Chadwick Rye

The sacrificial bowl sits before me, obsidian surface drinking what little light filters through the stained-glass windows of my tower. Crimson petals from yesterday’s ritual still cling to its rim, withered now but no less potent. I trace my fingers along the ancient symbols etched into its base—symbols I once studied with scholarly detachment before understanding their true cost.

Outside, Lumenvale awakens. The Crystal Spires catch the first light of dawn, fracturing it into thousands of prismatic shards that dance across the city below. From this height, I can see the entire capital spread beneath me like a tapestry—the intricate lacework of canals in the Merchant Quarter, the verdant expanse of the Whispering Gardens, the imposing silhouette of the Magisterium where I once believed my destiny lay.

How many mornings have I watched this same sunrise? Three thousand, perhaps more. Time blurs when you’ve surrendered its meaning.

Someone knocks at my chamber door—three quick raps followed by two slower ones. Elowen’s signal. I don’t turn as she enters, her footsteps nearly silent against the stone floor. After two decades as my apprentice, she moves through these rooms as comfortably as I do.

“The Council requests your presence, Master Thorne,” she says, voice carefully neutral. “The southern ward is weakening.”

I close my eyes briefly. “Again.”

“Third time this season.” Her reflection appears beside mine in the window glass—young face creased with concern, dark hair threaded with premature silver. The burden of knowledge ages her, just as it once aged me. “They’re struggling to maintain the boundary. The Void-touched creatures are growing bolder.”

“They always do when they sense weakness.” I finally turn to face her, conscious of how the morning light must illuminate what remains of my left arm—not the stump most would expect, but something far stranger: translucent flesh that shifts between corporeality and something else entirely, occasionally revealing glimpses of bone that glows with internal light.

The first sacrifice. The smallest.

Elowen’s gaze doesn’t linger on my arm, nor on the silvery scars that trace constellations across my visible skin. She has witnessed the progression of my offerings for too many years to be disturbed by them now.

“Will you attend?” she asks.

“When the Council requests, I obey.” The words taste like ash, ritual response to ritual summons. “That was the bargain.”

She nods once, then moves to the ancient cedar wardrobe that contains my formal robes. “They’ve sent carriages. The Lord Magistrate himself will escort you.”

Such ceremony. Such desperate courtesy to mask their fear. I allow myself a bitter smile as I cross to my workbench where dozens of glass vials gleam with liquids of impossible colors. With practiced movements, I select three—one the deep azure of twilight, another pulsing with amber light, the third as clear as water yet somehow wrong to the eye, as though it occupies more dimensions than it should.

“Will you need the binding sigils reinforced?” Elowen asks, laying out the ceremonial garments—midnight blue robes embroidered with silver threads that form protective wards across fabric spun from the silk of shadowmoths.

“No.” I uncork the amber vial, the scent of lightning and crushed starlight filling the chamber. “But prepare the chronicle pages. Today’s working will require… documentation.”

Her hand falters briefly. “You anticipate a significant expenditure?”

I meet her gaze directly. “The southern ward doesn’t merely weaken, Elowen. It unravels. I’ve felt it in my dreams these past weeks—threads pulling loose from a tapestry that has stood for centuries.”

“But the Council hasn’t—”

“The Council sees what it wishes to see.” I drink the amber liquid in a single swallow, feeling it burn through my veins like liquid sunlight. “They’ll understand soon enough.”

—

The Royal Carriages of Lumenvale are marvels of magical engineering—frames of silverwood harvested during lunar eclipses, wheels crafted from the petrified heartwood of the ancient Farshadow Forest. They move without horses, propelled by enchantments renewed by the Artificers’ Guild during each solstice. Inside, the cushioned seats adjust to perfectly support each occupant’s form, while the windows display not the streets they traverse but calming scenes from the Floating Gardens.

Lord Magistrate Caius Valerian watches me with barely concealed apprehension, his fingers nervously adjusting the golden chain of office around his neck. At seventy-three, he has held his position for nearly three decades, guiding Lumenvale through trade disputes, diplomatic tensions with neighboring realms, and the occasional arcane crisis. Yet in my presence, he reverts to the uncertain novice I first met in the Magisterium’s archives sixty years ago.

“The Council is grateful for your swift response, Archmage,” he says, voice pitched carefully between respect and command.

“I am bound to serve,” I reply, the familiar words like stones in my mouth. “As has been true since the Covenant was sealed.”

His eyes flicker to my left arm, where the transparency has spread past my elbow since I consumed the amber elixir. Beneath my skin, bones glow with soft radiance, and occasional glimpses of organs pulse with light instead of blood.

“The southern ward,” he continues after an uncomfortable pause. “Our diviners believe it may be targeted specifically, rather than simply decaying with time.”

I turn my gaze to the illusory window, where butterflies with wings of stained glass flit between impossible blossoms. “Your diviners are three months late to this realization. I sent warnings in the spring.”

Caius shifts uncomfortably. “The Council required verification from multiple sources. Protocol demands—”

“Protocol.” The word emerges sharper than intended. “Protocol will not save Lumenvale when the Void breaches the wards.”

“Which is why we’ve summoned you.” His voice drops lower. “There are… rumors, Archmage. The younger Council members grow concerned about the sustainability of the current arrangement.”

I almost laugh. “They question whether my sacrifices are sufficient?”

“They question whether they are necessary at all.” He won’t meet my eyes now. “Some suggest researching alternative methods of maintaining the wards. Methods that wouldn’t require—”

“My continued dismantling?” Now I do laugh, the sound hollow and echoing strangely in the confines of the carriage. “How considerate of them. And tell me, Lord Magistrate, in the century since the Void first tested our boundaries, has any researcher discovered an alternative to blood sacrifice that actually functions?”

His silence is answer enough.

I turn back to the window as the carriage approaches the Spire of Binding—the tallest structure in Lumenvale, a perfect needle of crystal and stone that pierces the very sky. At its summit lies the Chamber of Wards, where the magical boundaries protecting Lumenvale from the hungering Void are anchored and renewed.

“Your Council members’ concern is misplaced,” I say finally, watching as the illusory butterflies dissolve into motes of light. “They need not worry about sustainability. By my calculations, I have perhaps five more major workings before there is nothing left of me to sacrifice.”

The carriage slows to a halt, but Caius makes no move to exit. His face has paled considerably.

“Five?” he whispers. “But the southeastern ward is already showing signs of stress, and the western boundary will require renewal within the decade. What happens when—”

“When I am consumed entirely?” I offer him a smile that holds no warmth. “That, Lord Magistrate, is why I insisted the Council permit me an apprentice, despite their objections. Elowen understands what awaits her.”

Horror dawns in his eyes. “You cannot mean to—”

“I mean to ensure Lumenvale’s survival by any means necessary.” I reach for the carriage door with my transparent hand, the latch passing through my insubstantial fingers until I concentrate enough to make them solid. “As has always been my purpose.”

—

The Chamber of Wards hums with barely contained power. Concentric circles of runes cover floor, walls, and domed ceiling—some carved into the stone itself, others formed from inlaid metals that shimmer with inner light. At the chamber’s center stands a circular platform of obsidian, polished to mirror-like perfection and etched with the most complex arcane formula in all of Lumenvale: the Binding Equation.

Twelve Council members arrange themselves at precise intervals around the circumference of the chamber, each standing upon a disc of enchanted crystal that glows with their respective House colors. Their faces reflect varying degrees of reverence, fear, and—in the younger members—barely disguised curiosity.

I shed my outer robe, handing it to an attendant who accepts it with trembling hands. Beneath, I wear only a simple tunic of undyed linen, leaving exposed the extensive evidence of previous sacrifices: my transparent left arm, the circular opening in my chest where ribs and lungs occasionally phase in and out of visibility, the right leg that exists more as impression than substance from knee to ankle.

Gasps ripple through the chamber—many Council members have never witnessed the full extent of my transformation. Only Caius and the eldest among them have seen me perform a major working.

“The southern ward falters,” I announce, my voice amplified by the chamber’s perfect acoustics. “I can feel the thinning between worlds, the hunger that presses against our boundaries.”

I step onto the obsidian platform, and the Binding Equation illuminates beneath my feet, lines of silver fire tracing complex patterns that spiral outward toward the Council members.

“By blood and bone, by flesh and essence, by memory and will—I renew the covenant.” The ritual words spill from my lips as I remove the two remaining vials from my pocket. The clear one I pour over my head, the liquid defying gravity to spread across my body in a second skin of impossible geometry. The blue vial I drink, its contents like ice and darkness and stars collapsing.

Pain blossoms immediately—familiar yet never less terrifying. My body begins to transform, becoming a gateway between realms. Through my transparent parts, another reality becomes visible: a writhing darkness filled with impossible angles and hungry geometries.

“Witness the sacrifice,” I command, voice fracturing into multiple tones as the transformation accelerates.

I raise my hands toward the dome above, where a perfect representation of Lumenvale’s boundaries glimmers in threads of golden light. The southern section pulses an angry red, filaments fraying and dissolving even as we watch.

What comes next requires no incantation, no complex thaumaturgy—only will and the surrender of self. I reach within, past bone and sinew, beyond the physical constraints of body, and I find the bright core of what remains essentially *me*. From this, I tear a substantial piece—memories, emotions, fragments of identity woven together.

The pain transcends physical understanding. I am unmade and remade in the same moment, less than I was before, forever altered.

Above, the golden threads of the southern ward thicken and stabilize as my offering is accepted. The angry red glow subsides, replaced by the steady pulsing of renewed protections.

I fall to my knees on the obsidian platform, suddenly aware of a new absence: sensation below my right elbow has vanished entirely. Looking down, I see my forearm has transformed completely—no longer even translucent but a window into the Void itself, a perfect cylinder of utter darkness.

“It is done,” I whisper, though I cannot recall why this proclamation matters.

The Council members stare in horrified fascination, their discipline momentarily forgotten. Only Caius steps forward, protocol governing his actions when his mind might prefer retreat.

“Lumenvale thanks you for your sacrifice, Archmage Thorne,” he says formally, though his voice wavers. “The records shall reflect your service.”

I try to stand but find coordination suddenly difficult. Something important has been lost—memories that connected movement to intention, perhaps. Two attendants rush forward to assist me, careful to avoid touching the void-window that was once my arm.

“What did you sacrifice this time?” Caius asks quietly as they help me from the platform.

I search my fragmented memories, finding unfamiliar gaps where knowledge should reside. “I… cannot recall precisely. Something significant.” I pause, confused by my own uncertainty. “I believe… my childhood? Yes, that seems right. I offered the memories of my earliest years.”

His face pales further. “You sacrificed your own past?”

“Parts of it.” I feel strangely detached from this revelation. “It served its purpose. The ward is secure.”

As they guide me toward the chamber exit, a younger Council member steps forward—Lyra Nemaine, if I recall correctly, recently elevated to represent the Alchemists’ Guild.

“Archmage,” she says, voice hushed, “is it worth it? These sacrifices—giving up pieces of yourself—do you ever question whether the price is too high?”

The chamber falls silent, her brazen question hanging in the air. Such directness violates every protocol of the Council, yet not one member calls her to order. Perhaps they all share her curiosity.

I consider the void-window of my arm, the hollowness in my chest, the scattered fragments of my memories. I search for regret but cannot locate it among my remaining emotions.

“I was seventeen when the Void first breached our world,” I tell her, though the memory now feels like a story told to me rather than my own experience. “I watched it devour my entire village in the span of a single night—living beings, structures, even light itself consumed by hunger incarnate. Only seven of us escaped.”

I gesture toward the glowing representation of Lumenvale’s wards overhead. “Every piece I surrender preserves countless lives. Every sacrifice buys time—time for your researchers to perhaps find another way, time for children to grow into their own power, time for life to continue.”

My gaze sweeps the circle of Council members. “You ask if it’s worth it? I ask what life is worth preserving if we are unwilling to pay its price. My greatest sacrifice would be to do nothing at all.”

Something shifts in their expressions—understanding, perhaps, or merely the uncomfortable recognition of a truth they would prefer to ignore. Caius signals the attendants to continue our exit, but Lyra’s question follows me from the chamber, echoing in the spaces where memories once lived.

—

Elowen waits in my tower, the chronicle pages spread before her, quill poised to record this latest working. When I enter, her eyes immediately find the void-window that was once my arm, and her composure breaks for just a moment—a single sharp inhalation before her face settles back into professional calm.

“Your memories?” she asks quietly as she helps me to my chair.

“How did you know?”

“Your eyes.” She gestures toward my face. “They’ve changed color. The left is now gray instead of blue.”

I reach up with my remaining solid hand, though of course I cannot see this transformation myself. “Curious. The physical manifesting the metaphysical.”

Elowen dips her quill and begins to record, her handwriting precise and elegant. “What specifically was taken this time?”

“Early childhood, I believe. Before the Magisterium.” I close my eyes, trying to navigate the strange new emptiness within. “I know I had parents, siblings perhaps, but their faces… their names… gone.”

The quill scratches across parchment, documenting another piece of me surrendered to protect our realm. When she finishes the entry, Elowen looks up, her expression unreadable.

“Five more workings,” she says. It is not a question.

“At most.” I open the eyes I can still feel. “The calculations are imprecise. The ratio of sacrifice to ward-strength grows increasingly unfavorable. Each working requires more of me to achieve the same result.”

She sets down her quill and rises, moving to the window where morning has given way to midday, the Crystal Spires now gleaming white-gold in the sun’s full radiance. Below, the city continues its rhythms—merchants trading, children playing, lovers meeting—all protected by boundaries they rarely consider.

“When I was chosen as your apprentice, I understood the path,” she says, back still turned to me. “I’ve spent twenty years preparing to continue your work. I’ve studied the rituals, memorized the equations, cultivated the necessary detachment.”

She turns, and in her eyes I see not fear but resolute acceptance. “But there is something I must know, Master. Something you’ve never told me.”

“Ask.”

“The first sacrifice.” Her gaze falls to my transparent arm. “What was it? Not the physical transformation—I know that came later. But the initial offering, the one that bound you to this path.”

I search my fragmented memories, finding with some relief that this, at least, remains intact. “Joy,” I tell her simply. “The capacity for complete happiness. I surrendered it willingly, knowing I could never reclaim it.”

Understanding dawns in her expression. “That’s why you never smile genuinely. Why even in moments of triumph, something is always held back.”

“Yes.” I look down at the void-window of my arm, the perfect darkness that was once flesh and blood. “Each subsequent sacrifice has been easier because of the first. Without the possibility of complete joy, what does it matter if I surrender memory, sensation, or physical form?”

Elowen returns to the chronicle, carefully replacing the quill in its holder. “And will you require the same initial sacrifice of me, when the time comes?”

The question hangs between us, heavier than any ritual or incantation. I study her face—the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw, the slight tremble she tries to conceal.

“No,” I say finally. “Your path will be different. The initial binding must be uniquely yours.”

Relief softens her features momentarily. “Thank you for that much, at least.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” I gesture toward the sacrificial bowl still sitting on my table. “When my final working is complete, when nothing remains of me but purpose, you must still choose your own first sacrifice. And Elowen—” I hold her gaze, ensuring she understands the weight of what comes next—”it must be something essential to who you are. Something irreplaceable. The wards will accept nothing less.”

She nods once, solemn. “I understand.”

Outside, Lumenvale continues its daily dance, citizens moving through streets protected by barriers they cannot see, maintained by sacrifices they will never fully comprehend. They live and love and quarrel and reconcile, building lives atop the foundation of my surrendered self.

I no longer remember my birth name, my mother’s face, or the color of the flowers that might have grown outside my childhood home. Parts of my body exist as windows into a hunger that would devour our world. My capacity for joy was the first price I paid, but hardly the last.

These are the sacrifices I have made in life. And in the face of what they preserve, I would make them all again.