Page 52 of The Souls Harvest
“Stay true to yourself, July.”
“Goodbye, Miss Popplewish.”
Chapter 22 - Lights
July
My life on Horigos was just fine; like many others, I was a child without knowledge of life, pain, lies—or souls. That is, until my gift started to show, and my parents decided to try every creed on Horigos to purify me.
They travelled the continent from north to south, trying to find a cure for whatever was happening to their little girl, whose breath was slowly turning purple.
One day, we were roaming the streets of Brenath, and I noticed a cat resting under a fishmonger’s stall. They ordered me to return when I rushed towards it, but the only thing I could focus on was the thin, smoke-like thread coming out of its fur—its soul slowly abandoning its body. Even if, at the time, I didn’t know and acted by pure instinct.
They thought my sanity was irremediably gone when I began to cry, trying to push the soul back into the cat. While I was distraught to see the poor animal slowly dying before my eyes, my parents and the people around me only witnessed a child playing with something invisible over the corpse of an insignificant animal.
Everyone, that is, but a stranger with a walking cane tapping against the cobbled street.
“You’re in the wrong place, my child.” He’d addressedme. A crying little girl.
Roden trained me, made me believe I could be a protector to our people and the Horigeans.
But all he told me was just a sugarcoated version of the truth, layered with bullshit.
That’s all I remember from my short life on Horigos—always being an exception, the lonely anomaly. And sometimes, I still feel like I'm walking alone—especially in my dreams. I’m a little girl, and my hand cuts through the air, searching for another hand to hold. But all I grasp is emptiness.
I had those dreams every night after relocating to Libera until I met Galen; when I told him about my mares, he gave me a pair of gloves.
“Keep them next to you when you go to sleep. They’re mine, and it will be like holding my hands,” he had said with such a serious face that I took his advice as scientifically proven.
I cling to that warm memory as I climb the centuries-old stone stairs of one of the five towers of the Blind Wise; the fresh air of the night welcomes me as a broad smile spreads on my face, already savouring whatever surprise awaits me.
But except for some gulls flying by, I’m alone. The square roof is empty, and Galen is nowhere to be seen.
I drop my smile, feeling foolish, and I quickly cross the distancefrom the arched door on top of the stairs to the parapet overlooking the Wise’s inner courtyard, where, once a day, students and senior Harvesters take combat and shooting classes.
None of the castle’s outdoor areas is off-limits. There is a main gate and three smaller entrances on the longer sides and at the back of the Wise, but they’re never locked.
And yet, I’m surprised to hear sounds coming from the yard just below the tower, of steps and disembodied voices, distorted and carried away by the wind that blows from the north shore.
Ignoring the voice at the back of my head telling me it’s none of my business, I push against the parapet and get up on my toes, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of whoever is in the garden.
“Looking for something?”
I spin around so fast that the palms of my hands scratch against the uneven stones.
“You are so inconsiderate! I could have hit you... or... or jumped…over the wall—and died. Why do you always do that? Can you not just announce yourself like a normal person?” I step away from the parapet, shivering and glaring at Galen.
“Nosy and over dramatic. I’m happy to see your mood has improved since this morning,” he chortles, staring at me from under the tower’s arched door, hands in his pockets, before strolling towards me.
I blow on the little grazes on my hands to soothe the sting, and the air comes out in a light violet puff. March is a month of continuous weather changes, but—when did it get so cold sosuddenly?
“Look what you’ve done.” I raise my hands, gesturing at the tiny red spots on my palms.
Galen dismisses my non-life-threatening situation with a shrug. “Blame your curiosity and the old stones, not me.”
Had he not just made a subtle negative remark about my overthinking brain, I would have invited him to look down with me to find out who had decided to spend the last free hours of a fine Sunday night in the darkness of a solitary courtyard.
Instead, I mumble a pathetic excuse for my behaviour and follow his movements as he approaches the wall and looks up at the sky. “You know what? I think the last snowfall of the year is coming.”
