Chapter 20

Bonesinger

The table hurtled toward Mags, its edges spinning wildly, too fast for Mags to react. She flinched, bracing for the impact. Whoomp! She heard the impact, but didn’t feel it. The sound of wood cracking filled the air, sharp and violent, but there was no pain, no crushing force. She opened her eyes cautiously, confusion blurring her thoughts.

The table had been reduced to shattered fragments scattered across the mess hall floor. And standing atop the table before her, holding the crushed remains of the thrown table, was a beast—a towering creature, its back easily over six feet even on all fours. White fur, fine and soft, covered its massive wolf-like body. Its hindlegs were canine paws, but its forelegs ended in four-fingered, human-like hands tipped with black razor-sharp claws. Its forelegs were thick with muscle, holding what was left of the table as if it were nothing more than a broken toy.

A long neck stretched from the creature’s back, leading to a serpentine face that seemed both alien and familiar. The head was like that of a wolf, but instead of fur, silver scales gleamed in the lantern light. Two wispy antennae crowned the top of its skull, alongside large, curled black horns, reminiscent of a ram’s. It lowered its head, and turned its face towards Mags, staring at her with large, icy blue eyes that were all too human. Mags recognized them immediately. They locked onto her, full of concern, flickering with the same sharpness and fire she had seen before.

Her breath caught. She glanced to her side, where Calcabrina had been seated moments before. The seat was empty.

A Bonesinger, Mags realized. Her heart raced as she made the connection—Calcabrina had transformed into the monstrous, beautiful creature standing before her.

“Are you okay?” Calcabrina’s voice came from the beast, a strange, harmonic sound. It was her voice, but it carried an undercurrent, a deep bestial rumble, like two voices speaking at once.

Mags could only nod, her lips parted in awe. Her mind struggled to process the scene, despite what her eyes were witnessing—the raw power of the transformation, the sheer impossibility of it. She had only heard of Bonesingers, long ago, but had never witnessed one in the flesh.

Behind the beast form of Calcabrina, the giant who had thrown the table roared, his voice a thunderclap in the confined space. With his red hair, he was a mountain ablaze with fury. The air around his shoulders seemed to spark and crackle, like wood popping on a fire. “Why are you protecting that good-for-nothing cheat!” he bellowed, his words directed not at Mags, but at someone beyond her.

Mags spun around, her heart still pounding. Scarmiglione, the odd man in the mask, was nowhere to be found. A flicker of understanding clicked into place—this entire mess was probably his fault. Did he use me as a distraction to get away from the giant?

“Stop it, Alichino!” exclaimed beast Calcabrina.

The giant, Alichino, charged, his massive legs pounding the floorboards like a battering ram. Before Mags could blink, Calcabrina leaped forward, a blur of white fur and silver scales. The two collided in the center of the room with a sound like a tree snapping in a storm. Mags felt the shockwave of the impact, the sheer force of it rattling her bones.

Calcabrina moved with impossible speed, ducking under Alichino’s wild punches, her claws flashing as she deflected each strike. The two were locked in a deadly dance, neither yielding an inch. But despite Alichino’s towering strength, Calcabrina’s movements were precise, calculated. A fierce shove from her sent the giant stumbling, and in a fluid motion, she caught him in a bind, wrapping her massive forearms around him in an almost gentle hug—if one ignored the fact that the grip was tight enough to pin him in place.

“Calm, Alichino, calm!” Calcabrina growled, her beastly voice still oddly soothing beneath the rumble of her strength.

The giant thrashed for a moment, his breath ragged, but then, as if something clicked within him, his breathing began to slow. His shoulders sagged, and the anger seemed to drain from him like air from a punctured balloon. Mags blinked in shock as Alichino began to shrink—shoulders slumping in relaxation and exhaustion, and frame dissolving.

Within moments, a far more ordinary man stood enveloped in Calcabrina’s embrace. He was still broad, still thickly muscled, but now no taller than six and a half feet. He was panting, chest heaving, but his fury had melted into a strange calm.

Calcabrina’s beastly head tilted slightly, her icy blue eyes still locked on him. “Now, what do we say after losing our temper?”

The red-haired man took a deep breath, inhaling and holding the breath for a long moment, before letting out a long, frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry for overreacting,” he muttered, his voice rough but sincere. “And for throwing the table. That was uncalled for. And, it was a good table…”

Calcabrina loosened her grip and stepped back, still in her beast form. Alichino rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and glanced at the wreckage he’d caused. “But damn, does that mad doctor get under my skin!” he added, grumbling. “I actually caught him cheating this time. I swear I can prove it.”

“I’m sure he was,” Calcabrina said, her monstrous form shifting as she spoke. Her bones bent, skin rippling like water, until once again she was standing there in her girl form, messy blonde hair falling back into place as if nothing had happened. Watching the transformation was mind-bending, and something about it made Mags’ stomach lurch. “But you’ve got to work on those anger management tools I taught you.”

Alichino sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I know,” he admitted, head dipping low in shame. “I know.”

With a sympathetic smile, Calcabrina patted him on the shoulder, her touch somehow gentle despite the power Mags had just seen her wield.

With another deep sigh, Alichino lumbered back to his group, shaking his head as he helped gather the debris of the table he’d launched across the room. Calcabrina, back to her human form, casually returned to their table, settling down beside Mags as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Mags stared, still catching her breath, eyes wide. “You—” she began, but her voice faltered.

Calcabrina shot her a wink. “Now, where were we?”

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Libicocco was frowning as she picked splinters of wood from her sleek raven hair, muttering something under her breath. Across the table, Malacoda had collapsed onto the floor, already snoring loudly, the whole chaotic episode having apparently lulled him to sleep. Rubicante, however, sat serenely on the other end of the bench, sipping from a steaming mug of tea that carried a delicate, floral scent—where he’d fetched it from, Mags had no idea.

“Well,” Libicocco began, her voice tight but controlled as she shook a stubborn shard from the back of her head, “now that we’ve cleared away that little... distraction, we should return to the matter at hand.” She placed the last splinter neatly onto the table before turning her attention to Mags. “Trust is a two-way street, Mags. We’re trusting you with a lot, but it’s important for you to trust us as well. After all, you’ve just had a huge responsibility placed upon your shoulders. If you fail, we all potentially die.” She offered a tight smile, pushing her spectacles up her nose. “And, well... Calcabrina did just stop you from being crushed by a table thrown by a giant having a tantrum. Hopefully, that’s a good first step toward building that trust.”

Mags nodded, still trying to process everything. “I guess we can consider that a good first step,” she admitted. Her gaze drifted to Calcabrina, who was back in her human form, casually picking at the remnants of her meal as if she hadn’t just turned into a towering, bone-twisting beast moments ago.

“So…” Mags ventured, her voice uncertain, “you’re a Bonesinger?”

Calcabrina grinned, a playful twinkle in her icy blue eyes. “That’s right.”

Libicocco adjusted her spectacles again. “Nearly all of us in the Ghost Hounds are Soulsingers of some kind. Calcabrina is a Bonesinger, yes, and Alichino—” she nodded toward the now-shrunk giant, who was sweeping up debris on the other side of the room while those sitting near him poked fun at his expense, laughing and drinking from their cups, “—is also a Bonesinger. Though he is a different type entirely.”

Mags’ mind reeled. The idea that this whole crew, this strange, motley group, were all Soulsingers was dizzying. Mags knew that most chartered Companies recruited a handful of Soulsingers to aid in clearing Deeps. But an entire Company comprised of Soulsingers . . . And now, here she was—one of them. Sort of, she thought. She still didn’t quite understand what sort of powers she was supposed to have now.

Libicocco took Mags’ quiet contemplation as an opportunity to turn the conversation towards a more mundane topic. The conversation meandered after that, dissolving into light small talk. The mess hall began to empty, crew members returning to their duties, while others, freshly relieved, shuffled in for their own meals. Many of them complained about the remnants of shattered wooden table still scattered across the floor.

After some time, Rubicante set his tea down and glanced at Mags. “Why don’t I give you a brief tour of the ship? You’ll need to know your way around Skithbladnir if you’re going to live and train here.”

Mags nodded, grateful for the chance to move and give her mind something to occupy itself with. The ship, as it turned out, was a maze of narrow corridors, steep stairwells, and creaky ladders. Rubicante led her through rooms that seemed larger on the inside than they should be—large sitting rooms, training areas filled with weapons and armor, and cabin after cabin. It felt endless.

“How big is this ship?” Mags asked, bewildered.

Rubicante smiled, an almost proud glint in his eye. “One of the wonders of a soulship, Mags. Skithbladnir contains a pocket dimension within it, enchanted to hold far more than its exterior suggests. It’s a fairly common enchantment in Sacred Treasures, but it’s true, on a scale such as this it is something to behold, isn’t it?”

Mags’ breath caught. It reminded her of the Deeps—the sprawling underground network, twisting and massive, entire worlds seemingly appearing underground, but actually in a separate space, with the dungeon stairs only acting as a portal entrance to that pocket space. She wondered if that specific form of magic had application elsewhere in the world, and she was simply oblivious to it having spent most of her life in the isolated countryside.

Finally, they reached the cabin she would be staying in. It was the room the Ghost Hounds had her recovering in after they retrieved her from the ruins of Solstice. It felt different now that it would be hers. At least for three months. Rubicante stepped back as she entered. The room was simple: a small window overlooking the endless sky, a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a chest in the corner. Mags’ eyes landed on the blade—Mithra—resting against the desk. Her heart clenched at the sight of it, a wave of emotion rushing over her.

“We found it near where you were discovered,” Rubicante explained softly. “An Ivaldi blade is no ordinary thing, so we assumed it must have belonged to you, or perhaps someone close to you.”

Tears pricked Mags’ eyes. She hadn’t realized how much she would have missed Mithra. It was the last link to the world she knew—the world that had been torn apart twice now. Mithra was all she had left.

Rubicante gave her a moment before he continued. “The sun is setting. You have free reign of the ship, and your lessons will begin first thing tomorrow morning. I will come wake you for breakfast.” He offered her a respectful nod and quietly saw himself out.

Mags walked over her bed and plopped down. She laid there for a long time, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling of her cabin. Despite the warmth of the room, a hollow ache settled in her chest. Everything felt surreal. She was a part of something she barely understood, surrounded by strangers, aboard a ship that defied reason.

Eventually, unable to sit still any longer and feeling wide awake, Mags left the cabin. She wandered aimlessly through the ship until she found herself on the deck. The night sky stretched out above her, a sea of melted blacks and blues. The airship sailed silently through the cool air, the hum of the engines a soft backdrop to the vastness of the sky.

Then, from the corner of her eye, Mags spotted something. Glimmering shapes darted alongside the ship—starlight swimmers, the ethereal creatures that danced in the sky like living constellations. She leaned against the railing, watching them in awe. They were close, closer than she had ever seen them before. Their translucent bodies shimmered with blues and purples, trailing stardust as they glided effortlessly through the night.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Mags jumped, startled. She wasn’t alone. Malacoda lay sprawled on the deck floor, wrapped in his cloak, his head resting lazily on one arm. He looked much as he had when she first met him—or at least saw him—sleeping under the tavern table at Pod Starim, together with Rubicante and the others.

He yawned and stood, moving to stand beside her, his eyes fixed on the starlight swimmers as they twisted and turned, eventually breaking away from the ship and disappearing into the night, leaving behind a river of starlight that eventually faded into a bruised sky.

“Why do you guys want to destroy the empire?” Mags asked quietly. “Why do you fight for Sarto’s cause?”

Malacoda stretched, his yawn rumbling like a lion’s growl. “I don’t really care about Sarto’s plans,” he said with a shrug. He leaned against the ship’s banister, looking out into the darkness.

“You don’t?” Mags was honestly surprised by the response. This was, after all, Sarto’s second-in-command.

“Most people here do,” Malacoda said. He turned to her, a large, crooked smile plastered across his face. “I just want to fight strong opponents! Soulsingers like us... we’re driven to grow stronger through struggle, to constantly improve. That’s a Soulsinger’s single, driving purpose.” He grinned lazily, stretching his head from side to side. “As long as I can fight powerful people, I’ll stick by Frey’s side. The emperor is supposed to be the strongest living Soulsinger. I think that sounds like a fun challenge, don’t you?”

Malacoda turned and headed towards the stairs to below deck. Before he descended, he glanced over his shoulder. “I look forward to beginning our training!” Then, without another word, he descended, leaving Mags alone with her thoughts.

Mags felt the weight of her decision. She thought of Soulgrave House, of Solstice—the Maldrath attack that devastated her home, and the Crown Coalition soldiers descending to kill any survivors. Sarto’s words echoed in her mind. You’re not entirely human anymore, she thought.

Frey Sarto, Captain of the Ghost Hounds had delivered a death sentence. She made it clear, Mags was dead one way or another. Maybe she had nothing left to lose.

Mags stared into the dark sky, her resolve hardening. If this was the life she had now, she would make something of it. She would master these powers, join Brightwash Academy, and graduate Dux per Par. She would ensure the deaths of Sabo, Vitomir, Dunja, and everyone else she had lost wouldn’t be in vain.

She would avenge them. She would become something new. Something stronger.