The lantern was dead by morning.
Not burned out—cracked.
Its glass lay in shards beside the riverbank, the flame long vanished, though the wick was dry as if it had been starved by something colder than wind. Nerin crouched beside the wreckage, one hand brushing through the crushed reeds. No footsteps but his own. No sign of who—or what—had reached it first.
The spiral was there again, etched faintly into the damp soil. Not carved. Not pressed. Grown. Tiny spores arranged themselves in a curling line, like mold learning language.
He took a sample. Of course he did. Slid the vial into his satchel, nestled between wax-sealed scrolls and bundles of moth-eaten cloth. There were dozens of samples now. All unnamed. All dated by feel, not fact.
When he returned to the millhouse, Dorrin was already awake, feeding the stove with pinecones and muttering to himself in a rhythm that didn't quite match the fire's crackle.
Nerin said nothing. He simply nodded, then went upstairs.
The window by his cot faced the old ruins to the east. Stone bones jutting from the hills like the ribs of some great creature that died face-down in the dirt. No one went there now. Not since the fog started gathering early, curling close around the archways and swallowing birds mid-flight.
He watched the ruins until the bell rang once from the village center. Not a warning. Just a call. Preparations for the final night of Stonefruit Festival were beginning.
He was expected.
---
The central square had transformed.
The booths were draped in orange-and-clay cloth, rough-dyed and soaked in hearthsmoke. Lanterns hung from skeletal tree branches, flickering pale blue—lit with witchglass rather than oil. There was food, of course: roasted tubers, hand-pulled bread ropes, pies that steamed with honey and ground root.
But beneath it all, tension.
You could feel it in how the dancers avoided the shrine's shadow.
You could see it in the way children played closer to their parents.
Even the air felt dry at the back of the throat.
"Did you bring your offering?" asked the elder with the lantern nose.
Nerin nodded. He held up a small box, carved of dark driftwood, sealed with melted ink.
"May I see it?"
"No," Nerin replied, polite but firm. "Not until the stonefire's lit."
The elder didn't press. None of them did.
Everyone knew the rules—even if they'd forgotten why.
---
Near the cider cart, Nerin saw Sela speaking to the steward from the next village over. A man in fine hide-trimmed robes with a face like he'd eaten lemon and never recovered. She laughed a little too loudly at something he said. It wasn't like her.
He moved closer, unnoticed.
"She's selling to him now?" whispered a voice beside him.
It was the glassmaker's apprentice, Leyra—wide-shouldered, dark-eyed, always chewing something. She spat a stalk of reedgrass into the dirt. "That man wouldn't know bluewort from his own arse, but she's making deals. That ain't right."
"Maybe she wants to be left alone," Nerin offered.
Leyra rolled her eyes. "She wants control. Big difference."
Then, lowering her voice: "You saw it, didn't you? In the water."
He didn't answer.
"I did too," she said. "Three nights ago. Wasn't my reflection."
Then she walked off, whistling the same half-song Dorrin had been humming near the fire.
---
By the time dusk fell, the procession had begun.
Villagers gathered, carrying their offerings—charms, bones, folded ribbons, carved flint, and flower heads wrapped in cloth. They moved slowly, a spiral path traced from the wellspring to the old stone altar.
The spiral again. It always returned.
Nerin joined near the back. Not to be noticed. Just to watch. To feel. His steps measured, slow, deliberate.
At the altar, the fire was already burning. Thin green flame, barely enough to warm a finger. But it pulsed with a rhythm Nerin felt in his teeth.
When it was his turn, he stepped forward.
Opened the box.
Inside: a folded strip of vellum. Old. Dry as bone. He didn't unfold it. Just dropped it into the flame.
The fire shifted.
It flared, blue-edged, and hissed with a sound like quill on slate. For one moment, the shadows flickered in reverse—moving opposite the bodies that cast them.
No one spoke. But several villagers stepped back.
Nerin remained still. Watching the smoke. It curled upward, not in a spiral, but in a pattern he couldn't name.
Then it dispersed.
He bowed once, and left the altar.
---
Later that night, beneath the mill's creaking beams, he opened his journal again.
Page 53 now held a map. It hadn't been there yesterday. It was drawn in the same hand as always—his. But he hadn't made it.
The map led to the ruins. Past the broken arch, through the third hall, beneath the weathered mural of the blind queen. A mark was scratched at the base: a small ink droplet, and beside it, a phrase.
> "She remembers you."
Nerin stared until his eyes stung.
The spiral wasn't gone.
It was waiting.