Slowly, a spirit came forward. It wasn't summoned—Lucian wasn't thinking about anything specific when the rites took shape.
He stared from the workshop's porch as it hovered near the chapel's garden. The wind curled around broken stones and wilted lilies, gently moving them away from the dirt road. Lucian hadn't realized he planted a rite.
And then he saw it: a soft glow, blurred around the edges. No eyes, and no name. But regardless, it was a fully formed spirit.
"Are you lost?" he whispered.
The spirit didn't answer. It simply stayed there, a few paces where, a few days ago, he'd sown the ashes of another soul.
Mouth agape, Lucian stared at it a moment longer before his brain helpfully prodded him.
Get your tools, Lucian. You have a spirit to help, remember?
Hurriedly, he went inside to fetch his tools.
+
Brother Frederick was summoned a bit later.
"Are any names missing from the death logs, Brother Frederick?"
Frederick shook his head slowly.
"No names. No deaths. But we had a patient from Staesis pass through—briefly. Never spoke. Only stared at the windmill."
Lucian frowned. He had walked around that town many times and had never seen one.
"Staesis had a windmill?"
Frederick seemed apologetic and shook his head.
"They did, once before."
+
The spirit was still present as Lucian prepared to cast Seed-Sown Farewell. He carefully wrote the glyphs using his stick of yew, making sure every line curved gently. Finally, he sprinkled some crushed sage around the center in a soft spiral.
Alice watched from a few feet away, her eyes unreadable. He almost wished she had taken up knitting, if only to add another sound in the room.
Lucian placed a petal in the center of the ritual.
It's more sensory than being a court mortician…my Grimoire would have said something by now.
Instead, this was experimentation—and while it was refreshing, he couldn't deny the tremble in his knees. He didn't use a name for the spirit, and just whispered:
"You can rest now. Let it rite hold what remains."
The wind shivered, and then—
The spirit flinched.
It didn't recoil, but flinch.
Then it flickered and stretched—like the shape was trying to become something else.
The spirit began to wail but no sound came out.
Unable to parse what was happening, Lucian stood firm.
"You're safe," he repeated.
His Grimoire, usually asleep in its satchel, thrashed violently and appeared by his side. It hummed once, and glowed red.
[ALERT: MEMORY COLLAPSE DETECTED]
This spirit is not whole. The emotional imprint exceeds the identity threshold by 100%.
Caution: The anchor may reroute to the caster.
Lucian's stomach dropped.
"It's... pulling from me."
The spirit pulsed.
And then it spoke—in Rosa's voice.
"You didn't say goodbye."
+
Lucian staggered back.
"No," he whispered. "That's not—she's gone—"
The spirit warped again. It split, briefly, into two: one shape bearing Rosa's hair and hand gestures; the other, a blurred, older man with eyes like fog.
"Name is grief," it whispered. "Yours. Mine. Ours."
The Grimoire pulsed violently.
[Spiritual Overflow Threshold Approaching]
Warning: Emotional Overload. Stabilization Required.
Anchor is incomplete. Memory bleed risk: High.
Lucian dropped to his knees in despair. The rite circle had become a mirror, and the reflection was himself.
Just when the air began to crackle—like glass under strain—a bell rang.
Only once.
Distant.
Thin.
But it was enough.
The spirit shattered.
Not into light.
Into roots.
Thick, ink-colored, writhing tendrils of grief that slammed into the soil and vanished.
Lucian collapsed forward, gasping.
+
When he woke, someone was holding a cold cloth to his forehead.
"Your soul is clouded," said Lucy softly. "My necklace couldn't find you today."
Lucian blinked.
She was sitting at the edge of his cot, wearing the glass pendant she had given him when he first visited Sweetwater farm. It had once pulsed warm in his presence and was filled with clear water. Now it was empty and hung motionless from her neck.
Every now and then, water attempted to enter the vessel, but it grew clouded and evaporated.
"It has always glowed near grief. Or it lets you know when someone is lying to you. When you left Staesis, it hadn't stopped glowing. But today...it was completely still. Like you weren't anywhere."
Lucian tried to sit up, and Alice appeared beside him. Her eyes were wide and she clung to his arm.
"You nearly got rooted," she whispered. "That spirit didn't want rest. It wanted to be you."
Lucian swallowed.
"It didn't even have a name. Just… fragments."
"So did I," Alice murmured. "And look what I became."
+
The Grimoire hovered beside the bed, open to a pulsing alert page:
[Spiritual Echo Nesting Detected]
Saturation Level: 89%.
Unknown emotional residues accumulating in rites.
Intervention Advised.
Lucian scowled.
"Then help me fix it."
The Grimoire, his guiding system, paused. Then it answered: No. Not this time.
Lucian blinked.
"Why?"
New text appeared that gave him pause.
You wrote rites with feeling, not formula. You have abandoned the Crown's rhythm--and your magic is no longer anchored to the Queen. I was made in Staesis and grew in Atreaum; places that function with order and law.
Now, without an anchor, the world listens to your spells. And it does not know mercy.
He closed the book with shaking fingers as he understood the consequences of his actions.
I'm no longer required to be in the Queen's court for my mortician duties. She's probably revoked my status now, and...I don't have a mentor. Is this what it means to be all alone? How did Merry get through this?
+
That night, Lucian lit no candles.
He didn't dare.
The spirits were still out there, and now they were festering, like an open wound.
He sat on the back porch of the workshop and tried to steady his breath.
He didn't hear Merry arrive.
He only saw her shadow flicker beside his—one quiet soul next to another.
She didn't speak right away.
Then, softly:
"The dirt still remembers when you bled on it."
Lucian looked up.
She sat beside him, twig in hand, sketching lines in the dust.
"The next time you cast without roots, it won't just echo. It'll grow."
"I didn't think it would spiral so quickly," he murmured.
"Emotion always does. And resurrection? That's the deepest root of all."
He stared down at his hands.
"I wasn't trying to bring anyone back."
"Then stop writing like someone who wishes you could."
+
The next morning, Michael brought in the mail.
No seals. No warnings.
Just a note, pressed in waxed bark and bundled in twine.
Lucian unwrapped it slowly.
Lucian,
Your rites are being answered by more than the dead. Some of the things listening… don't want rest. They want memory. They want meaning. They want you.
You must come to Houndsberry Hollow.
Before what's reaching through your rites finishes the crossing.
Cast the glyph. Bring your stick.
—Merry
Attached was another glyph.
But this one had a heartbeat.
When Lucian touched it, the ink shimmered like rain on stone.
The Grimoire updated:
[Field Anchor Detected]
Camouflage Rite Confirmed
Path to Houndsberry Unlocked — One Time Use.
He packed at dusk.
Alice stood by the doorway, arms folded, candlelight reflecting in her eyes.
"So you're going?"
Lucian nodded.
"If I don't... I won't be able to keep anyone safe. Not even myself."
"You're not him anymore," she said.
"Who?"
"The mortician they sent here."
He didn't answer.
She walked closer, her hands clenched.
"You carry Rosa in pieces. And Alaric's warnings. And now this thing inside your rites that even you don't understand."
"I'm trying to."
"I know," she said. "But if you go—"
She bit her lip.
"If you go… who will bring me back?"
Lucian froze.
The candle between them flickered once—and went out.