Ysar had changed.

  Once a man of a thousand words, now he hadn’t spoken in days.

  He pulled the cart through the tangled eastern trail—wooden wheels cracking over roots and moss. The path was barely a path at all. Branches clawed at his cloak, and the forest pressed in like a closing fist.

  On the cart, beneath layers of tightly wrapped cloth, lay something he never let out of sight. The shape was unmistakably human. Still. Bound with care. Not a wrinkle in the linen shifted, not even with the jolt of a stone beneath the wheel.

  He hadn’t slept. Not really. The road behind him was long, but he didn’t count days—just the miles, just the distance from Ocean Tide. From the field. From what was lost.

  Now the trees thickened. Light thinned. Birds had long gone quiet. Even the wind here moved slower, cautious.

  He stopped near a low rise where the trees bent unnaturally, as if pulled toward something unseen. In the dip beyond the rise sat a hut, crooked and half-buried beneath roots and earth. A single chimney rose like a broken tooth. Smoke did not curl from it.

  Ysar stood still, one hand on the cart’s edge.

  Then, without a word, he stepped forward—leaving the cart behind, just for a moment—to stand before the twisted door.

  Just as his hand reached for it, a voice rang out.

  “You reek of death. Leave.”

  A woman’s voice. Cold. Sharp. Close, yet nowhere.

  He didn’t stop. He pushed open the door.

  Inside was darker than the forest. The air felt heavy—thick like wet cloth. As he crossed the threshold, torches along the wall flared to life in cold blue fire. They touched the wood without burning it. Light flickered, but gave no warmth.

  “I need your help,” Ysar said.

  A pause.

  Then, from deeper inside: “I can’t help you. Leave.”

  “I know you can,” he said. “And I won’t go.”

  Something shifted in the dark. Then a shape stepped forward.

  A woman—pale, draped in a tattered black robe. Her skin was nearly colorless, but not sickly. Just… distant. Her hair hung like wet ink over her shoulders, and her violet eyes watched him like a blade.

  “You came to the wrong place.”

  Ysar flinched, but only slightly. “They said a witch lives here. A necromancer.”

  “She did. She’s dead. Leave.”

  She raised her hand.

  Wind surged—sharp and unnatural, slamming into Ysar like a wall. He stumbled back, boots dragging across the wooden floor.

  But he didn’t fall.

  He caught himself—and her wrist.

  “You—!”

  “I don’t care who you are,” he said. “Old, new, or damned. You know what she knew. You can bring someone back.”

  Her expression didn’t change. “You are a fool.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You think death is something you can bargain with?” she ask, with the same cold tone.

  “She’s gone. And nothing—nothing—will bring her back the way you want.”

  He didn’t answer. He just held her gaze.

  Long silence passed.

  Then, slowly, she pulled her hand free.

  “Fine,” she muttered. “Let me see the body.”

  Ysar gave a single nod. Silent. He turned and walked back out into the clearing.

  The woman followed, still barefoot, still watching. Her steps were soundless across the roots, and her robe moved like ash caught in low wind.

  He stopped beside the cart and began to unwrap the linen with care, layer by layer, until the face beneath was bare.

  No decay. No scent of death. Elsha looked untouched—her skin pale but soft, her hair still dark. Her lips had parted slightly, as though breath had only just escaped, but on her chest, there’s a hole, huge, stuffed with clothes.

  The woman stood over the cart, unreadable. She crouched without a word, leaned in.

  Her fingers hovered just above Elsha’s chest. A faint flicker of violet light sparked at her palm—quick and silent—and vanished.

  Then again, just above the brow.

  Then again, between the ribs.

  Each time, the light blinked and died. No answer.

  Ysar watched her face. Her focus. He saw the way her lips pressed tighter with each movement, how her shoulders slowly lowered—not in rest, but in resignation.

  She sat back on her heels.

  Ysar leaned forward. “Well?”

  “You preserved her well,” the woman said. “Very well. That’s not easy. Not for someone untrained.”

  His hands curled around the cart’s edge. “Then it’s not too late.”

  She didn’t meet his eyes. “If the soul were near, perhaps. If she had just passed… maybe.”

  Her words slowed. Careful. Measured.

  “But she’s not. There’s no tether left. No echo. She’s gone.”

  Ysar didn’t answer. He looked at Elsha’s face. The pale lashes. The unmoved curve of her mouth.

  “I don’t believe that,” he said. “You didn’t even try.”

  “I did,” she replied. “You just didn’t see it.”

  Her voice was low now. Not sharp, not dismissive. Only still.

  “She’s gone, that’s it.”

  A silence stretched long between them.

  Then she stood.

  “You should bury her,” she said. “That’s the last thing anyone can do right.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Ysar’s voice was rough. “There’s a ritual, isn’t there?”

  Her back stayed turned. “There’s always a ritual.”

  “Then let me see it.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you won’t stop once you start.”

  He didn’t move.

  She looked over her shoulder, her expression unreadable.

  “You may stay the night. Sleep where you like. The floor is dry.”

  She nodded toward the back of the hut.

  “If you want to bury her, there’s space in the garden.”

  Then she went inside.

  And the forest closed around him again.

  Night soaked into the forest. The sky was heavy above the trees, and the wind had long gone still.

  The hut stood dark and silent—its chimney bare, its windows shut like eyelids.

  Ysar waited.

  He sat by the cold firepit, unmoving. The sky shifted above him. The leaves rustled, once.

  Then—a floorboard creaked.

  A second later, another.

  Soft. Slow. Upstairs movement.

  Then stillness again.

  He rose.

  Stealth. And certainty.

  He walk slowly to the hut, open the door with the softest touch he could.

  It groaned softly once on its hinge, not enough to be alarming.

  Inside, the blue torches had gone cold. No flame. No light.

  Only dark.

  He didn’t light anything.

  Instead, he moved by memory and touch, fingers trailing the edge of the table, then the shelf. He crouched in the far corner. He remembered it, while speaking with her this morning, that there is a passage here, a very suspicious one, and he found it, a door.

  Again, it groaned faintly when moved.

  And before him now, a stair. Stone, narrow, spiraling down into breathless dark.

  He stepped in.

  Closing the door as soft as he can.

  Darkness swallowed everything.

  He kept one hand to the wall. Each step slow, measured. His boots scraped grit. The stone beneath his feet was slick in places, and once he nearly slipped—but caught himself against the curve.

  He moved like that—through blackness.

  It was a long descent.

  Longer than the hut could possibly contain.

  Eventually, a dull red glow appeared far below—faint, like embers. Just enough to show the bottom. Not enough to see the room.

  He reached the floor.

  Shapes formed around him. Outlines of shelves, slabs, a central altar. Lines on the ground—runes etched into the floor, now little more than shadows under ash.

  No light.

  Only the red dim at the chamber’s edge.

  He moved through it slowly.

  A shelf.

  Scrolls, jars. Leather tomes.

  He chose one—thick, stitched at the edges. The ink cracked as he opened it.

  Rituals. Glyphs. Planar mapping.

  Then he found it.

  The labels, is clear—full of diagrams and structure echoed what he’d heard in whispers.

  ‘The Soul Binding’ said the label.

  A process of binding. Soul tethering. Name, memory, vessel.

  He leaned over the page. Studied the ink. His mount mumble as he tried to remember all of the procedure, His thumb hovered over one of the diagrams—then pulled back.

  He set the book aside.

  Began pacing the room. Quiet. Measured.

  As if walking the pattern would help him remember the pieces he’d need.

  No voice. No vow. Just counting.

  Then—

  Wood creaked.

  Above.

  Again.

  She was coming.

  Ysar didn’t run. He didn’t scatter.

  He crossed the room fast and low, sliding between two tall shelves near the far wall.

  He stilled.

  No breath.

  No sound.

  Bare feet on stone.

  She descended without a light. But as she passed, torches along the walls sparked to life—one by one.

  No flint. No gesture. They obeyed her presence alone.

  The room came alive in red-gold light.

  She walked the chamber slowly. Passed close by where he hid. Her hair hung loose. Her face unreadable in the flickering torchlight.

  Her fingers brushed the altar as she passed.

  She didn’t glance at the book. Didn’t even pause.

  Just looked around once—at the shelves, the symbols, the mirror.

  And softly muttered, “Am I thinking too much?” and shake her head.

  And when she looks onto the altar at the middle of the room.

  ‘I hate this place’ another soft mumble.

  Then she turned.

  Walked back up the stairs.

  The torches dimmed behind her.

  Ysar remained still until the stair above gave its final creak.

  Then, and only then, he stepped back into the open.

  He picked the book. Tucked it beneath his arm.

  And looked once more at the altar.

  Then he turned.

  And climbed the steps in darkness.

  Morning fog clung to the trees like breath on glass.

  Ysar packed his things in silence.

  No real supplies—just a roll of cloth, an old knife, a few vials, and a half-wrapped charm he’d found on the hut’s outer shelf.

  The cart waited nearby. Still covered.

  No birds sang. Even the wind didn’t speak.

  The hut door creaked open behind him.

  The witch stepped out.

  Her movement was still like before—floating. That pale skin, haunting as ever, wrapped in the same tattered black. Her hair was tied back now. Bare feet touched the dew-wet grass without a sound.

  She eyed him without expression.

  “You’re leaving?” she asked.

  Ysar looked up. “Soon.” He gave her a smile—something no one would expect from him now.

  She glanced at the cart. “Made up your mind?”

  He nodded.

  “You reminded me,” he said quietly, “that she’s gone… and we should move on.”

  She didn’t answer.

  After a pause, she turned.

  “I don’t care where you sleep tonight,” she added. “Just don’t break anything.”

  “All right. Thank you, Miss…?”

  She paused at the edge of the trees.

  “Grimoire.”

  Then she walked—between the trees, vanishing quickly into the pale morning.

  Ysar stood still.

  Then turned to the cart.

  And began to unfasten the bindings.

  The hut stood still.

  Ysar stepped through it without pause, the wrapped body in his arms, his boots silent on the worn planks. He passed the cold hearth, the untouched books, the jar of dried eyes.

  The back door was closed—but not locked.

  He pushed it open with his shoulder.

  Stone steps waited beyond, slick with moss and old dust. He moved carefully, not fast, not slow. Just steady. Each step deeper into earth.

  The chamber opened wide beneath the hut—oval and low-ceilinged, its walls choked with old tomes, bottles, strips of bone bound with thread. The air was damp and silent. The mirror on the far wall did not shine.

  At the center stood the altar—black, veined, cold.

  He laid her down.

  Gently.

  Then he moved.

  The memory of the ritual etched itself behind his eyes—recalled from pages read in firelight, hands trembling with cold.

  He knelt beside the stone.

  Drew his blade.

  And began carving a circle into the floor. Slow, careful. A full ring around the altar. Then six points extended outward—like a compass star—each marked with a different sigil.

  Earth.

  Flame.

  Water.

  Air.

  Order.

  Chaos.

  Each one sharp, uneven. Not beautiful—but faithful.

  He stood and moved to the shelves.

  He knew what was needed.

  Silver dust—for clarity.

  Worm root—ground to powder—for memory.

  A vial of bone ash—for anchoring.

  He gathered them all, his movements swift, exact.

  Each ingredient went to its mark. A pinch. A smear. A breath.

  Then, he returned to the center.

  He drew the blade across his own palm.

  No hesitation.

  The blood welled thick and hot.

  He moved to each sigil—six points—letting the blood fall. One drop for each.

  The lines darkened.

  A tremor passed through the floor.

  He stepped back.

  The air grew tighter. Like something unseen had taken a breath.

  His hand pressed to her chest, just above the heart. He closed his eyes.

  “Elsha,” he said. “I call you by breath. By bond. By blood. Flame of the wind. Wake.”

  The sigils flared—dim red, then white, then gone.

  The torches in the chamber guttered.

  A low groan trembled through the stone.

  Outside—something howled.

  Not animal.

  Not human.

  The trees above them moaned as if bending all at once.

  Somewhere in the woods, the birds took flight at once, and the roots in the chamber twitched like worms in rain.

  Ysar stood still.

  Not in fear.

  In silence.

  The ritual was done.

  The forest held its breath.

  And above the stone altar, the air began to shimmer.

  The forest cracked.

  Not like branches snapping, not like a falling limb—something deeper. The sound rolled through the trees like a pulse under stone.

  Grimoire froze mid-step, hand halfway to the bark of a twisted herbvine. Her breath caught.

  Another sound followed.

  Low. Wrong. A sound like a soul being wrung through cloth.

  She turned.

  Then ran.

  Bare feet slapped against roots and soil. Her robes snapped behind her like dead wings. No hesitation, no curses—just full speed through underbrush and shadow.

  The trees grew thinner. The hut came into view.

  And she stopped.

  Smoke—black and thin—rose from behind the walls. Not from the chimney. From beneath.

  Her eyes narrowed. A curse half-formed in her throat, but she bit it back.

  She shoved open the hut door.

  Inside: stillness.

  Nothing broken. Nothing missing.

  Except for one thing.

  She bolted through the back.

  The door to the stairs stood ajar.

  The torches inside weren’t cold.

  They burned.

  She descended—fast and silent—and the moment her bare foot hit the chamber floor, she knew.

  He’d done it.

  The sigils were still faintly aglow. The blood hadn’t dried. The air smelled of sweat, iron, and something older—burnt thread, bone smoke.

  Ysar stood at the far end, breath uneven, hand still dripping blood. His face was pale, drawn. The chalk circle at his feet was still glowing, the symbols pulsing like breath beneath the stone.

  And at the center—

  The body lay still.

  But something stirred.

  Grimoire’s voice broke like a whip through the air.

  “You fool! What did you do!?”

  Ysar turned. Slowly. Like someone waking from a drowning sleep.

  He didn’t speak.

  He didn’t need to.

  Because behind him, the cloth shifted.

  A hand twitched.

  Then a sudden gasp—sharp, broken, like lungs dragging in air after too long beneath water.

  Elsha sat up.

  Not slowly.

  Her back arched, shoulders seized, breath ragged as if dragged from the bottom of a dream. Her hand flew to her chest—pressing against bare skin where blood had once bloomed.

  Ysar turned, startled. He didn’t speak either.

  He couldn’t.

  Elsha’s eyes darted, wide, disoriented—then found him.

  She stilled.

  Grimoire stood at the edge of the chamber, frozen mid-step, her breath held tight in her throat.

  Elsha turned her head toward her.

  Their eyes met.

  No one moved.

  The torchlight flickered, uneasy against the stone.

  And the silence held.