An agonizing, helpless vigil consumed Clara in the hours after their forced departure from Valerie's study. Sylvia was lost in a fearful haze; the once-bustling castle corridors now felt cold and menacing under Lord Ainsworth's tightened grip, with impassive guards patrolling too often and every remote sound or whispered word unnerving her. Clara, however, seemed to draw strength from the encroaching darkness, her mind already racing, formulating the desperate measures she had hinted at.
They found a semblance of privacy in a small, disused alcove in the castle library, dust motes dancing in the slivers of moonlight that pierced the tall, narrow windows.
"There is ancient magic, Sylvia," Clara began, her voice a low, intense whisper, her eyes gleaming with a strange light. "Forbidden, for good reason. It tampers with the very threads of life and soul. It's a soul transference."
Sylvia stared at her, aghast. "Soul transference? Clara, that's… that's necromancy, or something akin to it! The Tower Mages forbid even the study of such things!"
"And rightly so," Clara conceded, her expression grim. "The risks are immense. The price… always a price. But Valerie is dying. Physician Alaric, for all his skill, cannot fight a poison designed by Ainsworth's malice. This is not a sickness of the body he can mend; it's a venom consuming her spirit."
"What would it entail?" Sylvia asked, her voice barely audible, torn between horror and a desperate, clinging hope.
"We would need to… secure Valerie's body, while her soul still flickers, however faintly. Take her somewhere potent, a place where the veil between worlds is thin. I know of such a place – the old, abandoned church ruins beyond the Whispering Woods. It has… history."
A shiver traced Clara's spine as she spoke. "There, I would attempt a ritual. To unbind her soul from her failing body and guide it, compel it, to find purchase in another vessel."
"Another vessel?" Sylvia echoed, paling. "Whose vessel?"
"That is the greatest uncertainty," Clara admitted, her gaze unwavering. "It must be someone who has just died, or is on the very brink of death, at the precise moment of transference. We cannot choose. Her soul will seek what is available. And the magic… it will likely require a pact. A negotiation with entities best left undisturbed. There will be a cost, Sylvia. For her chance, and for us, for wielding such power."
Silence descended, thick and heavy. Sylvia thought of Valerie, her vibrant Queen, reduced to a fading light. She thought of Ainsworth, his crocodile tears masking his triumphant cruelty. The forbidden nature of the magic warred with her desperate love.
"If there is even a sliver of a chance…" Sylvia finally said, her voice hoarse with emotion, "…we take it. What do we need to do?"
Clara nodded, a flicker of relief in her eyes. "Tonight. It must be tonight. Before her spirit fades completely. We need to get her out of that room, out of this castle. And we'll need help." Her thoughts immediately went to the young maid, Lena. "The girl who found her… Lena. She seemed loyal. Devoted."
As true night fell, casting the castle into deep shadow, Clara sought out Lena. The young maid was found weeping quietly in a servants' alcove, terrified and grief-stricken. Clara approached her gently. "Lena," she said softly. "The Queen… she is not lost to us yet. But we need your help. It is dangerous, but it is her only hope."
Through tear-filled eyes, Lena looked from Clara's earnest face to Sylvia, who had joined them, her expression a mixture of resolve and sorrow. The maid's loyalty to Valerie, a queen who had always shown her kindness, warred with her fear of Ainsworth and the formidable castle guard.
"What… what can I do?" Lena whispered, trembling.
"We need to get to her," Sylvia explained. "To take her from that room. Ainsworth's guards are everywhere."
Lena bit her lip, then a spark of courage ignited in her gaze. "Lord Ainsworth… he dismissed the physician some time ago. Said the Queen needed… undisturbed rest. He has two of his own men posted directly outside her door. But," she hesitated, "there's a shift change for the outer patrols at the fifth bell. For a few minutes, the corridor leading to the old service stairs might be less watched. And I… I still have the key to the side pantry, it connects near her private chambers. It's rarely used."
Under the cloak of manufactured normalcy—Sylvia and Clara appearing to retire for the night, Lena ostensibly on a late-night errand—the desperate plan was set in motion. Lena, her heart pounding, managed to distract Ainsworth's personal guards with a cleverly "spilled" tray of water and a flustered, lengthy apology, creating just enough commotion and a brief window.
Sylvia and Clara slipped through the pantry door, then into the antechamber of Valerie's suite. The Queen's main study, where she now lay, was dimly lit. She was terrifyingly still, her breathing so shallow it was almost imperceptible.
"Quickly," Clara urged, her voice a breath.
With infinite care, they lifted Valerie's fragile form. She was lighter than Sylvia remembered, a chilling testament to how much life had already ebbed away. They wrapped her in a thick, dark travelling cloak.
Navigating the castle with their precious, unconscious burden was a torment of held breaths and furtive glances. Lena met them at the designated junction, her face pale but resolute, guiding them through a labyrinth of servants' passages Sylvia barely knew existed, towards an old postern gate usually kept for tradesmen, one Lena knew was sometimes poorly secured after dark.
Once outside the suffocating confines of the castle walls, the cool night air felt like a reprieve, though their task was far from over. They moved through the sleeping town, sticking to the darkest alleys, then out onto the winding path that led towards the Whispering Woods. The journey was arduous. Valerie was a dead weight, and the path was uneven.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the skeletal silhouette of the ancient, ruined church rose before them against the moonlit sky. It stood on a lonely knoll, ivy-choked and crumbling, the air around it thick with the scent of damp earth, decay, and something else… an old, potent energy that prickled Clara's senses. This was a place of forgotten rites, of power that slumbered fitfully.
With Lena's tearful but brave assistance—she had insisted on coming this far—they carried Valerie's body through the broken doorway, into the echoing nave. Dust lay thick on everything. Moonlight streamed through holes in the roof, illuminating fallen stones and faded, barely visible frescoes on the walls.
Clara led them deeper, towards a semi-circular apse that felt colder, more… expectant, than the rest of the ruins. Here, an old stone altar, cracked but largely intact, stood in the center.
"Here," Clara said, her voice hushed, almost reverent despite the grim task. "Lay her here."
They gently placed Valerie's still form upon the cold stone. Her face was like porcelain in the eerie light, beautiful even in near-death. Sylvia choked back a sob, her hand resting on Valerie's forehead, feeling the faint, lingering warmth. "Valerie," she breathed, her voice thick with unshed tears, "stay with us. Just a little longer. Please."
Clara was already moving, her bag of carefully chosen components—chalks, herbs, certain crystals that hummed faintly—being laid out. Her expression was one of intense concentration, the gravity of the forbidden act she was about to undertake settling upon her. The air in the ruined chapel grew heavier, charged with an unseen, ancient power, as she prepared to gamble with fate, with demons, and with the very soul of their beloved Queen.
Clara's voice, when she finally spoke, was a low, guttural sound that seemed to scrape against the ancient stones, sending a shiver down Sylvia's spine despite her resolve. "Such beings hunger for such desperation, Sylvia. And tonight," Clara's lips curved into a grim, mirthless smile, "we offer them a feast."