Chapter 13: Chapter 13: The Quiet Reaping

The aftermath of the temple expedition clung to Abraham like the scent of ancient dust and solemn silence. He hadn’t spoken since they left the jungle clearing behind. His shoulders slumped, not from the weight of his pack, but from something deeper—the kind of weight that settled in the soul, intangible and oppressive.

Each footstep seemed louder than it should have, echoing in the vacuum left by the spirits' wails. Abraham’s hands trembled slightly, a delayed tremor from the strange force he’d called upon.

It hadn’t just been power. It had been wrong somehow—twisted, potent, and utterly alien. And now it lived in the recesses of his memory like a snake coiled behind a curtain.

Tess kept glancing over, biting her lip, as though unsure whether to crack a joke or let the silence stretch. Even she, with her endless wit and sunny sarcasm, respected the eerie calm that had followed the confrontation in that temple.

Her eyes flicked nervously to Abraham now and then, as if expecting him to start levitating or speaking in foreign tongues.

“Should we talk about it?” Tess asked eventually, unable to take the silence any longer.

“No,” Abraham muttered, barely audible.

“Alright,” Tess said quickly, holding up her hands. “That’s fair. Just... let us know if your head starts spinning or you start chanting in reverse tongue or whatever.”

Abraham didn’t smile.

Maelin, for her part, walked ahead with her usual composed demeanor. Her eyes, though, darted side to side like a cat that smelled danger in every shadow. But even her steps lacked their usual quiet confidence. Her grip on her staff was tight enough that her knuckles had gone white.

Chop, loyal and towering as ever, trailed behind Abraham. He hadn’t clicked once since they left the temple grounds—no rattling of mandibles, no odd head tilts. Just quiet, unsettling stillness.

They made camp near a waterfall, its crashing sound helping wash the tension off their skin. Lush moss blanketed the stones nearby, and insects chirped rhythmically in the distance. Still, Abraham barely touched his food. He sat close to the fire, staring at the flames like they held answers to questions he hadn’t asked.

“He used something, didn’t he?” Maelin asked Tess quietly while Abraham was lost in thought.

Tess nodded. “I believe. When he silenced those spirits... it wasn’t his normal day to day necromancy. It felt older. Somehow wilder.”

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Maelin’s brows furrowed. “And now the backlash begins.”

Suddenly, Abraham lurched to his feet and stumbled toward the brush, hand over his mouth. The sounds that followed left no mystery.

Tess winced. “Yup. There it is.”

A minute later, Maelin sighed and stood, pulling a small pouch from her belt. “I’ll brew something for the nausea. He’ll need to sleep without his stomach tying itself in knots.”

When Abraham returned, pale and sweaty, Tess offered him water without a word. He took it with a weak nod, barely meeting her eyes.

“Sorry,” he rasped. “I just... I didn’t know it would hit that hard.”

“It’s okay,” Tess said, patting his back. “You didn’t throw up on me, so we’re still friends.”

“Very generous of you,” he croaked, managing a small smile.

He sat back by the fire, leaning against Chop’s armored leg. The ant creature allowed it, lowering its body slightly to shield Abraham from the breeze. Despite the grime and dried ichor that still clung to its exoskeleton, Chop had become an unlikely comfort.

Maelin handed Abraham a warm cup filled with pungent herbs. He sipped it without complaint.

“What was it?” Tess asked finally. “That technique.”

Abraham shook his head slowly. “It was a technique called lock and key. I don’t know the real detail. I saw it in one of the scrolls. Buried at the bottom of some room in my dream," he startled. "It warned me that it was unfinished. Unstable. But it sounds cool. That's it.”

“Just you being you, I guess,” Tess muttered. "Except the outcome is vomiting your breakfast."

“Hey, don't be judgy. I didn’t expect it to work. It was even buried deep within my dream,” Abraham took another sip of the bitter brew. “When I used it, it felt like those specters gaining back their consciousness. Like I wasn’t the only one speaking when I cast it.”

“You probably weren’t,” Maelin said. “Some of the oldest rites don’t summon power, they just borrow it. And borrowing comes with a price.”

They fell into silence. Only the waterfall filled the night with sound.

“Tomorrow,” Maelin said quietly, “we reach the border of the Hollow Region. There’s an old beastling outpost there. Might still hold something useful.”

“Useful like more ancient temples?” Tess asked, exasperated. She was trying to lighten the mood, but the tension clung too tightly.

Maelin didn’t smile. “Useful like signs of the corruption’s spread. And maybe records. The beastlings were meticulous scribes, after all.”

"Hold up," Tess tilted her head slightly. "You gave us an errand with 'information' as the paycheck, and you didn't even have the information yet?"

Maelin shrugged. A tiny bit of playful smile flickering faintly on her face. "I never said that I had the information."

"What?!" Tess' voice risen a little.

Abraham seemed unbothered by that revelation. “Records of what?” he asked hoarsely.

“Of the unknown that spread out of the blue. Above the Hollow Region, above the temple, above this entire part of the continent.”

Abraham closed his eyes. He could still hear the echo of the specter’s voice in his head. But deeper still, there was something else, like a distant heartbeat. He couldn't defined it.

But for him, there was only two plausibilities. Either it was something with good intentions, or with the bad ones. He didn't knew which one is the truth. But he need to be prepared for any plausibilities out there.

Later that night, after the fire had burned low, Abraham stirred in his bedroll. He saw movement from the corner of his eye. Chop was facing the jungle, antennae twitching rapidly. Abraham sat up.

“What is it?” he whispered.

Chop didn’t answer—of course. But his massive head turned toward the treeline.

Then a sound broke the jungle’s stillness. Not an animal’s call, not a predator’s growl.

Laughter.

A child’s laughter. Soft. Faint. Impossible.

Abraham grabbed his staff and stood, legs still shaky. Tess and Maelin were already up.

“You heard that too?” he asked.

They nodded. Maelin’s eyes were already glowing faintly, scanning the darkness.

“Something followed us,” she said.

Chop took a step forward, a low clicking beginning to return to his mandibles, a warning to whatever had dared come close.

The jungle had never felt so alive. Or so haunted.

“What if it’s not a creature?” Tess whispered. “What if it’s... a memory? You know, like specters we faced before.”

“No,” Maelin replied firmly. “That was a real stuff.”

The laughter came again—closer this time. Followed by a whisper neither of them could quite make out.

Abraham’s grip on his staff tightened. He stepped closer to Chop, his voice low. “Guard them.”

And then he took a step into the jungle.

Into the dark.

***