The wind didn’t stop that night.

  Even after I’d returned to camp, its wailing threaded through the crooked eaves and dead trees like a voice that refused to be silenced. I’d hoped the fire would drown it out, but its embers only cast the fog into stranger shapes—long faces, twisting limbs, faint silhouettes that flinched when I blinked.

  None of us dispersed to our tents. Instead, we huddled around the dim fire, cloaks drawn tight against the damp breeze, breathing a little easier in each other’s company. Bront slept first, heavy and unbothered. Selene’s eyes flickered beneath closed lids, as though she were still planning even in her dreams. Kaela sat guard—barely—polishing her spear by the firelight.

  Lyria, her eyes tired, finally spoke after a long silence.

  “...I’ve seen people die before. I’ve known those who never returned. But never have I lost someone in such a way…” she whispered, staring into the flames.

  I stared too. A dozen responses looped through my mind, none of them enough—just thin blankets against something cold and cruel.

  “She fought,” Lyria murmured. “Her body fought back. But the Fell magic didn’t care… No matter what I tried, I couldn’t save her.” Her voice trembled, barely audible.

  It struck like a dagger—hearing her so vulnerable, so defeated.

  And in that moment, I saw myself reflected in her.

  I wanted to save everyone I could. I wanted to stop people from losing what they loved—and I realized I wasn’t alone in that. Lyria did too. Bront, Selene, even Kaela.

  They all did.

  “The Fell—is cruel,” I said quietly. “Your effort isn’t to blame. The Fell corruption has no morals, no limits. It just takes.”

  I paused, watching the firelight flicker across her face. “Did you do everything you could?”

  Her lavender eyes glistened as they fell. She nodded.

  “Then that’s all that matters,” I said softly. “I know that helplessness—the kind that eats at you. I’m sorry I can’t take that from you. But… let’s get stronger, together, and next time…we save everyone.”

  She didn’t reply, but she did inch a bit closer to my side and we settled back into a slightly more comfortable silence.

  She eventually drifted against my shoulder, her breathing soft, fragile, silver hair draped over her cloak. For a while, I almost believed the stillness meant peace.

  I finally let my eyes slip shut as well.

  I couldn’t tell how many hours went by. I didn’t rustle nor did I dream. Time simply passed, seamlessly and unbothered.

  Then came the first scream.

  My eyes snapped open, bloodshot—panic replacing fatigue.

  Selene was already on her feet. Bront stirred groggily and Kaela rose as well though her eyes flicked to Lyria and I, still laying together, before we too stood.

  The screaming intensified, just as nauseating as the first time.

  But this time—the mark on my chest flared.

  “Should we make our way to the bell tower again?” Selene called over the din, deferring to me.

  I looked between her and the others, faces wincing against the horrible chorus. My heart thundered and my mind raced.

  What should we do…?

  The mark in my chest pulsed more urgently, and a memory came swimming back.

  The ‘Grave’ Walker.

  My eyes snapped to the graveyard just beyond the eastern palisades and I knew we had to head there, but the knot in my gut was still wary of something—or someone else… Sylico.

  “The graveyard…” I muttered. The words left my mouth before I’d even decided to speak them. “We need to go—now!”

  The others looked confused but nodded.

  I turned to Lyria and Bront. “You two—go to Sylico’s shack, break in if you have to, search the whole place. If you find him, bring him to us. If not, just come and regroup.”

  They nodded and started off at once.

  Selene, Kaela, and I made for the graveyard.

  We passed tense faced adventurers and scrambling soldiers as we ran, a couple of them giving us curious looks.

  “Yukon!”

  I heard a voice call out—

  When I turned my head, I saw Ron and Margo running over.

  Just as they got to us the screams halted and all of us paused, holding our breath…

  “Where—” Ron started, but in the next instant the screaming came back ten fold.

  The five of us doubled over, desperately clutching our ears but the screams bled through anyway.

  I looked to Selene and Kaela urgently and they understood at once. We continued on our way, Ron and Margo trailed after us, confused, but determined to see where we were headed.

  At the gates two soldiers stood, clutching their heads. The screaming dimmed again as we tried to pass through, but the guards stopped us, crossing their halberds together.

  “NO EXIT AT THIS TIME! ORDERS FROM THE ‘KNIGHTS’—GET BACK TO YOUR CAMPS!” They shouted.

  I gritted my teeth, my mind searching for a way past them.

  Before I could come up with anything, Kaela stepped up, her serpentine spear glowing a bit brighter green than usual. Without hesitation she poked both of the guards lightly, drawing shocked gasps from them, but quickly freezing them in place, paralyzed by the magic of her spear.

  “Nice one!” Selene and I called in unison as we sprinted past.

  “What—what have you done?!” Ron shrieked, initially going to the guards' aid.

  When he looked up and saw the three of us running ahead, with even Margo following, he cursed under his breath, gave an apologetic bow to the guards, and ran after us.

  We tore through the graveyard, the headstones jutting like broken teeth through mud and dying grass. My heart hammered in rhythm with the tolling in my head. The mark on my chest pulsed—hot and cold, alternating—while the fog thickened around us. Behind, I could still hear Ron shouting for us to stop, yet his footsteps never slowed.

  Then I saw it.

  Dark figures stood ahead, silhouettes wreathed in mist, gathered around a massive monument. Its outline cut through the fog—an enormous grave, crowned with an ancient bell.

  The mark seared against my skin.

  Lyria and Bront’s eyes met nervously as they approached, their boots sinking into the damp soil between the broken cobbles. A lone raven called from somewhere above, invisible against the night sky.

  The shack loomed ahead, a crooked silhouette beside the old bell tower. A single window glowed dimly, its light swaying like a candle about to die.

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  Lyria slowed, raising a hand. “Wait.”

  Bront froze instantly.

  Something was wrong. The air hummed, faintly… a resonance she recognized all too well. Old wards. Illusory ones.

  “Stay behind me,” she whispered.

  She traced her fingers in the air, forming a simple dispelling sigil. The lines glowed blue and dissolved into mist—revealing that the door, which had seemed shut, was slightly ajar. She pushed the door open slowly.

  Inside, the shack reeked of old paper, herbs, and iron. Scrolls littered the floor, and candles had burned down to wax puddles. The walls were covered in notes—diagrams of roots, runes, veins, and something that looked uncomfortably close to a human heart.

  No Sylico.

  Bront grunted. “You think he ran off?”

  Lyria shook her head, moving toward a table. Her eyes fell on an open journal. The ink was still wet.

  ‘The witch calls again. The bell tolls tonight. I will not be found wanting.’

  Her stomach dropped. “He’s preparing something…”

  Then—thunk.

  Bront’s axe was halfway raised before he realized what he’d hit: a loose board beneath his boot. He stepped back. Lyria crouched, sweeping dust aside to reveal a small metal ring set into the floorboards.

  A hatch.

  The hum of magic grew louder.

  She and Bront exchanged a look.

  He nodded once, silently.

  They lifted the hatch. Cold, violet light spilled from below, and the smell of wet stone and incense drifted up.

  “I hate tunnels…” Bront grumbled, descending first.

  The tunnel beneath the shack was cramped and earthen, lined with candles that burned with unnatural steadiness. Runes crawled along the walls like veins.

  Lyria’s lavender eyes glimmered as she invoked a perception spell, allowing her to trace the threads of magic winding through the air. Purple strands of distorted mana stretched from deep within the passage, curling at their feet like ghostly roots.

  “I think he’s performing a ritual,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

  They rounded the bend—and froze.

  Sylico stood at the end of the passage in a small chamber, his back to them, muttering feverishly in an ancient tongue. Before him, a small circle pulsed with blood-red light, etched into the ground.

  “Sylico!” Lyria shouted.

  He turned, startled—but his eyes were wrong. Dilated. Glowing faintly purple.

  “Lyria…?” His voice was cracked and uneven. “You shouldn’t have come. It’s almost ready—she’s almost done—”

  Bront took a step forward. “The hell are you talking about?”

  Sylico’s hand snapped up. Runes blazed beneath Bront and Lyria’s feet—chains of violet light bursting upward. Bront roared as they coiled around him, forcing him to his knees. Lyria reacted instantly, her staff flashing into her grip. With a sharp motion she struck the ground, shattering the bindings in a burst of azure sparks.

  Sylico snarled, firing a witch bolt—a lance of sickly green lightning.

  Lyria reacted instantly, throwing up a barrier. Sparks exploded in the narrow chamber as magic clashed—blue against green, light against decay.

  “Sylico, stop!” she shouted, forcing back his next wave of crackling violet energy. Her mind flashed to the open journal she had seen upstairs. “You’re letting the witch control you!”

  “She showed me the truth!” Sylico’s voice echoed, distorted. “The sacrifices keep us safe—the Grave Walker protects us!”

  He pressed his palms together, conjuring a volatile orb of red energy. The air warped around it.

  Lyria raised her staff to dispel it, but the blue light of her spell fizzled uselessly against the swelling sphere.

  “Damn it—”

  Bront roared, straining against the violet chains that held him down. The spell flickered, but held fast.

  Lyria’s heart ached at the desperation she felt in Sylico’s strange magic. “You think this is protection?! Look around you—does this feel safe?”

  Her voice barely reached him. With a final chant, he thrust his hands forward. The orb launched toward them, blazing like a miniature crimson sun.

  She didn’t have time to think. Her staff came up instinctively—light flared as a spectral bird, large as an eagle and made of pale blue energy, erupted from the tip. As it soared forward, she slammed her staff into the ground, a half-dome barrier of lavender light rose around her and Bront instantly.

  The two spells collided midair. The red orb went white-hot, swelling before bursting apart. Droplets of raw mana sprayed the tunnel, hissing as they struck the barrier and the surrounding earthen walls—but her magic held.

  Without hesitation, Lyria dropped the shield and drove her free hand forward. Blue flame coiled from her fingers—whip-like tendrils lashed out, wrapping around Sylico and yanking him to the ground. He screamed as the flames seared his skin, and Lyria winced, but she didn’t stop.

  The chains binding Bront shattered as Sylico’s focus broke. The half-orc staggered upright, eyes wide at the sight before him.

  The blue light bathed Sylico’s face—tear-streaked, terrified, and lost.

  “Please,” Lyria said, lowering her hand slightly. “Tell me where the witch is.”

  Sylico hesitated. The light around him flickered. For a heartbeat, his true eyes—gray, human—broke through the glow.

  Then the runes on the walls flared.

  “She’s already begun…” he whispered, horrified. “You’re too late.”

  The ground shook beneath them, dust raining from the ceiling. From far above—faint, but unmistakable—a bell began to toll.

  Ron finally caught up, panting hard. “Yukon! What in the Sunwardens’ name is going on?!” His voice cracked in the fog. He looked pale—his holy pendant clutched tight, knuckles white.

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. It was as if the air was too thick to speak through. Every breath tasted like iron and ash.

  Margo coughed behind him, covering her mouth. “Something’s… wrong with the mist. It’s not natural.”

  She was right. The fog was alive—breathing, pulsing, reacting. Each gust of wind made it curl inward, tightening around us like a throat closing.

  Kaela’s spear hummed faintly beside me. “What are they doing up there...”

  Selene drew her blade and whispered, “stay sharp.”

  Ron stepped in front of me, voice trembling between anger and fear. “Answer me, damn it! Why are we here? What are we chasing?”

  I turned to him, the mark burning through my tunic. “You’ll see soon enough… but I don’t think you’ll like the answer.”

  Then the bell tolled.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A third time.

  Each toll made the ground shudder beneath our boots. The fog seemed to recoil, parting just enough for us to see a bit clearer.

  The figures.

  Dozens of them.

  Villagers—men, women, even the elderly—all standing in a loose ring before the monument. Their faces were blank, eyes pure white. The skin around their mouths was stretched in something too still to be human.

  Ron staggered back a step. “No… no, these are—these are people from town…”

  Selene lowered her voice. “Are they…entranced…?”

  At the center of their silent congregation, before the bell-crowned grave, stood a single hooded figure in all black. Her robes shimmered faintly with violet runes, and in her hand she held a staff made of bleached bone. The air around her rippled, distorting like heat-haze.

  One word sprung into my mind. I’d heard tales of beings such as this.

  Witch.

  And at her feet—

  I froze. My breath hitched, my throat locking shut.

  A small body lay sprawled in the mud. Pale. Still.

  A child.

  Fresh blood soaked into the earth, running in thin rivulets toward the carved runes surrounding the grave. The soil hissed as it drank deep, pulsing faintly red.

  Ron’s pendant slipped from his hand. “...No.”

  Kaela took a shaky step forward, but Selene’s arm shot out, stopping her. “Don’t.”

  The Witch’s head tilted slightly, as if hearing something distant. “The price has been paid,” she whispered. Her voice carried unnaturally well, even through the wind. “Grahamut stirs once more.”

  The runes around the monument ignited—deep crimson light tearing through the ground like veins.

  I felt Lunae’s chill and Tenebrae’s heat twist in my chest, rising like a storm about to break.

  “She’s calling him,” I muttered, realization hitting too late. “The Grave Walker…”

  Ron fell to his knees, eyes locked onto the corpse, his voice trembling, desperate. “No—no, stop this! Stop it, please!”

  But the Witch only turned her hooded gaze toward him, her obscured eyes glinting faintly beneath the cowl. “You cannot halt what has already been promised, cleric.”

  The bell atop the grave groaned. Once. Twice.

  Then it cracked.

  The sound split the air. The ground convulsed.

  Even the Witch recoiled, as if she too hadn’t expected this outcome.

  The very earth started to sunder, and from beneath the grave, something began clawing its way out…