Wraiths linger where memories refuse to fade.
The world remained blissfully unaware that the necromancer had unleashed something from its eternal prison—something that should have never crossed into our realm.
Only a few hours had passed since the mages departed, and we were busy preparing dinner when the doorbell rang. Grumbling, I set down the knife I'd been using and went to answer it. To my surprise, Luna stood on the doorstep. Not that it was entirely unusual—she was my friend, and perhaps a little more than that—but I was used to visiting her, not the other way around.
Her silence unnerved me. She looked tense, her features sharper than usual, and her hazy eyes seemed farther away than ever, as though lost among the stars.
"Luna?" I said softly.
She took a shaky step forward, then another, before pressing her head against my chest. Her thin fingers curled into my shirt, gripping it as though it were the only thing anchoring her.
"What happened?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
I felt utterly inadequate, fumbling to reassure her. Alex would have known what to say—he was always better at comforting others—but Luna didn't seem to want him. She'd come to me, for reasons I couldn't understand. Awkwardly, I began stroking her hair, trying to calm her.
"Terrible," she murmured into my chest, her voice trembling.
"Come inside," I said, guiding her gently toward the kitchen. Her body felt so fragile in my grip that I feared she might collapse if I let go.
When we entered, Alex nearly dropped the bowl of corn salad he'd been holding. Luna must have looked worse than I realized, because even Rolo, absorbed in his book, glanced up with unusual concern.
I eased her into a chair, and Alex quickly brewed a calming tea, pressing the steaming cup into her hands. She sipped it slowly, and only then did she seem ready to speak.
"Every empath feels it," she said quietly, her voice brittle, as though speaking aloud would shatter her resolve.
"What is it?" Rolo asked, leaning forward.
Alex remained silent, watching her with worried eyes, while I could only shrug helplessly. Luna hesitated, closing her eyes as if summoning courage. Then she took a deep breath and sighed. The sound carried an eerie resonance, a layered whisper of voices, none of which belonged to her.
"Horror," she said, the word trembling on her lips. "The gate opened. Oh, my King. It's open! It's open!"
"What's happening to her?" Alex asked, alarm evident in his tone.
"She's extending her empathy," Rolo explained, his usual nonchalance giving way to rare seriousness. "She's connected to the other empaths."
"Be still," Luna whispered, her voice strained. "Your fear will shatter the connection. Just... wait."
With trembling hands, she pulled a string of black pearls from her bag. The beads clinked softly as she flicked her wrist, their sound oddly hypnotic. She shook them once more before draping the string gracefully around her neck, the motion deliberate, almost ceremonial.
"I made this necklace myself," Luna said softly, running her fingers along the string of black pearls. "With it, I can stay connected to them."
Then, without explanation, she reached into her bag and pulled out a handful of small, oddly shaped plushies. Rolo's eyes immediately lit up with understanding.
"Voodoo," he murmured, a glint of curiosity in his tone.
Luna's lips curved into a sweet, though undeniably tense, smile. "Not quite, but similar," she replied. "These are simple plush figures I've modified to function as mediums."
I caught the gleam in Rolo's eyes—the telltale sign that he would interrogate Luna about this later, probably at length.
Without wasting time, Luna drew a thin line of salt around the plushies, forming a small circle. Rolo barely opened his mouth to ask a question when she preemptively answered it.
"The salt helps contain the essence within the mediums," she explained, her focus unwavering.
Once the circle was closed, she retrieved a matchbox, struck a match, and lit a slender stick of incense. Holding it delicately above the salt circle, she whispered in a hauntingly soft voice, "Hear my voice and follow the light. Though tiny and lost in the cacophony of everything, if you focus, you will find it. Follow this light—it will lead you to me."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then one of the plush figures—a peculiar lion with human-like limbs and a star-shaped face—stirred. Its button eyes blinked, and it raised a paw-like hand before sitting upright. The plush lion glanced around the room, its gaze finally settling on Luna.
"Welcome, Ibrahim," Luna greeted, her voice tender.
The lion's stitched mouth moved, and a deep, resonant voice filled the room. The words were foreign to me, but Luna nodded as though she understood. Reaching into her bag, she produced a translation amulet, a small coin-like object etched with runes. She handed it to Ibrahim, who clasped it between his stubby, fingerless hands. He crouched slightly, then placed the amulet on his lap.
"Greetings, friends of Luna," Ibrahim's thunderous voice declared in perfect clarity.
Before I could fully process what had just happened, another plush figure—a white rabbit with elongated ears—shook to life.
"Dimitri," Luna smiled.
The rabbit hopped upright and would have leapt into Luna's arms had she not stopped it with a quick gesture. "Careful," she warned, "Don't cross the salt circle."
Dimitri settled back but glared at the boundary, clearly agitated. Luna handed him an amulet as well. Though he briefly glanced in our direction, his attention was fixed entirely on her.
The remaining plushies began to stir in unison. A teddy bear rose stiffly, its movements regal. "Macabeus," Luna greeted. A sleek black cat stretched languidly, her golden button eyes gleaming. "Anna," Luna said with a nod. The last to awaken was a dog plush with floppy ears. "Cissy," Luna finished.
Anna was the only one who didn't need an amulet. She addressed the room immediately, her voice sharp and unwavering. "We all feel it. Something happened hours ago."
Luna nodded in agreement. "That's why I called you here—to piece together what's happening."
"A necromancer opened the gate without a summon," Cissy stated flatly. "That much is clear."
"Our world and the realm of the damned collided for a brief moment," Macabeus added, his tone grave. "And something took the opportunity to slip through."
"Not something," Ibrahim rumbled. "A wraith. Let's be clear about that."
The very word sent a chill through the room. Even Rolo, usually nonchalant, looked uneasy.
"The wraith is searching for a host," Ibrahim continued, his voice heavy with foreboding. "It won't rest until it finds one."
"And the moment it entered this world," Luna said softly, "it chose."
"Who?" I asked, glancing uneasily between the animated plushies. My voice carried a mix of confusion and anger.
"The Hueless King," all the plushies declared in unison, their button eyes turning to me with unsettling precision.
"Do they know?" I looked at Luna, confused and angry.
"They don't see faces," Luna replied, her voice calm but tinged with tension. "They see energy—our shapes as luminous essences."
"The wraith chose you," Macabeus said, his voice somber.
"It desires your power," Ibrahim added gravely.
"The wraith wants you, my King," Anna murmured.
Dimitri said nothing, but his stitched mouth curled into an almost petulant frown as he looked away. His posture made it clear he didn't like me—and I had a strong suspicion why.
An unfamiliar voice cut through the tension. It was smooth, cold, and dripping with amusement.
"Well, it's not nice to ruin the surprise."
Everyone froze. My pulse quickened as I turned to Luna, my voice low and tense. "Tell me, Luna—are we expecting anyone else?"
Her eyes scanned the room nervously. "Besides the wraith?" she whispered.
The air filled with a soft, almost teasing laugh. I saw it then—its form was humanlike but made of swirling, translucent black mercury smoke. The Wraith shifted with a liquid elegance, disappearing and reappearing just behind me. I felt its presence, not as an accident, but as a deliberate choice on its part, a taunt.
Turning to face it again, I noticed the world around me had subtly changed. The vibrant colors of reality had faded into muted pastels, a dreamlike haze that softened every edge. The details of the kitchen were gone, as if the room had become part of an old, half-forgotten memory. Even without looking, I knew we were alone. The scent of Luna, Rolo's restless energy, and Alex's quiet intensity—all had vanished.
"So," I murmured, piecing it together, "we've crossed into my consciousness."
The Wraith's presence seemed to smirk, a silent acknowledgment.
"Sharp as ever," it said, its voice low and smooth, curling like smoke through my thoughts.
In the next instant, I was seated at a table, facing a kindly smiling woman. Though I had never met her in life, I recognized her from the family portraits. Ágota Rosenstein. She ladled steaming soup into a bowl that had somehow appeared before me, her movements unhurried, almost tender. The aroma of the soup was unmistakable—my favorite. She slid the bowl toward me and wished me bon appétit.
I reached for the spoon, noticing how small my hands looked. My voice, when I spoke, was thinner, higher. A child's voice.
"An illusion?" I asked, though it was more a statement than a question.
"Of course," she replied, her smile serene. "It's the simplest way to conquer someone's mind."
I shoveled a spoonful of soup into my mouth, the taste a bittersweet reminder of something long gone. "But if I know it's an illusion, doesn't that make it useless?"
She chuckled softly. "Not necessarily. I thought I'd give you a choice. Imagine it, sweetheart—your power combined with mine. What we could accomplish together."
"I'm not interested in power," I replied firmly, taking another bite.
Her smile turned knowing, disarming. "Oh, but you are. You enjoyed that fight with the necromancer. You relish the control you have over your friends, even that half-breed girl. It's in your blood—you're a king. Ruling comes naturally to you."
"If that's true," I said, setting the spoon down with deliberate calm, "then I'm content with my own power."
Her gaze hardened briefly, then softened again as she sighed, feigning resignation. "Fine, something else then." She held up a piece of paper, its edges worn with time. "Recognize this? It's still in your shoebox, isn't it?"
My stomach dropped. I glanced at it, instantly averting my eyes as if I feared I would go blind if I had to see it for another moment. The sight of it had killed my appetite. I pushed the bowl away.
"I can give you all this," she said, her voice honeyed with temptation. "Right now, it's an illusion, but I can make it real. I have creation magic, after all. Everything you've ever imagined could be yours."
"I don't care," I said, sliding off the chair. My small feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and I strode toward the door.
Opening it, I stepped out into a sunlit clearing. The house was gone, but Ágota—or the Wraith wearing her face—stood nearby. Her figure shifted, merging with the memory of my mother.
"Come here, Shay," she cooed, her voice thick with false affection. "I'll love you more than anyone ever has. I'll never leave you. Come here, and I'll make everything right."
Her words tugged at something deep and raw within me. Against my better judgment, I found myself moving toward her, drawn like a moth to flame. I stopped just before her and looked up. Her eyes were filled with the kind of unconditional love I'd longed to see in my mother's.
"I want to go back," I said, my voice cold. The smile on her face froze, then cracked.
"How could you?" she snarled, her voice losing its softness. "You should've accepted!"
The truth I never wanted to admit hit me like a hammer: I missed my mother. That cruel, proud woman who had only ever hurt me. She was still my mother—the one who'd given me life. Isn't it natural to love her, even if she was incapable of loving me back? I had mourned her, not for who she was, but for who she could've been.
"My mother was a proud, beautiful woman," I said, my voice steady. "One of the finest hunters I've ever known. You don't even come close to resembling her."
The sun above us vanished, plunging the clearing into darkness. Tendrils of shadow erupted from the ground, wrapping around the Wraith's form. It writhed and screamed, its face contorted with rage.
"You are weak," I said, my voice unyielding. "Weaker than Aleshio ever was."
The Wraith thrashed, struggling against the binds of my mind.
"You forgot," I said, my voice carrying the weight of finality, "this is my consciousness. Here, I am absolute."
"You can't destroy me!" it shrieked. "You can't!"
"Oh, really?" I asked, a cruel grin spreading across my lips. "I know someone who can."
Its voice cracked with desperation. "I curse you, Shaytan! You'll feel weak and vulnerable for the rest of your life!"
I ignored the threat, exhaling slowly. "Gironde Mehisto," I whispered.
Gironde may have been there all along, or perhaps my words had summoned him—I couldn't say for certain. But when he appeared, a wave of relief washed over me, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt like it would be all right.
"I'm impressed, Shaytan," the Necromancer remarked, his voice smooth and casual.
I shrugged.
"Just get her out of here," I growled, my voice low.
"As you wish," he replied, his tone unfazed. With a swift movement, he seized her dress with his long, slender fingers, and with a flick of his other hand, he tipped his top hat. In the blink of an eye, both figures disappeared.
And just like that, I was alone. The weight of it pressed on me, and I collapsed to the ground, feeling utterly powerless. The sky above looked like glass, too fragile, too distant—like something I could never reach.
Pearl-like tears spilled freely from my eyes, falling endlessly, as I clutched the crumpled paper in my hand, wishing the lines written on it could have been anything more than just words.