Radeon understood better than anyone what made these wraiths and ghosts valuable. Not devouring. Evolution.
That was why eldritch things always targeted them. A ghost could change. It could adapt. It could be rewritten.
What's more, if he was right, what stood before him now was not a loose pack of hungry denizens.
It was an organized elite, shaped to guard a specific tomb and to endure those who tried to lay claim to what they were not welcome to.
He did not delay. He ran his devouring art and drew at the mountain's causal luck, increasing their success exponentially.
He forced it into his hands. At the same time, he gathered the other current in the air, ominous and illusory, misfortune thick as oil.
Fortune in one palm. Misfortune in the other. He infused fortune into himself and into the ghosts, binding their fate to his method.
Then he moved. His blade pierced Calyx's head shallowly, the cut wide.
