The rain in Everfell didn't fall, it clung. It was a wet, grey shroud that wrapped itself around the town, soaking into the old wood of the buildings and the souls of the people. Nel drove down the main street, his wipers fighting a losing battle against the relentless drizzle. Nothing had changed. The same tired-looking diner, the same hardware store with its faded paint, the same oppressive weight of the lake at the end of the road, hidden behind a curtain of mist.It was a town holding its breath.His first stop wasn't Golda's office. He couldn't face that yet. The image of her, alone on the floor with that terrible, final sound in his ear, was too fresh. He needed the key. He needed what she had left for him. It was the only thing that felt solid.The old movie house, "The Starlight," had been closed for a decade. Its marquee was a skeleton of dead lightbulbs and peeling letters. The alley beside it was choked with wet garbage and the smell of damp rot. His heart hammered against

The rain was the only thing that moved. It fell in a steady, hushed whisper, blurring the world. The dark figure stood like a statue at Elias's grave, a hole of deeper blackness in the night. Nel pressed himself against the cold marble angel, the ledger digging into his ribs like a accusation. Every beat of his heart was a thunderclap in his ears. He was sure the figure could hear it.Move. Please, just move.As if hearing his silent plea, the figure turned away from the grave and began to walk, not towards the gate, but along the tree line, a slow, prowling pace. It was checking the perimeter. It was hunting.This was his only chance.Nel broke from behind the angel, staying low, weaving through the forest of headstones. He didn't head for the main gate. He aimed for the far southern wall, where an ancient oak had sent a thick branch sprawling over the top. It was a route he and Jason had used as teenagers to sneak out after dark.The wet grass silenced his footsteps, but every rustl

The funeral was a farce dressed in black.The little church in Everfell was packed, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and false sentiment. Nel sat in the back pew, Silvera a silent, observant presence beside him. He felt like a trespasser at his own execution. Every glance from a mourner felt like an accusation. Every whispered condolence sounded like a lie.From the pulpit, Jason Demmys spoke. He wasn't in uniform, but a well-tailored black suit that screamed authority louder than a badge ever could."Golda Haines was a pillar of this community," he said, his voice a smooth, practiced baritone that carried easily through the hushed church. "A seeker of truth. It is a tragedy that in her final days, that very pursuit may have led her down a dark path... a path of confusion and despair."Nel’s hands clenched into fists on his knees. Confusion and despair. Jason was laying the final bricks in the wall of his narrative, sealing Golda’s coffin with the mortar of lies. He was paint

Time seemed to slow, each raindrop a crystal bead in the lamplight. The hooded figure took another step, its boots making no sound on the wet pavement. Nel’s mind screamed at him to run, but his feet were rooted to the spot, frozen by a terror so complete it felt like a physical paralysis.He was going to die here, on this street, in the rain. Just like Golda.The figure raised a hand, not in a threat, but a gesture. A beckoning. Then it turned and melted back into the alley it had emerged from.It wasn’t an attack. It was an invitation. A command.His heart was a wild, trapped bird beating against his ribs. Every instinct told him to run in the opposite direction. But the figure knew who he was. It had been at the cemetery. It had something to say, or something to show him. And in the suffocating grip of the Demmys’ power, any other player, even a hostile one, was a variable. A chance.Gritting his teeth, his breath coming in ragged gasps, Nel followed.He stepped into the alley’s da

The world had snapped into a different, harsher focus. The rain wasn't just rain anymore, it was a solvent, washing away the lies to reveal the ugly truth beneath. Nel walked back to the inn, the photograph a burning brand in his pocket. His father's face, that look of tortured complicity, was seared onto the back of his eyelids.He found Silvera in her room, bent over a microscope set up on the small desk. Various plant specimens, pressed and labeled, were laid out beside it. She looked up as he entered, her sharp eyes taking in his disheveled state, the grim set of his jaw.“What happened?” she asked, setting down a pair of tweezers.He didn’t speak. He just pulled the photograph from his pocket and laid it on the desk next to her microscope.Silvera looked down. She was silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a slow, soft breath. “Oh, Nel.”“He sold her,” Nel said, his voice flat, dead. “My father. He sold my sister to the Demmys for ten thousand dolla