He crouched, pulled a thin chisel from his coat, and began clearing the moss and vines from the stones. Underneath, faint glyphs shimmered like ink in fog—preservation runes, not warnings. Symbols of passage, stillness, and silence.
He recognized the structure.
"Burial of recall," he whispered. "One of the older rites."
It meant someone had laid a body—or something—down here with a purpose. Not to lock it away. Not to trap it.
But to preserve what it remembered.
Containment magic. Subtle and quiet. The kind his mentor used to say could still breathe for decades if carved well enough.
Neiki reached for the central stone and scraped gently at the groove. His fingers brushed something dry and thin, wedged beneath it. He dug with care and pulled out a folded, dirt-colored parchment tucked into the soil. Surprisingly intact. Still holding shape. Lightly enchanted.
He unrolled it slowly—
Handwritten. Neat. A little dramatic.
> To wake the path, offer silence.
> To lift the breath, leave bone.
> To gain the mark, survive the hunger.
Neiki blinked. "That's not vague at all."
The eagle croaked once. Loudly. As if in warning.
Neiki raised an eyebrow. "Oh, now you're helpful?"
He ignored the bird and got to work.
He'd seen this phrase before in necro theory, an unlocking rite for grave-marked relics, usually harmless. The kind collectors used when they couldn't afford full rituals.
The phrase *leave bone* was literal.
He retrieved a knucklebone from his pouch, whispered a small rune of offering into it, and pressed it gently into the soil.
The ground trembled. A faint pulse of energy rose—then stilled.
"Well, it didn't explode," he said, dusting off his coat. "We'll call that progress."