The Chronicles of a Scalebound Sage

Interlude WM [99.5] Her Soul Hurt

Eira and Ragnar sat in silence at the grand dining table. It was supposed to be a family meal, but Ragnar’s usual sharp tongue was dulled by brooding silence. Their father was entangled in negotiations with the First Princess, their mother was on the frontlines, and none of it made any sense to Eira.

She was the youngest of the Salstar children, but unbeknownst to anyone, she was a regressor. Over and over again, she had lived this life, each cycle unfolding with painful familiarity, all thanks to the magic she had painstakingly crafted. She had spent countless lifetimes playing the obedient daughter, gliding just beneath Ragnar’s shadow so that he would rise as the family heir. She had long since found out that this always granted her the most freedom to live as she pleased.

Every iteration followed the same script. Or at least, they should have. Without her interference, events were supposed to unfold as they always did. Freja would perish in her academy dorm alongside her human friend. Ulfar would take Lavi under the Salstar banner. They would allow her uncle to gain dominion over the territory, cementing the Salstars as the most powerful noble house in Yuhia. That alone would ensure First Prince Arnar’s ascension to the throne.

She, in turn, would leave for the Force Isles, attending their renowned Magic Academy. There, she would gather allies in humans, dwarves, elves, and sphinxes. She would form a network of some of the continent’s most influential mages. Eventually, she would marry Fourth Prince Baldur, tethering the Salstars to the royal family without drawing too close to the main line, allowing her to continue her studies in Starlight Reincarnation away from prying eyes.

The future was unraveling before her, shifting and twisting in ways she had never foreseen. Without her intervention, everything should have remained the same but, it hadn't. Freja survived. Their mother, instead of staying behind, went to Lavi in their father’s place. They lost the Show of Power. Worst of all, their mother had been taken by the First Princess as a spoil of war.

Somehow, Fourth Prince Baldur had entered the succession race. Instead of supporting the First Prince, he is a legitimate contender. 

“Eira… Eira!”

Ragnar’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts like a blade.

“Yes, Heir Ragnar,” she replied instinctively, forcing herself to refocus.

“Stop playing with your food and eat,” he snapped. “We have to get back to training.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry, it doesn't cut it, Eira.”

She hesitated, weighing her words before settling on something lighthearted. “We can spare a few minutes. Maybe we can get a servant to bring us a cheeseca—”

The air cracked with scarlet electricity as Ragnar slammed his palm onto the table. Sparks danced across his fingertips, flickering like embers. It startled Eira to the point of jumping back in her chair.

“We are Salstars.” He pushed himself up from his seat. “We hold ourselves to a higher standard than anyone else. We don’t have time for distractions. If you don’t hurry, I’ll drag you to the training field myself.”

She looked at him, really looked at him. He was still the spitting image of their father, the same sharp jawline, the same piercing eyes and the same midnight black skin. In every past life, his future had been dazzling: an electrokinetic prodigy, a mage who would soon rival even her own mastery of Starlight magic.

Now that she looked at him, this version of her brother was different. He looked exhausted. Miserable. Stressed. He didn’t look like the fourteen year old boy he should have been. She was taken back by the look in his eyes, the feel of his magic aura tight like a tightened spring close to exploding.

She knew he had taken their mother’s defeat hard. She had been his role model, the epitome of a perfect Salstar; strong, brilliant, untouchable. Not to mention unlike their father, she had been warm, a beacon of strength without cruelty. Without her something inside Ragnar had cracked. She feared that he would see that good side of their mother as weakness and abandon it.

The brother she remembered had been proud but not cruel, strong but not broken. This Ragnar was bitter, hollowed out by disappointment. Now, as she looked at him, she realized that for the first time in all her lives, she had no idea what he would become.

“I-I will hurry up. Please pardon my words.” She said with a bowed head.

Ragnar glared at her for a moment longer, then turned on his heel and strode out of the dining room. She stared at the place her brother had sat, her fingers curling around the table’s edge. There were few people in this world she truly cared for. Living the same life over and over showed her that most people were expendable and that constants were rare. Despite that Ragnar had always been one of them.

In most of her lives, he had been her rock. The doting older brother who fought to uphold the Salstar name, who tried to shield her from their family’s expectations. Even when they disagreed, even when he pushed her too hard, she had always known he would be there. There was something wrong with this world though, something poisoning her family and this version of Ragnar. He was spiraling and she didn’t like watching him slip away from her.

“I don’t like what this life is doing to my family,” she murmured.

A single tear slipped down her cheek. She hadn’t even realized she was crying. With an irritated flick of her wrist, she wiped her face, scowling at her own weakness.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Freja should have died. Her mother should have won. Their family should have remained strong. The future was no longer unfolding in a way she had ever lived before. 

She could fix this. Eira’s gaze dropped to the dining table. A silver knife rested beside her plate, the light glinting off its polished edge. Her fingers moved on instinct, wrapping around the handle. It was heavier than she expected as she focused her starlight mana into the blade.

All she had to do was reset. With a deadpan expression, she lifted the knife, tilting her head to expose the vulnerable flesh of her throat. There was no fear, no hesitation. The knife would easily penetrate her throat and the magic would kill her instantly. It wasn’t the first time she had done this, she would only feel pain for a brief moment then she would go back to how things should be.

The blade never met her skin. A hand clamped around her throat, halting her in an instant. The air in the room changed, thickening like the weight of a thousand unseen eyes pressing down on her. Eira’s blood turned to ice. The presence in the room with her wasn’t mortal. She felt no aura, no sense of magic, mana or any of the countless forms of energy she had experienced over her endless lives. Time slowed as her mind raced to find answers. What was this thing that was touching her?

She barely had time to process the touch before she noticed the other hand, the one that had stopped her knife. The blade was pressed against pale, bone-white skin. It didn’t pierce. It didn’t even leave a mark as her magic dispersed. It was as if her mana was consumed but even that wasn’t right. That was impossible.

She finally looked up. A figure loomed over her, shrouded in a heavy cloak. The hood cast a shadow over the beings face, obscuring it completely. Despite that, even without seeing, Eira knew, with a certainty more absolute than any other moment in her endless lifetimes, that if she looked too long, she would die.

The certainty of her own end settled into her bones, like the knowledge of the sun rising or the inevitability of the tide. It was an immutable fact. Death. She could feel it. Smell it. The air was heavy with the scent of something ancient, something final. Something Eldritch.

Then the figure took the knife and placed it back down on the table. It let go of her neck and took a swig from a glass bottle. The scent of alcohol burned through the room with a sharp and unmistakable smell. It walked out from behind her and the room darkened as it did. Eira saw it had the shape of a woman but she knew that it was not a person.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the hooded Being slurred, voice thick with irritation. “Really? This is what you’re doing? This is your grand fucking plan?”

Eira’s entire body was locked in high alert, but her mind was spiraling in a completely different direction. Is the Entity drunk?

“W-what—”

The Being shook its head as if Eira was an absolute idiot. “Not now, child,” The Being interrupted, “Just sit there and shut up for a second, yeah? I’m too hungover to deal with this shit.”

The Entity took another swig from its bottle, then wiped its mouth with the back of its hand before waving vaguely in Eira’s direction.

“No more next tries for you,” The Being said bluntly. “You’ve dodged death one too many times, and they—” its tone soured as it gestured vaguely at nothing, “finally got off their collective asses and decided to change the rules. No more regressors. No more reincarnators. No more transmigrators. You all fucked it up, and now it’s done. For a long while.”

“No,” Eira said, her voice barely a whisper. “That’s not—”

“Oh my fucking gods, are you always this dense? One thousand six hundred seventy-three lives and you're still this ignorant?” 

The Entity groaned and dragged a hand down where its face should have been beneath the hood. Then, with a dramatic huff, it yanked out a chair, flopped into it with all the grace of a drunkard, and took another long swig.

“Yes, no. No more resets, Eira the Shield Maiden, Light Bearer, Professor, Princess Consort, Shield of the Salstars, or whatever the fuck title you’ve clung to this time around. No more do-overs. You die? That’s it. Lights out. Party’s over. You’ve pissed off the wrong people, and they’re finally shutting your little loophole down.” The Entity mutters under its breath. “We finally got that other guy then you show up.”

Eira felt her entire world tilt beneath her. This Being knew how many times she had started over. It knew her lives and titles. Did the Entity really have the power to stop her from regressing? 

Her regression magic was absolute. It was inscribed on her soul, in the one immutable place that no being, be they mortal, True, or Divine should be able to trespass.

She shut her eyes and looked inward, reaching for the grand array she had forged since her very first life. The sacred, unbreakable inscription that ensured her survival beyond death. It shone within her, constant and brilliant, just as it always had.

Then she saw it. Something was standing there. No… someone.

A figure cloaked in shadow and inevitability, was standing over the grand array like a vulture over carrion. It was The Entity. It pulled back its hood.

Eira’s mind recoiled. She could not comprehend what she was seeing. No, it was worse than that. Her mind refused to let her. The sight of it was an abyss too deep, too final, for mortal perception to endure.

The creature that invaded her soul reached down. She saw as the masterwork of her soul, the sacred array that had carried her through a thousand lives, was wrenched from her.

Eira screamed.

The pain was not physical. It was not magical. It was deeper than that. It was the unraveling of something fundamental, something eternal, and it left her gasping, heaving, her vision fracturing at the edges.

She was ripped from her inner space, body convulsing as she collapsed forward. She hit the floor hard, barely registering the sensation as her stomach twisted violently. Everything she had eaten came up in a splatter of bloody vomit. She clutched at the chair, her fingers digging into the wood. Her breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps.

The pain was like nothing she had ever experienced. Literally soul deep. She had never feared death before. But now? Now it wasn’t just another step in a cycle. Now it was the end and she was facing it. She didn’t know how but, she knew this thing before her wasn’t like the Trues at all. It was something older, it was something absolute.

She forced herself to swallow, gripping the armrest of her chair to steady herself to stand. 

“Who… who are you?” Eira asked, hating the way her voice wavered. “Are you a T-True? A-a Divine?

That eerie, unseen gaze turned back to her and then it laughed. It was a rough, amused, mocking sound, full of bitter amusement.

“Oh, honey,” The Being drawled, taking another drink. “You really think I’m one of those self proclaimed True Immortal freaks? Fuck no. I don’t play around with those fools.”

Eira felt sick. The oppressive weight of the Being’s presence was suffocating, more terrifying than anything she had ever felt in all her lives. She felt dizzy from having her soul wounded. She struggled to keep her mana core in check and stay conscious. She reached for the knife again this time in self defense. If she died now it was over for her.

“Then… what are you?”

The Entity in the shape of a woman exhaled slowly, as if debating whether she even wanted to bother answering. Then, in a tone far too casual it spoke.

“A war’s coming, child.” The Entity continued, finally lowering the bottle from its lips.” Those that seek Creation are looking for a way in and the next Great Immortal War is soon to begin. This Plane will burn, the blood of mortals and immortals will stain every continent. You who have lived a thousand times, it will soon be time for you to decide how you will die. I suggest you start playing for keeps. For soon I will be claiming souls on this world again.”

Eira didn’t know when the being vanished. One moment it was sitting right in front of her the next the room was empty. She was alone, covered in her own bloody vomit with her mana trying to rip its way out of her core. 

Her body hurt.  

Her mind hurt. 

Her soul hurt.

And she cried.