Two weeks. Fourteen days of bruises and meditation. Now Kael stood before the abandoned mill, trying to feel reality's texture like Garrett taught.
Clear mind. Empty heart. Ready vessel.
His thoughts churned like storm-tossed waves. Mya had been captive forty-three days. How many remained? Ten? Nine? The math tortured him with each heartbeat.
Should he circle the building first? Check for temperature drops? Garrett's instructions echoed: "Sunrise to sunset. Full investigation. Miss nothing."
The mill squatted beside a dry creek bed. Three stories of rotting wood and broken dreams. Windows stared like empty eye sockets. The water wheel hung at wrong angles, frozen mid-turn.
"Weber family died here," he whispered to himself. Facts helped ground the mind. "Husband killed wife. Then himself. Neighbors found them three days later."
Temperature check. Kael held out his hand, moving slowly along the mill's exterior. Cold morning air. Nothing unusual. No sudden drops. No reality thinning.
This... disappointment tasted bitter. Part of him had hoped for immediate discovery. Find spirit. Bind spirit. Save Mya. Simple.
Nothing was ever simple.
He completed the first circuit. Noted broken boards that allowed entry. Studied footprints in dust... animals only. No human traffic for months. Good. No interruptions.
Second circuit. This time checking upper levels. Climbing carefully on rusted metal and weathered wood. From here he could see the Weber's old farm. Abandoned fields. Collapsed barn. Empty chicken coops.
What drove a man to murder? Debt? Jealousy? Madness?
Third circuit. Ground level again but closer. Pressing palms against walls. Feeling for... what? Wrongness? Cold? Some supernatural tell?
Nothing. Just old wood and older sadness.
Should he enter? Yes. Complete investigation required internal search.
The door hung on one hinge. He pushed through, dust swirling in morning light. Inside, machinery stood silent. Millstones. Gears. Pulleys. All stopped when the Webers died and no one claimed the property.
First floor. Kael moved methodically. Corner to corner. Touching walls. Checking temperature. Looking for origin items.
Bloodstains marked the floor near the grinding stones. Old. Brown. Just stains now. No power. No presence.
Should bloodstains feel different if spirits attached? Another unknowable until experienced.
Second floor. Living quarters. Furniture remained... bed. Table. Chairs. Clothes hung in wardrobe, moth-eaten. Dishes gathered dust. Like the family just stepped out. Never returned.
The bedroom held more bloodstains. Bed. Floor. Wall. Violence had painted this room in grief.
Still nothing. No temperature drop. No origin items glowing with inner light. No reality wearing thin.
Third floor. Storage. Grain sacks rotted open. Mice scattered at his approach. Tools hung on walls. Everything mundane. Everything dead.
This... hours of searching yielded nothing. Garrett had warned most sites were empty. But knowing and experiencing were different things.
He sat on the dusty floor, eating hard bread from his pack. Reviewing mentally. What had he missed? Where hadn't he checked?
The millstones. He'd looked around them but not...
Kael descended quickly. The massive stones sat silent. He circled them. Studied the mechanisms. Then noticed... there. A gap between stone and floor. Large enough for a hand.
He reached under. Fingers found cloth. Pulled out a moldy bundle. Unwrapped it carefully.
A silver locket. Tarnished but intact. Inside, two painted portraits. Man and woman. Young. Happy. Before whatever darkness took them.
Origin item? His birthmark didn't react. The locket felt cold but naturally so. No inner glow. No special aspects.
Just jewelry. Just memory. Just another dead end.
He rewrapped it. Placed it back. Let the dead keep their secrets.
Outside, afternoon sun marked time's passage. Full investigation complete. Result: nothing.
The walk back to Garrett's cave took three hours. Each step carried disappointment's weight. First location failed. Two more to check. Time bleeding away like Mya's chances.
"Empty?" Garrett didn't look surprised when Kael reported. "Expected. Most are."
"How can you tell the difference? Between empty and dormant?"
"Experience. But you felt nothing unusual?"
"Just sadness. Old death. Nothing supernatural."
"Good. You're learning to distinguish." Garrett stirred their meager soup. "Natural death leaves traces too. But different from spirit presence."
"The locket..."
"Just a locket. If it held a spirit, you'd know. Trust your body."
Trust his body? When his body screamed to run to Camp Seven immediately? When every instinct demanded action over patience?
"Tomorrow?"
"Rest. Day after, check the crossroads." Garrett ladled soup into bowls. "Seven men hung there. Bandits. Mass execution might spawn something."
"Might."
"Probably won't. But you check anyway. Learn the absence before seeking presence."
Two days later, Kael stood at the crossroads. Midnight, because ghost stories always happened at midnight. Seven nooses swayed from the gallows. No wind. Just... swaying.
Should that mean something? Or just old rope responding to temperature changes?
He circled the structure. Touched each post. Felt for temperature drops. For thinning reality. For anything beyond creaking wood.
The gallows felt like gallows. Nothing more.
Ground beneath showed no bloodstains. Hanged men don't bleed. Just dangle. Just die. Just become warning to other would-be bandits.
"Seven at once," he muttered. Historical fact. "Judge wanted to make example. Townspeople watched. Children got day off school."
Mass trauma? Multiple deaths? Should have spawned something. But the night remained stubbornly normal. No spirits. No origin items. No supernatural presence.
He checked until dawn. Examined every inch. Even climbed up to inspect the beam. Found carved initials. "J.H. - Carpenter." Nothing mystical. Just maker's mark.
Another failure. Another empty site.
The walk to nearest inn took two hours. He paid for information with his last copper. Asked about ghost stories. Strange happenings. Unexplained deaths.
"Crossroads?" The innkeeper laughed. "Boy, only thing that dies there is traveler's hopes when they see the road conditions."
"People say they hear moaning..."
"Wind through the ropes. Been meaning to cut them down. Bad for business. Scares merchants."
Just wind. Just rope. Just another location empty of what he needed.
Back to Garrett that afternoon. Report delivered. Soup consumed. Plans made.
"Last location tomorrow. The artist's studio." Garrett's eyes held worry. "In the city. More dangerous."
"Because of the spirit?"
"Because of the Kiratashi. They patrol. Watch for unauthorized binding attempts." Garrett counted on fingers. "Caught means death. Or worse... recruitment."
Recruitment? To become one of the black coats who'd dismissed his parents' murder?
"I'll be careful."
"Careful." Garrett snorted. "Boy bound for spirit binding talking careful. Like fish discussing drowning."
But what choice existed? Two sites empty. One remaining. Mya down to single digits of days.
"Tell me about the artist."
"Marcus Ashwood. Painter. Moderately successful." Garrett pulled out newspaper clippings. Years old. Yellowed. "Killed wife, three children, then himself. Fire started during the murders. Neighbors saved the building but family died."
"Why?"
"Article mentions debts. Lost commission. Wife threatening to leave." Garrett shrugged. "Human reasons. Human madness."
"But might have spawned a spirit?"
"Artists feel deeply. Create with passion. Their deaths..." Garrett paused. "Either nothing or something powerful. No middle ground."
Powerful. Wonderful. Just what a first-time binder needed.
"Any advice?"
"Don't die." Garrett's smile held no humor. "If you find something, remember... understanding, not fighting. Resolution, not victory."
Three days later. Night in the city. Kael stood before Ashwood's studio. Boarded windows. Chained door. "Condemned" signs plastered everywhere.
Easy enough to slip through loose boards. He'd learned that much from street life.
Inside... darkness. He lit his candle. Shadows danced.
And temperature plummeted.
Not gradual. Not subtle. Summer to winter in one step. His breath misted. Frost formed on metal fixtures. The candle flame flickered blue.
This... his birthmark blazed like fresh brand. Every instinct screamed danger. Real. Present. Hungry.
Spirit.
He'd found one.
Or it had found him.
The studio stretched before him. Paintings lined walls. Easels stood scattered. Drop cloths covered furniture. Everything coated in dust except...
Except the paintings. They looked fresh. New. Like someone cleaned them yesterday.
Should he retreat? Come back with Garrett? Every rational thought said yes.
But Mya had maybe six days. Maybe five. No time for caution.
He stepped deeper into the studio. The door slammed shut behind him. Not wind. The building itself rejecting escape.
Origin item. Had to find origin item. Garrett said they called to seekers. So where...
A painting crashed from the wall. Frame shattered where his foot would have landed. Not coincidence. Warning.
Or invitation?
He looked closer at the paintings. Portraits mostly. Noble families. Rich merchants. But there... in the corner. Different style. More passionate. Personal.
A family portrait. Man, woman, three children. Happy. Alive. Before fire and madness took them.
The painting glowed. Soft. Internal. Like moonlight through water.
Found it. Origin item hidden in plain sight.
Now what? Touch with blood? Enter trial? Face whatever grief had spawned this presence?
His hand shook reaching for his knife. Drew blade across palm. Watched red well up. Such a small wound to risk everything on.
But Mya waited. Counted days. Trusted someone would come.
"I'm here," he whispered to the painting. To the spirit. To himself. "Show me your pain. Let me understand."
He pressed his bloody palm against the canvas.
The world exploded into fire and screaming.
The trial had begun.