Chapter 3: The Weight of a Peaceful Soul

Chapter 3: The Weight of a Peaceful Soul

The obsidian scythe in Morrigan’s hand felt less like a tool and more like a judgment. Thanatos’s command echoed in the sterile silence of the room, a stark order in a place that should have been filled with whispers and farewells. Sever the thread.

Morrigan’s knuckles were white where she gripped the haft. Her gaze was fixed on the gossamer-thin strand of silver light rising from Eleanor Vance’s chest. It pulsed with a gentle, fading rhythm, a soft counterpoint to the insistent beeping of the heart monitor. This was a life. A whole life, condensed into a single, fragile thread.

Her own end had been a jagged, screaming tear in the fabric of existence. There was no peace on that altar, only cold stone, hot pain, and the acrid smell of fear. This… this was the opposite. This was a quiet closing of a book, not a frantic ripping out of the final pages. The injustice of it was a bitter pill.

As she hesitated, the room began to change. Shimmering, translucent images, like heat haze on a summer road, flickered at the edges of her vision. They were memories, she realized, clinging to the soul that was about to depart. She saw a young girl with Eleanor’s eyes laughing on a wooden swing, pumping her legs so high it seemed she might touch the sun. The scene dissolved into a ballroom, where a radiant woman in her twenties danced with a handsome soldier, her face alight with a love so potent Morrigan could almost feel its warmth. Then, a hospital room just like this one, but Eleanor was the one standing, holding a tiny, swaddled baby.

Decades of life played out in silent, golden vignettes. Laughter, tears, triumphs, and heartaches. A life lived to its fullest, filled with people and purpose. Everything Morrigan had yearned for and been denied. She hadn't even finished her final art project. She never got to graduate, never fell in love, never had the chance to become anything more than a lonely orphan who died in a basement.

A wave of profound, aching sorrow washed over her, so intense it was almost a physical blow. It wasn’t for Eleanor; it was for herself. Her hand trembled, the scythe’s point dipping towards the floor. How could she be the one to end this beautiful story when her own had been so brutally cut short?

You are a transition, Thanatos’s voice cut through her reverie, cool and remote in her mind. Not an end. Her journey is complete. Yours is just beginning. Do your job.

On the Soul Ledger, the timer flashed red: 00:03… 00:02…

Morrigan took a ragged breath. She was a Reaper now. This was the job. Survival. The alternative was the silent, grey nothingness of Limbo.

00:01…

The heart monitor beside the bed let out a long, continuous, piercing tone.

00:00.

The last of the light in Eleanor’s life-thread guttered out, leaving only a dull, silvery cord connecting a body to a spirit that no longer belonged there.

It was time.

Pushing her own grief and rage down into a tight, hard knot in her chest, Morrigan raised the scythe. The obsidian blade seemed to hum, its edge sharp enough to split an atom. It felt wrong. This moment called for a gentle hand, not a blade forged from shadow. But this was the tool she’d been given.

She swung.

There was no sound of tearing or cutting. Instead, a single, pure note, like a crystal bell struck once, resonated through the room. The blade passed through the silver thread without resistance, and the connection was severed.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a form of brilliant, warm light coalesced above the bed. It was Eleanor, but not the frail, withered woman lying amongst the sheets. This was the radiant woman from the ballroom, whole and vibrant, her form woven from pure, contented energy. She turned her head, and her luminous eyes met Morrigan’s. She didn't speak, but a feeling of profound gratitude, of peace and release, washed over Morrigan. Eleanor smiled, a gentle, accepting expression, before turning and dissolving into a cascade of shimmering motes that faded into the air.

She was gone.

Morrigan stood panting, the emotional backlash hitting her harder than phasing through a brick wall. The sorrow was immense, but it was clean, untainted by the horror of her own passing. Then, something else happened.

From the spot where the thread had been severed, a single, bright stream of silver energy, the last residue of a completed life, arced through the air. It snaked towards her, and before she could react, it struck her squarely in the chest.

It didn't hurt. In fact, it was the opposite of pain.

A current of warm, liquid silver flowed into her, a feeling so potent it made her gasp. It was a feeling of… fullness. It filled the hollow, aching void that had been carved into her soul on the altar. The chaotic psychic noise of the hospital, the constant barrage of mortal fear and pain, suddenly muted, pushed back by this infusion of peaceful energy. The weight of the scythe in her hands lessened. She felt stronger. More solid. More real than she had since she’d woken up in Thanatos’s office.

The power was intoxicating, a soothing balm on a raw wound. But it was also terrifying. This strength, this peace, it wasn't hers. It was borrowed. It was the final echo of a dead woman's life, and now it was fueling her. A small, ugly part of her brain, the pragmatic part that had signed the contract, recognized it for what it was: a reward. A commission.

Thanatos materialized beside her, his obsidian eyes taking in the scene with detached appraisal. He glanced at the empty bed, then at Morrigan, who was still processing the strange influx of power.

"The first is always the most sentimental," he remarked, his voice devoid of sympathy. "You hesitated. Eight seconds past the appointed time. Unacceptable, but understandable for a preliminary run. Do not let it happen again."

Before Morrigan could form a sarcastic retort, the Soul Ledger flared to life in front of her, the blue light harsh in the quiet room. A new entry slammed into place, the text a bloody, aggressive red.

TARGET: Marco ‘The Vulture’ Santoro STATUS: Critical (Multiple Gunshot Wounds) TIME REMAINING: 06:17… 06:16…

Beneath the name, a location pulsed: a rain-slicked alley half a city away.

Thanatos gestured towards the spectral display. "No time for reflection, apprentice. The docket is full." His calm, corporate demeanor was back, the moment of cosmic significance already filed away. "Your next client will not be nearly as cooperative."