The forest is quiet tonight.

Too quiet, Calix thinks, as he kneels in the snow with bare fingers pressed to the frozen earth. The usual creaks and rustlings of nocturnal life are absent, swallowed by a stillness thick as fog. Even the wind seems reluctant to stir, caught between trees like breath held too long. He exhales, watching the pale vapor curl into the darkness.

A lantern burns beside him—its light dim, flickering, shaded in blue. Not firelight, but spiritlight. It pulses faintly in rhythm with the charm around his neck: a braided cord strung with bones, feathers, and a single, blood-slicked ring. He fingers it absently, eyes half-lidded in concentration.

Beneath him, the soil is charmed. A fresh grave, shallow and hastily dug. Likely a bandit, judging by the discarded weapons scattered a few yards off and the lack of ceremony. Calix doesn’t care who it was. Names rarely matter. What matters is how long the soul lingers, and how tightly the bones still remember their shape.

He mutters an incantation under his breath, old words from an older language, coaxing rather than commanding. He never rips a soul from rest. He invites. Encourages. Offers a tether, like a thread drawn through the veil.

The ground shifts. Not violently. Gently. A subtle tremor, like a sleeper rolling over in their grave.

Calix leans back on his heels, watching. Waiting. The spirit comes slowly—cautious, like all the dead who weren’t ready. A faint shimmer begins to form in the air above the disturbed soil: pale, featureless, almost human. Its edges flicker in and out, as though unsure whether to be seen at all.

He whispers again, softer now. “No one’s here to hurt you. Just speak. Tell me what you saw.”

The ghost's mouth opens in silence.

Calix closes his eyes, letting the voice enter not through his ears, but through his mind. Impressions, fragments, broken pieces of memory—like glass half-buried in snow. A ruined church. A glint of silver. Blood in the shape of a circle.

His jaw tightens.

Another mage, then. Or worse—one who doesn’t ask permission before raising the dead.

The ghost fades. Not with reluctance, but relief. Calix doesn’t try to hold it. He lets it go. Whatever secrets it carried have already seeped into his skin like ink into parchment.

He stands slowly, brushing the snow from his knees. His hands are cold. Bloody. He wipes them on his cloak—already stained from previous nights. The lantern dims further, flickering once before dying altogether, plunging him into shadow.

Calix doesn't mind. Darkness is familiar. Comfortable.

He takes out his journal from beneath his cloak—a thick, leather-bound thing with pages made from parchment so old it crinkles like dead leaves. Kneeling again, he begins to write by moonlight, scratching lines with a narrow quill and ink dark as dried blood. Every detail matters. Every spirit has a story, and every story a clue.

As he writes, the air shifts. Subtle. Like someone breathing behind him. Not a ghost this time—he would know. This is different. Warmer. He stiffens slightly, still crouched over the page, his quill frozen mid-stroke.

Someone is near.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look back. Just finishes the sentence he started, then tucks the journal into the folds of his cloak. The grave behind him is still, closed again by unseen hands. No sign of what he’s done remains—except the blood on his fingertips and the faint hum of magic in the air.

Then, at last, he stands. Slowly. Calmly. Eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed but not unwary. His fingers twitch toward the dagger at his hip—not to draw it, but to know it’s there. Just in case.

He speaks, voice low, unreadable. “If you’ve come for coin, I’ve none. If you’ve come for trouble, you’ll find it.”