The next morning, Neiki made a conscious decision:
He wasn't going to speak to anyone.
Not the dead.
Not the eagle.
And definitely not his dead mentor, who had a nasty habit of appearing with smug advice at the worst possible moments.
He kicked open the crooked door and stepped barefoot onto the cold stone slab outside. The mist was heavier today, curling around his legs and swirling across the graveyard like it had plans.
He didn't ask what those plans were. He didn't care.
He had a bone to find.
The whispering had started early—low and wet, like someone gargling their regrets underground. Neiki tightened the straps on his coat, shoved the whistle deeper beneath the fabric, and marched into the field with the resolve of someone determined to waste the day on anything but fate.
A soft screech echoed above him.
The eagle had returned from wherever spirit-bound birds went when they weren't circling his head. It landed on a leaning statue, wings tucked, head tilted in that overly curious way Neiki hated.
"I'm not feeding you," he said without looking up. "Go haunt a mausoleum."
It didn't leave. Of course it didn't.
Neiki moved on, stepping carefully between gravestones and sunken earth until he found what he was looking for:
A low-threat preservation grave—the kind left to rest, not to rise.
It was unmarked, but clearly cared for. Three small polished stones arranged in a crescent at the head, moss pressed flat where a thread wrap might've once lain, and a rusted fork placed loosely near the surface—likely ceremonial, not binding.
Signs of a memory burial. No break lines. No cracked seals.
Just enough subtle signals to make Neiki pause.
"This looks… suspiciously polite," he muttered.