Morning arrived in Lunareth without warmth.
The sky was pale and heavy, wrapped in unmoving clouds that dulled the light and pressed low upon the village roofs. Even the wind—restless and eternal in Lunareth—had fallen silent, as though it too was paying respect. Houses stood with their doors half open, oil lamps still burning from the night before. Smoke from hearth fires rose straight into the air, untouched by breeze.
No one spoke loudly.
No one hurried.
Death was not new to Lunareth—but this death was wrong.
Adriana sat beside her brother's body, her knees drawn close to her chest, her hands folded tightly in her lap as if holding herself together required constant effort. He lay on a wooden platform at the center of the room, wrapped in white cloth according to custom. His face looked calm, almost peaceful, as though sleep had finally claimed him after a long and tiring journey.
But Adriana knew better.
Candles surrounded him—four at the corners, one at his head, one at his feet. Their flames trembled whenever Adriana shifted, reacting to something unseen. She noticed it, though she tried not to. Every flicker felt like a whisper meant only for her.
The elders arrived at dawn.
They entered quietly, heads bowed, carrying shallow bowls of water infused with crushed herbs and ash. Their movements were slow and reverent, shaped by centuries of tradition. One by one, they began the rites—washing his hands, his feet, his forehead. Each touch was deliberate, practiced, passed down through generations that understood the fragile moment between life and departure.
"In Lunareth," the eldest among them said softly, "we do not mourn loudly. We guide."
Adriana wanted to scream.
Instead, she swallowed her breath and remained still, nails digging into her palms. If she screamed, she feared something inside her might answer.
Outside, villagers gathered slowly. Some carried flowers. Others carried nothing but silence. They stood at a respectful distance, offering bowed heads and whispered prayers. No one dared meet Adriana's eyes for too long.
Her mother sat near the doorway, tears slipping down her face without sound, her shoulders shaking beneath the weight of grief. Her father stood rigid beside the wall, lips moving endlessly as he whispered chants he barely understood anymore. Faith had become a habit, not a comfort.
The healer—the old woman from the hills—stood near the doorway. Her presence was still and heavy, like stone. Her sharp eyes never left Adriana.
She could feel it.
Ever since her brother's last breath, something within Adriana had refused to settle. The air felt thicker around her, as if the world itself hesitated when she moved. Her pulse beat too loudly in her ears. Beneath it all, she felt a presence—not gone, not fully here.
The elders wrapped a thin thread around her brother's wrist, marking his passage. A symbol was drawn on his forehead—a sign meant to guide the soul safely into the other world.
"This must be done before sunset," one elder said quietly. "The soul must not wander."
Adriana's heart tightened.
Wander where? she wondered.
And what if it already is?
As the body was lifted, she felt a sudden cold brush past her shoulder. Her breath caught sharply. For a brief moment—so brief she doubted herself—she felt her brother's presence close to her, familiar and aching, like a memory refusing to fade.
She closed her eyes.
Please, she thought. Just let me feel you one last time.
The funeral procession moved through the village toward the clearing beyond the fields, where the rites would be completed. Adriana walked behind the elders, her steps slow and unsteady. The road felt longer than it ever had before, as if grief stretched the distance itself.
At the clearing, a simple pyre had been prepared—not for burning, but for ritual release. Lunareth believed fire was not always necessary; sometimes, the soul needed only permission to leave.
The body was placed gently at the center. Candles were arranged in a wide circle. The elders began to chant, their voices low and rhythmic, calling the soul to move forward, to release its ties to the living world.
Adriana stood frozen at the edge of the circle.
As the chants grew stronger, her chest began to ache, sharp and sudden. Her power reacted violently, pulling at her senses like an unseen tide. She could feel the soul tugging back—not resisting, not clinging—but hesitating, uncertain.
Tears blurred her vision.
The healer stepped closer and placed a firm hand on Adriana's arm.
"Do not reach," she whispered. "Grief opens doors you are not ready to face."
Adriana nodded—but her hands were already trembling.
The chanting reached its final verse. The candles flared brightly, then settled into stillness. A deep silence fell over the clearing, so complete it felt unnatural.
The elders bowed their heads.
"It is done," one of them said.
But Adriana knew it wasn't.
That night, Lunareth returned to silence—but Adriana did not sleep.
She sat alone in her room, the darkness pressing close, staring at the small ritual talisman tied around her wrist. It had been passed down through generations, a mark of the family's gift. Until now, it had been nothing more than a reminder of something she had never wanted to touch.
The air around her felt charged, alive. Every shadow seemed to shift when she looked away. The wind outside brushed against the walls, restless once more.
She could still feel him.
Not as she once had—but as an echo, unfinished and waiting.
She rose slowly.
"I will meet you," she whispered into the empty room. "Just once."
She told herself this was different. The funeral had passed. The chaos of death had settled. Now she was calm. Now she could control it. She would speak to her brother one last time. She would let her parents hear his voice. Then she would release him properly.
That was her power.
She moved to the old wooden drawer beside her bed and opened it with shaking hands. Beneath folded cloth and dried herbs lay a book bound in dark, cracked leather.
Its title was etched faintly into the cover:
THE TESTAMENT OF THE CHOSEN
Her grandmother had spoken of it in whispers during Adriana's childhood—of powers, of responsibility, of restraint. Adriana had never opened the book. She had never wanted to know.
Until now.
She sat on the floor and opened the first page.
THE FIRST PAGE OF THE BOOK
To the one who opens this page—
you were never meant to find it by chance.
This book records the existence of those chosen by the soul world, known as Soul-Bearers. They are born among the living, yet bound to the dead. Their breath belongs to the body, but their blood answers to the other side.
A Soul-Bearer is granted the power to see, summon, and hold souls, but never without consequence. For every soul that enters the living vessel, strength is taken, time is shortened, and fate is rewritten. This gift is not mercy. It is balance.
Let it be known:
no Soul-Bearer may call the dead in grief,
no Soul-Bearer may bind a soul in love,
and no Soul-Bearer may defy the laws of return.
Those who break these laws do not escape punishment.
They become the path through which worlds collapse.
Adriana's breath slowed as she turned the page.
THE SECOND PAGE OF THE BOOK
A Soul-Bearer is not born complete.
Power must be awakened with discipline, not desire.
To call upon the gift rightly, the chosen must prepare both body and mind. The ritual must be performed in stillness, when grief is silent and intention is clear. A trembling heart leads the power astray.
The circle must be drawn with ash and earth, unbroken and precise. Six candles shall be placed—no more, no less—each lit in silence. The bearer must speak the invocation only once, in a steady voice, calling the soul by purpose, not by name.
The bearer must stand outside the circle until the final word is spoken.
Only then may the soul be invited to cross.
If the circle is entered too soon,
if the words are spoken with longing,
or if even a single line is misread—
The power will still answer.
But not in the way it was intended.
What arrives will follow the call,
not the wish.
The Codex offers no correction once the ritual begins.
The soul world does not forgive carelessness,
and it does not distinguish between mistakes and choices.
Read carefully.
Power listens.
Adriana closed the book.
Her hands were steady now.
There was fear—yes—but beneath it burned something stronger. Hope. Quiet, fragile, dangerous hope.
She believed she could do this. She believed she could speak to her brother one last time. And this time, everything would be different.
Outside, the wind rose higher.
Somewhere between the living world and the soul world, something ancient stirred.
And Adriana, blinded by love and certainty, took her first step toward the mistake that would change everything.