The village was now grieving.


    Ziria could feel it in the weight of the air, in the quiet murmurs between neighbors who no longer stood in the streets after dark. The market was half-empty, the scent of fresh bread replaced by the bitter sting of burnt wax from too many mourning candles. A black and heavy veil had settled over this place, thick and unnatural, and with every passing day, it felt less like home.


    She tightened the cloak around her shoulders and hurried through the narrow path toward her cottage. On the way, she saw them—a line of people draped in black, carrying a body toward the graveyard. A small procession, heads bowed in grief, the sound of quiet sobbing punctuated by the rhythmic crunch of boots against dirt.


    Another death.


    Ziria’s breath caught in her throat. She knew the family. Knew the woman at the front of the procession, clutching at her dress like she wanted to tear herself apart. The dead man—he had been one of the village hunters. She had bought meat from him before, and spoke to him. He was young. Strong. Not someone who should have died so suddenly.


    Her fingers twitched with the urge to call out to them, to ask how—why—when. But she already knew the answer.


    The shadow. And her.


    She forced herself to keep walking, eyes fixed on the path ahead, but the whispers still reached her.


    "It’s the curse—"


    "It’s spreading—"


    "No one should go near the graveyard anymore—"


    Her cottage loomed ahead, and she shoved the door open too quickly, the wood groaning on its hinges. Inside, the cursed book still lay on the floor where she had left it. It hadn’t moved, but it felt like it had. Like something had shifted, like the pages had breathed in the village’s grief and let out something even darker.


    She stepped forward carefully, kneeling beside it. The cover was rough beneath her fingertips, the edges worn down by time and too many hands that shouldn’t have touched it. She had read so many words from this book, but none of them had given her an answer.


    Not about the shadow.


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    Not about the boy who had become a man.


    Not about why she had been chosen.


    Tonight, she would try again. She would find the answers.


    She flipped through brittle pages, searching, skimming, pulling at old notes she had scribbled in the margins. The Gift. The words were there, woven into old ink, scrawled in a passage she had overlooked before.


    "The Gift is not freely given. It is a sickness, a seed planted in a willing heart. It will rot before it blooms. It will twist before it strengthens. And once it takes root, the soul no longer belongs to the living." The voice spoke beside her, the presence that loomed over her, her vow.


    Ziria’s blood turned to ice.


    A sickness. A seed. Something planted inside a person, taking over, rotting them from within.


    She thought of the boy. The man.


    The way he had spoken in riddles, answering himself like he was two people.


    Like something else lived inside him.


    Her stomach churned. Was that what the shadow wanted for her? To plant this… thing inside her and watch her decay?


    A sudden gust of wind rattled the shutters. The candlelight flickered wildly, stretching the shadows in the corners of the room. And then—


    A voice. From the book.


    Not written. Not read. Spoken.


    "Come closer, child."


    Ziria’s breath hitched. The words curled around her like smoke, thick and ancient, pressing against her skin.


    She stared at the book. The cover pulsed—just slightly, just for a second—like it had a heartbeat.


    No. No. No.


    She reached for it, pressing her palm flat against the cover, whispering a spell she barely remembered. The room lurched. The candlelight flared, then died, leaving only darkness and the echo of a voice not her own.


    "You seek to know the truth, but you do not understand the price." The presence beside her held her back this time, protecting her.


    A dark shadow unfurled from the book like smoke. Not fully formed, not entirely there, but she could feel it watching her.


    She gritted her teeth. “Tell me. Who are you?”


    The shadow laughed. A dry, hollow sound.


    "You already know, my sweet sweet, little necromancer."


    A flicker of an image flashed through her mind—the forest. A clearing. A boy accepting a deal.


    Ziria’s pulse pounded in her ears. She could hear her own thoughts screaming at her.


    The shadow hadn’t just told her the story. It showed her who it was.


    And now she knew why.


    Because it wasn’t a story at all. It was a warning.