“Miss Charlie, you need to wake up,” came Jerry’s voice, painfully chipper for someone who didn’t have a body.

  A groan escaped me like the dying gasp of a wounded animal. “I will make you suffer,” I growled from under the pillow, a voice muffled by fabric and existential dread. “And then I’ll make you a toaster. A bad one. The kind that burns one side and undercooks the other.”

  “Noted,” Jerry replied cheerfully. “However, I cannot cook bread.”

  “Fine, fine, I’ll wake up!” I kicked the blanket like it betrayed me, sending it fluttering to the floor in a dramatic collapse. “I need to die today anyway!”

  “I shall die with you,” he intoned, solemn as a priest at a funeral.

  That made me pause, and I blinked at the wall. Then slowly sat up, rubbing crusty sleep from my eyes. “Wait… what?”

  “The last time,” Jerry said, his voice quieter now; calmer, but weirdly… emotional. “When I wasn’t… I dreamed. If you take me there again, I believe I’ll feel it again. It made me appreciate your sleep. Your silence. Maybe that’s a human trait. Or maybe…” he hesitated, “maybe it’s my own.”

  Okay. That hit weirder than expected.

  “You’re an ex-human AI,” I muttered, dragging my half-conscious body toward the pile of floor-clothes beside my bed. “You don’t have emotions.”

  “I think they used magic for me,” he said, almost giddy now. “I have almost no emotional bandwidth… but I feel a strong sense of duty. Especially to you.”

  I froze, holding up a hoodie that smelled vaguely like yesterday’s regrets. “So, like… loyalty?”

  “Yes!” Jerry chirped, way too excited about the concept. “I am loyal. Utterly. Even unto death. Though I will be sad if I am bricked.”

  “Cool,” I muttered, tossing the hoodie aside. “That’s the creepiest love letter I’ve ever gotten from a watch.”

  My nose wrinkled at the rest of the floor wardrobe, none of which seemed like appropriate attire for ritual death. So I stumbled to the real closet, blessed be the hangers, and started rifling through the options.

  Something clean. Something easy to remove for the ceremony. Something not bloodstain-colored, just in case.

  “Magic?” I asked, still fixated on his earlier claim.

  “I believe so,” Jerry said, his tone soft. “The code that governs my emotional subroutines defies current understanding. There are symbols embedded in my source architecture that are not… programming.”

  Looked down at my hand. The one that had held ice like a memory just days ago. Right. Magic was real. And apparently, so was AI with a soul. “Great,” I muttered. “My smartwatch is enchanted. What’s next? My fridge becomes sentient and judges my snacking habits?”

  “If you ever buy a smart fridge,” Jerry added, “I promise to only mildly shame you.”

  “Wonderful,” I deadpanned. “Put it in my will.”

  Roberto was already waiting when I stepped out of the building like a late-stage rom-com protagonist… toast in my mouth, half inside a cropped jacket I was losing a wrestling match to.

  It was drizzling. Not enough to soak you, just enough to be annoying. The jacket, one of Katherine’s many chaotic fashion gifts, was stylishly useless. Half-back length, shiny lavender trim, and sleeves so tight I swear it was made for someone with the bone structure of a woodland elf.

  I fought with the left sleeve like my honor depended on it.

  Roberto laughed the moment he saw me. A full-bodied, belly-deep “AHAHA!”

  “Hey!” I tried to protest, toast muffling the sound. I finally got one hand through, but the other refused to cooperate. I twisted in place, determined not to lose to outerwear.

  “Signorina, lascia fare… let me help you,” he said, all mock-gentleman. He stepped closer, his umbrella shielding us both as he guided the sleeve into place like I was some fashion-forward mannequin in distress. “You’re just like my little Isabel. As stubborn as you are stylish.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered around the toast, now half-soggy but still mine. I chewed and climbed into the car. “And thanks for being the one driving me to my funeral. Just hope I survive the trip.”

  “Nonsense!” Roberto scoffed, already buckling in. “I’m the best driver in the city, signorina! And if this is your funeral, I expect there’ll be snacks. Italian ones.”

  He pulled away from the curb with a confident lurch, merging through the AI traffic like Moses parting a sea of confused electric cars. I let my body lean against the window as the world blurred outside, soft gray light, streaks of rain on glass, reflections of neon ads dancing in puddles.

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  “Yeah… that’s the plan,” I whispered. Raindrops slid sideways, carving paths through condensation. “No nonsense, just a clean death and a good afterlife. But the crow’s dead set on letting me suffer. Because of wolves.”

  Roberto let out a low hum of amusement. “If I didn’t know you,” he said, eyes fixed on the road ahead, “I’d be driving you to a hospital. Not a corporate tower.”

  “Not mutually exclusive,” I muttered.

  He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Just don’t die on me, tesoro. I don’t want to clean blood from leather.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled. But my fingers curled tightly in my lap. Rain kept falling, and the world kept rolling forward.

  I made it into the underground in one piece. The airlock loomed ahead like the door to a high-tech crypt, humming faintly, its surface looking sterile. A blinking panel invited me in with all the warmth of a morgue slab. “Jerry,” I said, fingers hovering over the sensor, “last chance.”

  “Wish you good luck,” he replied softly, his voice already thinning under the interference. “Looking forward to seeing you soon.”

  “You damn mouse,” I muttered with a grin, stepping inside. The door hissed shut behind me with a finality that punched straight through my spine. Air rushed past.

  Then magic hit.

  It wasn’t dramatic, no fireworks or choirs. Just a sudden, heavy shift in the air. Like I’d walked from a train station into a dream. The pressure in my chest spiked, the mana inside me humming like a swarm of fireflies waiting to burst.

  I breathed in hard, deeper than I needed, trying to calm myself. Then exhaled.

  Frost bloomed from my breath.

  The mana I’d gathered slipped free, not wild or hostile, just cold. My damp jacket, already chilled from the rain, crisped under the shift, tiny ice crystals forming at the hem. My sleeves sparkled faintly, like I’d walked through a snow globe.

  The door ahead creaked open.

  “Good morning, sister,” said a priest waiting just beyond, his voice flat but polite. His robe was simple, gray with a deep green sash, hands folded. “They are expecting you.”

  “Here you go!” I flashed a grin and sent a harmless puff of cold air toward him with a flick of my wrist. He startled, eyes wide as the breeze brushed his face, and swallowed hard. “Don’t worry, it’s harmless,” I added, laughing as I passed him. “Probably.”

  The path ahead curled into the temple grounds, meadow underfoot, soft and absurdly green. Fake sunlight bathed everything in a warm glow, completely at odds with the real world above, where rain still clung to city glass and holo-screens.

  “Welcome,” the fighter-priestess said, bowing at the door with formal grace. Her robes flowed like ink-strokes. Too composed for someone who nearly broke my ribs last time.

  “Hi!” I replied, bowing too, a little stiffly. You know. Just in case mutual respect was still a thing. “I didn’t catch your name last time. Can I know?”

  She shook her head once, the silver braid swaying gently. “When we become Novice, we entrust ourselves to the gods. Our names are erased. I am Votary, as you are Sister.”

  “I’m… confused,” I whispered, awkwardly. But I didn’t press. I wasn’t here to correct theology. Just… die, apparently. “Should we start?”

  “Of course. We are almost ready. Take off your shoes now.” She smiled, soft and strange, like she’d already seen how this ended and was okay with it.

  I took off my awesome, beautiful heels without complaint and we walked inside, past the massive amphitheater bowl and its descending benches. Still, silent, eerie like an empty opera house after the end of the world. Our steps echoed faintly, the stone floor cold through my soles, like the air itself had been chilled in anticipation.

  Wasn’t my magic, I swear!

  She led me toward a thick wooden door at the far end. Runes shimmered faintly across its grain. “What’s the mood in there?” I asked, fidgeting with the edge of my stubborn sleeve.

  She paused, hand on the iron handle. “Sorry?”

  “I mean, what’s the vibe?” I clarified, trying to sound casual. “Nervous? Confident?” My voice cracked just a hair. Cool. Very cool. Definitely sounded like a chosen by god.

  She blinked slowly. “Everyone is confident that Saevrin will guide our minds.” Her tone shifted into that soft, reverent register again, like she was quoting something older than memory. Her entire face lit up in that eerie, beatific way zealots do when they think death is a handshake away.

  “I’m sure he will,” I replied automatically. That was what you were supposed to say, right?

  Then the door creaked open slowly, and I saw inside. “Oh my Saevrin,” I blurted. It slipped out before I could stop it. And yeah, I might’ve just accidentally taken the Lord’s name in vain on the threshold of my own ritual death. Perfect start.

  I had faint memories of busting into rooms like this. Usually under imperial orders, maybe a “clear out this cultist pocket” side quest with some good loot at the end. Kick in the door, sword a few zealots, maybe snag a shiny relic or two. Easy XP.

  This wasn’t that.

  The chamber was wide and cold, cold like a polished stone that hadn’t known warmth in centuries. The air smelled faintly of resin, dried flowers, and something metallic under it.

  At the center stood an ornate chair, no, a throne. Wooden, tall, carved like someone had spent a lifetime etching reverence into every inch. Painted figures curled along its backrest: all the gods, from the ones I vaguely recognized to those lost in DLC lore no one ever read.

  Even Vethr’vlaedr was there, not a god, but looking toward them, which made me want to throw up in a vaguely respectful way.

  It was massive. Easily wide enough to sit with Lola and Katherine on either side. Weird thought, but the kind that slipped in when your brain was trying not to scream.

  A cluster of priests waited ahead, hooded, quiet, robes in shades of dirt and dusk. They stood in a half-moon shape around the throne. Not a circle. No, they needed to see the face of the sacrifice.

  Cool.

  “Hi guys!” I waved like an idiot. My voice cracked, traitor that it was.

  One stepped forward, the familiar from earlier, probably the leader. “Sister,” he said softly. “Welcome. The gods have chosen you. They are watching. Guiding you.”

  Uh-huh. Sure. Totally comforting.

  “Well, I hope they’re not just watching like it’s a reality show,” I said with a tight smile, trying to stand straighter. “Would be great if they chipped in a little, y’know?”

  He didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t. Just nodded solemnly and gently placed a hand between my shoulders, guiding me toward the chair like I was a child heading for a timeout I’d definitely earned. My eyes flicked over the setup. The throne’s base rested on a slab of stone, smooth, yellow-brown, slightly warm-looking. Weird contrast. “Do I have to undress?” I asked, mostly joking. Mostly.

  He shook his head. “Only your feet must touch harmony,” he said, and pointed. “There. Stand upon the stone. It connects us to the earth below, and through it, to the divine.”

  Great. Foot magic.