Rain hadn't yet fallen, but the clouds pressed low enough to scrape the treetops.
Nerin moved quickly through the village with his hood drawn and boots laced tight. He walked not with haste, but with purpose—each step a silent calculation. Behind the old smokehouse, past the glazier's cottage, and down the hollow path past the mill, he arrived at the weaver's abandoned barn. The door creaked softly as he pushed it open.
Inside, patterns lined the walls—not woven, but scratched into the wood. Thin lines, spirals, runes, and winding loops. None of the villagers had ever bothered to look closely. But Nerin had spent the past two evenings recreating them in his notebook.
It wasn't idle graffiti.
It was a map.
A memory-thread, left behind by someone who understood the lost language of impressions.
He crouched, pulling the folded parchment from his satchel, then lit a stub of wax. The lines flared under the flame—scorch-marks etched to reveal depth. A crude lattice of pathways ran through it: overlapping circles, broken lines ending in blots. It wasn't a cartograph in the usual sense.
It charted decay.
Nerin's lips moved as he read—not words, but tones, echo-mapping the ruin's emotional residue. Something he'd only ever practiced in theory, not fieldwork.
But this wasn't theory anymore.
At the heart of the pattern, two glyphs repeated, over and over again:
Blinthra.
Morrowlight.
---
Later that day, Nerin joined Leyra and Dorrin at the ferry bridge, where a crowd had gathered.
A cart had arrived from the north. Its oxen were sweating, one limping badly. Behind the reins sat a foreigner—cloak dyed green-black, a metal pin at his collar shaped like a thistle burning. An Enquirer.
Wardens, Nerin could deal with. Traders, even smugglers. But Enquirers were dangerous. Not because they asked questions. But because they already knew the answers they wanted to hear.
The man dismounted and took out a small book, no larger than his palm.
"Edenrock," he said. "Village 3-21C. Last registered census, seventy-nine adults, sixteen children. One unresolved disappearance last solstice. Three unexplained deaths in the past two months. No outgoing messages. No return traders. And now, I'm told, your river's bleeding."
Dorrin looked wary. "We've had... weather."
"Do not insult the authority of observance." The Enquirer turned to Nerin. "You. You don't belong here."
"No," Nerin replied evenly. "But I know what you're looking for."
The man raised an eyebrow.
Nerin stepped closer. "You're tracing Blinthra signals. There was a frequency surge near Riverrest. This is the second point on the curve."
That gave the man pause. "You're scribe-trained?"
Nerin held up his sigil—half-scratched, half-recognized.
Leyra stared at him. "You never said you were certified."
"I'm not," Nerin said, still looking at the Enquirer. "I left before the binding."
"Why?"
"Because they were asking the wrong questions."
A pause.
Then the Enquirer nodded. "We'll speak privately."
---
Inside the archives—once a grain loft turned record-keep—Nerin spread the replica map across the table.
"I've identified five imprint loci within a two-league radius," he said, pointing. "Each tied to either a statue, a burial pit, or a shrine. All non-active—until two nights ago."
"And the river?"
"It isn't bleeding." Nerin leaned closer. "It's reflecting. Something changed upstream. Something with an essence signature."
"You think it's Blinthra?"
"I think something older is mimicking Blinthra behavior—corruption patterns, memory anchoring, but without the fail-loop."
The Enquirer studied him. "Your work's precise."
"Because I only speak what I can verify."
They stared at one another a moment longer before the man spoke again.
"My name's Cather Vell. I've lost three agents to a rift I cannot chart. You may assist. But if you lie to me, you won't get the luxury of a second breath."
Nerin nodded once. "Deal."
---
That night, Nerin returned to Dorrin's house alone. Leyra hadn't spoken much after the encounter. She'd gone to check on Myla, who hadn't been seen since reporting the hand. Something still felt off about that.
Inside his room, Nerin opened the journal again.
This time, he wrote a question.
What is Morrowlight?
The ink didn't fade.
But beneath the question, the paper split.
Not tore.
Split.
A seam formed across the page, peeling open to reveal a second layer—a map shaped not like Edenrock, but a tree. Roots spiraling. Branches curling inward instead of out. And at the center of the trunk:
"Debt burns until named."
Suddenly, a knock.
He froze.
Then a whisper through the wood.
"Nerin. It's Leyra."
He opened the door quickly.
She looked pale, almost frightened.
"Myla's house. You need to see it."
---
They walked fast, silent.
When they arrived, the door to the widow's cottage hung open. No light inside.
Nerin stepped in first, torch raised.
The house was empty—but not untouched.
The furniture had been arranged in a spiral. Every chair, table, and plate formed perfect concentric circles around the hearth.
In the center: a mask.
Unlike the ones in the ruin, this one wasn't cracked or stored.
It was worn.
And underneath it—Myla's shawl.
Leyra picked up the mask slowly. It was warm.
And then it whispered.
"Her debt is mine. Her eyes were open too long."
They looked at one another.
Nerin didn't speak for a long time.
Then he said: "We have to go back to the Willow Pit."