Nec-romance

She killed them all. The entire family. Everyone she knew sat dead at the table. Mother, father, grandfather. Even the five priests of Nyrr. Some still had their faces submerged in bowls of poisoned stew. Others lay sprawled on the floor, foam bubbling at their mouths. Isolde had imagined this moment so many times that she'd gone numb to it. So intensely she wanted it, even the gods wouldn't have believed her had she told them that, in the end, she felt regret. But there was no going back. It was done. All that remained was to flee, slowly like a true culprit, careful not to rouse suspicion in the village. She left the house without packing a bag, stepping into the cold twilight and the sun dying behind the distant hills. Candles in the neighbors' windows were flickering out, one by one. The world was still turning, unaware, unsuspecting. In just a few hours, the bodies will be found. They would see her mother's face, now eternally locked in silent disapproval. She walked down the muddy street, but quickly turned back to avoid the village's lamplighter. Every path seemed the wrong one. Is there a right path at all for killers on the run? She was an intruder in the place she once called home. And with every house and every tree silently judging her, it seemed to Isolde that she was an intruder in her own life. Taking a narrow path that changed shape after every rain, she had reached the village's edge, belted by a crumbling stone fence. Her eyes kept drifting back down the path she'd taken, as if expecting to be chased. The mist of the autumn evening had risen to cover the tracks of all criminals. The sign on the outskirts of Palaworn, reading ''Welcome to Palaworn Village'' clung to existence, until the mist finally swallowed it whole. That was where she finally stopped, just for a moment, waiting for something. The silence was unbearable. It let her thoughts run wild; stirring memories and voices she had silenced forever, voices she would never hear again. A battle ignited within her: it had to be done clashed with was there a better way?, and neither side relented. To her relief, a slender figure emerged from the mist. A small, pale-faced girl who moved like a mouse and looked as though the world had been chasing her all her life. Her wide eyes peeked through the fog, as if even the trees might leap out at her. Birdie. Of course she came. No words were spoken. In a silent understanding, they left the village and headed into the forest. Giant trees trapped the darkness and kept the forest's heart cold. The ground, soaked in autumn's humidity, clung to their shoes with mud that tried to pull them under. It was getting colder. Shadows bled into the twilight like ink in water, until the trees became nothing more than silhouettes. Birdie's walk turned into an occasional run just to keep up. She could not see Isolde's face in the dark, so she stared at the back of her head and fought the urge to ask what was on her mind since she joined her. - Izzy... Did you do it...? - Don't. - Isolde said. - Just... walk. The mist stretched across the mountaintops, hanging low over the treetops like a veil. Its thickness rendered the moonlight powerless to reach the forest floor. Stepping over knotted roots, the girls searched for a path forward, followed by the watchful eyes of owls. Howling wolves made Birdie freeze and glance around, but Isolde kept walking, marching westward. No one was braver than those who had nothing left to lose. - This was a bad idea... - Birdie said. - Can you hear that? Those are wolves. - You can always go back. Isolde didn't need to look to know that Birdie was pouting like a child. But she had meant what she said to her. She had even hoped that the girl would turn back. There was no need for her life to be wasted either. That forest labyrinth, a purgatory for outlaws, waited for Isolde's soul alone. But after what she had done, she was sure her soul was bound much farther south. She reached into her coat and pulled out a folded letter. The paper was worn soft, almost velvet-like with sweat. She'd read it countless times, yet her thumb still lingered on the final words: ''Dig me up, under the yew tree. When the world dies behind you, your path begins.'' The path grew thinner beneath their feet, narrowing to a trail of roots and wet stone. The trees leaned closer, eavesdropping on the living. The silence between the girls was no longer comfortable. It was heavy now, like the forest knew where they were going and disapproved. A murder of crows scattered above, their wings slicing through the fog. Ahead, the treeline broke into a clearing swallowed by shadow. Birdie stopped, pulling her coat tighter. - Izzy... is this it? Isolde nodded. She didn't look back. The air smelled of old smoke, rotting moss, and iron. Each step forward felt like a step downward. The clearing was sunken, more pit than a field. Crumbling headstones tilted like broken teeth in the mud. Ivy choked every surface. There were no flowers. No names. Just stone. The kind of place made not to remember, but to forget. A crooked wrought-iron fence coiled through the mist, half swallowed by the earth. One gate hung from a single hinge, shrieking in the wind. The Graveyard of the Nameless had changed little since she last saw it, though the fog gave it new skin. Iron cages still curled protectively over certain graves like the bones of some massive beast, as if the dead had once tried to claw their way out of their eternal beds. In the center stood a gnarled yew tree, black against the sky, its bark like stretched skin. Beneath it, a single grave with no marker, only a flat slab of stone. This was where her grandmother had been thrown, unworthy of even a headstone. A burial meant for those damned, shunned, or feared. Too cursed to rest among saints and kin. She was too young to remember the day when the authorities came for her grandmother. The old woman smiled as they took her, it was clear that she knew something they did not. It had been too quiet and bloodless a moment to burn itself into a child's memory. Now she lay beneath the soil of the damned and the shunned, and Isolde believed she had coveted no better fate. She looked around for a moment, looking for something. Fragile sticks and smooth rocks, all useless. Finally, she knelt and began to dig with her hands. - Are you sure this is what your grandmother meant? Isolde remained quiet and kept digging. Speaking it aloud felt too dangerous, like giving shape to something that might stop her, unravel her, make her truly see what she'd done. Words might have steadied Birdie, but they would shatter her. Earthworms wriggled from the soil and coiled blindly over her knuckles as she dug. It was beyond her comprehension why this felt like crossing a line, after she'd already stepped over so many. Storm loomed in the distance. The eastern wind whispered through unmoving trees, as if the forest itself recoiled, struck dumb by Isolde's blasphemy. Birdie watched in silence, sensing that offering help would be out of place. It was something Isolde had to reckon with on her own. To help would've been a trespass, even if no one said it aloud. The smell of wet soil grew stronger, closer to the past. Even though she was digging for a few hours, the earth was giving itself too easily. It had waited for this moment. The grave was shallow, as was custom for those who had fallen out of grace. Finally, Isolde's fingers scraped away the final layer of clay, revealing a modest coffin. Its rotting planks offered little concealment. Through the splits in the wood, she could already see a pair of skeletal hands folded neatly over a ribcage. - Help me open it. - Isolde said. Birdie hesitated at the edge of the shallow grave, rubbing her arms as she stared down. - It's just a skeleton, Birdie. It won't bite you. - Knowing the stories about your grandmother... I wouldn't be so sure. The girl sighed and crouched down, then, with some reluctance, slid into the grave beside Isolde. The clay shifted under her boots with a wet sound. - This is insane. - she said, brushing damp hair from her face. They dug their fingers under the edges of the wood. The coffin groaned as they pulled, nails shrieking against the softened grain. The rot made things easier. What once held firm now cracked with just a little pressure. With one final tug, a plank snapped free, crumbling at the corners. The smell of old soil and something sweeter, wronger, rose like breath from the earth. They peered into the coffin where the skeleton lay undisturbed. Two golden coins gleamed from its eye sockets, untarnished by time. Birdie exhaled slowly. - And there she lies, the infamous Daviva the Three-Eyed. - she said, then tilted her head. - But... Where's the third eye socket? - It was just a myth, Birdie. Isolde crouched lower, brushing away more clay from the coffin's base. Her brow furrowed. - There's... nothing. She scanned the skeleton again. No letter, no object, no hidden chamber beneath the bones. - She made me dig her up for nothing? The panic crept in slowly, like cold seeping through wet cloth. Her breath caught in her throat. What now? Birdie leaned on the edge of the coffin, glancing at the darkening sky. - Maybe her note is not literal. You know, some kind of riddle or a symbolic test. Dead witches love their metaphors. A distant rumble echoed through the woods. - We should move, Isolde. That storm is getting close. Isolde shook her head and reached forward. - Wait. - she said. With both hands, she gently lifted the skull from the coffin. Clay crumbled from its underside, and there, etched into the bone at the back of the cranium, were thin, looping engravings. Almost like letters. She turned the skull slightly in her hands. The marks shimmered faintly in the gloom. The carvings were shallow but deliberate, circling the back of the skull like a crown of secrets. Isolde squinted, tracing the letters with her eyes. They read: ''If you're reading this, the deed is done. Your fate is in motion. Take my skull and the coins. Walk east from this grave. Do not stray. Do not turn. There, your path will begin.'' Isolde blinked, her mouth dry. Birdie leaned closer. - What does it say? Isolde didn't answer at first. She just looked east. - How odd. - Birdie said, reading the message. - Who could've engraved this and why? - It was her. Daviva. Birdie turned to her, brows drawn together. - How can a dead person carve things into their own skull? - She was alive when she did it. Daviva was a Bonewright. - Bonewright? She was one of the necromancers? Isolde nodded, eyes still on the skull in her hands. - I always suspected it. This confirms it. Is that really so surprising? Birdie didn't answer. The wind picked up, brushing dead leaves across the grave. Thunder rolled closer. After a moment, she spoke again. - Do you think she expects you to join them? That cult of hers? Once again, Isolde looked east. There were only two paths now: one led back to the village, and everything she had destroyed. The other stretched eastward, into the forest, into whatever waited beyond the graveyard. Without a word, she tied her grandmother's skull to her belt, letting it rest against her hip like a compass carved in bone. Then she climbed out of the grave and reached down to pull Birdie up beside her. - We can't go back. I can't. - she said, meeting Birdie's eyes. - I'm not asking you to follow me. Birdie brushed dirt from her knees. - Lead the way. - she said, steady as stone.