Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 100: Lyre: Plausibility

Blue-white fire dances across the walls, twisting in impossible patterns and defying all laws of physics. The flames consume nothing—not the blood-soaked concrete or the bodies scattered like broken dolls.

This isn’t destruction.

It’s preparation.

I stand at the center of it all, unmoved, untouched. Fire caresses my skin like an old lover, recognizing what I am and making way. My hair lifts slightly in the heat, rainbow strands floating as though underwater.

The inferno is beautiful in its terrible way.

I lift my hand, palm up, fingers splayed. My nails lengthen just a fraction, blackening at the tips.

"Come," I whisper, and the command reverberates through the chamber. Not with sound, but with intent.

The effect is immediate. Pinpricks of light rise from the bodies—pale blue, silver-white, soft lavender. They drift upward like embers from a dying fire, hesitant at first, then eager. Soullight. Released from flesh which can no longer serve.

The Reapers haven’t arrived, so it’s the perfect time.

Wispy trails streak toward my outstretched palm, hovering inches above my skin. They pulse with awareness—terrified, melancholy, angry. So much anger. I can taste their fury, where it coalesces in my palm.

They deserve better than this forgotten death, better than becoming fuel for someone else’s ambitions.

Deserve more than someone who never wanted to be their hero.

"Cleanse," I murmur, the single word ringing with the power of arcana.

The souls respond, stretching upward like plants seeking sunlight. They know what I am—what I represent. Neither Order, nor Chaos, nor Balance; something between all three, part of everything but belonging to none. Something else entirely.

These poor, forgotten souls spiral higher, streams of light crawling toward ceiling of this place, phasing through concrete and earth and whatever else is between them and the sky above.

My phone vibrates against my hip. Once. Twice. Then a continuous buzz, like it’s an angry hornet trapped against my skin.

Divinity Connect, having an absolute meltdown over my presence here, over what I’m doing. Like I didn’t know what was going to happen from the moment I took this step.

The app is the supernatural world’s most persistent annoyance—part divine social media, part surveillance.

I ignore it.

The souls continue their ascent, streaming upward in ribbons of light, fireflies escaping a jar. Free. Finally free. The last traces of soullight disappear through the ceiling, leaving only the empty shells behind.

around me. My work here isn’t finished, but the souls, at least, are beyond

concrete beneath my feet cracks with each step as I walk

this time, hungry and cleansing.

* * *

wrapping around my limbs like desperate hands, but never touching my skin.

rage has transmuted—no longer choking or desperate, but elemental. Present.

a blackened imprint. I’m still burning, power leaking

I stop suddenly, frowning.

loose huddle several yards away—Thom, Andrew, Jack-Eye, and Owen. Their heads are bent together in conversation, shoulders rigid with tension. Fear

I’d forgotten they existed.

Angel-blood. Inconsequential mortals with inconsequential concerns, waiting for me to acknowledge them, when my mind is already set

when he catches my scent. He breaks from the group, striding toward

But he is.

more than I thought I

as he drags me away from the billowing smoke now pouring from the tunnel entrance. "Get over here. Breathing this isn’t good

amused he believes I’m fragile enough to need protection. His hand on my arm is warm and solid—convinced of its

reach the car, parked haphazardly along the dirt access road. Owen stands off to

he knows. Angels are sensitive to

My phone keeps buzzing.

behind a half-uprooted tree, the contents of his stomach splashing onto dead needles and rocky

sighs. "That’s the

he was about to climb into the back seat of the car. His words are flat as he observes the

his tone, no mockery—just quiet resignation. They’ve seen too much today, these creatures whose lives are measured in decades rather than

my arm, leaving behind red marks. They fade as soon as I notice them, but he has no idea; he’s too focused on the retching spellblood. "You gonna make it back to the car, or

the back of his hand. His glasses have gone askew. "I’m fine," he mutters, though he sways slightly on his feet. "Just—give me

damn thing from my pocket. My vague sense of disassociation disappears, my

isn’t a regular

Expected... but still annoying.

the app with a grimace, already knowing what I’m going to find. And there they are: three plausibility warnings flash immediately,

WARNING: Unauthorized Soul

Unsanctioned Purification of Uncategorized

Excess

fuck off, swiping through the alerts without reading the details. Like I need their permission to help these souls pass on. If I’d stayed, they wouldn’t have needed it. They’d be settled into some safe house somewhere. Eating dinner. Talking. Maybe even laughing

Unsanctioned, my ass.

Fuck their rules.