The Binding That Would Not Hold

The air was thick with the scent of incense, old blood, and something else—something metallic and sharp that clung to the back of the throat.

Victoria paced back and forth, her bare feet silent against the cold floor. Her gown pooled around her, and her golden bracelets chimed softly with each agitated step. Her face was twisted in frustration, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes blazing with barely contained fury.

She had been trying for hours.

And nothing was working.

She reached out again, her mind searching for the connection that should have been there. The bond she had forged with her daughter through years of manipulation, through spells and tonics and careful, deliberate cruelty. It should have been unbreakable. It should have been hers to command. She had shaped Sophia from the moment she was born. She had broken her, rebuilt her, and broken her again until there was nothing left but the hollow shell of a girl who would do anything for her mother’s approval.

But there was nothing.

Just silence.

Just emptiness.

The bond that should have hummed with power, that should have been a leash she could tug at any moment, was gone. It was as if Sophia had simply vanished from her reach.

She groaned, the sound low and frustrated, and turned to Selith. The old priestess was hunched over a table cluttered with jars, herbs, and strange tools. Her crooked fingers moved slowly over the objects, her milky eyes fixed on the jar containing Sophia’s hair. The hair inside was dark and still, but there was something wrong with it—a faint shimmer that hadn’t been there before.

“Why isn’t it working?” Victoria demanded, her voice sharp and cutting. “I should be able to reach her. She’s under my thumb. She belongs to me.”

Selith didn’t look up immediately. Her fingers continued their slow movements, tracing the edge of the jar as if she could feel something Victoria couldn’t.

“It should be working,” she said finally, her voice rasping like dry leaves. “I reinforced it. I made sure that whatever happened with the man wouldn’t happen with her. If you were able to interact with the girl the previous time, then you should be able to do so now.”

“Then why can’t I reach her?” Victoria snapped, her patience fraying.

Selith was quiet for a moment, her brow furrowing. Her fingers stilled on the jar, and she tilted her head as if listening to something only she could hear.

Just then, the jar shook.

It was subtle—barely a tremor—but Selith felt it immediately. Her eyes widened, and she straightened, her hunched frame suddenly alert.

The same thing that had happened with the man.

It was the same situation.

The girl was trying to break through.

Victoria noticed the change in Selith’s posture.

“What’s wrong?”

Before Selith could answer, the jar shook again, more violently this time. The liquid inside swirled as if stirred by an invisible hand.

Selith ignored Victoria’s question. She moved quickly, her shuffling steps carrying her across the chamber with surprising speed. She dipped her hand into a bowl of thick, dark liquid—blood from the beasts of Nirvana—and began drawing on the stone floor.

Strange symbols took shape beneath her fingers, each one precise and deliberate. The lines curved and twisted, forming patterns that made no sense to anyone without the knowledge.

Victoria watched, her frustration slowly giving way to unease. There was a frantic energy in Selith’s movements that Victoria had never seen before.

Selith picked up another jar, this one filled with fresh blood, and poured it over the symbols she had just drawn. The liquid seeped into the lines, darkening them, strengthening them. Then she began to chant, her voice low and guttural. The words echoed off the stone walls, filling the chamber with a sound that seemed to press against Victoria’s ears.

The jar shook again, and Selith grabbed it, her crooked fingers wrapping around the glass. She placed it in the center of the symbols, right in the heart of the pattern she had drawn. Her chanting increased in volume, the words tumbling out faster and faster, each one sharper than the last.

But the jar shook even more violently, as if fighting against her. The liquid inside splashed against the glass. A crack appeared on the surface of the jar—thin and barely visible, but unmistakable.

Selith’s face twisted in concentration, her chanting growing more urgent. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her hands trembled as she pressed them against the jar, trying to steady it.

She wondered who it was.

Who was trying to break the seal?

Who had that much power to attempt to free the girl from their hold?

This was black magic—one of the oldest spells she possessed. It had been woven with centuries of knowledge, reinforced with blood and grief and the suffering of countless victims. It should have been unbreakable.

She stood up abruptly, her joints cracking.

Then she ground some herbs together in a small stone bowl, crushing them with fierce, desperate movements. The scent that rose from them was sharp and bitter, almost acrid. Then she signaled to Victoria urgently.

Victoria stepped forward, confused.

“What are you—”

Selith didn’t let her finish. She took a small knife and cut Victoria’s arm, just a shallow slice across her pale skin. Victoria gasped, more from surprise than pain, as blood welled up and dripped into the bowl. The blood was dark and thick, almost black in the dim light of the chamber.

Victoria had no idea what was going on. She had only come here this morning to contact Sophia, just ahead of their plans. To use the girl because she belonged to her. Sophia wouldn’t know. She didn’t even know what Victoria had done to her. She had forgotten everything like she normally did. She didn’t recall anything.

Like always.

But now she couldn’t even reach the girl. And Selith was ignoring her, moving about the chamber with frantic energy, her hands never still for a moment.

She only knew something was wrong.

She did not know what it was.