Picture her, dear reader. What would you give up for her? What would you overcome?

In the beginning, there was a plan. An order to the story and a method to how it would unfold. For eons, long before the advent of humankind, the plan continued unabated. Then, Thorm Athow laid eyes on Belinda and the destiny of the universe changed.

It was never the destiny of an impoverished gutter rat so forgettable that the royal guards failed to notice him even to see her. It should not have occurred. But small deviations, and even by the scale of humans this deviation was small, go overlooked. The universe does not care if one boy sees one girl. Indeed, it hardly cares for the existence of humanity at all, dear reader!

But a pebble, in the right place and at the right time could change everything. Could, dear reader, because even time and place aren’t enough. The pebble must be strong enough to remain unflinching, unbroken, as the wheels of time roll over it.

Any other rock, even given the same chance, would break. So the universe did not care that a boy saw a girl, and his world changed. Why should the universe care if one boy fell in love with the wrong girl? And yet, that was enough. That was how the destiny of the universe shifted, the eternal plan gone awry. Thorm Athow laid eyes on Belinda.

It was an unremarkable day, but then Thorm Athow was an unremarkable ch-

No.

-an unremarkable chil-

No.

I was never unremarkable. And I was never one to let someone else tell my story. ‘Dear reader?’ is that what he calls you? Well know this, ‘dear reader,’ I do not tolerate lesser beings speaking my name or my secrets lightly. I am Thorm Athow, and it seems we are due to speak.

I am Thorm Athow! I am The Wizard because all who came before me were charlatans peddling tricks and all who come after are followers seeking to fill the imprints of my feet on the ground I broke.

I am Thorm Athow! The first true court magician, the one who divined the foulest secrets of the nigromantic arts before even the demons who followed Lucifer could! Who cast spells of such unholy profanity that the words themselves rotted the mouths of lesser sorcerers trying vainly to follow my wake! Who spelled the island of Atlantis whole and brought low a dynasty of kings so old it began before humanity had language, had speech, had civilization! Whose sycophants became the druids of the tribes, the demonologists of the steppes, the shamans of the deserts, the wizards of the empires, and the mystics of the Far East.

I am the one who cast aside the destiny of a lesser being. The Prisoner at the Edge of Everything, condemned to suffer the torment of abominations from the beyond for eternity who still prevailed. I did all this while in agony, afflicted beyond mortal comprehensions of anguish by my loss.

And all this? All that I am? Meaningless, ‘dear reader.’ I promise you, I would cast it aside in an instant in exchange for the one I desire. For my beloved Belinda.

Now that the introductions are over let me ask, what is the value of a soul?

No doubt that presence I felt while speaking to Soneillon was your Narrator spilling my secrets. So I know you are aware, if I complete the resurrection and return to the mortal realm, it will be without my soul. It begs the question then, what precisely is the value of a soul?

I confess my resurrection itself is but a short incantation away. The barest whisper of a few final Atlantean phrases and I would be returned to my fleshy glory atop the Earth once more. Reborn to seek out my beloved once again. Still, I find myself hesitating, weighing the advantages and disadvantages. One disadvantage in particular weighs heavily upon me. Over and over, the implications of my choice race through my mind as I contend with the decision I must make.

I find the mortal implications tedious. As I recall, you were watching when I instructed the girl-child on how to save her friend, months ago. It stands to reason then you are well acquainted with the role of Death, escorting souls to the underworld and the various afterlives. Of course in my case, it an inability to progress beyond the mortal coil might be a blessing. I’ve no desire to see what eternal torments the various demons I’ve offended over the years might have in mind, even if they inevitably would pale against my current torment. But as I said, I find the mortal implications tedious. A permanent death does not frighten me. After all, it only matters should I fail.

So, ‘dear reader,’ what is the value of a soul?

Obviously, the loss of power would be unfortunate, but I began as a mewling boy and I-

Oh? Interesting, you know less than expected. What has that useless narrator been telling you? Inane drivel about friendships and schoolyard squabbles no doubt. Well, let me disabuse you of that notion. I am not the poor friend guided astray by the succubus whisper of a magic book. Nor am I the deranged psychopath driven by poorly understood motivations and nebulous plans.

But let us return to the subject at hand, your education. To understand the soul, let us start at the bottom.

As you saw in the hospital when young Eldritch Maiden rescued her paramour, the primary function of the soul is to provide the conduit for Death. When your mortal shell fails, Death collects your soul and escorts it to the underworld for judgement. Once rendered, the judges direct you to your deserved afterlife. That is the sole divine purpose of the soul, and the only thing with which your gods concern themselves.

But souls matter. They are the bridge between the mortal and the immortal, the ghost in the shell as some cretins have hypothesized. It might be beyond your meagre intelligence, but understand that the soul is not a ghost. It can be manipulated, warped, and even bound by the delicate touch. Yes, it was her soul itself that I bound my beloved with, just as the sight of her bound mine when I was but a boy.

You take umbrage with my choice of words? What else would you call what happened, how the barest glimpse of her bound me? Would you call it love? And what is love but the binding of one soul to another? Souls are malleable things that leave impressions of themselves on one another as they touch, like brands made red hot by the heat of passion and ardor. So I sought to brand myself upon Belinda as she branded herself upon me, and what is that but equality? It is not a crime, wishing to stand on the same footing as the one I love, is it?

And if a soul is malleable, if it bridges the mortal and immortal, then it should be obvious what else it does.

Evidently not, for such a pathetic group of dunderheads such as yourselves. I thought after the idiot apprentices that created Roman, I would never find myself instructing such a useless group. Clearly I was wrong.

Listen up, ‘dear reader!’ And do try to keep up this time. A soul bridges the infinite, connects to the essence of creation and the building blocks of the universe. It is the most pure form of energy humans can tap without consequence. Do you understand now? Is it not obvious?

Come now, it was obvious to me as a child after opening my first book of the mystic arts and surely you must be older than I was then. Still no?

Disappointing. It seems that the quality of education has not improved in the past few thousand years or so. Well let me spell it out then, souls allow the use of magic. Without mine, I will be unable to access the reserves of my power.

Unfortunate, yes, to have my strength sapped away. But I began this journey powerless and all my magic, all my knowledge, and that I have done I did for one purpose-to have Belinda. If the final price for her is my power, then so be it. I was willing to sacrifice Atlantis in her name before and I would do it again.

No, ‘dear reader,’ the loss of my magic is nothing more than a temporal setback. I already know how I will regain the strength I need to wrest the dagger away from Eldritch and fuel the ritual required to restore my beloved Belinda to my arms. So no, the loss of magic does not upset nor concern me.

What concerns me, and what has me hesitating on the verge of my triumph, is that final role of the soul. I fear the loss of the only thing I have that is truly inviolate. I fear the loss of my emotions. I fear the loss of my love.

Souls are malleable, and mine is bound up in Belinda and has been for so long that without it I fear without it I will no longer love her. That without it I would be incapable of loving her, impossible as that is. It is incomprehensible that I could see her, that I could know of her existence, and not be in love with her and yet- still I am afraid.

What then, is the value of my soul?

If the source of my love, if even the most niggardly piece of how I feel about her is in my soul, then it is priceless beyond measure and I cannot risk its loss. If it is nothing more than magical ability and mortality, then I can safely cast it aside without a second thought.

So, ‘dear reader,’ should I take this chance?

What would you gamble, to be with the one you love once more? Would you gamble your love itself? I would trade the whole Earth and every living thing on it for an hour of time in her arms. But I will not risk her for anything.

Perhaps there are no answers. I have sat in this throne of manacles and railed against my imprisonment for so long that perhaps it is simple apprehension that stills my lips from finishing the cant of my resurrection. Perhaps I cannot know until I gamble it away, what precisely my soul is worth.

And if I cannot know, then the only thing that is certain is that Thorm Athow writes his own destiny. I am the author of my own story, not some Narrator or some unknowable deity’s plan. So then, what is my soul worth?

Shall we find out together?

No, I think not. This moment of discovery belongs to me and me alone. This moment of vulnerability is mine. But I think, I know, that my musings are temporary. The chance to be with her again… the risk is terrible beyond words. It is appropriate. After all, the reward is glorious beyond sensation.

Now, off with you! I’ve a ritual to complete, and my beloved to rescue.

Oh and, before you go, since I banished your Narrator allow me to discharge their final duty. Next week… “Revivication.”