Wolven
The air tasted of rain and something older, something woven into the stone of the old churchyard. Old Man Hemlock, bundled against the November chill, hadn’t said much when he’d asked for the favour. Just the words, worn smooth with use: “Tradition can change.”
He’d meant it about the warding, the circle of salt and iron filings laid out around the grave. For generations, the Hemlocks had kept watch over this patch of earth, warding off whatever shadows clung to the stone. It wasn’t malice, not exactly. More like…hunger. A slow leak of wrongness seeping into the world.
Now, Hemlock wanted to break the ritual. Not abandon it entirely, but…shift the focus. He’d been muttering about the thinning veil, about needing to draw the power *in*, not push it away. Sounded like madness to me, but Hemlock's madness was as old as the hills themselves.
I ran a hand over the rough-hewn stone of the grave. The name carved into it – Elara – was barely legible, worn down by rain and time. She’d been a whisper, a shadow in the village’s memory. They said she’d had the Sight.
“You sure about this?” I asked, my voice rough against the silence.
Hemlock didn’t look at me. His eyes were fixed on the circle, on the way the moonlight seemed to *bend* around the iron filings. “The old ways are failing, boy. We need to try something new. The world’s changing, and we change with it.”
He reached into his worn coat and produced a small, bone-white flute. It looked like it had been carved from a single piece of ivory. "This is where it begins." He placed the flute on the edge of the grave, and a faint, high-pitched whine cut through the air.
The whine grew louder, twisting into a melody that felt…wrong. It wasn’t unpleasant, not exactly. But it didn’t sit right. It felt like a memory trying to force its way into my skull.
"Hold the salt," Hemlock instructed, his voice raspy. "Keep it steady."
I gripped the small bag of salt, my knuckles white. The flute’s song was building now, a spiralling cascade of notes that seemed to resonate in my teeth. The shadows around the grave were deepening, coalescing into shapes that weren’t quite *there*.
"Tradition can change," Hemlock repeated, his voice a low murmur. "But it's never been about forgetting."