He stepped outside and stretched. The cold bit at his bare feet, but he didn't mind. The anklets chimed softly as he walked. The air smelled like damp moss, old stone, and the metallic edge of something not quite alive.
Bone magic.
It always had a scent—like carved antlers left too long in river water.
His shovel leaned against a tree, beside a weathered wheelbarrow filled with partial skeletons. They weren't from fresh deaths. These had clawed their way out during the last whisper surge and collapsed halfway. Lazy undead, like lazy ghosts, were and will always be a pain.
He picked up a stray jawbone and examined the etched runes. Bone relics were a language. Every notch and groove meant something—names, curses, prayers. This one asked for peace, but the carving was shaky. Probably an amateur drew it or was too scared during the process plus its Desperation magic. It hadn't worked.
"Bad carving," Neiki muttered, and tossed it onto a pile.
The next hour was spent checking graves. Most remained sealed. A few had shifted—he'd rebury them later. One, near the northwest edge, had a full skeletal arm sticking out of the dirt, fingers curled like it was reaching for help or trying to pull itself free.
He kicked the arm gently back into the soil.
"No."
Then, using both feet, he stomped it deeper into the ground. No words, no chant. Words laced with magic were a waste of energy on something this pitiful.
By midday, the whispers started again—faint murmurs brushing at the edge of his mind. Not language. Not yet. Just pressure. Like a headache that hadn't decided how bad it wanted to be. He pressed a hand against the pouch at his side. Inside, the whistle vibrated.
It could feel the dead gathering again.
Rolling his eyes, he flicked away imaginary sweat before it reached his brow. "They never shut up," he muttered.
He was in a foul mood, but not angry. Not really. Just... used to it.
The whistle had bonded to him, whether he liked it or not. And with it came the voices of the buried, the guilt of the bound, the rage of the forgotten. They clawed at his attention, scraped at his sleep, and they keep tucking at his already-thin patience. He hasnt been in a good mood in three weeks, not a real one. His luck had dried up. No good relics had surfaced in days. Even the runes were fading.
His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted a half-crushed femur from the soil. Not from fear, he was past that. From caution. Tired precision. He cleaned it with his etched handkerchief and set it gently on the bone bench.
The routine helped.
The structure kept him sane.
Until the eagle arrived.
It wasn't alive.
Not entirely dead either.
A half-transparent form circled around once overhead, then landed on the crumbling gate post. Its feathers shimmered in the mist, tipped with ash and bone. Its eyes—hollow, pale, socket-like, watched him without blinking.
"Back already?" Neiki asked flatly. He didn't even look up.
The eagle screeched. Not loudly—just enough to be heard. An acknowledgment, like it was answering: Yes, and what of it?
Neiki was sure the thing had an attitude. It didn't stop following him, except when it went off to scout or vanish into the fog for hours. He hadn't bothered to figure out why. After bonding with a bone, an undead eagle was hardly the strangest part of his week. If a tiger showed up next and came with his desperate wish, he'd nod and go back to work.
For now, he ignored what he could. And forsook the tasks that refused to leave him alone.
He stood, cracked his neck, and sighed.
"Right. Another grave. Another ghost. Another idiot trying to crawl back out."
He grabbed his shovel. Secured the pouch. Fastened the whistle tighter against his chest.
Then headed down the path.
It was never quiet anymore.
Not really.
And that, more than anything else, was starting to wear him thin.