The van hummed along the highway, grey morning light filtering through the tinted windows. Inside, Ashen Dawn sat in their usual configuration—Cora up front next to the driver (a silent Ashen Guard operative who hadn’t spoken a word since they left), Mason by the side door with his arms crossed, Sera in the back scrolling through her phone, and Derek wedged between her and a stack of supply crates.

Lucian sat across from Derek, watching the landscape change. City gave way to suburbs. Suburbs gave way to fields. Fields gave way to forest, dense and dark, the trees pressing close to the road like they wanted to reach out and touch the glass.

"Greyhollow," the driver said, the first word he’d spoken in an hour. "Five minutes."

Cora stretched her arms above her head. "About time. My legs are falling asleep."

"Your legs are always falling asleep," Sera said without looking up from her phone.

"Because I’m always sitting next to you, and you take up all the room."

"I’m compact."

"You’re sprawled."

"I’m efficient."

Derek rubbed his eyes. He’d barely slept the night before—too busy testing his ghost’s ability to carry objects. He’d successfully submitted his assignment, but now his room was cluttered with items his spectral assistant had moved without permission.

"Dr. Blackwood says we’re close," Derek murmured.

Dr. Blackwood’s voice drifted through the air, thin and dry. "I said we were approaching a area of spiritual decay. There’s a difference."

"Is there?"

"One implies proximity. The other implies danger."

Derek sighed. "Why can’t you ever just say ’we’re almost there’?"

"Because I am a man of precision, not convenience."

Cora snorted. "You’re a ghost. You’re not a man of anything."

"I was a man. That counts."

The van slowed, turning onto a gravel road that wound through the trees. The forest opened into a clearing, and Greyhollow emerged from the mist like a forgotten photograph. 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

The village was small. Maybe fifty buildings, most of them old, their wooden walls weathered grey by years of rain and neglect. A church steeple rose above the rooftops, its bell silent. Smoke curled from a few chimneys, but the streets were empty.

No children playing. No dogs barking. Just silence, thick and heavy.

The van stopped in front of a low building with a sign that read "Greyhollow Parish Hall." The driver cut the engine and turned to face them.

"I’ll wait here. Alistair said to check in every four hours. Don’t make me come looking for you."

Cora opened the door. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

They stepped out into the cold.

The air smelled different here. Not just damp—wrong. Like something had died and the world hadn’t bothered to clean it up.

Sera frowned, her nose twitching. "Do you smell that?"

"Death," Mason said flatly.

"More than that. Older."

Derek hugged his staff. "Can we please not talk about the smell of death? It’s not even noon."

Lucian said nothing. He was already walking toward the parish hall, his eyes scanning the buildings, the windows, the faces that appeared briefly behind curtains and vanished when they saw him looking.

The door to the hall opened before he reached it.

A woman stood there, old but not frail, her grey hair pulled back in a tight bun. She wore a simple dress and a heavy coat, and her eyes were the color of winter sky—pale, cold, and too sharp.

"You’re the hunters," she said. Not a question.

Cora stepped forward. "Ashen Guard. We’re here about the livestock attacks."

The woman studied her for a moment, then stepped aside. "Come in. We have much to discuss."

Her name was Greer, and she was the village elder.

The hall was small, with a long table in the center and wooden chairs that creaked when you sat on them. A fire crackled in the hearth, but it didn’t seem to warm the room. The walls were bare except for a single photograph—a young girl with dark hair and a shy smile.

Greer noticed Lucian looking at it. "My granddaughter," she said. "She died ten years ago. Illness."

"I’m sorry," Lucian said.

Greer nodded, her expression unreadable. "The attacks started three weeks ago. First the Johnson’s sheep. Then the Miller’s cattle. Last week, the Henderson boy found his dog drained in the yard."

"Any witnesses?" Mason asked.

"No. But the tracks..." She paused, as if choosing her next words carefully. "The tracks look like nothing I’ve ever seen. Too thin. Too many joints."

Cora and Lucian exchanged a glance.

Revenant Witch.

Dr. Blackwood’s voice was barely a whisper, meant only for Derek. "Old magic. Death pact. Very dangerous."

Derek swallowed.

Greer led them to the outskirts, where the forest pressed closest to the village.

The trees were different here—darker, their bark cracked and weeping sap that looked too much like blood in the dim light. The ground was soft, wet, and cold, even though the sun had been up for hours.

Mason knelt, pressing his hand to the earth. "It’s colder here. Like winter cold."

Sera closed her eyes, focusing. Her blood sense stretched out, searching for anything warm, anything alive, anything that bled.

"Nothing," she said. Then her eyes snapped open. "Wait. Faint. Underground."

Lucian followed her gaze. The forest floor sloped downward ahead, toward a shallow ravine choked with dead brush.

They found the deer at the bottom.

It lay on its side, legs stiff, eyes open and glassy. Its body was grey—not the grey of decay, but the grey of stone, of ash, of something that had been drained of everything that made it alive.

No wounds. No blood. Just pale, empty skin stretched over bone.

Derek stepped back. "What did this?"

Dr. Blackwood materialized beside him, his translucent face grave. "A Withering Curse. Laid by a Revenant Witch."

Cora frowned. "Revenant Witch?"

"A human who made a pact with a death spirit. They don’t age. They don’t get sick. But they need to feed—life force, drawn from the living." He gestured to the deer. "Animals first. Then, when they grow bold, people."

Mason’s jaw tightened. "The village well. If the curse reaches it..."

"Everyone dies," Dr. Blackwood finished.

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush.

Lucian looked at the deer, at the grey forest, at the distant rooftops of Greyhollow. Then he looked at the ravine, where the ground sloped deeper into shadow.

"I’ll scout ahead," he said. "At night."

"You’ll scout alone?" Cora’s voice was sharp.

"I move quieter alone."

"Then I’m coming with you."

"Cora."

"Lucian." She crossed her arms. "You promised we’d talk. And I’m not letting you walk into a witch’s den by yourself."

Dr. Blackwood cleared his throat. "If I may—taking two is wise. Revenant Witches are clever. They set traps. Having a partner reduces the risk of walking into one."

Lucian looked at Cora. She didn’t look away.

"Fine," he said. "But you follow my lead."

"Always."

"You don’t."

"I will this time."

Mason cracked his neck. "The rest of us will secure the perimeter. Make sure nothing tries to leave."

Sera checked her crossbow. "And if we find something?"

"Don’t engage," Lucian said. "Call us."

Derek raised his hand. "What do I do?"

"Stay with Mason. Keep Dr. Blackwood active. If the witch tries to talk to you through the ghosts, don’t listen."

Derek paled. "Don’t listen. Right. Easy."

The sky was darkening. The sun had begun its descent behind the trees, and the shadows stretched long across the forest floor.

Lucian and Cora sat apart from the others, near the edge of the ravine. She was checking her weapons—short sword, throwing knives, a small flashlight that worked in supernatural darkness. He was staring at the ravine, his system pulsing faintly in the corner of his vision.

"You promised," Cora said quietly.

"I know."

"So talk."

Lucian was silent for a moment. Then: "The truth is I myself don’t know but I have this high perceptive ability which is also my ability and it is more than what I let on, I can grasp things easily, hence my high learning ability."