The Wigu’s shriek still echoed in their bones, a chorus of stolen voices that made the night itself feel like it was shattering.

  Low staggered to her feet, gripping her rocks from her bag. “I’ll cut its throat myself,” she snarled, though her hands trembled. The sight of Widow Eno’s raven bouncing limply against the Wigu’s chest was a brand burned into her mind.

  Jacqueline pressed her palms together, the faint shimmer of water gathering between them. “Don’t let it touch you,” she warned. “Spirits this twisted… they don’t just take flesh. They take pieces of the soul.”

  The Wigu moved with a jerking, unnatural rhythm, its arms dangling too long, claws dripping shadow. It took one step, then another, each footfall heavier than the last, until the ground itself seemed to thrum with its weight.

  Then it screamed again.

  This time, it was Leonotis’s voice. His own cry of pain. Perfectly captured, spat back at him with cruel delight.

  Leonotis’s chest seized. He could hear the echo of his own weakness, twisted into a weapon. Rage welled in him, threatening to burn hotter than fear. He slammed his palm into the dirt, and thick roots shot upward, coiling around the Wigu’s legs.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  Low flung her rock, the stone spiraling in the dim light. The rock bit deep into the creature’s side, tearing through shadow and sinew. A spray of black ichor hissed against the earth like acid.

  The Wigu convulsed, its body twitching wildly. Then, with a sickening snap, it shed its outer skin entirely, slipping free like a serpent. A new, rawer form crouched before them, its body slick and glistening, its teeth bared in a mockery of a smile.

  Jacqueline’s stomach turned. “It molts…”

  Zombiel’s eyes flared, twin ghost-fires burning cold blue. “It adapts. The longer it lingers, the stronger it becomes.”

  The Wigu hissed, its voice fractured, dozens of stolen tones spilling from its throat at once. “Hungry… hungry… Njiru waits…”

  The name struck them like a blow.

  Low’s face twisted with fury. “You won’t tell him anything!” She threw volley of rocks, her strikes fast, relentless. Sparks lit the air as her rocks scraped its skin. But the Wigu caught her wrist mid-swing.

  Her breath caught in her throat as its claws tightened. The mimicry came again—her own voice this time, pleading, “Help me! Please, help me!”

  The real Low screamed, thrashing, trying to pull free. Panic bubbled in her chest as her own cry echoed back at her, cruel and mocking.

  Leonotis didn’t think. He drew his sword from the ground and bolted toward the Wigu. He slashed down on the Wigu’s arm, making a large gash, forcing it to release Low with a snarl.

  Jacqueline darted forward, water swirling around her hands. She pressed them to Low’s arm, soothing the jagged lines the claws had left. “Stay with me. Don’t listen to it.”

  But the Wigu wasn’t done. Its black tongue flicked across its teeth as it crouched low. And then it howled again—this time, in a chorus of voices that weren’t theirs.

  The village’s voices.

  Men. Women. Children. All crying for help, all screaming in terror.

  Every house they had passed, every locked door—they heard them now, woven into the Wigu’s song.

  The sound rooted Leonotis where he stood. The entire village, their fear, their helplessness—it had fed the Wigu, stolen them whole.

  Zombiel stepped forward, his pale face unreadable, his voice steady despite the storm around them. “Enough.”

  He lifted his hand. Blue fire erupted, ghostly and cold, curling up his arm like a serpent. The graveyard itself seemed to recoil from the unnatural light.

  The Wigu froze, its eyes locking on him. For the first time, it hesitated.

  Leonotis saw it too. “Zombiel—whatever you’re doing, do it now!”

  The boy’s eyes burned brighter. “Ghost fire severs ties. If it’s bound to Njiru, I can cut it.”

  The Wigu shrieked, lunging at him with a frenzy that shook the earth. Low leapt in its path, her nails slashing upward, forcing it to veer sideways. Jacqueline’s water barrier flashed into existence, slowing the creature just long enough.

  Zombiel thrust his hand forward. The blue fire leapt from his palm, striking the Wigu square in the chest.

  The scream that followed was unlike any before. Not stolen. Not mimicked. Its own. A raw, tearing shriek of pain that split the night sky.

  The shadows around its body writhed, unraveling as though the fire was eating them from the inside out. The raven’s corpse tumbled free, black feathers scattering like ash.

  For a heartbeat, it seemed the Wigu might collapse entirely. But then, with desperate fury, it surged forward, claws aimed directly at Zombiel’s throat.

  He didn’t move. He couldn’t. The ghost fire held it, but it also held him.

  Low saw it first. Her heart lurched into her throat. “Zombiel!”

  She dove, but she wouldn’t make it in time. The claws descended—

  And then, with one final burst of blue flame, Zombiel severed.

  The Wigu froze mid-strike. Its body cracked down the center like broken stone, light pouring from within. It collapsed in on itself, shattering into nothing but ash and smoke.

  The night fell silent.

  Zombiel staggered, his knees buckling. Low caught him before he hit the ground. His skin was pale, his lips blue, faint burns marking his arms where the ghost fire had turned inward.

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  Jacqueline was already at his side, water glowing at her fingertips. “Hold him still.” She pressed her hands to his chest, magic flowing into him, soothing the worst of the damage.

  Zombiel’s eyes fluttered open, faintly glowing even as he whispered, “It’s… gone.”

  Low’s hands shook as she cradled him, her fury from before curdling into fear. For the first time, she realized just how close they’d come to losing him.

  Leonotis retrieved the raven’s broken body from the dirt, his jaw tight. He held it gently, as though Widow Eno herself might feel the weight. “We’ll make this right,” he murmured. “We’ll bury it properly.”

  Jacqueline glanced at Low, her voice soft. “He saved us.”

  Low swallowed hard, her throat burning. She didn’t answer. She just held Zombiel tighter, a silent vow forming in her heart.

  Never again.

  She would not let him throw himself into the fire alone.

  The Wigu's ashes still swirled in the night wind, curling through the cemetery like gray snowflakes. Leonotis stood at the edge of the settling quiet, chest heaving, the weight of the fight still sitting in his limbs. Around him, the others were catching their breath — Jacqueline with her hands pressed to her knees, Low still trembling, Zombiel slumped against her with his eyes half-closed and his lips faintly blue.

  Nobody spoke for a long moment. They just breathed.

  Then Leonotis spotted the raven.

  It lay in the ash where the Wigu had shattered, its wings torn, feathers matted with dried blood. He crossed to it slowly and crouched down, brushing away the gray dust clinging to its body. It was lighter than he expected.

  "Widow Eno trusted this bird," he said quietly. "It was her eyes, her ears. Her family." He didn't look up. "We'll bury it. Properly."

  Low stood a few feet away, Zombiel still leaning against her. The fight had ended but her pulse hadn't — she could feel it in her throat, her wrists, the tight tenderness where the Wigu's claws had caught her arm.

  "Why did you use that," she muttered, her voice sharp with a tremor she tried to hide. "You nearly—" The words caught. She couldn't finish.

  Zombiel gave a weak, lopsided smile. "But I didn't."

  "That's not the point!" The edge in her voice made Jacqueline and Leonotis both look up, but she didn't care. "You can't just throw yourself in front of death like it's nothing. You're not—" She stopped again, biting down on the rest.

  Zombiel tilted his head. "Not what?"

  Her throat felt raw. She wanted to say you're not disposable, but the words tangled somewhere in her chest and wouldn't come loose. Instead she turned away, knuckles white on her blade.

  Jacqueline set a hand on her shoulder. "He's alive, Low. That's what matters right now."

  Low didn't answer.

  Leonotis cleared his throat. "Come on. Let's give it a grave."

  Together, they set to work. He dug a neat, narrow trench and laid the raven inside, smoothing its wings across its chest. Jacqueline whispered a prayer, her voice unsteady. When the grave was covered, Leonotis pressed his palm to the fresh mound and let the magic come — vines weaving themselves into a small marker, white blossoms opening slowly in the dark.

  Zombiel's gaze lingered on them. "It deserved better," he said softly. "Everything deserves better than ending in a Wigu's stomach."

  No one disagreed.

  They entered the market street quietly, trying to look like travelers instead of fugitives. Jacqueline adjusted her shawl, covering the faint shimmer of her damp hair. Zombiel kept his hood drawn low, hiding the pallor of his skin. Low stayed near the back, tense and watchful.

  The first stall they passed sold dried plantains. The merchant—a heavyset man with a kind face—looked up, smiled… then froze. His eyes darted from one of them to the next, then to the faint scorch mark on Zombiel’s sleeve.

  The smile vanished.

  He turned away. “We’re closed,” he muttered.

  Leonotis frowned. “You just sold to the man before us.”

  “No food for you,” the merchant said, voice tightening. “Not after what you did.”

  Jacqueline stepped forward. “And what exactly did we do?”

  The man’s gaze sharpened, filled with the kind of fear that always made Leonotis’s stomach twist. “Don’t play dumb, girl. Everyone knows. You killed the Wigu.”

  The word killed carried through the air like a curse. Nearby shoppers turned to look—then quickly looked away. Someone whispered Njiru’s name.

  Low’s voice was low and sharp. “You’re welcome. That thing’s been feeding on your dead.”

  “Maybe,” the man spat, “but it wasn’t ours. Njiru’s creatures don’t touch us when we obey. You’ve brought his eye here now.”

  The weight of his words hung in the air. Others began to murmur in agreement, pulling their children close, slipping behind stalls and doorways. Fear spread faster than truth.

  Leonotis tried again, forcing calm into his tone. “We’re not here for trouble. Just food.”

  “Then you’ll find none here,” the man said coldly, and turned his back.

  The market went still.

  Low’s fists clenched. Her voice trembled with rage. “They’re cowards. Every one of them.”

  Jacqueline touched her arm gently. “They’re scared. That’s different.”

  “Doesn’t feel different,” Low muttered.

  Zombiel said nothing. He simply stood there, his hood shadowing his face, his silence heavier than any accusation. Leonotis knew what that silence meant. Zombiel had heard the same tone in other places—when people whispered about the walking dead.

  They moved through the market in uneasy quiet. Every attempt at conversation or barter was met with the same cold rejection. The same glance toward Zombiel. The same whispered prayers.

  Finally, as they reached the edge of the village, Leonotis spotted movement beneath a shaded awning.

  A Siyawesi stood there. Its eyes glowed faintly, and it held a small pouch of seeds woven from soft reeds.

  Leonotis knelt, lowering his voice. “We won’t harm you.”

  It extended the pouch.

  Leonotis hesitated, then accepted the gift with both hands. “Thank you.”

  The creature nodded once and vanished into the air. No one else seemed to notice.

  When they were far enough that the village sounds faded to nothing but the wind, Zombiel dropped his pack and slumped against a tree.

  Leonotis chuckled, though the sound came out hollow. “It’s something. I’ll plant them when we make camp.”

  Low sank down beside him, muttering, “We should’ve just taken what we needed.”

  Jacqueline raised an eyebrow. “And prove them right? No thanks. Let them have their fear.”

  “Still,” Low said, staring down at her hands. “You’d think they’d care more about who Njiru’s hurting than who’s fighting him.”

  Zombiel looked down. “They hated us,” he said quietly. He plucked a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers. “Humans are funny. They're more scared of us like we're monsters.”

  No one answered at first. The truth didn’t need repeating.

  Low gave a humorless laugh. “Well we might as well be monsters to them.”

  Jacqueline frowned. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not?” Low snapped. “Half of us aren’t human anyway.” She gestured vaguely toward Zombiel, then herself. “He’s a corpse with a soul. I turn into something that can tear a man apart with my bare hands. The villagers weren’t wrong to be afraid.”

  “They were,” Leonotis said quietly. “Because fear doesn’t make them right.”

  Low opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Her shoulders slumped.

  Jacqueline walked ahead, silent for a while. “Maybe people like us don’t get to choose what we are,” she said softly. “But we can choose what we do.”

  Leonotis met her gaze with a faint smile tugging at his lips. She looked away quickly and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. He caught the flicker of guilt in her eyes. It was the secret she still carried beneath her skin and the truth that she was a mermaid.

  He wouldn’t betray it.

  He couldn’t.

  Low trudged ahead, muttering under her breath about the unfairness of it all. Zombiel followed last, his expression unreadable, his silence more eloquent than words.

  As they walked, Leonotis found himself studying the three of them. Jacqueline, the girl who was actually a mermaid. Low, who fought the werebear curse with every heartbeat. Zombiel, who carried the weight of being both undead and alive.

  And himself a Green à??born. The only human among them, and even that wasn’t entirely true. Among humans, he was just as strange. The Green plant magic might as well be a curse.

  He thought of the Siyawesi and he began to wonder why the monsters saw him as more of a kindered spirt than the villagers did.

  He shook the thought away.

  “Let’s keep moving,” he said, slipping the seed pouch into his belt. “Capital’s can't be much father from here. Maybe we’ll have better luck there.”

  Jacqueline forced a small smile. “Yes, journey is almost over.”

  Leonotis nodded. “Yeah.”

  They walked on, the road stretching endlessly ahead, the air heavy with the scent of wet soil and unspoken truths. Behind them, the village gates closed. Ahead, the world waited—hungry, fearful, and watching.