The fizzing energy of the fire salamander ghost filled the dusty forge, its zipping movements a stark contrast to Zombiel's unnerving stillness.
Leonotis's optimistic declaration hung in the air, followed by Low's pragmatic, pointed question.
"I have no idea!" Leonotis admitted cheerfully. "But I know who might."
His gaze shifted towards the hill overlooking the village, where a single, crooked chimney released a thin ribbon of purple-tinged smoke into the evening sky.
"We ask the expert in all things weird and creepy."
Low groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Widow Eno? Are you serious? She'll probably want to trade one of our kidneys for a magic recipe. I don't like her."
"We don't have to like her," Jacqueline pointed out, her voice calm and logical as she watched the salamander phase harmlessly through a hanging set of tongs. "But she demonstrated knowledge of Low's… condition. If anyone in Oja-Ibo understands the transference of spirits, it would be her. It is the only sensible course of action."
Low shot Jacqueline a look, but she didn't argue.
With Zombiel shuffling silently between them and Leonotis carefully carrying the ornate iron box, from which the salamander occasionally poked its fiery head out with an indignant squeak, they began the trek up the hill as the sun bled orange and violet across the horizon.
Widow Eno's hut was even more unsettling up close.
Wind chimes made of polished animal vertebrae clinked softly in the breeze. The garden was a chaotic but clearly cultivated collection of night-blooming flowers and herbs that gave off a strange, spicy scent.
The door, carved with spiraling symbols, creaked open before Leonotis could even knock.
"So," a dry voice croaked from the shadowed interior. "The Soul-Finders arrive. You bring a cage, a vessel, and a flame. Do come in. Don't mind the clutter."
The inside of the hut was a single, crowded room that smelled powerfully of dried herbs, old parchment, and something that reminded Leonotis of ozone after a lightning strike.
Bunches of strange plants, some glowing faintly, hung from the rafters. Shelves overflowed with dusty scrolls and clay jars sealed with wax.
In the center of it all, Widow Eno sat in a high-backed rocking chair, her silver-plumed raven perched on its back, its black eyes tracking their every move.
"We, uh, were hoping you could help us," Leonotis began, stepping forward and placing the iron box on a rickety table.
The salamander zipped out, regarding the raven with a fiery hiss before retreating back into its metal home.
"You wish to pour new wine into an old bottle," Eno stated, her gaze fixing on Zombiel, who stood passively by the door. "You wish to take the spirit of the salamander and place it within the empty shell of the boy."
"Exactly!" Leonotis beamed. "So, is there a spell for that?"
Widow Eno let out a dry, rattling chuckle.
"A spell? Child, you are not re-stuffing a scarecrow. You are meddling with the fundamental laws of existence. A spirit is not a cloak you can simply put on. It is a seed. What grows depends on the soil you plant it in."
Her sharp eyes flickered between the three of them.
"The boy is empty soil. The salamander is a seed of fire, mischief, and untamed freedom. Are you prepared for what might sprout?"
"We just want him to be able to feel again," Jacqueline said softly. "To be… whole."
"'Whole' is a matter of perspective," Eno countered.
She leaned forward, her multitude of silver rings glinting in the lamplight.
"I can give you the ritual. The magic itself is simple, requiring three things: an anchor from the vessel, a key from the spirit's cage, and a catalyst of will from the casters."
She gestured with a long, bony finger.
"A thread from the boy's clothing will anchor the spell to his form. A shaving of metal from the iron box will unlock the spirit from its prison. And a single drop of blood from each of you three, offered willingly, will provide the living energy to fuel the transference."
Low crossed her arms.
"That's it? A thread, a shaving, and some blood? Seems too easy."
"The ritual is easy, child," Widow Eno said, her voice dropping, her eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity. "The consequences are not."
She leaned back, the rocking chair groaning in protest.
"I will give you the words to say. But I offer this warning, and only once: the result might not be what you want. You are not giving Zombiel a soul. You are giving him a spirit. His own soul is gone, forever. This new spirit, this fiery elemental thing, will awaken him. It will grant him feeling, yes. But its feelings. Its passions. Its impulses."
Her gaze settled on Leonotis, sharp and piercing.
"The boy you get back may not be the quiet, obedient child you see now. He may not be grateful for your gift. You can give a vessel a fire, but you cannot command the shape of the flame. It may warm you, or it may burn your entire world to the ground."
She let the warning hang in the heavy, herb-scented air.
Reaching into her robes, she produced a small, tightly rolled piece of parchment tied with a black string and handed it to Jacqueline.
"The incantation. Perform it at the peak of the moon tonight. What happens after is your own burden to bear."