Sunlight filtered through the canopy of yellowing leaves, casting dappled shadows upon the moss-covered stones that marked the entrance of the Anroth family crypt. It lay hidden within a sacred grove, where ancient trees whispered their secrets in hushed tones to one another, their gnarled roots intertwining beneath the soil. A sense of tranquil peace pervaded this resting place of ancestral souls. It felt like a soothing cradle – an eternal sanctuary for those who had passed beyond the veil, and a place of solace for those left behind.

Yet this serenity didn’t help Michail to escape the cold knot of bitterness that tightened in his chest. He had been denied the opportunity to mourn at Jeremy's funeral. The man who had guided him through the darkest of times, was now resting within these hallowed grounds without so much as a farewell from his grieving nephew. He tried not to blame Lady Belinda for this exclusion, knowing perfectly well that in case of foul play, it was a custom that only the closest family attended to funeral. But for Michail, Jeremy was his closest family. Why couldn’t she acknowledge this?

Michail's boots echoed off the cold stone walls as he descended the winding stairs. At the bottom he took a moment to look around. The flame of his lantern was dancing shadows across the memorial plaques adorning the walls, as he scanned the crypt, confused how small it looked compared with his childhood memories. Back then, Michail had often visited the crypt with his mother. She had told him a myriad of stories about his maternal relatives and ancestors resting there, and little Michail had learnt all of them by heart – the funny ones, the scary ones, the sad ones. But those days were long gone.

As he ventured deeper, Michail sought out the newest addition to the silent congregation of tombs, where Jeremy would be laid to rest. It pained him to think that there would be no need for expanding this final resting place any further, for the Anroth bloodline, once so mighty and powerful, had withered and died with Jeremy, since he and Lady Belinda had not been blessed with sons. The future of their lineage was now as empty and desolate as the crypt that contained their bones.

Michail paused at the resting place of Ambrosio Anroth, a man whose achievements towered above the others. With skillful diplomacy and upright leadership, he had managed to unify the three families as an opposing force against the king. But this delicate balance of power had collapsed after his death, degrading the country into chaos and corruption. The stone effigy of Ambrosio gazed down at Michail with stern eyes and furrowed brow, as if demanding him to fix everything.

“Grandfather,” he sighed, pressing his hand against the cold marble. “We need your guidance now more than ever.”

He moved on, each step heavy with the weight of sorrow. Next, he came to the tiny tomb of Marie, his infant aunt whose life had been stolen by illness before she had the chance to truly live. The delicate carving of her small form seemed almost fragile in comparison to the imposing figures surrounding her.

“Sweet Marie,” he whispered, as he traced the lines of her name etched into the stone. “You would have been like an elder sister to me. But now you are among the angels of Alinande, watching over me in eternity.”

Next to the Marie’s tomb, there was an empty space reserved for Matriarch Fayden, Michail’s grandmother. Strong and influential woman at her best, but couple of years ago she had turned aloof and cranky, isolating herself from the family. Michail wondered if all women would experience such a change in old age. Even his mother? He found it hard to believe.

There was also a similar empty space for Lady Belinda. Michail realized that he had already forgiven her for not inviting him to the funeral. Maybe the memories from the past had put his worries into perspective. Nevertheless, he did have the chance to say his farewell right now: he had arrived at the tomb he was searching for.

“Uncle,” he choked out, sinking to his knees before the carved visage of the man he had loved like a father. “Forgive me for not being there when they laid you to rest.”

Trying to stop his hands shaking, Michail reached into his cloak and withdrew the items needed for the ritual of Alinande’s blessing. Taught to him by Magister Cornelius, it was a rite of passage to honor the dead and guide their spirits to the afterlife. He drew a deep breath and placed the ritual items – three beeswax candles, a vial of sanctified oil, and a bundle of three herbs – upon the stone floor before Jeremy's tomb.

“By the light of the three stars, I beseech you, Alinande, merciful mother” he intoned, his voice taking on a rhythmic cadence as he lit the first candle. “Guide his spirit through the veil and into the realm of eternal peace.” Michail's heart felt as if it were constricted in an iron vice, but he fought to maintain composure, focusing on the intricate patterns traced upon the marble floor beneath him.

“By the purity of this sacred oil, I cleanse his soul of earthly burdens,” Michail continued, uncorking the vial and anointing the tombstone with painstaking precision. The scent of lavender and sage filled the air, mingling with the sweet tang of the burning beeswax.

“By the wisdom of our ancestors, I guide his spirit along the sacred path towards your gardens.” With these words, Michail lit the second and third candles, completing the triad of flickering flames that symbolized the trinity of life, death, and afterlife.

“Uncle, you were my rock when the world around me crumbled,” Michail thought, as he burned each of the three herbs – mistletoe for life, wormwood for death, and yew for afterlife – their smoke rising in tendrils towards the darkness above. The memories of shared laughter and whispered secrets tugged at his heartstrings, bringing a stinging sensation to his eyes.

“Please, find solace in the eternal embrace of Alinande, knowing that your memory will live on within me,” he whispered, choking back tears that threatened to spill forth. But even as he struggled to keep his emotions in check, the raw anguish of loss seared through him like a blade of ice. “By the eternal flame that binds us all, I release you from this world,” he declared with a final surge of resolve. He extinguished the candles one by one, sending a shudder through the crypt as darkness reclaimed its dominion.

“May we meet again beyond the veil, dear Uncle. But not before I find out who is responsible of your death. I will not fail you again, this I swear.” The words hung heavy in the air, as if laden with the weight of unspoken regrets and unsung praises.

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As the last wisps of smoke dissipated into the gloom, Michail bowed his head. Had he looked up, he would have noticed a single beam of light, as if come from a star, lighting the visage of Jeremy Anroth carved on the tombstone. And had he examined the carvings very carefully, he would have noticed a tiny flow of water drippling down from the corner of the carved eye and joining his first drops of tear upon the cold stone floor.

Michail remained standing before his uncle’s tomb, letting his memories flow freely. Eleven years had passed since his father had vanished without a trace, abandoning his family and leaving a gaping chasm in young Michail's heart. His thoughts turned to the countless nights he had spent waiting for his father's return, hope dwindling with each passing day until it was little more than a flickering ember, destined to be snuffed out by the relentless passage of time. But in the wake of his father's disappearance, two other figures had stepped forth to guide him through the darkness: his Uncle Jeremy and Magister Cornelius. Their presence in his life had been a balm to his wounded soul, offering solace when despair threatened to consume him entirely. With Uncle Jeremy's unwavering support, he had been able to regain his trust in others. Under the tutelage of Magister Cornelius, he had discovered how to overcome bitterness and self-pity trough compassion and temperance. And now, Uncle Jeremy had left him too – not vanishing without trace like his father, but equally abruptly and brutally, by the hand of a cold-blooded murderer. Michail promised himself to cherish the ties with the loved ones still by his side. He would make Magister Cornelius proud by dedicating himself to his studies. And somehow, he would find a way to make things better between him and his mother. But first, justice needed to be served.

A quiet rustling sound interrupted Michail’s thoughts. In the dim light of the lantern, Michail caught sight of an unfamiliar figure – a woman, further away from the entrance, her back turned to him. Had she been here all the time? She was wrapped in a dark red woolen shawl, and her simple brownish dress was peeking out beneath its frayed edges. The golden hue of her curly hair was shimmering like a sunset glow against the darkness.

“Who are you?” Michail demanded, causing the woman to startle and turn quickly in his direction. Her pale gray eyes glanced the room nervously. She wasn’t much older than Michail, but somehow he felt that she had seen more of the harsh realities of life than him.

“Oh,” she sighed. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Answer me!” he snapped, desperation and anger mingling within him.

“My name is Olivia Lambert,” she answered hastily. “Forgive me, good sir, I meant no harm.”

“This is Anroth family crypt. What business do you have here?”

“Anroth…” Olivia repeated, and her face brightened. “Then you must be Michail. Michail Varga.”

Michail had not expected this. “How do you know my name?” he asked, confused.

“Jeremy told me I would find you here. He needs to speak to you.”

Michail’s mind was racing. The surprising encounter of this woman he had never met before started to rise too many questions. “You knew my uncle?” he asked, just so say something. “I am sorry to tell you, but he is dead.”

“I know”, Olivia answered. “Now, will you hear what he has to say?”

“He is dead. Dead cannot speak.”

“Sure they can – you just don’t know how to listen,” Olivia explained. “But I do. That’s why I like to spend time in crypts. Here their presence is strong.”

Her words were laced with a bizarre sincerity, yet Michail could not shake the sense of unease that settled over him like a shroud. “You claim to speak to the dead?”

“No,” Olivia corrected patiently. “I claim to listen to them. Anyone can speak, but surprisingly few can listen.”

“Then you must be a Khmeled cultist!” Michail declared. “I don’t want to have anything to do with your dark magic.”

Olivia spoke calmly: “I am no cultist, nor my practices are magical or dark in any way. I just quiet down and open my ears to their voices. It is most simple and natural.”

“Then... can you contact Jeremy's spirit?” Michail asked cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest.

“I just told you he needs to speak to you,” she said with softer voice. “I can help you, but I need something in return. If you would give me your word that you owe me a favor to be claimed in the future, I shall attempt to reach him.”

Michail hesitated. Magister Cornelius had always warned him about Khmeledian ways. But Olivia’s assurances that her gift was neither magical nor dark swayed him, and the desperate need for closure gnawed at his insides. So, he decided to agree to her terms and nodded.

“Very well,” she said, a faint smile playing on her lips as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

As the atmosphere within the crypt grew heavy and oppressive, Michail's thoughts raced, his grief and longing for answers threatening to consume him. He yearned for Jeremy's guidance, for some semblance of understanding amidst the chaos that had engulfed his life.

“Uncle Jeremy,” he whispered. “If you can hear me - please, help me make sense of this. Tell me, who murdered you.”

The crypt fell silent, the air thick with anticipation, as Olivia opened her eyes, their pale depths clouded with an otherworldly wisdom.

“His spirit is near,” she said, her voice tinged with sorrow. “But I fear he may not have the answers you seek.”

“Then what does he offer?” Michail asked, frustration bubbling within him.

“A warning,” she replied, her frightened gaze fixed upon him. “Hear his words.”

She started reciting:

“Michail, Michail, a moth drawn to the flame,

Beware of the spider's web and its game.

Turn around on your perilous way

And fly far, far away

To a foreign land where you are unknown,

Not to be found, your title not shown.

Only then you’ll be safe, so I plead with thee:

Don’t fall victim to one that devoured me.”

Michail's heart raced as he listened to the cryptic words, his mind struggling to comprehend their meaning. Despite the strangeness of Olivia’s presence and the unnerving nature of her communication with the dead, he could not deny that a shiver of fear crawled up his spine at the mention of imminent danger.

“Who... who threatens me?” he asked, his voice tremulous, betraying his growing unease.

“That’s all he said, Michail,” Olivia said, a tear in her eye. “He is gone now, truly gone.”

Time seemed to be stopped. Both of them stood before Jeremy Anroth’s tomb in silence. The weight of Jeremy’s warning bore down on Michail. The threat was real, he was certain of that much. But what choice did he have?

“Your uncle... he made me promise to protect you,” Olivia’s voice wavered. Her eyes bore into his with a desperate intensity. “Please, heed his warning. Your life hangs in the balance, and I cannot bear to see you fall.”

“I appreciate your concern, and your loyalty to my uncle,” Michail answered, ”but I cannot abandon my quest for justice. I owe it to Lady Belinda, to Jeremy, and to myself.”

Olivia exhaled a heavy sigh, sadness etched on her peculiar face. She reached out a hand, seemingly to touch his arm but stopped just shy of contact. “Then go forth, young moth. Fly towards your flame.”

“Thank you for delivering Jeremy’s final words to me,” Michail said, his voice firm yet kind. He glanced one last time at his uncle's tomb before turning to leave the crypt. Despite the weight of his decision, Michail felt an odd clarity settle within him. The path ahead was dangerous, perhaps even deadly, but he would not flee like a coward. He would face the darkness head-on, consequences be damned.

The crypt doors creaked open, revealing the somber twilight that cast a melancholy hue over the sacred grove. Michail took a deep breath, inhaling the earthy scent of damp soil and decaying leaves. This was it; there could be no turning back now. With heavy steps, he made his way through the grove. As he approached his horse, the shadows of gnarled trees reached out toward him like grasping hands in the fading light. His next destination would the nearby town of Eastfort and its infamous Squeaking Boar tavern, where the assassination of his uncle took place. Someone must have seen something, thus he hoped to get some answers there.