Washington County, Missouri

September 24, 1871

The hills grow narrower. The light feels… off. Even the sun, when it appears, has taken on a tarnished hue, like brass left to rust. The sky no longer brightens so much as it exhales light reluctantly.

There are crows—too many to count. They follow us now. I watched one outside my window for over an hour. It didn’t blink.

In my satchel, the grimoire has grown heavier. Pages I thought were blank now hold faint etchings when tilted toward flame. Maps. Symbols. A single Latin phrase repeats in several margins:

“Aperite portas. Sanguis vocat.”

Open the gates. Blood calls.

My blood called once. It whispered a name into the dirt. I remember the heat of it. The silence that followed. The smirk that curled on my lips even as he burned.

I’ve started dreaming of that smile again—but now, I’m the one in the fire, and I’m not afraid.