They left the Hollow before dawn.
It didn't say goodbye, but the trees seemed to sway solemnly, branches brushing together like hands clasped in prayer.
Lucian pulled his coat tighter around him. The palace-threaded fur still held considerable warmth,
even after all these years. While it didn't belong to him, it fit. He didn't have spare clothing—let alone anything suitable for the frozen north—so he couldn't refuse it.
At the same time, he couldn't ignore how it felt like yet another chain to Atreaum.
He sighed and instead focused on what everyone else was doing.
Not now, Lucian. You don't want to go down that spiral. While traveling, no less.
Merry checked the bindings of her herb satchel for the fifth time and snapped the last buckle on Cadrel's traveling pack. "With the coat and these enchantments, you'll be plenty warm. But not quiet, I'm afraid."
Cadrel gave a weary, good-natured grunt. "I'll be silent when I'm double dead."
She wasn't impressed.
"No," Merry deadpanned. "You'll just haunt the rafters with dramatic monologues."
Alice giggled softly as Merry pulled a scarf high over her face. Her hair had been neatly braided and set to avoid the cold wind.
"I think he'd still be better than some of the ghosts that would have followed Lucian back into the Hollow."
Lucian shot her a sideways glance. "One of the ghosts offered to make us tea if we let him."
"And another tried to possess a wolf," she muttered. "I don't see a reason to let them join us."
Behind them, the Hollow grew fainter—like memory pressed beneath snow. They had followed Merry's root glyphs through a rarely used backtrail, wrapped in mist and soil-humming silence.
By midday, the trees began to thin. Ice framed the underbrush. Pine replaced oak. The world whispered colder things.
By nightfall, Lucian was thankful Merry was with them. As long as they were in the woods, she was within her element. She opened her Grimoire and made a large tent appear for each of them.
"I haven't done this in so long," she said quietly. Lucian glanced at her. "Camping?"
"Yes. And being with other people for so long."
He nodded in understanding. "How are you finding it?"
"Constant companionship?" Merry said thoughtfully. "Absolutely exhausting. But it isn't so bad."
He laughed—a real, warm belly laugh—one that made Alice and Brother Cadrel stop their own conversation.
"It's nice to hear you like this once in a while, Lord Mortician," Cadrel said gruffly.
"Please—call me Lucian."
+
They traveled for two weeks before reaching the edge of the forest and into a snowfield. Alice marveled at the first sight of snow, reaching out and scooping some into her hands. "It burns, but in a different way from the Sandeater's Orchard."
Lucian gently took the snow away from her hands. "Careful. You might be undead, but too much cold might make your fingers snap off." She marveled at how her palms were now red.
"Does this happen only when it's cold?"
Lucian shook his head. "If you pour hot water on your hands, it's the same effect. Also painful, but similar to the Orchard."
Once again, he was surprised at how much he took for granted. Life itself was new for Alice, and somehow, that knowledge kept him from being completely jaded by his experiences in this world.
What is it called, anyway? All I know are the names of towns.
Lucian bit his lip and looked to Brother Cadrel, whose hands were bandaged up warm. "Brother Cadrel, what is the name of this world?"
He gazed at Lucian for a long time, like he wanted to solve a puzzle. "Mm? Why do you ask?"
"I'm not from here," he explained. "I was summoned by the Queen."
It was like a lamp turned on in Cadrel's brain.
"Oh! A traveler. Well, this land is Velrithane. It was said this world was mourned into being, not birthed." He looked like he wanted to say more—his brow furrowed and he clucked his tongue a few times.
"If you get a map, I can show you the different regions of this land."
Lucian made a mental note to do that—if they ever dodged the mortician stalking his (their) steps.
Eventually, they saw Chateau Magnifique—she rose like a wound stitched into the mountain's edge.
Her silhouette loomed—stone towers with crumbling spires, frostbitten bridges yawning between broken keeps. One balcony was entirely choked with bramble, wrapped in silver-white roots. The air hung heavy with things unspoken.
"It's beautiful," Alice said, breath visible. "And very haunted-looking."
"Because it is," Merry replied. "This place refused final rites. The royal mortician here tried to trap sorrow inside the walls. It worked. Too well."
Lucian closed his eyes. He could already feel it—grief, not mourning. An ache held too tightly for too long.
"Do the spirits here still talk?"
"No," Merry said quietly. "They echo. Only when they want to."
They entered through a gate that once bore the crest of snowberry and blade. The path was lit by crystalline fungus growing between the stones—bioluminescent and sharp, like teeth pretending to be flowers.
Lucian's Grimoire pulsed softly at his side.
[AURA DETECTED]
Dormant Sorrow Fields: Stable.
Thread Density: High.
Emotional Interference: Moderate.
"Well," Lucian muttered. "It's quiet. But not empty."
Cadrel leaned against the inner wall of the entryway and whispered, "The King who ruled this place made ice cream for the children. He said joy should never need fire to bloom."
Alice blinked. "That's lovely."
"He tried to drown himself in a vat of cream when the grief caught up to him," Cadrel added absently, then shook his head. "Sorry. Bad habit."
+
They found the inner chapel intact—a domed hall of glass and blue-stone, where icicles hung like chimes. Luckily, the floor still had a map of the chateau, neatly framed in glass.
"I found a ma--oh, it's torn in half. Sorry, Lucian--hopefully we find a complete one." Alice said sadly, but brought him half of the map anyway.
It was torn in half horizontally, with the words "Chateau Magnifique" on top. Nearby were different dots noting villages or towns.
"Looks like the Chateau was named after its region..."
He folded the torn map and placed it in his satchel, where the Grimoire slumbered. It was glowing a gentle teal and seemed a little annoyed at being disturbed, but it continued to rest.
Even in the biting cold, the chateau still had an air of nostalgia wrapped around it, like a thick blanket.
"This place... doesn't want to forget."
"It doesn't know how," Merry corrected.
+
That night, Lucian wrote in his journal. Alice slept near the fire, wrapped in blankets that smelled faintly of lavender oil and forest resin. Merry kept watch with her Grimoire open, murmuring glyphs into the stone.
Cadrel stirred, muttering in his sleep.
Lucian's pen paused. He glanced down at the note from Gethra, now folded neatly in the back pocket of his book.
Hearts that carry weight together don't break so easily.
He wasn't used to being part of a group. Every step of his training had been silent, solo, clinical. The Queen had spoken of excellence, not empathy. He hadn't earned his grades. He'd memorized what emotions should look like, cheated the final counseling exam, and told himself it didn't matter.
It mattered now.
He gazed across the fire at Alice.
He'd seen her cradle a grown man's trauma in her hands like a dying bird. He'd seen her softness become a weapon and a balm.
She wasn't trained. She wasn't ranked. But she knew how to hold sorrow in ways the academy never taught.
He felt the beginnings of guilt settle in his ribs.
You were supposed to help them grieve, he told himself. Not just bury them.
The Grimoire fluttered beside him, softly.
[EMOTIONAL ALIGNMENT SHIFT DETECTED]
Rite Stability Increased:+8%
Guilt Index:Acceptable. Proceed.
Lucian blinked.
He leaned back and whispered:
"Tomorrow… we begin. We name the sorrow this place forgot."
And the Grimoire turned a page in agreement.
Tomorrow, they would fully explore the chateau. He only hoped the grand mansion wasn't hiding anything too grisly.