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.

work here isn’t finished, but the

again. Don’t look back. The concrete beneath my feet cracks with each step as I walk through the chamber, past empty cages and discarded bodies. An avenging ghost leaving

flames begin to rise—orange-red this time, hungry and cleansing. They won’t

* * *

limbs like desperate hands, but never touching

longer choking or desperate, but elemental. Present. A constant companion

step I take leaves behind a blackened imprint. I’m still burning, power leaking from my edges

I stop suddenly, frowning.

figures stand in a loose huddle several yards away—Thom, Andrew, Jack-Eye, and Owen. Their heads are bent together in conversation, shoulders rigid with tension. Fear and exhaustion rolls of the

I’d forgotten they existed.

disorienting moment, I’m confused by their presence. Humans. Wolves. Angel-blood. Inconsequential mortals with inconsequential concerns, waiting for me to acknowledge them, when

snapping up when he catches my scent. He breaks from the group, striding toward me with determination, as if he isn’t

But he is.

guess I’m leaking more than

me away from the billowing smoke now pouring from the

I’m fragile enough to need protection. His hand on my arm

Owen stands off to the side, his silver eyes fixed on me with wariness bordering

sensitive to souls; he probably watched them all

My phone keeps buzzing.

The wizard’s doubled over behind a half-uprooted tree, the contents of his stomach splashing onto dead

sighs. "That’s

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

judgment in his tone, no mockery—just quiet resignation. They’ve seen too

them, but he has no idea; he’s too focused on the retching spellblood. "You gonna make it back to the car, or do I

hand. His glasses have gone askew. "I’m fine," he mutters, though he

yanking the damn thing from my pocket. My vague sense of disassociation disappears, my mind grounded by

a regular notification—this is divine

Expected... but still annoying.

grimace, already knowing what I’m going to find. And there they are: three plausibility warnings flash immediately, angry red

WARNING: Unauthorized Soul

Unsanctioned Purification

WARNING: Excess Magic

them with a mental fuck off, swiping through the alerts without reading the details. Like I need their permission to help these souls pass on. If I’d

Unsanctioned, my ass.

Fuck their rules.