Chapter One: The Whispering Fog
The fog rolled in from the north like a ghost with no name.
It crept over the hills in heavy coils, muffling the morning birdsong and settling across the cobbled road like a shroud. Arlo stood just beyond the Wall, the great stone barrier that marked the edge of the Old Kingdom, clutching his father’s hand as the mist slid past their boots.
They were heading toward Norrth Hollow, a forgotten village that had reappeared on the map—literally. Three days ago, it hadn’t been there. Then it was. Arlo’s father, Callan, was a Charter Mage from the Clayr’s records division, but also something else—something quieter and older.
He had a bell at his side.
Not one of the seven necromancer’s bells. Not the ones the Abhorsen carried. But a smaller, gentler one, engraved with faint Charter Marks that shimmered only when the wind spoke through them.
“Stay close,” Callan said, voice low. “The fog's not natural today.”
“I know,” Arlo replied. He was only ten, but he'd grown up near the Wall his whole life. He knew the smell of Free Magic and the way it made your bones feel like they didn’t quite belong.
They walked in silence, save for the soft jingle of the bell at Callan’s belt and the distant cry of a goose—or something that wanted to sound like one.
Arlo whispered, “What if it’s a spirit?”
“It is,” Callan said simply. “That’s why we brought the bell.”
As they reached the edge of the Hollow, Arlo saw why it had vanished from records. Houses stood crumbled into earth, roofs folded like paper, and trees had grown through the walls. Yet candles flickered in windows. Someone—or something—still lingered.
Then he heard it. A whisper, like breath against his ear:
“Let us in…”
Callan stopped walking. The Charter Marks on his bell glowed faintly. He raised a hand, tracing a symbol in the air. Light bloomed—a protective mark of silence.
“They’re testing us,” he said. “These aren’t true Dead. Not yet. They’re caught between the Charter and the river.”
Arlo gulped. “Do we send them back?”
His father nodded. “We send them home.”
From beneath his cloak, Callan drew the small bell and held it out. Its name was Linneth, the Listener. Unlike the seven great bells, it didn’t command—it soothed.
He rang it once. The sound drifted through the fog like warm wind on snow.
The whispers faltered.
“Let us… l-l… no…”
One by one, shapes began to appear in the mist. Faint figures in old cloaks and torn dresses. Children. A postman. A cat. All ghost-thin, with hollow eyes.
Arlo’s heart ached. “They didn’t know they were gone,” he whispered.
“No,” said Callan. “But now they do.”
He rang the bell again.
This time, the sound opened something unseen—a door, a path. The fog seemed to bow as the spirits turned, softly, slowly, and walked into the light that waited just beyond sight.
When it was over, the village was empty again.
Really empty.
Arlo stared at the last candle as it flickered out.
“Why were they stuck?”
Callan looked down at him. “Sometimes the Dead cling to what they love. A home. A life. A child.”
Arlo blinked. “Did you mean… a child they lost?”
Callan didn’t answer. He only tucked the bell away and took Arlo’s hand again.
“We’ve got more villages to visit,” he said.
And as the fog lifted and the true wind returned, Arlo realized something:
This was only the beginning.