Cordelia Greaves stood over the grave, tightly wrapping the long coat around her. They had sufficient time to arrange everything, but she wanted to get started—waiting served no purpose.


    She turned to Elsbeth.


    “Place the lamp behind that headstone. Dim light will suffice for the first part.”


    Elsbeth nodded, setting the lamp on the ground. She braced it against the weathered stone, her eyes flicking to the name etched upon its face. She couldn’t resist. Facts clung to her like cobwebs—trivial or not, her mind always filed them away.


    She reached into her jacket pocket for a tin of lucifers and struck one alight, the sharp scent of phosphorus cutting the cold air. The lamp’s wick flared to life, casting flickering shadows over the fresh mound of earth.


    Rising, she unhooked the short shovel secured inside her jacket, revealing the shoulder holster that cradled the Tranter .36 caliber dual-action revolver. In the lamplight, its steel gleamed—loaded and ready. A spare cylinder, also loaded and ready, rested securely in her jacket pocket.


    The gun had always remained in its holster with only one exception—a warning shot.


    "I suppose I should get on with it?" she said dryly, knowing the answer.


    Cordelia''s apologetic shrug confirmed it.


    "You''d best start digging. At least until Hex arrives."


    Then, withdrawing her ritual dagger from her coat, she added, "I''ll prepare the circle."


    With mild annoyance, Elsbeth drove the shovel into the earth, the blade meeting resistance. She brought it down again with more force, the stiff upper layer reluctant to give way. She tossed the shovel aside and withdrew a short-handled pick from a loop in her jacket.


    The point of the pick bit into the hard ground with dull thuds, and Cordelia nodded in approval. This would be easy work for Hex—when he arrived. Her brother was always late, forcing them to account for his tardiness in their plans.


    While Elsbeth drove the pick into the frozen earth, Cordelia moved to the foot of the grave, her athame’s dual-edged blade catching the faint light. This was no weapon—its edges deliberately dulled—but a tool of power, meant to channel and control the etheric forces.


    Cordelia held the dagger in open palms, lifting it skyward as her lips shaped quick, precise murmurs. Though her words were inaudible, Elsbeth knew them by heart—the blessing of the athame never varied.


    The blessing complete, she moved due east, positioning herself just behind the headstone. Staff in hand, she pressed it into the soil, etching the first groove of the ritual circle.


    Moving clockwise, she carved a deep groove, inscribing the protective sigil until the circle stood complete—a barrier against the unseen.


    Ending where she began, she sat, legs crossed, etching intricate symbols into the circle’s edge with her athame.


    She retrieved a small bronze censer from her satchel and placed it atop the etched marks along the circle’s boundary. She slipped a few pieces of charcoal inside, their edges dull and black.


    With a whispered incantation, she cupped her fingers and conjured a flickering flame, its blue light casting fleeting shadows across her face. The coals flared to life, glowing hot and red beneath the unnatural light.


    She reached into a pocket and withdrew a small glass jar of raw myrrh resin, its amber-like chunks smooth and firm in her palm. She crumbled the resin, each piece breaking with a soft crack as it fell onto the burning coals.


    Thick, fragrant tendrils of smoke rose into the cold night air, coiling and twisting like restless spirits. They clung to her robes, winding along the edges of the ritual circle as though testing its boundaries, before vanishing into the shadows beyond.


    After completing the eastern offering, Cordelia withdrew a bag containing pure white salt mixed with crushed bay leaves—essential for the ritual''s protection and success.


    Bag in hand, Cordelia moved gracefully along the circle''s arc from east to south, sprinkling the mixture along the etched line, the crystals catching the faint light in the darkness like scattered stars.


    At the southern point, she paused before kneeling, her movements relaxed and precise. Each cardinal direction required a rite—east for air, south for fire, west for water, and north for earth—binding the circle to the elements and anchoring its power in balance.


    Elsbeth continued as Cordelia chanted, and when the surface dirt lay broken, she wiped the blade of the pick clean against her boot.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Working with purpose, Elsbeth thrust the shovel into the soft, unsettled earth. The ground gave way quickly, seeming more eager to unveil its secrets than to resist the grave’s violation.


    Piles of dark soil grew steadily along the edges of the grave, extending like shadows cast by the moonlight. Elsbeth kept the displaced dirt within the circle, tossing it away from Cordelia’s work.


    Each shovelful came faster than the last, her breath growing labored. Sweat dampened her underarms and trickled down her back while cold beads formed on her brow, mingling with the chill of the night air.


    Where was Hex? Her brother had perfected the art of being late, always arriving at the opportune moment—after the hard work had been done. With a huff, she stabbed the earth with the blade of the shovel, leaving it standing like an accusation.


    He was blessed with youthful strength, while she shouldered the burden of being the clever one. By rights, he should be the one covered in dirt and sweat. She was a lady, after all—not the sort who promenaded through parks with frilly bonnets and dainty umbrellas—but rather a lady who mixed chemical compounds and carried a revolver.


    Would it kill him to show a little propriety?


    As she paused to wipe sweat from her brow, worry gnawed at her.


    Her strength had limits, and lifting the coffin might be impossible without him. In addition, given the dangers of tonight’s ritual, Hex needed to arrive before Cordelia closed the circle—once sealed, no one could cross its boundary.


    Once the spell was cast, remaining within the circle''s protection would be vital.


    <hr>


    Hex pulled the brougham into a small clearing, stopping near the road leading to the cemetery.


    Handing the reins to Percy, he grinned.


    “All you have to do is wait here. Keep your eyes open and the horses calm. I’ll be back with the girls in a couple of hours.”


    Percy gulped, his wide eyes scanning the dark woods. Shadows danced in the corners of his vision, but there was nothing to see—just the oppressive quiet of the night. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hex cut him off.


    “No lights.”


    Percy sighed, drawing his wool coat closer. The cold pierced his threadbare clothes, the oversized overcoat offering scant protection. He cast a longing glance at the carriage, his lips quivering.


    “Stay out of the carriage,” Hex added. “Keep on your feet and move around—it’ll help.”


    A hearty slap on the back sent Percy forward, nearly toppling him off the narrow seat. Hex laughed and jumped down, his boots crunching on the frosty ground.


    At the back of the carriage, Hex slung two coils of rope over his shoulder and grabbed a shovel.


    After hesitating, he decided to leave the pick behind—Elsbeth should have broken the ground by now.


    Last, he grabbed two long boards, balancing them across his left shoulder.


    “Give the horses a quick rub-down,” Hex said.


    Then, turning to leave, he added, "Be ready for our return. We may be leaving in a hurry."


    Percy nodded, his teeth chattering as he clutched the reins.


    As Hex began up the hill, a sharp cry made him stop.


    Glancing back, he saw Percy flinching away from Corvus, who had perched beside him. The raven cocked its head, watching Percy with dark, intelligent eyes.


    Hex chuckled to himself. Corvus had an uncanny knack for unnerving people, but Hex admired the bird. He and Corvus were in silent agreement—Percy needed to toughen up.


    Based on what had come before, Percy would endure countless nights at the fringes of strange and dangerous events. He would need to embrace this life or accept a mundane future of endless servitude.


    Hex cared for him—Percy was the closest thing he had to a brother. He wanted more for him than a life of fear and second-guessing. Though Hex couldn’t hand him a better life, he could open the door. Percy just needed the courage to step through.


    A grin tugged at Hex''s lips as he quickened his pace. Beneath his bowler, his eyes sparkled with excitement for the night ahead. Though the boards and shovel weighed heavy on his shoulders, his anticipation made him light on his feet.


    All he had to do now was survive Elsbeth’s wrath—and then the real work could begin.


    <hr>


    With a sharp click, the raven landed on the headstone. Elsbeth sighed in relief.


    Her muscles ached from the relentless heaving of soil, and sweat clung to her skin, chilling her beneath the cold night air. The wool of her garments warded off the damp as best it could, but her exposed hands, face, and neck were stiff and numb. Her ears burned and flushed as brightly as her cheeks.


    She could climb out of the hole but waited for Hex to lend a hand. The thought of hauling herself over mounds of peaty soil while wearing a skirt was less than appealing.


    When Hex appeared above her, staring down with that infuriating grin, Elsbeth’s arms were already crossed, her patented scowl locked in place. Yet the glare didn’t quite reach her eyes—she was relieved to see him.


    Better late than never.


    She sighed, extending her hands and bracing her boot against the hole''s edge.


    With an easy smile, Hex grabbed her wrists and hauled her up, catching her at the waist and setting her down gently.


    “Light as a feather, dear sister,” he said, his grin widening.


    She ignored his charm, inspecting her coat and clothes with delicate precision, brushing away the dirt with feather-light touches.


    “Save the platitudes for the silly schoolgirls you waste your time with,” she said dryly. “You’re late, and once again, I had to do your job.”


    Hex pursed his lips, mock seriousness crossing his face. “Well, you knew I’d be late, so in a sense, I’m either right on time—or possibly early.”


    Before she could respond, he leapt into the grave, shovel in hand.


    “I believe this is yours,” he said, holding up the smaller shovel she had brought. “I’ll use a man’s shovel if it’s all the same to you.”


    His tone was playful—a continuation of their eternal battle of the sexes. She took the small shovel without comment, securing it with a clasp sewn into the inside lining of her coat with practiced ease.


    They had always competed. When they were younger, she had won more often than not, her quick thinking and strategic mind outpacing his natural athleticism. But now that Hex was on the verge of manhood, the tables were turning.


    She had to push herself to keep up, especially with physical tasks like this. Still, where it mattered most—intellect and reason—Hex couldn’t touch her.


    Like her father, she excelled in science, mathematics, and logic.


    Hex took after their mother, a natural charmer skilled in social and political maneuvering, though utterly lost in mathematics or the sciences.


    She smiled to herself, watching as he worked. Let him have his moment in the dirt—she would win where it truly counted.