The great stone golems parted at the priest’s gesture, their joints grinding.

Oliver kept an eye on them as he passed. He stood no more than knee level. His companions stepped between the golems with brisk steps.

The monastery rose from a green carpet of grass surrounded by a cluster of ancient buildings. Trees and vines grew in cracked stone and up walls. Monks in simple robes tended gardens and polished statues. A strange smell drifted through the corridors from the plants they burned.

A monk laid a leafed branch into a fire in the communal center, and beyond the smoke, a figure slid behind a round library.

Oliver wondered who pursued him. If the follower were a threat, why was there no attack with all the opportunities since the prison wagon?

He breathed in the scent and walked a pillared walkway to the church nave with a painted ceiling. The room had four alters: one with a fountain that gurgled in the corner, one with a rock that looked like a meteorite, one with a torch that streaked the wall with smoke, and one that sat empty.

The priest pulled his hood back, revealing a bald pate. He introduced himself as Aelric, voice hushed as though reluctant to disturb the monastery’s peace. "You don’t have to worry about the undead here. This is a true sanctuary."

Oliver studied the paintings above. "How was all this built in the middle of nowhere?"

Aelric’s flowing robes were embroidered with angular patterns. “We are worldwide. At least as far as the East and West Duldrums, except where the elves have stamped us out.”

The elves again? They make a lot of enemies.

Aelric gestured, and water droplets left the fountain and danced. “The elves believe in two gods and no others.”

Saj stood before the torch alter, closed his eyes, and made subtle gestures around his face and chest.

The priest led them through a courtyard of lush gardens and along a covered walkway. The walk opened to a circle where they found a knight kneeling amid eight colorful statues: four male, four female, each associated with one of the four elemental forces—water, fire, earth, air. Aelric quietly explained, "This is Sir Gillian, a paladin of the Ogdoad and lord from Lake Emerald."

After the introduction, Saj looked at each of the gods. "Who do the Witchfriends worship?"

Aelric pointed to the floor and ceiling. "Above is the culmination of the eight gods, the Allfather, separate but one. The Witchfriends follow the Void God, the one who stands alone and the only one who can reject death. Even the good people of this kingdom dabble with the Void."

Sir Gillian rose. He was a striking figure in polished armor, the crest of the Ogdoad upon his breastplate. "It isn’t luck that a group of adventurers appear in a time of need." He glanced at Aelric, who gave him a nod to continue. "Many towns and cities along the shores of Lake Zars fall under Lord Reynold’s domain. A ghost plagues him. Because of this torment, he’s unable to make a critical decision to evacuate this lands, burn the fields before the enemy, and aid the King at Halshan Castle."

Oliver looked at his feet, and the eye etched into the marble. Is this the Observer? It didn’t matter. These gods may have no link to the real world. His thoughts turned back to the issue at hand. "Have you tried an exorcism?"

"We have," Aelric said. "But the spirit is cunning. It eludes the usual rites. Perhaps it feeds on Lord Reynold’s fears and regrets. But unless this haunting ends, innocents will be crushed under the army’s boots."

Halfdan and Sigrid talked amongst themselves. The barbarians pointed at gods and mentioned spirits.

Sir Gillian eyed the two. "I don’t like the barbarians' superstitions, their spirit delusions, but they have some traditions that might help with this phantom."

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Sigrid stiffened but nodded. "We have dealt with these things before."

Aelric’s gaze shifted to Charity. His eyes narrowed with concern. "Child, you carry a heavy sadness. Does the Melancholy afflict you? Many these days feel an overwhelming despair—seeing the world’s cruelties and wonders as if for the first time, and it crushes their spirit."

Charity, eyes downcast, said nothing.

Oliver had worried about her. "Is sadness spreading like a disease?"

Aelric came closer to her. "I pray the gods grant her relief. It is indeed spreading. I know what it’s like. I was there during the Goblin Massacre. Afterward, I knew nothing was real. It is, but it isn’t. It’s a feeling, and we’ve named it the Melancholy. I turned to the gods." He put a hand on her shoulder. “Consider becoming a nun, Charity.”

She looked up and looked away.

Oliver agreed to help. "I’m sure we’ll figure out what to do with this ghost."

Sir Gillian’s stern face lit with relief. "Then we leave at dawn. It’s a short ride to Reynold’s Keep."

Aelric offered them simple bedding in the dormitory. Though they slept fitfully, they rose before dawn, determined to end the haunting and change fate’s course, and set out as the sun crested the horizon.

Sir Gillian led the way along a winding forest road. The atmosphere grew tense when the conversation turned to Witchfriends and their twisted flesh golems. Halfdan wondered if there was any link to the stone golems guarding the monastery.

The Void God must be involved in the creation of them. Supposedly, the elves worshiped the Allfather, but they named Him Tezkaldrich. One couldn’t trust anyone. What were these entities?

The path led them through ancient woodlands. After the horrors and illusions they had faced, the quiet rustle of leaves and the chirp of distant birds offered peace.

Saj tried to lighten the mood with jests and wordplay, trying to cheer up Charity, who walked silently, head bowed, but keeping pace.

Are you there?

Oliver saw the notification and ignored it. What could it be about? Nothing good.

At noon, the forest hush shattered with movement in the foliage. Limbs snapped and sagged.

Halfdan grunted as he tried to pull his foot up, but a spiderweb stuck to him.

Giant spiders descended from the canopy, their swollen abdomens shining glossy black.

Sigrid fired arrows at one, Halfdan cleaved at another with his axe, and Saj jabbed at darting legs with a spear he’d scavenged along the way. Sir Gillian shielded Charity and Oliver, sword raised.

Oliver, are you there? It’s me.

Oliver dashed forward, swordstaff humming in hand. One spider lunged, dripping venom from its fangs. With a wide strike, Oliver severed a spindly limb, then spun low, cutting through the exoskeleton and guts. The spider collapsed with a final hiss, twitching in its death throes.

A sudden warmth coursed through Oliver. Notifications beeped. He felt his mana surge.

Another spider dropped from above and skewered itself.

Oliver shook it from the blade.

The paladin ran another spider through, and it wasn’t long before the spiders fled. Lesser armed travelers might have fallen victim to the monsters.

Oliver had leveled up. The realization steadied him, renewing his confidence in his plan.

The group took a moment to catch their breath, forming a circle to watch in all directions.

"Nicely done," Sigrid said, watching Oliver clean the goo from his swordstaff.

Halfdan grunted approvingly.

They continued pushing through the underbrush, which had grown over the narrow road. At last, they emerged into a clearing. Before them stood Reynold’s Keep, a rectangular fortress of stone perched on a low rise and surrounded by a moat. From the battlements, a few shouts rang down at their sighting.

It seemed subdued for a fortress. A single cart passed under the portcullis. One man tended the greenery at the skirt of the keep.

Sir Gillian moved forward, his armor catching the waning sunlight. He kicked his horse forward.

Oliver walked behind him and opened the screen. He had three notifications and a popup that said he was a level three. The test pulsed as if it wanted him to select it. He would when he had more time. Instead, he turned his attention to the bridge over the moat. "Let’s see this ghost," Oliver said under his breath.

They entered a dark entrance, and Sir Gillian greeted a host of armed guards. They clapped each other on the arms and made small talk.

At the end of the grand hall, a man sat on a high seat, presumably Lord Reynold. He was old and looked like he hadn’t slept a day. His eyes were wild and bruised. He mumbled to himself and seemed not to hear when an advisor bent to his level and whispered.

The advisor straightened. “Who have you brought to us, Sir Gillian?”

The paladin walked forward and gestured for Oliver to follow. He bowed when they reached the steps before the dais and the high seat. “These are adventurers of the Crimson Pike Guild. They come to vanquish the ghost.”

A look of fear passed over Lord Reynold’s face, and he twitched. Then he screamed.