my tone. For a heartbeat, the chamber thrums with the weight of my anger, and even Xavier seems taken aback.

I tilt my chin high, every syllable measured. “Leave. Now.”

The man’s lips press thin, but he mutters something under his breath and retreats, his steps uneven and hurried, vanishing between the towering stacks.

The silence that follows is heavier than before. I’ve had enough of being spoken over. Enough of being treated as though I need saving. I round on Xavier next, trying my best to remain calm, but I’m so sick of him constantly speaking for me in the name of chivalry. It needs to stop.

“I have a voice, Xavier. You know that right?” I say incredulously, throwing my hands in the air in exasperation.

“Octavia–”

“No, stop and listen to me. You are a good man, but I don’t need you to fight for me. I know you’re only trying to help, but I don’t want it. You’ve seen me suffer at the hands of misguided men and have taken it upon yourself to defend me, and whilst I appreciate the gesture, I don’t need a white knight. Some women like that, sure, but I’m not one of them. You assumed what I needed instead of actually asking me. My bones may be broken and my mind fraying, but my will is unbreakable, and I will stand my ground and fight as well as any man. You may think me weak, but it is overcoming my weaknesses that make me even stronger. Never underestimate someone who has been dragged repeatedly into the darkness and clawed their way back every time.”