The glyph pulsed when Lucian touched it. Soft and gentle—like a warm kitten pressed against his fingers.
He inhaled—and the wind shifted. An orchard behind him shimmered—large trees with their heads bent, heavy with the pinkest apples Lucian had ever seen. Just like the path toward Sweetwater Farm, there was only an old dirt road that seemed to get narrower the further it went.
So he walked.
+
The forest changed by degrees. As he traveled, the air grew dense but fragrant: he smelled thyme and peat before he heard the rain fall, and felt it on his skin. It cooled him down and soothed his nerves.
Each step Lucian took felt quieter than the last, like the soil absorbed his very presence. The soil was soft as a dreamy sigh. Whenever his cane touched the ground, it smelled faintly of sage.
He passed trees with ribbons of bark hanging like breath. After awhile, a bubbling brook curved around him, then crossed back. The water flowed in both directions, and while he heard birdsong, he never saw any birds.
Time loosened its grip on him, and he feared he wouldn't find his way through. He couldn't see any animals or dangerous plants, but somehow, the silence and the peace was scarier than being chased by something—anything—at this point.
But he forced himself to stay calm. Merry wouldn't intentionally make him wander forever.
Right?
As if in answer, the scene shifted. Lucian stood in a clearing encircled by standing stones. The wind stopped and he was enveloped in the warmth of sage and thyme.
A soft voice said:
"Welcome to Houndsberry Hollow."
+
Merry stood in front of a small cottage that was carved in the middle of a massive redwood tree. Vines swept across the front of the house like a curtain. Stones lined the path like teeth set in a crooked grin.
It seemed almost impossible to hide a house within a tree of that size, but the power anchoring the tree was just as strong, and stable.
Lucian exhaled.
"I almost didn't find it."
"You need to trust yourself more," Merry replied. "If I wanted to mislead you, I wouldn't have given you the right glyph."
He followed her inside.
+
The cottage didn't expand to accommodate them. It reminded Lucian of a tiny home, really. Everything had its place, but it was clear this room was meant for one person. There was a small living room and a tiny library. Merry grabbed one of the dining room chairs and put it next to her plush armchair.
It was small, but every item had a purpose: In one shelf, bundles of bark were arranged by seasion. Another had threads organized by tension, and there was a basket that had wax-shaped stars in them. A note was pinned: "Mourning Weight: 5kg."
Dried petals were tucked into the corners of every windowsill. It was a safeguard to ensure no shadows were hiding in the corners.
Lucian sat on the dining room chair without being told.
Merry poured some warm and thick broth into a carved cup.
"You'll sleep well here."
Lucian wrapped his hands around the mug.
"I haven't slept well since I broke the bell."
"Then you haven't slept as yourself."
+
He had a dream that night, but Rosa, Alice, or Queen Marguerite weren't in it. Instead, he dreamt of a nameless child planting a root beneath a cracked stone.
He wasn't the child. But the grief...
The grief was all his.
And in the dream, the root didn't bloom—it pulsed. Like a heart waiting for the right beat.
He woke to birdsong.
And stillness.
Not silence. Not emptiness.
Stillness—like the earth was holding its breath just for him.
Merry had left bread, tea, and a wooden stick carved with a spiral.
A note was attached:
Today you'll learn to walk without echo.
+
They started near the grove's edge, where wild thistles marked the border of the land.
Merry showed him how to place his feet—not for stealth, but for stability. Each step was a statement, not a movement. Each breath was not just intake, but invitation.
"The dead follow rhythm," she explained. "Break the pattern, and they lose your scent."
Lucian tried. His steps were uneven at first. Too heavy. Too full of doubt.
But by midday, he stopped thinking about how he walked—and began to feel how the world walked with him.
They moved on to glyph tracing in soil. No chalk. No wax. Just fingertip and feeling.
"Write the shape of letting go," Merry said.
Lucian closed his eyes.
He remembered Rosa's last words. Alice's question. The bell.
He wrote a slow spiral with a break at the end.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
"It means you're still trying to write goodbye."
She didn't say it with cruelty. Just clarity.
+
On the second morning, Merry found Lucian sitting cross-legged in the field behind the hut, his yew stick pressed into the soil.
He was trying something unscripted — a rite for dreams.
"I wanted to craft a way to keep nightmares away from Alice," he said. "Even if I'm not there."
Merry crouched beside him.
"You're not her lantern. You're her companion. Let her light herself."
Lucian tried again anyway.
He etched a spiral into a crushed leaf and whispered Alice's name into it.
It flared softly… then turned gray.
Ash floated up.
"You're writing fear into it," Merry said. "Not safety."
Lucian stared at the burnt glyph in silence.
Merry continued gently.
"You don't keep people safe by erasing what scares them. You show them how to stay when the wind rises."
Lucian nodded slowly.
That night, he didn't dream, and Lucian asked if he could light a candle.
Merry nodded.
But when he struck the match, the flame bent toward the Grimoire, which had been silent since his arrival.
It opened on its own.
A single page.
[CURRENT STATUS]
Field Integration: 52%
Thread Weight: Stabilizing
Emotion-to-Symbol Translation: Improving
Caster Name: Lucian Bowcott (Reclaiming)
He touched the final line.
"You think I lost it?"
The Grimoire didn't respond.
But Merry did.
"No. You gave it to too many people who never earned it."
Later, sitting under the trees with the carved stick in hand, Lucian spoke aloud.
Not to the Queen. Not to Rosa. Not to Alice.
To himself.
"I don't want to be just a scribe for the dead."
The wind shifted.
The stick warmed in his hand.
"I want to write what stays behind, not what's erased."
And then, something responded. Not with words—but with pressure in the earth beneath him. A kind of nod.
Merry stepped beside him.
"Then you'll need to plant deeper than memory."
+
Before bed, Merry handed Lucian a mirror. Its surface was dull, almost like iron—but when Lucian stared, the glass shimmered faintly.
"A glimpse," she said. "Of where you were. Nothing more."
Lucian saw himself.
Not here — but back in the Nightingale funeral home, the place where he used to work before Staesis.
There was no Rosa. No Alice. Just memories.
The office was cleaner than he remembered. Mei was laughing with a new hire. The old mortuary room had been converted into a memory vault: glowing stones etched with names.
"They turned your death into meaning," Merry said.
He watched for a while.
Then the mirror flickered—showing the other half of the Nightingale. There was a side room--one he never used.
There, a man in a tattered robe sat cross-legged, whispering to himself.
Words Lucian recognized.
Rite phrases.
But the man's voice was wrong. Hollow. Scared.
"That's not someone you trained," Lucian said, alarmed.
Merry's voice was calm.
"No. That's someone your Grimoire reached before you ever arrived in Staesis. A failed candidate."
Lucian's pulse jumped.
"He shouldn't be there."
"And yet...there he is. You're not the only one trying to write your legacy. Others will try to claim it."