The morning light did nothing to warm Greyhollow.

Lucian stood at the window of the parish hall, watching the villagers move through their routines like sleepwalkers. They carried water from the well—the well that the curse hadn’t reached yet—and spoke in whispers, their eyes darting toward the forest every few steps. Fear lived in them now. Fear of the dark. Fear of each other. Fear of the old woman beneath the roots.

Cora sat at the table, cleaning her sword with a cloth that had once been white. "How long are we going to wait?"

"Until we have answers."

"And if the answers don’t come?"

Lucian didn’t turn. "They’ll come."

Greer had given them the use of the parish hall for as long as they needed. The fire was lit now, crackling in the hearth, but the warmth didn’t reach the corners of the room. It was as if the curse had left a chill that no fire could chase away.

The door opened. Sera stepped in, followed by Derek, her crossbow slung over her shoulder, his staff tapping against the floor. Their faces were grim.

"We found something," Sera said. "The village records. Emma Whitmore’s death was listed as fever. But there were other deaths around the same time—all young or elderly, all attended by the same doctor."

Lucian turned. "That’s not murder."

"It’s not conspiracy either," Derek added, his voice tired. "Dr. Blackwood says grief can twist memory. The witch may have convinced herself of a conspiracy to make the loss bearable."

Cora frowned. "So we tell her she’s wrong? That her daughter just died?"

"We find out the truth first," Lucian said. "Then we tell her."

"The truth is in the ground," Dr. Blackwood’s voice drifted through the air. "The daughter’s spirit may still linger. If we can reach her, she can speak for herself."

Everyone looked at Derek.

He took a step back. "Me?"

"You’re the spirit vessel," Cora said.

"I’ve never—I don’t know how to summon someone specific."

Dr. Blackwood materialized beside him. "Her attachment to her mother will make her easier to reach. You won’t need to summon her from rest. She’s already close. Always has been."

Derek looked at Lucian. "What if I can’t control it?"

"Then Dr. Blackwood will help you." Lucian’s voice was calm, almost gentle. "You’re not alone in this."

Derek took a breath. Then another. "Okay. Where do we do it?"

"The chapel," Sera said. "It’s neutral ground. She used to pray there."

They left the parish hall and walked toward the chapel. The sun had climbed higher, but the light still felt thin, filtered through the heavy clouds that hung over Greyhollow. The villagers watched them pass, their eyes wary, but no one spoke.

The chapel was small, old, its wooden walls weathered grey by decades of rain. Inside, the air smelled of dust and old incense and something else—something cold that had seeped into the stone over years of neglect. Pews lined the walls, their cushions threadbare. A simple altar stood at the front, a wooden cross hanging above it.

Derek sat on the floor before the altar, his staff across his lap. Dr. Blackwood floated beside him, his translucent face grave.

Sera took position by the door, her crossbow ready—not aimed at anything, just ready. Mason stood near the window, his gauntlets warm. Cora leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching. Lucian waited near the altar, his eyes on Derek.

Dr. Blackwood spoke. "Close your eyes. Breathe slow. You’re not forcing anything. You’re just opening a door."

Derek’s voice was barely a whisper. "What do I say?"

"Call her name. Tell her you’re here to help her mother."

"Emma Whitmore."

Nothing.

"Emma. Your mother needs you."

The temperature dropped.

The candle on the altar flickered, went out. Shadows crept along the walls, not moving with the light, but moving on their own. Derek’s body stiffened. His eyes snapped open—and they were green.

Not his green. Not the pale grey of Dr. Blackwood. A deep, vivid green, like summer leaves, like moss after rain.

His mouth opened. A voice came out that was not his.

"Mother?"

Sera raised her crossbow. Lucian held up a hand. "Wait."

Derek—or whatever was in him—turned his head, looking around the chapel. At the altar. At the cross. At the people standing in the shadows.

"Where is she? Where is my mother?"

Lucian stepped forward, slow, careful. "She’s in the forest. Beneath the old oak. She’s been trying to avenge you."

"Avenge me?" Emma’s voice cracked. "I wasn’t murdered. I was sick. The doctor came. He gave me something. It burned. And then I couldn’t wake up."

Cora’s jaw tightened. "The doctor killed her."

"Not on purpose," Sera said. "The records suggest he was careless. He made mistakes. People died. But it wasn’t murder. Not in the way the witch thinks."

"She thinks they killed me." Emma’s voice was sad, distant. "She’s been living in that darkness for so long."

Dr. Blackwood spoke gently. "Can you forgive her?"

"There’s nothing to forgive. She’s my mother. She loved me." Derek’s hands trembled. "But she needs to let me go. I’m not coming back. I can’t."

Lucian nodded. "We’ll tell her. We’ll bring her your words."

"She won’t listen. She never listens."

"Then show her."

Derek’s body shuddered. The green in his eyes flickered.

"I can’t. I’m not strong enough. And he—" She meant Derek. "He’s scared. He’s holding back."

Derek’s own voice, faint and strained, came through. "I’m not—I’m trying—"

Dr. Blackwood moved closer, his translucent hand hovering over Derek’s shoulder. "Let me anchor you, boy. I can’t possess you, but I can stabilize the connection. You’ll still be you. She’ll just speak through you." 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Derek’s breathing quickened. Then steadied. "Do it."

Dr. Blackwood’s form shimmered, then seemed to sink into Derek’s chest. The green in Derek’s eyes flared brighter, steadier. When Emma spoke again, her voice was clearer, stronger.

"Take me to her."

They left the chapel and walked toward the forest.

The path was familiar now—the same trail Lucian and Cora had taken the night before, the same trees with their cracked bark, the same ground soft and cold beneath their boots. But the air felt different. Lighter. The curse was still there, but Emma’s presence seemed to push against it, thinning it like morning fog.

Derek walked at the front, his staff in his hand, his eyes still glowing green. His movements were strange—too fluid, too tentative—like someone learning to walk in a borrowed body. Emma was with him, inside him, seeing through his eyes.

The ravine opened before them. At the bottom, the deer was still there, grey and stiff. Emma’s voice came through Derek’s lips, soft and sad.

"She did this. My mother did this."

"She thought she was avenging you," Lucian said.

"I know. That’s what makes it worse."

They climbed down into the ravine and found the entrance between the oak roots. Mason stayed outside to guard the exit. Sera and Cora followed Lucian and Derek into the narrow tunnel, their weapons drawn but low.

The chamber was dark, colder than before. The bones still lined the walls, but they were still now, no longer trembling. The witch sat on her throne, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow.

She hadn’t moved since they’d left.

Lucian stopped a few feet from her. "She’s here."

The witch’s eyes opened.

She saw the green light first. Then she saw the face—Derek’s face, but not his expression. Her hands flew to her mouth.

"Emma?"

Emma’s voice came through Derek’s lips, soft and trembling. "Mother."

The witch rose from her throne, her hands reaching out. "It’s you. It’s really you."

"I’m here. For a little while."

The witch tried to touch Derek’s cheek, but her fingers passed through his skin. She couldn’t feel him. She couldn’t hold him.

"I’m not alive, Mother. I’m just visiting."

"I did this for you. I found the ritual. I made the pact. I wanted to bring you back."

"I know." Emma’s voice cracked. "But I’m not coming back. I’m gone. I’ve been gone. And you’re destroying yourself for nothing."

The witch shook her head. "It’s not nothing. They let you die—"

"The doctor made a mistake." Emma’s voice was gentle but firm. "He wasn’t trying to kill me. He was careless. Stupid. Not evil."

"He killed you!"

"He killed me by accident. And you’re killing yourself on purpose." Derek’s hand reached out, hovering where the witch’s cheek would be. "Please, Mother. Let me go. Let them go. I don’t want your suffering to be my legacy."

The witch sobbed.

The green light in Derek’s eyes flickered. Emma’s voice grew faint. "I love you, Mother. But I’m not coming back. And neither will you if you keep doing this."

The green light vanished.

Derek collapsed.

Cora caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him gently to the packed earth. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, but the green was gone. His own color had returned.

"Derek? Derek!"

He groaned. "Never... doing that again."

Dr. Blackwood’s voice was thin, relieved. "He’ll be fine. Exhausted, but fine."

The witch stared at Derek’s unconscious form, then at her own hands, still reaching for a daughter who wasn’t there.

"She’s gone," she whispered. "She’s really gone."

The curse shattered.

The walls trembled. The bones on the floor shifted, then crumbled to dust. The air in the chamber cleared—lightened, as if a weight that had been pressing down for years had finally been lifted.

The witch collapsed.

Lucian caught her, lowering her to the ground. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady but shallow. The green fire was gone. She looked old now. Frail. Human.

Cora stood, looking around at the dust, the silence, the stillness. "It’s over?"

"It’s over," Lucian said.

Mason came through the tunnel, helping Sera carry Derek up into the ravine. Cora walked beside Lucian, her sword sheathed. The morning light was brighter now, the clouds breaking apart.

They carried the witch to the surface. Ashen Guard operatives arrived an hour later, summoned by Alistair—not in chains, not in a prison van, but in a medical transport, with blankets and a healer by her side.

She wasn’t a criminal.

She was a broken old woman who had lost her daughter and found a dark path in her grief.

Greyhollow’s well would flow clean again. The livestock would recover. The villagers would sleep without nightmares.

And somewhere, in a place beyond the Veil, a young woman with a shy smile watched her mother sleep and smiled.

Emma was free.