48
I rush into the chamber. It’s a small stone room with a conical roof, just as the ghostly version of Myla described. Tiny barred windows cast thin beams on moonlight across the scene. The walls are lined with scribblings in chalk. Myla lays huddled on the floor, shivering. I scoop her body into my arms. Every inch of her feels chilled through. Pressing her against my chest, I turn for the door.
The spirit version of Myla blocks my exit. Like the physical Myla, the ghostly version is barefoot and in sweats. “If you take us from this room,” she says. “We’ll die. Which for the record, I’d rather have happen than turn into an immortal Barbie doll made of rock.”
“How? Why?” Then I see it. The writing is literally on the wall. I’ve seen those kind of markings before. They’re on every charm
