Death is a part of being alive. It becomes quickly known, once a person attains an age of reasoning. It can also be forgotten by some few who have privilege, as I had. During my years of study, Mirel's lessons on anatomy familiarized me with death in ways few beyond our school could ever fathom.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  “Is that…?” Chinhua’s voice was muffled by her hand.

  Dragos stepped back and nodded, his hands resting on his hips. “Dead man’s fingers—also known as xylaria polymorpha—grow where things decay. Including people.”

  “Awful. I guess I know what I’m doing today,” Chinhua said, turning to look at the ground.

  “Er, look for more corpses?” Dragos asked.

  She whirled around, mouth falling open, then clucked her tongue at him. “No! I’m looking for stones to build them an oboo.”

  “Oh. Right. I’ll help.” The vague, ominous feeling he’d had since stepping off the road could have come from this. An unsettled spirit, not quite passed over to wherever the living went. Few of the living crossed the veil he knew, to cel?lalt t?ram. That was the realm for that which never lived and merely wandered into reality, now and again.

  Bassus found them and joined in once he learned of what they’d discovered.

  A meager offering of a cup of water and a bit of hardtack was left on the pile of stones. They had no incense, so they burned a bit of lavender Dragos had in his box. Chinhua apologized to the nameless grave. “We haven’t got much to give. We hope this eases your passing.”

  With a start, Dragos realized they were staring at him. As a cavaler, he’d have something to say. He licked his lip and stepped forward. Having never seen any of the Luminatori rituals, his imagination racked itself. He spoke slow and measured, not-quite stalling.

  “By the Light that burns eternal, let no shadow rise again. May no whisper call you back, nor in darkness stir your name. Death’s silent rest will keep you until the sun forgets to shine.”

  Bassus repeated the last sentence, hands clasped. “Death’s silent rest will keep you until the sun forgets to shine.”

  “Aur believe in reincarnation,” Chinhua said, frowning at the smoldering herbs on the stone. “One’s soul must pass through many worlds to be purified and then come back and live again.”

  Bassus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I do like that idea. Seems less…”

  “Lonely,” Dragos supplied when Bassus fumbled for words.

  The man snapped his fingers. “Yes. The Aur may be a ruthless people, but I can appreciate that idea.”

  “I’m not ruthless,” Chinhua emphasized, pointing to her face.

  Bassus grinned. “No.”

  Dragos said nothing, letting the woman’s philosophy sink in for further thought. The three returned to the overgrown clearing to find some changes. While they’d been busy, saplings had been cleared around the well. Someone had found an aged slab of joined wood and covered it against contamination.

  His chin lifted to the wind. The strong scent of cut wood permeated the area. More logging was underway further out, likely for building. The well’s clearing had begun to look like an actual clearing, and wood piled nearby had already been seasoned by time, ready for crafting and campfires.

  Bassus left them to tell of what they’d found and done.

  Dragos was left sitting beside the stone grave, watching Chinhua relax in a patch of sunlight. For a moment, he forgot about the ominous bones and his hands bruised by stones. He tugged his box off his back and sat with it in his lap as she tilted her chin to the sky, eyes closed against the ray of sunlight.

  He found the silver emblem, the owl and moon. He rubbed it a few times with his dirty thumb and then impulsively said, “I want you to have this.”

  Her eyes opened, head rolling languidly to look. Her dark eyes glinted with surprise. “For me? Are you sure?”

  Dragos set his box aside and leaned toward her, holding it out. His breath stilled, but his heart beat a wild rib-cracking rhythm. She leaned to take it, fingers brushing over his. It was his most treasured object, left unsold even through hunger and misery.

  It was worth giving away to see the dazzle of her smile.

  She was still grinning, the emblem cupped to her chest when Octavian sauntered up, clothes clay-stained. “I found a clay deposit. What a lucky find. We’ll be able to make a nice oven and a chimney for the main building. If we keep at it, we’ll have something that can keep us through winter.”

  “Winter up here can be very hard,” Dragos warned. “You have to plan and prepare well. There’s a little village less than half a day’s walk from here that you can trade with.”

  “Good to know.” The group’s leader rubbed his dirty hands together with a gleam in his eye. “I have plans.”

  A smile flickered on Dragos's face, and he gave Octavian’s shoulder a clap. Chinhua nudged Dragos with her knee. “You should rest and heal. We’ve been busy all morning.”

  “Oh. Alright.” He wouldn’t lie and say he felt fine.

  The canvas shade welcomed him, though the ground was still cold beneath his cloak. Unable to sleep, Dragos's thoughts wandered, and he felt that strange, oppressive sense again. Without all the distractions, he became sure of it. Something lurked.

  He lay still for a short while, but as the feeling leaned in, he got up and made himself some medicinal tea. Instinct drove him to examine the ruins again. The stone structure yielded nothing.

  The well caught his eye, and he moved to stand beside it. The cap was old, of the same woodworking as what they’d found in the ruins. Dragos pushed it aside to drop a bucket in, hand rested on the stone ringing the deep hole.

  He paused and crouched, running a finger along the carefully cut stone seams. Flicking a glance back, he compared the stonework. Different stone, different joining. The pitting from time and rain was different. The well had been exposed to the elements far longer than the ruined walls of the old building they’d where they’d taken shelter.

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  With his mind’s eye, he sought hints of the spirit-rivers and saw nothing in particular. No glimmers or sparks of the spirit rivers lingered on the surface of the living world.

  And yet, something was very wrong.

  Dragos returned to the fire and sipped his bitter medicine, deep in thought. Chinhua’s voice startled him out of staring at his cup. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

  “So that was an order, not a suggestion?” He said, looking over his shoulder as she came up, apron full of mushrooms and garlic.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, giving him a tiny nod followed by a dimpled grin.

  With a mock sigh, he set his cup down on rubble repurposed as a table beside the firepit and went to lie back down. This time, he had something to watch while he lay there. Chinhua set about washing and adding ingredients to the large pot suspended over the fire.

  From his spot, he let his senses wander again, and the ominous oppression returned. “There is something not right with this place, Chinhua. You should find another.”

  She looked up from her task, a small paring knife in hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s a feeling. I can’t shake it, and I can’t identify it.” A tributary of the Umbregrin ran not far away, but deep. Too deep to surge upwards and wreak havoc on the ruins, and yet—the corpse in the woods, the ruins themselves. It all felt connected. “I strongly feel you all should find somewhere else.”

  “Octavian and Bassus have their hearts set on this place.” Chinhua looked around at the beech and pine, her eyes closing. She took a deep breath and sighed with pleasure. “I love the smell of it. It’s so different from the lowlands.”

  Dragos grunted, having no other argument to give. He rested his head on his arm and let his eyes close but did not sleep. Instead, he considered what steps he could take without knowing what lingered in the mysterious history of the ruins and those who lived there once.

  “You should leave.”

  He woke with an unpleasant jarring and ripped himself upward, bleary eyes flung open. The familiar voice clung to the edge of dreamless sleep but was gone when he sat bolt upright. Chinhua was gone. The sun eased into the trees, preparing for its own slumber.

  Voices echoed through the flora. Laughter. The sound of wood being carved here, hacked at there. Someone cursed. He’d been asleep for an hour, maybe more.

  Something hid itself. Something waited. He had no lingering doubts. Though he hadn’t dreamt more than that warning voice, his mixed thoughts had congealed into an instinctual surety.

  Dragos got up and went to find Octavian.

  He found the man with sleeves rolled up, hacking branches off felled trees with a hatchet. Sweat matted his wild hair into twists that clung to his forehead. He paused when Dragos approached, straightening to rub his cheek on his shirt sleeve.

  “Octavian, something is wrong here,” Dragos led with the problem as his last steps brought him to the group leader.

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve always followed my instincts, and they haven’t been wrong, yet,” Dragos said, casting a glance around the area. Golden sun drizzled along bark, a farewell kiss that warned of its fading. They’d all head back for supper soon, before night fell. The albstrig? intended for that night to be their last there.

  “Cavaler, is it the corpse that upsets you?” Octavian asked, brushing away the last branches he’d trimmed and shoving the axe into his belt. “The ruins show people lived here. People also died here, but that doesn’t mean we have to move on. They put a lot of work into this place once. It’d be a shame to turn away from it.”

  “No,” Dragos murmured, the air cooling even as they stood beside the felled tree. “There’s something here—I—”

  Octavian observed him with the air of someone used to listening to rootless fears and doubts. He couldn’t know Dragos's doubts were rarely rootless.

  “The Luminatori don’t recruit moroi viu; they kill us,” Dragos began. He took a long breath and looked down to avoid looking into the man’s eyes when he lied. This man didn’t deserve manipulation. He had asked no questions and treated him with respect. But he’d get it anyway.

  “They used me as a way to detect danger. I can sniff out Unspoken like a hound. I’m never wrong.”

  Octavian hummed and rubbed the scruff on his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t want to leave. All our plans revolved around this. We’ll find another way. Surely your Luminatori rituals have something useful to protect this place.”

  “It’s better to just go,” Dragos said, looking back up at him.

  “We’ll vote on it after dinner,” Octavian said with a note of finality.

  Dragos sat amongst the longtime companions, who’d travelled far to arrive at the ruins. Forward-thinking, clever people with the desire to be under no one’s rule. People he liked. And he was trying to ruin the fulfillment of their dream.

  He ate in silence and stayed so until the meal was finished and the relaxed chatter died down. With a glance to Octavian, who gave him a solemn nod, Dragos pushed to his feet.

  “I know you’ve traveled far and endured much to get to this place, but I have to warn you. Something dangerous lurks here, and it would be best to leave.”

  The quiet air flattened. Stilled. All eyes fixed on him. Many of the faces were shocked, some closed. A few were angry, such as Bassus, who’d scouted the ruins himself.

  “You’re from the Luminatori. Fix it. Kill it. Do whatever it is they do besides cast blessings and take money.” Bassus scowled from his spot beside the fire.

  “I don’t know what to appease or banish. It hasn’t revealed itself, but I feel it, whispering in the roots,” Dragos replied, fixing his attention on the speaker, a young man whose name he never gathered.

  “Let’s build a shrine and leave offerings. It doesn’t have to be known to be appeased,” someone else suggested.

  Dragos's brow pulled down as he frowned. That was the common way, and often enough, it worked. Iele didn’t need to be known, they merely wanted compensation for the annoyance of humans. The oppressive sense that gathered, however, did not feel like some forest fruits and pretty carvings left on a slab of rock would make it happy.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “This is not some forest iele, nor Muma P?durii, irritated at forest disruption.”

  “What is it, then?” Octavian asked with the too-calm tones of one dealing with irrationality. “This late in summer, we’ll be hard-pressed to prepare this place, much less find somewhere else to settle before winter comes.”

  Dragos closed his eyes and exhaled frustration. When he opened them, he said, “I can’t make you see.”

  “There’s nothing to see. This place is what we’ve been working towards for years,” Octavian said. He held up a hand and said, “But fair is fair. We will vote on your warning. Everyone.”

  Octavian stood and turned slowly to make eye contact with each of his small group, then asked, “Raise your hand if you think we should listen to Julianos.”

  The name pinched his throat, and Dragos sat, the guilt pulling him down.

  Chinhua’s hand inched up. A few faces looked afraid, as if they’d almost believed him, but not enough to vote for a move.

  “Who votes to stay?” Octavian asked, while his hand raised.

  Thirteen hands rose.

  Dragos glanced at Chinhua, whose hands were clasped in her apron, gaze flicking around before coming to meet his.

  “We’ll build a shrine. Chinhua, Julianos, and one other. Tomorrow. Follow the cavaler’s directions to appease the forest spirits that reclaimed this place. The rest of us will carry on as planned.”

  Octavian went over the tasks to be done: two to fish in the Aluta, the rest to woodwork, fires, gathering clay, and clearing debris. Meanwhile, Dragos and Chinhua shared a long look. No words were said. None needed to be.

  The group prepared for the natural storms to come.

  Dragos and Chinhua would prepare for a storm born of supernatural origins.

  [If you are reading this somewhere other than RR, it has been taken unbeknownst to me. Go to Royal Road to support my work.]

  Please take a moment to This link opens a new window. It means a lot to me, and if you think this story should be published elsewhere, it would help me a lot to have some big numbers to offer to a prospective publisher. Thanks!

  Xylaria polymorpha: Dead Man's Fingers, a type of mushroom.

  Cel?lalt t?ram (chel-uh-LULT tuh-RUHM): The other realm, where spirits of the never living spawn.

  Umbregrin (UM-bruh-grin) [rolled r]: The dark spirit river.

  Albstrig? (ALV-streeguh): White witch. Barn owl. A pale ghost or evil spirit.

  Moroi viu (mo-roi vee-oo)[rolled r]: A living person lacking a soul. Someone strange, atypical.

  Muma P?durii (Moo-mah PUH-doo-ree): 'Mother of the forest.' Some say she's a great spirit, others a witch. It often seems there's more than one. Liken to Baba Yaga or Hansel and Gretel's candy house witch.