The Halfway Hearth was quiet.
Not silent, but quiet in the way a storm settles just before it cracks. Our little table by the hearth sat untouched, food forgotten, drinks warm. Moonlight had finally pushed its way through the grimy windows, painting soft lines across the floorboards, across the faces of the people I now called friends.
No one said anything for a while after I finished talking.
I didn’t blame them. I mean, what could you really say?
Calla’s hands were folded in her lap, but her eyes were locked in the middle distance. Calm on the surface, but distant in that calculating, terrifying way she got when she was running seventeen thoughts at once. Garrick was leaning back, arms crossed, mouth set in a frown that said he didn’t have the words. And Thorne…
Thorne looked like she wanted to hit me.
Not hard. Not enough to draw blood. Just enough to maybe knock some common sense into me.
“You’re a special kind of stupid,” she said at last, voice low and flat. “You know that?”
I winced. “Look, I didn’t exactly ask him to self-destruct.”
“No. You just walked straight into a paranoid mage’s deathtrap, waved your weird glowing orb around, and dropped the name of the man who was hunting him down.” She stabbed a finger at me. “You’re lucky he only blew himself up.”
“I didn’t know he’d—”
“No, you didn’t. Because you don’t think past the here and now. You just chase the next weird glitch like it’s a quest marker and hope everything doesn’t fall apart.”
Glint, sitting in the middle of the table between us like a very fluffy referee, chirped once and pressed his paws to his ears.
I slouched deeper in my chair. “I thought he could help.”
“He did help,” Calla said quietly.
We all turned.
She looked up at me, face unreadable. “He gave us more than we had. A name. A warning. A message, even if it cost him his life.”
Thorne grunted, but didn’t argue.
Garrick finally leaned forward, his chair creaking. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around this. This Hollow guy. The glyph traps. The orbs. Merden said others had them, didn’t he?”
“Had,” I said. “Past tense.”
“And you think this Hollow’s been hunting them?”
I nodded. “One by one.”
He blew out a slow breath. “Not ideal.”
Thorne’s eyes didn’t leave me. “And now you’ve painted a target on your back twice as bright.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
Silence fell again. Heavier this time.
Glint shifted on the table, fluffing up his fur like he could puff the tension out of the room by sheer force of will. He failed.
I sighed, staring into my mostly empty mug.
“I didn’t mean for any of it to happen like that,” I said. “I just… I thought maybe he could explain what I am. Why the orb exists? Why I can see the things no one else can.”
“And now we know it’s bigger than just you,” Garrick said. “That’s something.”
“Yeah,” Thorne muttered. “And also horrifying.”
No one laughed.
I looked up, catching Calla’s gaze again. “So… what now?”
She held it for a beat, then glanced down at her lap. “Now we do what Merden never could.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“Follow the threads. Without unraveling.”
There was something in her voice—something fragile, wrapped in steel—that made me sit up a little straighter.
Then, with the kind of confidence that came from rehearsing it in her head, she pivoted. Gently but firmly. “Anyway,” she said, more deliberately now, “I spent this afternoon tracking down someone who might know more about the tome. An appraiser who specializes in cursed items. Works out of a crypt-side lab in the Sepulcher District.”
Garrick raised an eyebrow. “Necromancer?”
“Probably,” Calla said, with the kind of shrug that somehow managed to be both resigned and amused. “Goes by Edda of the Veil. Independent, licensed, notoriously difficult to get an appointment with—unless you have a referral, which I do.”
Thorne narrowed her eyes. “How?”
Calla didn’t answer. She just sipped from her cup like that question wasn’t worth the energy. Which, knowing her, meant it was either a favor owed or a favor paid.
“Is this the kind of ‘referral’ that ends in us owing someone a favor back?” I asked, already bracing for the answer.
“Only if we waste her time,” she said simply. “Her rate’s steep—eighty gold just for the identification, and she charges double if she senses anyone lying to her.”
“I’m sensing a theme,” I muttered.
“But she’s the best,” Calla continued. “And she doesn’t ask questions unless they’re the kind you can’t afford not to answer.”
Garrick let out a long breath. “Alright. Where is she exactly?”
“There’s a gate by the south end of the district,” Calla said, standing and slipping her gloves back on. “Past the old mourning hall with the cracked arch. There’s a side entrance marked by a hanging lantern with violet flame. We follow the tunnel down two levels. She’ll be expecting us, but only for another hour.”
“So if we want answers tonight…” I said, standing too.
“We go now,” Calla finished.
Glint chirped, hopping from the table to my shoulder like he’d already decided we were going. Thorne was still scowling, but she pushed her chair back without argument.
Garrick grabbed his coat and his warhammer.
“Great,” I muttered. “Nothing says relaxing evening like a casual visit to a crypt-dwelling death mage.”
Thorne cracked her neck. “Better than sitting here waiting for Hollow to knock.”
Point taken.
 
The streets of Maldon had gone quiet in the way only cities do at night—still busy, but hushed, like even the buildings were holding their breath. Lanterns swayed overhead, casting warm pools of light across damp cobblestones, and the clink of our boots echoed through narrow alleys as we wound toward the Sepulcher District.
Nobody talked at first. Maybe we were still dwelling on Merden. Or maybe it was just the concern about where we were going—because “necromancer consultation” wasn’t exactly the kind of outing that screamed casual conversation.
Thorne broke the silence first with a sigh, dragging a hand down her face.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“I took a hunt contract today,” she muttered. “Snagged a few hundred gold.”
That earned a blink from me. “Wait—alone?”
“Yep.”
“You okay?”
She shot me a look. “You’re the one being hunted by a system assassin. I just stabbed a magic boar in the neck.”
Garrick perked up behind us. “Hey, that’s something. A few hundred gold? What’d you take down?”
“Big bastard terrorizing some rice paddies north of the wall,” she said. “Mutated tusks. Half-rotted eyes. Smelled like a wet dungeon floor, thrashed around like a pissed-off fish.”
Garrick let out a low whistle. “Nice.”
Thorne gave a noncommittal shrug.
“And I…” Garrick hesitated, running a hand through his hair before scratching at the back of his neck. “Might’ve accidentally signed up for the Champion’s Duel.”
Calla, who’d been studying the street signs like they were written in ancient prophecy, blinked once. “You what?”
“It was a misunderstanding,” he said sheepishly, which, coming from Garrick, could mean anything from signing the wrong paper to swearing a blood oath without realizing it.
“What happened?” I asked with a smirk on my face. I just knew something ridiculous was coming.
“Well, I stopped by the smithy, right? Figured I’d upgrade my gear. They’ve got this fancy enchantment line on plate now—makes it lighter, more reactive in combat. Pretty neat.”
“Skip to the part where you volunteered to get punched in the face for public entertainment,” Thorne said flatly.
“I didn’t volunteer!” Garrick protested. “This very persuasive older lady running the counter said I looked ‘broad-shouldered and noble.’ Next thing I know, I’m signing a form and she’s clapping like she just got me married off.”
“Let me guess,” Calla said. “The form was registration for the Champion’s Duel.”
“Exactly,” Garrick sighed. “I tried to back out, but she said I’d be shaming my honor and her matchmaking instincts. I panicked.”
Thorne groaned into her hands. “You panicked into bloodsport.”
“I panicked politely,” he said, wounded. “Besides, it’s not like I’ve never fought in an arena before.”
“Have you?” I asked.
“…No.”
Calla was pinching the bridge of her nose now. “Gods help us.”
“I’m on the schedule for Saturday,” Garrick offered, trying to sound helpful. “Afternoon round.”
I let out a sharp laugh. Short and more frayed than I meant it to be. “Right. So just to recap, we’ve got a cursed tome pointing us toward necromancers, a prophet who literally exploded, a glitched orb that may or may not be illegal, a system assassin on my heels… and now our tank’s signed up for gladiator games.”
Garrick smiled nervously. “Could be fun?”
“Could be a eulogy,” Thorne muttered.
Calla didn’t say anything, but she didn’t look thrilled either. She just kept walking, her steps clipped and efficient.
“Almost there,” she muttered. “Past this next bend, we should see the lantern.”
 
The violet light was the only real sign we’d found the place—and even then, it looked more like a warning than a welcome. It flickered in slow pulses above a narrow stone doorway set into the side of an old mausoleum, its light casting an eerie hue across the cracked path and thorny hedge that had long since overgrown the front walk. The air here felt colder somehow, like it hadn’t moved in years.
“Well,” Garrick said, eyeing the lantern. “That’s festive.”
“No backing out now,” Calla whispered, already pushing the iron gate open with a creak.
I followed, heart thudding a little too loudly in my chest. Glint buried his face in my collar the second we stepped inside.
The first thing I noticed was the smell—damp stone, old paper, and something faintly metallic that tugged at the edge of my memory. The second was the light. It wasn’t torchlight or lanterns, not exactly. The room pulsed with a dull green glow, spilling from runes carved into the walls and ceiling like veins of Ghostlight. There were jars on every shelf, scrolls bound in faded leather, and skeletal remains posed like decorative accents. One skull had a monocle.
The necromancer stood behind a desk made of blackened bonewood, hunched over a mortar that was gently smoking. Her robes were a patchwork of soot-stained velvet, and her hair hung in long gray braids streaked with purple threads. Her eyes—pale, sharp, and a little too wide—locked on us the second we entered.
“You’re late,” she said, voice rasping like dry parchment. “I was beginning to think your cursed item had already killed you.”
Calla stepped forward. “You’re Edda?”
“Obviously.”
She straightened, wiping her hands on a cloth that looked suspiciously like it had once been part of a burial shroud. “Put the item on the table. Payment first.”
“Up front?” Garrick asked, frowning.
Edda’s gaze didn’t move. “Do I look like a charity?”
Thorne was already reaching for her coin pouch, but I shook my head and stepped forward before she could say anything.
“I’ve got it.” I pulled the pouch from my belt, counted out the fee Calla had mentioned—eighty gold, all told—and placed it gently on the edge of the desk. It was the least I could do after everything I’d done today.
Edda didn’t thank me. Just swept the coins away with one motion and gestured again.
“The item.”
I hesitated a second longer than I should have. Then I slipped the tome from my bag and set it down.
The second it touched the table, Edda hissed—sharp, loud, and without laying a finger on it.
“Cursed,” she said.
“But you didn’t even—” I started.
“I don’t need to,” she snapped, eyes narrowing as she leaned closer. “It reeks of it. The kind that doesn’t just sit quietly and cause nightmares. The kind that’s waiting for something.”
I winced.
Thorne’s gaze flicked sideways and landed on me like a slap.
“What?” I said, hands raised. “You’re all the ones who wanted to open it.”
She didn’t say anything.
Edda leaned closer to the tome, her fingers dancing just above the cover without touching it. Her expression shifted, slightly, but enough to chill the back of my neck.
“This,” she murmured, “isn’t just cursed. It’s bound. And whoever it’s bound to… they were powerful.”
“And dead,” Calla said softly.
Edda didn’t smile.
“Let’s hope they stay that way.”
 
Edda moved with quiet efficiency, her robes whispering against the stone floor as she cleared a space on the ritual table. Candles were lit—twelve of them, each the color of old bone and flickering with unnatural steadiness. She set the tome at the center, then drew a circle of chalky gray ash around it, muttering words under her breath that made the air taste like iron and old smoke.
Glint pressed himself deeper into my hood. I couldn’t blame him.
“You may want to step back,” Edda said, voice low. “The dead are not fond of interruption.”
Garrick took a generous step behind me. Thorne didn’t move at all.
Edda lit a pinch of incense, the smoke curling in unnatural shapes—sharp, almost geometric patterns that didn’t dissipate so much as vanish. Then she began to chant. Low and steady at first, the cadence of her words rising like a tide. I didn’t recognize the language, but it prickled at the edges of my mind, like something too old to forget and too dangerous to remember.
The tome twitched.
Not opened. Not levitated. Just… twitched. Like it had a pulse. Or a heartbeat.
The candles flared.
Edda’s voice grew louder, sharper, until it echoed strangely against the stone walls. The chalk runes began to glow, casting long, angular shadows that didn’t match our bodies. And then—mid-chant—Edda jerked.
Her whole body snapped rigid, back arching, arms flung wide as if yanked by invisible strings. Her feet lifted clean off the ground, toes dragging through the smoke. Her head tipped back. Her eyes rolled until nothing but milky whites stared at the ceiling, unblinking.
“Oh gods,” Garrick muttered behind me.
Calla’s breath hitched.
Edda twitched once. Then again. Then began to groan—low and rough and wrong. Not a growl, not a scream. Just… pain. It echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls like the sound of something tearing.
“What do we do?” I whispered, looking wildly at the others.
“Do we do something?” Garrick asked.
“She said don’t interrupt,” Calla said through gritted teeth, but her hand drifted toward her staff, anyway.
Thorne was stone-still, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.
The smoke pulsed again, washing over us like a wave. Edda floated higher, twisting like she was caught in a slow-motion riptide, and then…
She dropped.
Straight down. Into her chair.
The impact rattled the desk. The candles went out all at once.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of our own breathing.
Then Edda lifted her head.
Her hair hung loosely around her face. Her eyes—blessedly normal again—blinked once. Twice. Then she reached for the edge of the desk, straightened her spine with a sharp crack and calmly adjusted her shawl like she’d just taken a nap.
“Well,” she said, voice rasped and dry, “that was unpleasant.”
We stared at her.
She blinked at us, unfazed. “What?”
“You floated,” Garrick said, voice pitched a little higher than normal. “And screamed.”
Edda shrugged. “Better than last time. At least I didn’t bite anyone.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
Edda’s fingers hovered just above the tome’s cover, as if feeling for a pulse. “This book isn’t just cursed,” she said, voice slower now. Measured. “It’s anchored. It’s not just tied to the dead—it’s holding on to something. And it doesn’t want to let go.”
The room seemed to narrow. Even the shadows leaned closer.
“It used to belong to an Acolyte,” she went on. “A powerful one. From a noble house. House Virelan.”
Calla straightened so fast her chair creaked. “Virelan?” Her voice was sharper than I’d ever heard it. “As in—”
“Yes,” Edda said, without looking at her. “That Virelan. The ones who built half the university district and funded the Crystal Spire.”
“That house was wiped out,” Calla said, breath catching. “I thought they vanished after the collapse.”
“They didn’t vanish,” Edda said, tone dry. “They died. Or most of them did. And the man this belonged to—his name was Auren Virelan. An Acolyte of considerable level. Respected. Feared, even. He passed twenty years ago. Officially, at least.”
I blinked. “Officially?”
Edda’s lips twitched. “The dead don’t always stay quiet. Not when they leave behind something like this.” She tapped the cover again. “And this… this is still listening.”
The air prickled.
Edda slumped back in her chair, suddenly looking a hundred years older. “That’s all I could pull before it pushed me out. Whatever else it’s hiding… you’ll need to dig it up yourselves.”
We stood in silence for a moment as that name—Auren Virelan—settled over us like a storm front.
Calla rose first, bowing her head slightly. “Thank you.”
Thorne and Garrick echoed her with quiet nods. I waited just a second longer, then followed suit, slipping the tome carefully back into my bag like it might start whispering at me.
“Try not to open it when you’re alone,” Edda muttered as we reached the door. “And if it ever starts humming? Run.”
Noted.
We stepped out into the street, the night colder now than it had any right to be. The wind carried the faint smell of ash and magic, and the moonlight had turned hard and pale.
None of us spoke for a while.
Then, as we passed under a crooked archway and into the lamplight, Calla said, softly, “Auren Virelan was a prodigy. His spells are still taught in some academies—an entire school of soulbinding magic was built around his research. And if this tome is his…”
She didn’t finish.
She didn’t need to.
We walked on, the old city closing in, its stones whispering secrets underfoot.
And in my bag, the tome shifted.
Just once.
Like something inside it had finally woken up.