Chapter Three: The Specter

How strange—how could a skeleton possibly feel cold? The sudden chill startled Wade for a moment, then he saw a ghostly blue flame drift from the corpse. The fire hovered before his eyes, stirring an unexplainable sense of familiarity, and Wade soon realized what it was: it reminded him of the soul-flame that burns within a skull, yet it wasn’t quite the same.

A skeleton’s soul-flame cannot exist independently; it must be bound to a body matching the soul, or it would vanish like a candle in a gale. This, however, was something else. Wade recalled a book on necromancy he had once read. Back when he was alive, there was a period when the secrets of death intrigued him deeply.

In truth, Wade was not originally of this world. Though, after many trials, he had mastered the local tongue, forged a new identity, and taken the name Wade, gradually blending into this land’s daily life, the first twenty years of his life had been shaped by a different understanding—one where death was the end of all things. But in this world, that certainty was wrong. Death was not the final chapter; souls were a proven reality. Eager to understand, he had procured several tomes of occult knowledge.

He remembered one, titled “The Fate of Souls,” which wrote:

“Ghosts are rare. It is crucial not to see them as continuations of the living—never as the ‘someone after death.’ A ghost is the birth of another, new spirit, more akin to an elemental being. In their earliest form, ghosts resemble floating clusters of flame, lacking clear consciousness and retaining, at most, a trace of obsession from life. For instance, those slain by soldiers may hate soldiers; those who died in pain may inflict phantom suffering upon those they touch.

In their infancy, however, ghosts show none of these fixations. They act only by instinct, feeding on soul energy and magic to maintain their existence. Only when they accumulate enough power do they evolve, form a shape, and begin to express a semblance of will. Yet even with ample soul energy to absorb, most ghosts dissipate within thirty days. Only one in a hundred lasts past half a year to evolve a body, and of those, less than one in ten thousand become higher beings, like banshees or wraiths.”

By Wade’s reckoning, the phenomenon before him must be the ghost born from the dead girl.

“So, it’s you who’s crying?”

Wade wanted to ask, but as a skeleton, he lacked the organs to speak. Even if his jaw moved, it could only emit a ghastly clatter.

Unable to speak, he did the only thing he could—he reached out to touch the ghostly blue light.

He did so almost unconsciously, without thought. When alive, he would never have acted so rashly, but death had freed him from such caution.

His hand met the flame, but rather than absorbing it as he would with a soul-flame, something different happened.

He felt an extraordinary sensation: a piercing cold that coated his bones in frost—a cold that could freeze even the soul...

But the most remarkable thing happened right before Wade’s eyes.

Upon contact, the flame blazed brighter, outshining the oil lamp and filling the cramped hut with its blue glow.

In an instant, the wisp swelled into a vast fireball, larger than Wade himself, its outer flames nearly grazing the cobwebbed ceiling.

Wade stepped back. The shimmering blue fire drifted like starlight, dissolving into the darkness as softly as melting snow.

It was a scene of beauty and mystery. The flames gradually dimmed, drawing inward, solidifying, taking shape.

The fire coalesced into a translucent, frosted soul.

It was tiny—no bigger than a child’s rag doll, something one could easily hold in the palm.

The upper half bore the features of a girl: the same sweater as the corpse, the same short hair, though now a frosty white. The lower half faded into mist, insubstantial as white fog.

Formed at last, the ghost bowed her head, covering her face with small hands, and began to weep softly.

A mournful, echoing sob—

This was the very same crying Wade had heard before in his “dream.”

He watched the ghost born before him, realizing that, if the book was accurate, this soul had somehow evolved in mere seconds—a process that took most ghosts half a year, if it happened at all.

He was still reeling from the touch. In that moment, he had felt as though trapped in an icy cellar, limbs numb, powerless, breathless, death closing in.

Were these the girl’s pain and terror?

Wade had felt them as his own, if only briefly. It was enough to imagine how terrifying it must be to endure such agony until death. No wonder the girl wept.

The sound brought a sense of déjà vu. He’d seen children cry before—how did he comfort them?

Ah, yes—reach out and gently stroke their forehead.

Shaking frost from his bones, Wade stretched out a hand and softly touched the little ghost’s head.

There was sensation—a gentle, watery chill.

For the first time since becoming a skeleton, Wade felt “touch.” It must have been a meeting of souls, not flesh.

This was all he could do to comfort her. He hoped it wouldn’t frighten her, for a skeleton was surely a terrifying sight.

Fortunately, the ghost did not fear him. Yet her sobs did not cease with his gesture.

She continued to hide her face, but as Wade’s bony hand caressed her, the crying gradually quieted.

How strange—it was as if Wade could sense her emotions, which slowly settled into calm.

After a time, she lowered her hands and, under the skeleton’s touch, raised her head.

Bone and ghost, wordless and cold, gazed at one another. The ghost stared into his empty sockets.

She floated closer, as gentle as a dandelion on the wind. Wade remained kneeling, careful not to startle her.

He realized that if he could sense her pain, fear, and unease, then perhaps she could glimpse his heart as well.

It had been a long time since he’d met anyone who did not attack him on sight. He felt a quiet joy; he had no desire for conflict with this rare, seemingly communicative spirit.

He offered goodwill, and the ghost, sensing it, let down her guard. The distance between them shrank.

Like stroking a stray kitten, Wade gently brushed the ghost’s head.

Though his hand was cold and hard, offering no warmth, the ghost did not resist—though neither did she draw closer.

She simply gazed up at his face, eyes filled with confusion and curiosity, but not fear.

Wade thought perhaps he had made a new friend; their relationship had shifted from “strangers” to “friendly.”

Perhaps it was time to move, to spend more time with this new companion. But there were still many mysteries—where was this place? He wanted to look outside the hut. He withdrew his hand, ceasing his earlier gesture.

Yet moments after he did so, the little ghost slipped into the crook of his arm.

She curled herself in the bend of his elbow, nestled between upper and forearm, her tiny half-transparent form surrounded by bone. Only half her head showed, her small eyes meeting Wade’s.

To him, she seemed like a spirit of the night—innocent, timid, and naive.

Perhaps she found this snowy night so cold that even a skeleton felt warm by comparison, so she sought his side for comfort.

She seemed incapable of speech, and unlike any normal human—after all, what person would draw close to a skeleton?

Likely, as the book described, she had forgotten her life. The ghost was not a continuation of the living, but the birth of something new.

Wade wondered if she felt any warmth, but as the ghost nestled against him, more visions flooded his mind.

They were not his own memories, but fragments of what the girl had seen in life.

Like an old hand-cranked projector stuttering through film, images flickered by in bursts.

Clearer than the “mirror” in his dream, Wade saw flickering torches, iron helmets with only the eyes exposed, bands of men, swords, axes, bows and crossbows...

He seemed to stand amid them, hearing heavy breathing, panicked screams, barking dogs, harsh curses...

He could almost smell scorched wood, the metallic tang of blood, and the bitter, cutting wind.

The large men set houses alight, slaughtering men and women, sparing neither children nor elders.

Though brief, these flashes were enough for Wade to understand what the girl had endured.

...

“Viking raiders...”

Wade pushed open the door, looking toward the only source of firelight.

In the far north’s deep winter, snow blanketed the land, the wind howled, and the fir trees sagged beneath heavy white. In the distance, fire and black smoke rose.

He had heard tales of Viking raiders. When he’d lived in Helburg in the southern continent, he’d never visited the north, but their infamy had reached even there.

The Vikings were legendary—though notorious rather than celebrated.

They dwelled on islands and ice fields across the frozen sea, spending spring repairing their longships, honing weapons, and buying coastal defense secrets from merchants.

Summer was their season of plunder; when the ice thawed, their ships glided downriver, landing even on shallow shores or hauled inland.

Like locusts, they left nothing behind, only returning home in autumn, laden with loot.

Winter was supposed to be a time of council, when the ice-bound sea made sailing impossible and forced them home.

Thus, Viking raids in winter were exceedingly rare; most folk slept soundly through the cold months.

But on the rarest occasions, a few pirates—driven by greed—would take sleds, using frozen rivers to attack nearby villages.

The girl’s village had been struck by such a raid.

She had been wounded by a pirate’s arrow, fled into the night, reached this wooden hut, tried to tend her wound, but died helplessly—her fate sealed.