The forest is quiet tonight.

Too quiet, Calista thinks, as she 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. She exhales, watching the pale vapor curl into the darkness.

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

Beneath her, 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. Calista 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.

She mutters an incantation under her breath, old words from an older language, coaxing rather than commanding. She never rips a soul from rest. She 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.

Calista leans back on her heels, watching. Waiting. The spirit comes slowly, cautiously, 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.

She 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.

Calista closes her eyes, letting the voice enter not through her ears, but through her 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.

Her 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. Calista doesn’t try to hold it. She lets it go. Whatever secrets it carried have already seeped into her skin like ink into parchment.

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

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

She takes out her journal from beneath her cloak—a thick, leather-bound thing with pages made from parchment so old it crinkles like dead leaves. Kneeling again, she 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 she writes, the air shifts. Subtle. Like someone breathing behind her. Not a ghost this time—she would know. This is different. Warmer. She stiffens slightly, still crouched over the page, her quill frozen mid-stroke.

Someone is near.

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

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

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