The death remnants were out in full force. Their smiles never faltered, their footsteps never broken. They didn't rush, but they still gave chase, silent and tireless, just like the undead. They were shadows taken form, wearing a human's skin.

Enya and Pell tore through the village paths, white boots and skeletal feet slamming against packed dirt.

"Those fuckers really don't relent!" Pell spat.

He used to curse more. Constantly, in fact. But after spending time with her, he'd started holding back. Enya knew it was out of consideration. Or maybe… maybe he just didn't want her repeating after him.

She still remembered—vaguely, ever so vaguely—that her first word had almost been "fu—"

"Fuck off!" Pell shouted, shoulder-checking a young teenage boy who lunged out from a doorway. The same eerie smile was plastered on its face, and it kept smiling even as the body hit the ground.

Pell stepped over the downed remnant in a light hop. "I'm so sick and tired of this place already! Why now?!"

Enya ran beside him, keeping her distance from the swarming villagers.

A crooked man with one arm bent backward lunged toward them.

Enya didn't hesitate. She thrust a hand forward.

Crack!

From the churned dirt, three bone spears erupted, piercing the man through the chest, shoulder, and thigh. The impact folded his body mid-lunge, slamming him to the ground in a heap of limbs and ivory shards.

But he moved again.

His body twisted unnaturally, joints rotating the wrong way. Even with a spear lodged through his chest, he pulled himself upright, walking as though the injuries were no more than torn clothing.

"Argh! They won't even slow down!" Enya shouted, still sprinting.

She flung another hand to the side—crack! More spears burst from the ground, pinning a smiling woman to the wall of a lopsided house. Her body went limp for just a second. Then, with a jolt, it writhed free—bone still protruding from her gut.

They weaved between buildings, skidding past crooked carts and rotting barrels. Doors creaked open all around them. More figures emerged; they were all glass-eyed, smiling, and undeniably creepy.

Pell hissed, "This is ridiculous! She couldn't have told us where the brewer's house was?!"

They rounded another corner. Every house looked the same—faded wood, tilted frames, doors barely clinging to hinges.

Pell kicked one open mid-run. Empty. He slammed it shut.

"Wrong one!"

It continued like that—house after house. If it didn't look like it had a basement, they didn't waste time.

They ducked into a narrow alley, vaulted a short fence, and turned again.

Then they saw it.

A squat two-story home, nestled deeper into the village curve. It was half-sunken into the ground, with rusted metal pipes curling from its side like vines. A warped wooden plaque above the door read: BREWERY, the letters weather-worn and barely legible.

"There!" Enya pointed.

Pell didn't wait. He barreled through the front door with a shoulder-first smash. It splintered open, and they tumbled inside.

The interior stank of mold and dried yeast. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with bottles, flasks, and old brewing equipment. Rusted hooks dangled from the ceiling. Barrels were stacked in the corners, and the floor creaked beneath every hurried step.

"Where's the stairwell?" Pell barked.

Enya scanned the room. Bottles. Barrels. A smashed counter. A moldy rug—

"There!" she shouted, yanking the rug aside.

A wooden trapdoor. She gripped the iron ring and pulled. She strained with all her might, but it wouldn't budge—it was too heavy.

"Let me do it," Pell grumbled.

He stepped over and took the iron ring from her hands. With a strong heave, he tore the hatch upward—more than he meant to. The entire wooden door ripped from its hinges, slammed into the ceiling with a loud crack, then crashed to the ground in a heap of splinters.

They barely had time to react.

It was hard to stay focused when death was pressing in.

"Go down first!" Pell yelled.

Enya stepped to the edge and descended the first step. A cold breeze swept up from the darkness below, cutting straight through her cloak.

They heard it then—movement outside. A low whisper, like dragging feet and clinking nails across wood. Something was approaching. Several somethings.

Pell threw one last glance behind him, then dropped into the stairwell beside her. "Move!"

Without hesitation, they ran.

The staircase spiraled downward in an endless loop. Stone walls pressed in from all sides, and their only light came from the ambient gloom and the soul-flames glowing from within Pell's skull. Enya activated Absolute Focus, eyes narrowed, making sure the stairs were real and steady beneath her feet.

They ran down the stairs for almost five minutes.

Pell grunted. "This staircase doesn't feel right."

"It's not," Enya panted. "I think… it's like the village. A warped space."

After a few more minutes of nonstop descent, Enya began leaping. Her featherstep boots absorbed the motion, letting her skip a step, then two, then five. Each time she landed with featherlight grace.

Pell followed, but his footwork was less forgiving. Without enchanted gear, he had to rely on balance and luck. He skipped a few steps, then more—but misjudged one.

He stumbled.

His bones clattered violently as he tumbled down nearly sixty steps before landing in a crumpled sprawl—miraculously posed in a way that stopped his momentum.

"Damn it," he muttered, as Enya finally caught up to give him a handing hand.

After what felt like a cursed eternity, they reached the bottom. No flare, no ceremony. Just one last step down into dirt.

The floor was soft beneath their feet, packed with loose soil and crumbling stone. Mist seeped along the edges of the tunnel—thick, cold, and creeping. Visibility was poor, but the soul-chilling air was unmistakable.

They were underground; it was the start of something deeper, something twisting further.

A narrow tunnel stretched ahead, long and low-ceilinged, swallowed by darkness.

No sound came from above. It was possible the death remnants hadn't followed. Even after Enya had descended, she couldn't sense anything behind them.

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Absolute Focus was becoming harder to maintain. Not because she lacked the stamina to keep it up—she was improving in that regard. But because there simply wasn't much to sense here, no matter how much she amplified her awareness. Same chill. Same smell. Same empty echoes.

"I can't see anything down here," Enya muttered.

"I barely can either," Pell said. His vision wasn't normal, but even through the glow of his soul-flames, it was just as limited down here.

They walked a few more paces before Enya finally grew tired of the blindness. Keeping Absolute Focus active was a chore with little reward.

That's when she had an idea.

She stopped walking and began weaving a familiar spell circuit. With just a few points of mana, she summoned a large bone—then called forth her Bonecarver's Quill. She crouched, placed the bone on the ground, and began to etch.

Pell halted beside her, watching with quiet, but also impatient curiosity. He didn't ask what she was doing, but he realized it was probably something important.

After a minute of fast carving, the runes glowed, and then the bone flared to life.

The tunnel lit up, bathed in warm, flickering light. A makeshift torch. The very first spell she'd ever learned: create light; a spell drawn straight from the altars in Sable's study.

Damp roots dangled from above. The walls were jagged stone, uneven and warped—shaped by something long ago, but not by human hands.

"That's better," Enya whispered.

"Handy," Pell commented.

"It's actually a femur," Enya replied without missing a beat.

They walked a few more paces before Pell finally caught the joke. He immediately slapped his own skull. Enya smirked upon seeing his reaction.

She felt proud of that one.

The silence returned, wrapping around them again. After a few moments, Enya spoke. Softly, and uncertain.

"Do you think she'll let us go?"

Pell didn't answer immediately. His sockets flickered, brighter, as he thought.

"I don't know," he said at last. "Witches aren't something I ever thought I'd meet. They're like dragons or vampires. Stories are told of them, but nobody really sees one."

"She didn't seem…" Enya hesitated. "I wouldn't say unfriendly. But she feels dangerous. I didn't like how she looked at me. Still… she was easy to talk to."

"She was," Pell agreed, "but that doesn't mean she's honest. She's strong. Stronger than anything I've seen so far. Everything she did to that room in the church—it all felt like a parlor trick, but everything was real. If she wanted to lie to us, she could do it with a smile, and we'd never know. I can't even begin to understand that magic she used."

"So… will she try to kill us? Like, betray us after we do what she says?"

Pell glanced at her. "Classic story trope, huh?" He looked back ahead. "Maybe. But she's still right, isn't she? If we don't help her, we're stuck. The remnants won't stop. The whole village is one big illusion trap. We won't escape unless someone shows us how—and right now?" He shrugged. "She's the only one who might. I might be immortal or something now, but you, kid—" he gave her a sideways look "—you aren't."

Enya didn't respond. She just stared ahead, her bone-light casting long, pale arcs of yellow along the walls as they walked.

"Though I guess we just have to hope," Pell continued. "Maybe come up with a plan later, once we get that cauldron of hers. If she's been trapped here all this time, there's no way she's stayed sane."

Eventually, the tunnel ended.

The low ceiling gave way to a vast emptiness.

They stepped out—and it felt like walking into another world.

Mist drifted low across the ground. Gravestones littered the open space, arranged in crooked rows that stretched beyond the edges of sight. The earth beneath their feet was soft and slightly damp, like real grass that hadn't felt sunlight in a hundred years. It smelled of old stone and wilted flowers.

The ceiling was gone.

No—there was no ceiling.

Above them stretched a gray sky, endless and pale. No clouds. No stars. Clearly fake, yet convincing enough to make their stomachs twist from the sudden sense of open air.

"This is supposed to be underground," Enya whispered. "Right?"

"Supposed to be," Pell echoed.

They moved slowly now. Their footsteps were nearly soundless in the thick, foggy air. Past a dozen meters, visibility vanished into white haze. The tombstones faded into mist like ghosts hiding just out of reach.

Enya brought her bone-light closer.

As they passed one crooked grave marker, she slowed. There was a name etched into the stone—faint, but still legible beneath the moss.

She knelt, brushing her hand over the top and squinting.

ELRIA NIGHTROSE She Never Shuts Up

Enya blinked.

That was when the tombstone shook.

A sudden shriek of laughter rang out—sharp, high-pitched, and weirdly musical.

"Well, well, well," said a voice from the stone, "it's been ages since someone wandered down here!"

Enya yelped, stumbling back. Pell snapped into a readied stance.

The gravestone split straight down the middle.

From within emerged a wretched spirit, feminine in shape but flickering like candlelight. Her hair floated like seaweed in still water, her mouth stretched into a perpetual grin, and her voice oozed sarcasm.

"Look what we have here," she cackled, hovering just above the ground. "Fresh souls! And polite, too—you stopped to read my name. That was so flattering!"

She tilted sideways in midair, grinning like a lopsided crescent moon. "How long's it been? Decades? Centuries? I don't even know anymore! But hey, you two look fun. A cutesy-dootsy girl and a sad sack of bones? What a combo! Mind if I tag along?"

"No," Pell said flatly.

"No," Enya muttered at the same time.

The spirit's grin only widened. "Too late!"

She zipped forward, darting straight at Pell. He swung a punch—but it passed right through her. She phased through his arm like fog and slipped straight into his ribcage.

"Oh, this'll be fun!"

"H-Hey! Get outta my body, you old hag!" Pell shouted, startled.

Her face misted out from his right shoulder and turned to grin at them both. "Nope! Can't make me!" Then she slithered back into his bones.

Pell immediately started patting himself down, trying to shake her loose. He even detached his own arms in an effort to dislodge her—but nothing worked.

"U-unsummon!" Enya shouted.

Pell vanished.

But nothing was left behind. Just empty air.

Enya quickly resummoned him—only for the spirit to still be there, lodged right inside him.

"Kakakaka~! You can't get rid of me that easily! I'm Elria Nightrose, the shadow! I go wherever I please!" she cackled, speaking through Pell's skull this time.

Pell punched himself in the face.

There was a sharp crack—but it only chipped his skull slightly, doing absolutely nothing to Elria.

"Ugh…!" he groaned. "One annoying thing after the other!"

They walked onward.

Something like a path stretched beneath their feet—worn dirt, maybe, or just the ghost of old footfalls left by souls long forgotten. The mist made it hard to see, harder still to trust their footing. Every few steps, Pell muttered curses under his breath.

"I can't believe this," he groaned. "Haunted crypts. Undead villagers. And now a damn freeloading ghost glued to my spine."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Elria chirped, popping out of his collarbone like a cheerful parasite. "You should be grateful! Not every day someone gets to carry a lady around."

"You are not a lady," Pell growled.

"Rude!" she gasped. "I'll have you know, back in my day, people lined up to get a taste of this voice."

"You were probably hanged for using it too much."

"Flatterer~" she sang. "But yeah, no. I was actually hanged. Didn't kill me though, and when the crowd didn't see me react too much, they decided to pour lava onto me instead. My cries were mixed with their cheers. It was pretty morbid," she said, completely nonchalantly. "Also, lava is very hot."

Enya sighed and tuned them out. Mostly. The mist was thick, the air cold, and the graveyard seemed to stretch forever. It was hard to tell if they were actually going anywhere, or just walking in circles through a forgotten dream.

"Boohoo," Pell muttered. "One dead person to the next. How lonely we all must be."

"Oh, hush. I'm doing you a favor. Would've been a real bore-fest without me here."

Enya glanced at the spirit. "What is this place, really?"

Elria twirled midair, arms flared like a performer taking center stage. "Finally! Someone asks. This," she said proudly, "is a spiritual graveyard. A prison. A holding cell for the lost, the vile, the cursed. All the worst dregs who died without closure or repentance. Criminals, traitors, maniacs, cannibals, Godsworn, blood cultists, people who chew with their mouth open—"

"We get it," Pell muttered.

Elria beamed. "It was made by Moon. Witch of—wait for it—the Moon! She carved out this charming little soul trap. Said it was all about balance, redemption, cycles, you know. Real cult-y stuff."

She floated up close, pressing her flickering face to Pell's skull. "But between us? She mostly just locks up people she doesn't like. Total bitch, if I'm being honest."

Pell swatted at her, his hand passing through empty air. "Sounds completely unhinged. Like someone else I've just met."

"Aw, you do like me."

They kept walking. The crooked stones gave way to blank mist, and then, abruptly, the path ended.

Or rather—it dropped.

A jagged cliff edge stretched out before them, cutting into the fog like a bite taken out of the world. Across the chasm, another ledge hung in the mist—just a shadow of earth, faint and wavering, maybe twenty or thirty meters away.

Enya slowed to a stop and narrowed her eyes. She activated Absolute Focus.

"I can see it," she said softly. "There's another cliff. Maybe twenty-five, thirty meters out."

Pell stepped forward and squinted—not that it helped.

"That's pushing it," he muttered.

Elria's head popped out of his back like a twisted tulip sprouting from a grave. "Ooooh. A cliff. How dramatic. What's the plan—take a leap and pray you hit the other side?" She noticed the yellow glowing eyes from Enya. "Ooh! Eyes just like those Godsworn! Is that a skill? Let me see, let me see!"

Enya ignored Elria.

"My boots aren't strong enough," Enya said. "They soften landings and help with jumps, but not… that."

Pell eyed the drop. He couldn't even see the bottom through the mist. "I might be able to make it. If I get a running start, and really push off… these soul-forged bones are sturdy enough. And if I miss, you can just re-summon me before I break at the bottom."

He took a step back, calculating. "Probably."

Then he looked at her again. "But that doesn't solve your problem. You can't jump that far. I'm not sure I can carry you, either."

Elria snorted. The sound turned into a snicker. Then into a laugh. She moved away From Enya, twirling in the air.

"Oh, come on," she drawled, voice syrupy with mockery. "You're a necromancer, aren't you? Why not just build a bone bridge?" She burst into giggles, spun once more, and zipped back into Pell's ribcage.

Enya blinked.

She looked out at the mist again. Then at the ground. Then at her hand.

"That's… not a bad idea," she said quietly.

Pell stared at her." Hey. No. No no no—you're not actually serious, are you?"

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