They left the hut a few minutes later, the cryptic words of the ritual clutched in Jacqueline's hand, their own blood humming with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
The moon was beginning to rise, a perfect silver disc in the twilight sky, seeming to watch them, waiting for their decision. They had the spell, but now they were burdened with a far heavier weight: the knowledge that their act of kindness could unleash something wonderful, or something truly terrible.
The moonlight was cold and sharp as they left Widow Eno's hut, the crickets in the graveyard seeming to fall silent as they passed.
Leonotis clutched the small iron box containing the salamander, its faint warmth a strange comfort against his skin.
Jacqueline held the witch's cryptic instructions, the rolled parchment feeling heavy and ominous in her hand.
For a long moment, no one spoke, the weight of Eno's warning settling upon them like a shroud.
"She's crazy," Low finally hissed, breaking the silence. Her voice was a low, tense whisper. "Completely and utterly unhinged. 'Burn your world to the ground'? No, thank you. We should throw that box in the river and walk away."
"Her warning is magically sound," Jacqueline countered softly, her gaze distant. "The principles of spirit transference are fraught with peril. A spirit's nature—its core identity—cannot be easily changed or erased. We would be binding a wild, elemental force to a human vessel. The potential for a catastrophic outcome is… significant."
"But what's the alternative?" Leonotis argued, stopping and turning to face them amidst the tilting headstones. His voice was filled with a desperate, stubborn hope. "Just leave him like this? An empty puppet for Njiru to use until his body rots away? We can't. We promised we'd help him."
He looked at Zombiel, who stood patiently, his vacant eyes reflecting the moonlight without a flicker of understanding.
"He deserves a chance. Even if it's a risky one."
Low let out a frustrated sigh, her gaze flicking from Leonotis's earnest face to Zombiel's blank one.
"Fine," she conceded, her voice grudging. "Fine! But if he suddenly decides to start breathing fire and roasting villagers, I'm blaming you, 'Captain Soul-Finder'."
They found a small, secluded clearing deeper in the graveyard, sheltered by a weeping willow. As instructed by the scroll, they set the iron box in the center.
The ritual required three components to bridge the gap between the spectral and the physical.
Leonotis carefully snipped a loose thread from the hem of Zombiel's worn tunic—the anchor.
Low, with a surprising delicacy, used the edge of a sharp stone to scrape a fine sliver of metal from the box's ornate latch—the key.
Then came the final component: the catalyst of will. One by one, they pricked their fingers on a thorn Leonotis provided, each squeezing a single drop of blood onto the metal shaving. Their living energy made the metal shimmer faintly.
With the preparations complete, Jacqueline unrolled the parchment. Her clear voice rang out in the quiet graveyard, reciting the ancient, looping words of the incantation.
She held her hands out, her fingers tracing delicate patterns in the air once more. A soft, silvery light emanated from her palms, forming shimmering threads that gently coaxed the fiery spirit from its iron prison.
The fire salamander emerged, its annoyance replaced by a wary curiosity as it felt the pull of the spell.
"Easy now," Jacqueline murmured, her voice calm and focused, a steady anchor in the swirling vortex of magic. "We only wish to help you find a new home."
It resisted. Fire whipped and sparked, forcing Leonotis to shield his eyes.
"Easy, little spark!" he shouted over the rising hum. "Think of it as… moving house! Just a cozier one with arms and legs!"
Zombiel stood motionless, his usual pale complexion illuminated by the ghost's ethereal glow, his vacant eyes fixed on the approaching flame.
As the fire salamander drew nearer, the spectral flames began to swirl with increasing intensity, drawn towards Zombiel like a moth to a candle.
The moment of contact was marked by a silent surge of unexpected energy. Brilliant, soundless sparks of orange and green light erupted, momentarily blinding them.
A low hum filled the air, escalating into a resonant thrum that vibrated through their bones, through the very ground beneath their feet.
The flames enveloped Zombiel's still form, tendrils of living fire weaving into his chest, his arms, his head, as if seeking purchase within an empty vessel.
For a breathless moment, Zombiel was a silhouette outlined in ethereal fire, a silent canvas for the merging of the corporeal and the spectral.
Then, as quickly as it began, the swirling subsided, the bright lights faded, and the humming died down, leaving an expectant, ringing silence in its wake.
Zombiel's eyes fluttered once, then closed, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap.
Was this the birth of Zombiel's soul… or his destruction?