The night was colder than it should have been.

Not the kind of cold that came with autumn—the kind that seeped into your bones, that made the air feel thick and heavy, that whispered of places where the sun never reached. Lucian felt it the moment they left the village behind, the warmth of the parish hall fading like a dream you couldn’t quite remember.

Cora walked beside him, her short sword drawn, her eyes scanning the darkness between the trees. She was quiet now, unlike the van ride, unlike the banter with Sera. This was her mission face—focused, sharp, ready.

"You’ve been quiet," she said.

"So have you."

"I’m thinking."

"About what?"

She glanced at him. "About how you always seem to know what’s waiting before we find it."

Lucian didn’t answer.

The forest closed around them, the path narrowing until they walked single file. The trees here were older than the ones near the village—their trunks thick and gnarled, their branches reaching across the trail like grasping hands. Moss hung from the limbs, pale and sickly, and the ground beneath their feet was soft, almost spongy, like they were walking on something that had once been alive.

Dr. Blackwood’s voice drifted from Derek’s earpiece, relayed through the comms. "The spiritual decay is stronger here. You’re close."

Cora touched her earpiece. "How close?"

"Close enough that I would advise turning back."

Derek’s nervous voice followed. "He’s not joking. His aura is... twitchy. That’s not a word he uses lightly."

Lucian kept walking.

The ravine opened before them, wider than it had looked from above, its walls steep and shadowed. At the bottom, the dead deer still lay where they’d found it, its grey body glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Cora stopped at the edge. "This is where we found the deer."

"This is where the trail ends," Lucian said.

He knelt, pressing his palm to the ground. His system pulsed, feeding him information—temperature, moisture, the faint residue of something that wasn’t quite magic but wasn’t natural either. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him.

"There’s something underneath us."

"Underground?"

"A chamber. Maybe natural, maybe carved. Hard to tell." He stood. "There’s an entrance nearby. Old oak tree, roots exposed. The ground slopes toward it."

Cora followed his gaze. The tree stood at the far end of the ravine, its trunk massive, its roots spreading across the earth like veins. Between them, a dark gap—narrow, low, barely visible in the shadows.

"That doesn’t look like a door."

"It’s not." Lucian drew one blade. "It’s a throat."

He walked toward it. Cora followed.

The gap between the roots was just wide enough for a person to squeeze through, the earth cold and damp against their shoulders. Lucian went first, his body twisting to fit through the narrow space, his blade held low. Cora came behind him, her breath tight, her free hand braced against the root above.

The tunnel sloped down, then leveled out, then opened into a chamber.

The air changed immediately—stale, old, heavy with the smell of earth and rot and something else, something that made Cora’s stomach turn. Dr. Blackwood’s voice came through the earpiece, barely a whisper.

"Death magic. Concentrated. She’s here."

The chamber was wide, its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls lined with bones.

Not human—at least, not all human. Animal skulls. Ribcages. Pelvises arranged in patterns that might have been ritual, might have been art, might have been something else entirely. The floor was packed earth, dark and damp, and in the center, on a throne of stacked femurs and vertebrae, sat the witch.

She was old.

That was the first thing Lucian noticed. Older than Greer, older than anyone he’d ever seen. Her skin was parchment stretched over bone, her hair thin and white, her hands curled in her lap like dead spiders. She wore a dress that might have been black once, now faded to grey, and her feet were bare, the nails yellow and cracked.

But her eyes.

Her eyes burned.

Green fire flickered in their depths, not reflected—contained. Like something was trapped behind them, clawing to get out.

Cora raised her sword. "Don’t move."

The witch’s head turned slowly, her neck creaking like old wood. She looked at Cora, then at Lucian, and her lips peeled back from teeth that were too white, too straight, too young for the face they sat in.

"Hunters," she rasped. "I wondered when you’d come."

"Greyhollow sent us," Cora said. "The attacks. The livestock. The curse."

"The curse." The witch’s laugh was dry, brittle, like leaves crumbling. "You call it a curse. I call it justice."

Lucian stepped forward, his blade still drawn but low. "Justice for what?"

Her eyes flared. "For my daughter."

The name hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

"They killed her," the witch said. "The villagers. Greer and the others. They said she was sick. They said it was illness." Her voice cracked. "It was murder."

Cora’s grip tightened on her sword. "We saw her picture. In the hall. She was young."

"Eighteen. Beautiful. Kind." The witch’s hands curled into fists. "And they let her die."

The bones on the walls began to tremble.

Lucian noticed. "You’re not just grieving. You’re feeding the curse with your own life force."

The witch’s eyes snapped to him. "What do you know of it?"

"I know it’s killing you." He took another step. "The curse draws from everything around it—animals, earth, water. But it draws from you most of all. You’re not just the hand that casts it. You’re the fuel."

The green fire in her eyes flickered.

Cora glanced at Lucian, then back at the witch. "We can help you."

The witch laughed again, louder this time, the sound echoing off the bone-lined walls. "Help me? You serve the Ashen Guard. You serve the Veil. You serve the same system that let my daughter rot."

She raised her hands.

The bones answered.

They rose from the walls, from the floor, from the throne beneath her—skulls and ribs and femurs, all of them moving, all of them assembling into shapes that had too many limbs and too many joints. Crude soldiers, held together by nothing but her will and the green fire that burned behind her eyes.

Cora stepped back, her sword raised. "Lucian—"

"Wait." 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

He didn’t raise his blade. He didn’t move. He just stood there, watching the witch, watching the fire, watching the way her hands trembled even as she commanded the dead.

"Your daughter," he said. "What was her name?"

The witch’s hands faltered.

"Emma," she whispered. "Her name was Emma."

Lucian nodded. "Emma. The girl in the photograph. The one with the shy smile."

"She was all I had."

"I know." He took another step. The bone soldiers didn’t move. Neither did the witch. "But she’s gone. And this—" he gestured to the walls, the curse, the dying village, "—this isn’t bringing her back."

The witch’s chin trembled. "They need to pay."

"They need to remember her." Lucian’s voice was quiet, steady. "Not fear you. Not die cursing your name. They need to remember Emma as she was, not as the reason their village burned."

The bone soldiers shuddered. Some of them collapsed into piles.

Cora lowered her sword, just a fraction. "Let us find out the truth. What really happened to your daughter. If the villagers were responsible, they’ll answer for it. But not like this."

The witch stared at her. Then at Lucian. Then at the bones that had been her army, now scattered across the floor like broken toys.

"You’re lying," she whispered. "Everyone lies."

Lucian sheathed his blade.

"Let me prove you wrong."

The green fire in her eyes dimmed.

For a long moment, no one moved. No one breathed. The chamber was silent except for the distant drip of water and the soft rustle of bones settling.

Then the witch lowered her hands.

The remaining soldiers fell.

"Three days," she said. "I’ll give you three days. Find the truth. Bring it to me." Her voice hardened. "Or the curse spreads to the well."

Cora nodded. "Three days."

The witch leaned back on her throne, her body seeming to shrink, to wither, as if the fire that had sustained her was finally banked.

"Go," she breathed. "Before I change my mind."

Lucian turned and walked toward the tunnel. Cora followed.

Behind them, the green fire flickered once, twice, then faded to embers.

The bones lay still.

And she was waiting for the truth.