Chapter 19

Soulship

The conversation with Sarto had ended abruptly. Mags stood there, alone on the deck, the weight of the day pressing down on her like an iron shroud. Sarto had said her piece, laid out her plan with cool precision, and left Mags to grapple with it. The Captain hadn’t pressed for affirmation, hadn’t demanded that Mags swear fealty to her insane mission to topple the Ravaelian Empire.

At first, Mags had wanted to say yes on the spot. A fiery resolve had surged inside her, fueled by a desperate need for purpose. The feeling was almost alien, parasitic—washing away the otherwise overwhelming feeling of sorrow and loss. But now, as the cold wind tugged at her hair and the ruins of Solstice burned in the distance, all that feeling drained away, leaving her hollow. Empty.

“We will be taking off now,” a voice called from behind her. She recognized the sing-song accent placed on the words.

Mags flinched, turning away from the distant destruction to face Rubicante. The strange, foreign man stood there, staring at her with eyes like two bronze coins. His gray face could have been carved from stone, his stoic expression unreadable. Yet those eyes gleamed with a quiet intensity.

Mags cast one last glance back toward Solstice, the city she had once called home, now little more than a scar on the horizon. It pained her to turn away from it, as though doing so severed some final connection to the life she had once known. The faces of Vitomir and Sabo flickered in her mind, followed by the memory of the Angels’ overwhelming power, and the sickening uncertainty brought by the arrival of the Crown Coalition Forces.

Rubicante’s sing-song voice cut through her thoughts. “It’s hard to leave it behind. Most search their entire lifetime to find a place to call home. To find it, and then to lose it, is a tragedy.”

There was a faint ache in his voice that made Mags suspect he was speaking from experience. But he was a stranger, and Mags had no intention of prying into the man’s life. She changed the subject, turning to something that had caught her attention. She blinked, looking up at him, “Where is the ship’s skyfin?”

In the horror and exhaustion of the day’s events, she hadn’t realized the absence of the massive fish-like creature floating above them. Larger skyships were harnessed to skyfins, which would carry the ships through the skies. She turned her gaze upward. The sky was empty. Her confusion deepened.

Rubicante’s mouth twitched, just the faintest hint of amusement. “There is no skyfin.”

“What do you mean?” Mags asked, her brow furrowing. “We’re far from any kind of water, and we’re clearly on a ship. It had to get here somehow.”

“As I said, there is no skyfin.” Rubicante replied, his face remaining stoic. “We are indeed on a ship. But not an ordinary one. This is no skyfin-hoisted vessel. Skithbladnir is a Soulship.”

“A Soulship?”

“All modern airships are modeled after the Soulships—Celestial Treasures from prior to the Calamity, during the age of the Ivaldi.” Rubicante placed his hand on one of the ship’s masts with an almost religious reverence. “They are rare objects. Things of beauty, capable of flight without the assistance of skyfins.”

The name Ivaldi hung in the air, heavy with significance. They were the same people who had crafted her mother’s sword, Mithra—legendary artificers whose knowledge of magic and aether was said to rival that of the gods. They were now extinct, remembered only through their creations. It seemed that no amount of knowledge was able to keep them safe from whatever ruin had found them.

Before Mags could respond, the ship rumbled beneath her feet. The light whir of engines starting up thrummed through the floorboards, a soft vibration that built into a steady hum.

Suddenly, the ship lurched upward.

Her stomach dropped, a jolt of adrenaline shooting through her as the world tilted. She stumbled, eyes wide, and rushed to grab onto the nearest post as the deck beneath her lifted.

The ship continued to rise, the ground shrinking away. The ruins of Solstice were swallowed by distance as they ascended, the horizon expanding into an endless stretch of rolling hills and rivers. Mags leaned over the side, peering down, and a gasp escaped her lips.

They had to be at least four hundred meters off the ground.

A tiny, panicked yelp escaped her lips, and she remained crouched to the deck as she gripped the post for dear life.

The ship paused, hanging in midair for a brief, terrifying moment. Then, with a powerful whirring, it shot forward, the motion so swift and smooth that her heart skipped a beat. The wind that had whipped around her moments ago was gone, replaced by a strange, almost serene stillness. The engines’ hum was little more than an ambient whisper now, barely audible beneath the vast sky.

She whipped her head toward Rubicante, breathless. “Why didn’t we take shelter below deck before takeoff?”

Rubicante strolled toward her casually, hands clasped behind his back. His steps were sure, as if he’d walked these skies a thousand times. “Your first time on an airship, I take it?” he asked, voice calm and smooth as ever.

Mags nodded, still clinging to the post like her life depended on it. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice shaking slightly. “And I wasn’t expecting… this.” Being on a moving airship, Mags would have expected to be torn off the open deck by the force of the winds, with no one able to hear her screams for help due to the loud torrent of the skies. Despite the ship’s incredible speed, it was as if they were cocooned in a bubble of stillness. She could even hear Rubicante’s voice clearly, as though they were standing in a quiet room instead of hurtling through the sky at breakneck speeds.

Rubicante’s mouth curled into a slight smile, a kind, almost paternal gesture. He extended his hand toward her, offering steady support. “You’re safe,” he said, his voice reassuring. “You can let go now.”

Mags hesitated for a moment, eyeing the vast expanse of sky stretching out around them. She’d never felt so small, so untethered. But something in Rubicante’s calm demeanor soothed her nerves. Slowly, cautiously, she released her grip on the post and took his hand. He helped her to her feet with surprising strength and sturdiness.

Her confusion must have shown on her face, because Rubicante spoke before she could ask the question. “Most airships rely on skyfins,” he explained, his voice taking on a more scholarly tone. “Skyfins have evolved to absorb ambient aether from the environment, which sustains their bodies and allows them to fly. They manipulate the Air, much like certain Soulsingers do. Their bodies produce a mana bubble, protecting the ship from the wind and allowing open-deck flight.”

He gestured to the ship around them. “A Soulship functions in a similar way. Only, it’s far more advanced. The ship itself is capable of shaping aether to enable flight. The Ivaldi crafted them to navigate the skies effortlessly. That’s why you don’t feel the wind, and why we can stand here as we do, talking as if we were still on solid ground.”

Mags listened, her mind racing to process the magnitude of what she was hearing. A living ship, forged by the ancient hands of the Ivaldi, soaring through the sky as naturally as any bird. It was almost too much to believe. Had ships such as this filled the skies in the distant past?

Rubicante’s hand rested on the banister. “As I said, these ships are incredibly rare. Most have been lost to time or destroyed in the centuries since the Calamity. But those that remain… well, they are as close to immortal as anything in this world.”

Mags felt a twinge of awe, her earlier anxiety melting away. With newfound confidence, she stepped closer to the edge of the ship and peered down at the landscape below. The Olenish countryside unfolded in a tapestry of greens and golds, spotted with vibrant purple fields of lavender. The ship soared over olive groves and vineyards, and eventually a river snaked below them. That must be the Sava, Mags thought, thinking of the largest river in Olendar.

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Her breath caught in her throat as the reality of her first flight truly settled in. She was soaring above the world, higher than she’d ever imagined possible. The sensation filled her with a strange sense of peace, the beauty of the world below a balm to the chaos that had roiled within her. She couldn’t help but think what it would have been like to share the experience with Sabo and Vitomir—with the other orphaned children. Little Dunja.

For a long moment, she said nothing, simply taking in the view. The world felt vast and open, and despite everything—despite Sarto’s impossible mission and the threat of execution lest she learn to control this unknown force within her—Mags allowed herself to feel small. Small, but alive.

“You must be hungry,” Rubicante said, interrupting the silence. “The others are probably in the mess hall. Come, I’ll take you there.”

Mags hadn’t thought about food or how long it had been since her last meal. Her stomach growled in response to Rubicante’s mention of a mess hall. So, without a word, she followed Rubicante below deck.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

The mess hall stretched before them. Long wooden tables ran the length of the room, their polished surfaces gleaming under the soft, golden glow of chandeliers that hung suspended high above each table, affixed with aetheric crystals of some sort. Columns and beams supported the room’s vaulted ceiling, the wood scintillated with the small rune-work carved along its surface.

The walls were adorned with intricately carved wood panels, the designs depicting whirling storms and various beasts Mags did not recognize. Above the hearth at the far end of the room, a large polished mirror of bronze sat affixed to the stone corbel. Mags recognized it as a large scrying mirror. The blazing aetheric light of the room reflected off the bronze, making it shimmer.

The room was filled with the aromas of food—earthy, rich, and spiced—and it made her stomach rumble with hunger. At the center of each table were large plates stacked high with skewers of grilled meat, large pots of some kind of red broth, and smaller bowls filled with a sort of fermented cream topped with nuts, pumpkin seeds, and red grapes. Each table was also accompanied by cups and pitches of water and what appeared to be some sort of mead.

Rubicante led her to a table in the back of the room, near the hearth. Around it sat familiar faces—faces she hadn’t expected to see again so soon. The two women from Pod Starim, she thought. The first had dark skin, her straight raven-black hair swept back into a neat, high bun. Thin, angular features gave her a sharp, intelligent look, and a pair of spectacle perched on the bridge of her nose.

Rubicante gestured to her. “This is Libicocco.”

Libicocco waved a hand in greeting, though she didn’t seem all too happy. Mags nodded in return.

The second woman was younger than Libicocco, and didn’t seem much older than Mags, actually. She had olive skin and striking icy blue eyes with sweeping lashes, which glimmered beneath a pair of thick dark eyebrows. A mess of blond hair framed her face, falling just above her shoulders. Her most notable and striking feature was the pair of black, curved horns that protruded from just behind her pointed ears. They had been hidden by the woman’s hood that night at Pod Starim.

“And this,” said Rubicante, “is Calcabrina.”

Calcabrina smiled warmly. “Pleasure to meet ya!” Mags couldn’t help but notice that Calcabrina’s canine teeth were a bit larger and sharper than a normal person’s.

“Likewise,” Mags muttered.

“And I believe you’re already acquainted with our esteemed second-in-command, Malacoda,” Rubicante said flatly, gesturing at Malacoda who was downing a cup of mead. A pyramid of empty skewers were stacked in front of him.

Malacoda gave a light belch before smiling, the smile twisted by the scar that crossed his lips. “Long time, no see,” the purple haired man said before bringing his cup back to his mouth and taking another drink.

Mags and Rubicante each took a seat on the benches lining the table. Rubicante took a spot at the end of the bench, and Mags squeezed in between him and Calcabrina, across from Libicocco and Malacoda.

“Please,” Rubicante said, motioning to the spread at the center of the table, “help yourself.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. Mags quickly served herself a little of everything, piling a few of the skewers onto her plate and ladling a bit of stew beside them. The stew was some sort of fish stewed in a thick, spicy tomato broth. She asked about the fermented cream, which Rubicante explained was called yogurt. She dug in. The meat was tender, seasoned with fragrant spices that made her taste buds hum with delight. The yogurt was smooth and tart, but cool and delightful, and balanced by the sweetness and textures of the various toppings. It was an excellent meal. She couldn’t help but savor the flavor, closing her eyes for a moment as she chewed.

Malacoda watched her with a chuckle. “I like a kid who knows how to eat,” he said, grinning as he loaded his own plate for a second round. “Eat up, you’ll need the energy for training once I get my hands on you. We’ve got to see what kind of power you’re working with!”

Mags met his gaze, her competitive nature flaring. Without saying a word, she grabbed as many skewers as Malacoda had loaded up onto his own plate. She picked up one of the kabobs and tore into it, quickening her pace. Malacoda’s grin widened and his eyes glinted with mischievous satisfaction. He bit off a piece of meat and began to keep pace with her, adding each empty skewer to his pyramid. In seconds however, Mags realized she was outclassed. Malacoda’s stomach was apparently a bottomless pit. She began to slow down, stopping to pour herself a glass of water after nearly choking on a piece of lamb.

Calcabrina and Malacoda laughed.

Rubicante sat back, folding his hands in his lap. “Malacoda will be your tutor in combat and magic,” he said, casting a glance towards the ravenous man, who was washing down his kabobs with another cup of mead, a second pyramid of skewers having formed in front of him.

“Libicocco,” Rubicante continued, “will instruct you in history, literature, and mathematics.”

Libicocco’s thin lips twitched into a slightly deeper frown. Her eyes remained sharp, appraising Mags with a cool detachment. Mags didn’t like the invasive nature of the woman’s gaze. She tried to ignore it, taking another skewer of meat and taking a bite.

“And I,” Rubicante added, “will handle your education in philosophy and aetheric theory.”

Aetheric theory? She had no idea what that meant, but with her mouth full of roasted lamb kebab, she couldn’t exactly ask for clarification. She settled for nodding and kept chewing.

Libicocco cleared her throat, drawing Mags’ attention. “There’s one more thing,” she said, her voice taut. “The nature and source of your . . . new powers . . . it must remain confidential. Even amongst the Ghost Hounds.”

Mags raised a brow at this request. “Why is that?”

Libicocco adjusted her glasses, leaning slightly forward. “Not everyone here knows the specifics of your . . . situation. For your safety and the safety of the entire Company, it’s best to keep it that way. The fewer people who know the truth, the better.”

This was surprising. The Ghost Hounds weren’t that large of a Company, and she wondered what excuse Sarto gave the rest of the crew to explain why they were near Solstice, in the middle of nowhere. They’re all pawns, just like me. She pushed her plate aside, the faint burn of frustration simmering beneath her skin.

“How am I supposed to trust Sarto, or any of you,” Mags said quietly, her voice tight. “When I don’t even fully understand what’s happening to me?”

The table fell silent, letting the sound of the crowded mess hall fill the space. Rubicante met her gaze, his expression solemn. “Trust, Magdalena, is something we will all have to earn. But for now, consider this: you are alive when you should not be. Whatever happens next, you are part of something larger than yourself. We don’t always choose what journey Fate has fashioned for us.”

Mags’ fingers curled around the edge of the table, her knuckles white. She wanted to argue, to demand more answers.

Malacoda let out a long, satisfied sigh and leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach. “Well, if nothing else, at least the food’s good.” Libicocco shot him a look that could kill. He grinned back at her.

“Well, well, well . . . what do we have here?” A plummy voice said from behind her. Mags turned around to find a man standing behind her. He was short, not much taller than herself, though he had broad shoulders. Most of his features were obscured. Covering his face was a porcelain mask, which was bisected vertically down its center; one side was white, with a smiling red eye, barely a slit; the other side was black, with a white four point star where the eye should have been. His hair was a spiky mess of gray, pushed back by the top of his mask. The man wore a black trench coat over a gray vest, pantaloons and black knee high boots. His hands were covered by black leather gloves.

Malacoda frowned at the man’s appearance.

“This, Magdalena,” Rubicante said, “is Scarmiglione.”

The mask man did a flourish with his hand and bowed at the waist. “Pleasure to meet you. Scarmiglione, or Scar is just fine!” His resonant tone raised to an alto. “You must be that poor stray we picked up in Solstice.” Then, his voice dropped to a guttural tone. “I’m sorry everyone you knew and loved are now dead!” The happy alto returned. “That’s absolutely terrible! But look on the bright side, you’re now an extraplanar being of horrific, apocalyptic power.” The man said the last two words in that hoarse growling voice. He menacingly curled a fist as he said it too.

Mags was so caught off guard that she just sat there with her mouth open.

Malacoda said something instead. “If you don’t leave us alone, you freak, I’ll throw you off of this ship!” His lip curled into a snarl.

Scarmiglione backed away, hands up. “I’m a terrible flyer. The last time you did that, it wasn’t so fun.”

Had Malacoda seriously thrown this man overboard before? And he survived? The thought was unsettling.

“SCARMIGLIONE!” A voice boomed from across the mess hall. A giant of a man, head nearly to the rafters, was standing at a table on the other side of the room. His face was covered in a ginger, curly beard and he had two apples for cheeks, though he had a fury in his eyes like no other. “You cheating, thieving bastard!” he yelled.

Before he picked up an entire table and threw it across the room, right at where Scarmiglione had been standing, and where Mags was currently seated.