Owen walked in front this time, his heavy frame cutting a path through the dark. The candle shook faintly in his hand. Conus followed close behind, silent for a while before breaking it with a question.
"How long has this been going on?"
Owen didn't look back. His voice was slow and deliberate, the way a man who rarely wasted words spoke. "Four years."
Conus's brows pulled tight. "How have you all managed to survive for so long without food and water? Trapped in this place without being able to leave?"
Owen's boots scraped against the floor. "The duke's stores were once deep, filled with grain, dried meat, and wine. He always prepared for days of wars and famine. So, he made sure the castle always had much to keep. But…" His shoulders shifted as though under a weight heavier than the dark. "The stores ran out some days ago. What remains is almost nothing. If we are unable to take care of the spirit tonight and leave this place, starvation would climb the list of our worries." He said.
Conus nodded once. Just as his time was running out, so was theirs.
At that moment, they heard a sound.
A sharp clatter, like plate shattering, echoed up from below. A raw scream soon followed. Both men snapped to it. Without a word, they bolted down the staircase, the candle flame shuddering with their rush.
The ground floor opened into a wide hall. A long table ran its length, chairs tucked in neat order. At the far end, something lay stretched across the tabletop. Conus slowed, approaching with his dagger drawn.
The candlelight revealed the body of a young man. It was Morias. Conus remembered him well. The Oracle had mentioned he served as personal attendant to the duke's son, Lanta.
His throat was freshly slit, blood still spilling in warm rivulets down the side of the table.
Owen lifted the candle higher, the shadows shifting to reveal more of the corpse. Conus bent low, his eyes narrowing. The kill was fresh. Whoever did this was still near.
A faint whimper broke the silence. It came from a cupboard tucked against the corner.
Conus's dagger tightened in his grip as he moved toward it. His free hand reached for the latch.
The cupboard door burst open. A stick cracked hard against his head. The wood immediately splintered.
"Sorry. I had no idea it was you, Messenger!" A voice cried out.
It was the maid, Sarah.
She stumbled forward, her eyes wide, breath ragged. "I thought you were him," she whispered, her stick falling uselessly from her hands.
"Sammy?" Conus asked.
She nodded quickly.
Conus's voice sharpened. "Mara told me he had been possessed all along. That it was him who attacked you."
Sarah's lips parted, her shock plain. "Mara is alive? Thank the goddess." Relief washed through her face before she steadied herself.
"She's alive," Conus said. "Wounded, but Modret is tending her." His tone shifted. "Did you see what happened here?"
Sarah shook her head. "No. I only heard noise, then I hid. It was too dark to make anything out, but I heard voices. It was Sammy's and Morias's." Her gaze slid to the corpse on the table, grief softening her expression. "He didn't deserve this. None of us do."
She turned back to Conus, her eyes searching his. "Are we all going to die?"
Conus's jaw moved, and his answer came flat. "No."
But inside, he was not half as confident. The plague spirit was cunning, it felt like he was a step ahead of him. And time was running out.
He called up his system screen. Four hours left. He had to find Sammy soon and end it.
His eyes narrowed. "You'll come with us. Do you know where the Oracle went?"
"I saw her run outside the mansion," Sarah said, her tone sharp with disapproval. "Foolish, if you ask me."
"Why foolish?" Conus pressed.
"She's out in the open. Exposed with almost no place to hide." Sarah hesitated, her voice dropping. "Unless…"
Conus raised a brow. "Unless what?"
"Come with me. I think I know where she went."
She started forward, but Conus's hand shot out, holding Owen back. "How do we know you're not possessed? That Sammy isn't lying dead somewhere already?"
Sarah turned, her expression barely visible. "You don't. Just as I don't know if either of you is. We either trust each other or remain here arguing."
Conus held her gaze, then gave a slow nod. "Lead."
They followed her out of the hall, through the main doors, onto the cracked stone path. The air was sharp, the sky veiled in clouds. The castle loomed behind them like a sleeping beast.
The path led to the rear wall, where a heavy iron gate stood. Sarah stopped before it.
"If I am right, she should be in here," she said.
Conus's eyes narrowed. "What's behind the gate?"
"A graveyard."
Conus's tone sharpened. "Why would she come to a graveyard?"
Sarah's lips pressed against each other. "Two years ago, she told Mara and me of another way that may dispel the spirit. It was a desperate one. She said we could burn the conjurer's body. That would probably sever the hold between it and the spirit."
"The shaman," Conus muttered.
"Yes," Sarah said. "But she never dared it. Said it could go both ways. It might banish the spirit or worsen everything."
"Why attempt it now?" Conus asked.
"Look around, Messenger. We have nothing left. She's desperate." She replied.
Then, her fingers gripped the iron latch. She pulled, and the gate creaked open.
The graveyard stretched wide before them, tombstones crowding the earth like jagged teeth. The air reeked of damp soil. Conus's chest tightened at the sight.
"These graves…" His voice was low.
Owen's voice, steady and deep, came from behind him. "Victims of the spirit. Many of whom I buried myself."
Conus's frown deepened.
At the center of the field stood the Oracle. Her robe was gone, replaced with simple white wraps, her body unburdened for labor. A shovel rested in her hands like a weapon. She stood above an open grave, her eyes sharp as they caught sight of them.
"Messenger, Owen and Sarah?" Surprise rang in her tone, edged with suspicion.
Conus stepped forward, but she lifted the shovel, her voice cutting. "Stay where you are. How do I know none of you host the spirit?"
Conus's face remained unreadable. "Because we came to help you burn the shaman's body. If the spirit lurked in any of us, it would be trying to stop you, not aid you."
The Oracle studied him, her knuckles whitening on the shovel's handle. Then, with a sharp exhale, she lowered it.
"Stay there, then," she said. "I've done most of the work. All that remains is fire to burn the body."
She hefted a bowl of oil and poured it into the grave. The scent rose thick and bitter. Next, she held up a rag soaked in the same.
Her eyes flicked once to Conus, steady, grim. "Know this. If I'm wrong, this could empower the spirit even more. Be ready."
She dipped the cloth into the candle's flame. Fire licked it greedily, devouring oil and rag alike.
The Oracle dropped it into the grave.
Flame roared upward, red and hungry, spilling shadows across the graveyard as the night held its breath.