Three days after the mill's emptiness. Kael packed his supplies with mechanical precision. Dried meat. Water. Bandages. Knife.
"Crossroads next." Garrett watched from his pile of moldy blankets. "South. Two days if you push hard."
Push hard? When didn't he? Every moment wasted meant Mya suffered longer. The math was simple. Brutal. Unchangeable.
This... he'd dreamed of the mill last night. Empty rooms. Dusty corners. The locket that held no power. What if all three sites proved empty? What then?
"Stop thinking." Garrett threw a pebble that struck Kael's shoulder. "I can hear your mind grinding. Doubt kills more seekers than spirits."
"How do you not think about—"
"About failure? Death? Futility?" The old man laughed. "Boy, I've carried failure forty-three years. You learn to function despite the weight."
Function. Such a cold word for survival.
The journey south took him through farmland. Past normal people living normal lives. A shepherd drove his flock across the road. Children played in a wheat field. A merchant's wagon rumbled past, guards eyeing Kael's worn clothes with suspicion.
Should he envy them? Their ignorance? Their safety?
No. Ignorance hadn't saved his family. Safety was illusion. Only power mattered. Power to fight the things that wore familiar faces while spreading death.
He slept in a haystack the first night. Woke to a farmer's pitchfork inches from his face.
"Off my land, vagrant!"
Kael rolled away, hands raised. "Just passing through. Meant no harm."
"Pass through faster!"
He ran. Not from fear but pragmatism. Conflict meant delays. Delays meant Mya's time running shorter.
The crossroads appeared at sunset on the second day. Seven gallows standing like broken teeth against orange sky. The sight stopped travelers cold. Made them choose alternate routes. Bad for commerce but excellent for example-setting.
Which was the point? Make bandits fear. Make them seek other territories. Make them...
This... something felt off. Not supernatural. Just wrong. Seven men died here but the gallows looked newer. The wood too fresh. The rope too white.
Kael circled closer. Touched the nearest post. Cold wood. Nothing special. But the construction...
"These were rebuilt." He said it aloud to make it real. "Recent. Maybe five years?"
So where were the original gallows? Where had the seven actually died?
He searched the area. Found it fifty yards east. Old post holes. Rotted wood fragments. Grass grew differently here. Darker. Thicker. Fed by old blood.
Should he feel something? Temperature drop? Reality thinning? He pressed palms to earth. Closed eyes. Tried to sense what Garrett described.
Nothing. Just dirt. Just grass. Just the memory of judicial murder.
But wait... there. Not cold but heat. Tiny spot of warmth in cooling evening air. He dug with his knife. Three inches down found it.
A brass button. Military insignia. Seventh Regiment. One of the hanged had been a soldier. Fallen far from whatever honor he'd once claimed.
Origin item? Kael's birthmark didn't react. The button felt warm but... naturally? From being underground? Or something else?
He pricked his finger. Let blood drop onto brass. Waited for world to explode into trial.
Nothing. Just blood on metal. Just another false hope.
This... he pocketed the button anyway. Evidence of his search. Proof he'd tried.
The new gallows beckoned. Maybe something there? Transferred energy? Lingering resentment?
He climbed up. Tested each rope. Good hemp. Would hold weight. Would snap necks clean if done right. Or strangle slow if not.
Which had the seven experienced? Quick or slow? Together or staggered?
Historical records said together. All dropped at once. Crowd cheered. Justice served. Example set.
But records lied. Kael knew that truth intimately.
"Excuse me!"
He turned. A man in merchant clothes stood below. Armed. Wary. "What's your business here?"
Should he lie? Truth sounded mad. But lies took energy better spent searching.
"Looking for something."
"For what? There's nothing here but old wood and bad memories."
Old wood. Bad memories. If only the merchant knew what those could spawn.
"Just looking." Kael climbed down. "I'll move along."
"See that you do. Don't need vagrants scaring off trade."
Kael walked away. Circled back after full dark. Continued searching by moonlight.
The original site yielded nothing more. The new gallows remained stubbornly mundane. No spirits. No supernatural presence. No hope of easy answers.
He spent the night beneath the gallows. Waiting. Watching. Sometimes spirits manifested at specific times. Death hours. Anniversary moments.
But dawn came spirit-free. Just Kael, dew-soaked and disappointed, watching sun paint the crossroads gold.
Another failure. Another empty site.
He stopped at the nearest inn for information. Paid with the last of his hoarded coins. The innkeeper, fat and suspicious, counted the copper twice.
"What's a boy like you want with ghost stories?"
"Academic interest." The lie came smooth. "Writing a book."
"Book?" The man laughed. "About the crossroads? Nothing there but rope and regret."
"People mention hearing things..."
"People mention lots after three ales." But the innkeeper leaned closer. "Though there was that merchant last spring. Swore he saw lights. Dancing around the gallows."
Lights? "What kind of lights?"
"Blue ones. Said they followed his wagon for miles." The innkeeper shrugged. "Course, he'd been sampling his own wine shipment. So..."
Blue lights. Like the spirit that took Mira. But months old. Long gone if ever real.
"Anyone else see anything?"
"My stable boy claims the horses won't drink from the trough after midnight. Says the water tastes wrong." Another shrug. "But he's simple. Sees signs everywhere."
Simple? Or sensitive? Some people felt spirits without knowing. Animal instinct recognizing predators.
"Where is he?"
"Out back. Mucking stalls. Name's Henrik. Don't frighten him."
Kael found Henrik exactly as promised. Mucking stalls. Humming tunelessly. The boy looked up at Kael's approach. Wide eyes. Innocent face. Maybe sixteen but minded like ten.
"Hello, Henrik."
The boy smiled. "Hello! You staying? I'll ready a stall. Best hay. Clean water."
"Actually, I wanted to ask about the water. The innkeeper said..."
Henrik's face closed. "Master says I imagine things. Says I'm stupid."
"I don't think you're stupid." Kael kept his voice gentle. "I think you notice things others miss."
"Really?" Hope bloomed in those simple eyes. "The water does taste wrong! After midnight. Like... like crying."
Like crying? "What does crying taste like?"
"Salt. But not good salt. Sad salt. Scared salt." Henrik twisted his hands. "The horses know. They won't drink. I have to haul fresh from the well."
Emotional residue? Possible. But without manifestation...
"Have you seen anything else? Lights? Shadows?"
"Sometimes." Henrik whispered like sharing secrets. "Blue wisps. Dancing on the gallows. But only when moon is dark. Only when no one watches."
New moon. Of course. When the veils thinned. When spirits walked easier.
But last new moon had passed. Next wouldn't come for...
This... Kael's heart sank. Twenty days until new moon. Mya had perhaps five days left. The math mocked him.
"Thank you, Henrik. You've helped."
"I did?" The boy beamed. "No one ever says that. They just call me simple."
"You're not simple. You're observant. That's valuable."
Kael left silver on the stable rail. Payment for truth. Henrik deserved that much.
The walk back to Garrett took two days. Two days of reviewing failure. The crossroads held something. Maybe. But dormant. Waiting. Useless for his timeline.
"Wisps on new moon." Garrett nodded when Kael reported. "Minor manifestation. Probably just echoes. Not full spirit."
"But something?"
"Something that won't help your girl." The old man's bluntness cut deep. "Last location. The studio. Three days hence."
Three days to prepare. Three days while Mya suffered. Three days of meditation and training while time bled away.
"What if it's empty too?"
"Then you expand search. Other sites. Other tragedies." Garrett stirred the eternal soup. "Or accept defeat."
Accept defeat? Let Mya die? Return to stealing bread and dodging guards?
No. The studio would have something. Had to have something.
"Tell me about artist spirits again."
"Passionate. Creative. Dangerous." Garrett counted on fingers. "Their trials tend toward symbolism. Metaphor. Not straight combat but puzzles. Tests of understanding."
"How do you solve metaphors while something kills you?"
"Quickly." No humor in that answer. "Artists feel deeply. Their spirits reflect that depth. Beautiful and terrible together."
Beautiful and terrible. Like blue light consuming families. Like sisters with tilted heads and frost footsteps.
"Any specific preparation?"
"Open mind. Artists hate rigid thinking. Be ready to see different perspectives. Feel different truths." Garrett paused. "And don't trust what you see. Artist spirits love illusion."
Illusion. Wonderful. As if reality wasn't uncertain enough.
But Kael practiced. Meditation to quiet rigid thoughts. Exercises to shift perspective. Looking at objects from unusual angles. Finding beauty in ugliness.
"Better." Garrett approved on the final night. "You might survive first contact."
First contact. Not the trial. Not the binding. Just initial meeting.
"Any last wisdom?"
"Remember why you're doing this." Garrett's eyes held unexpected sympathy. "When the trial tears you apart, when everything screams to surrender... remember her. Mya. Let that purpose anchor you."
Purpose. Anchor. Pretty words for desperation.
But Kael packed his supplies. Checked his knife. Prepared for last hope.
Tomorrow, the studio. Tomorrow, answers or death.
Probably both.