Cipher stumbled through the ash, scythe clenched in both hands, the faint glow of its runes the only light against the grayed horizon. The ground shifted beneath him, soft and unstable, giving in places like it had a mind of its own. Every footfall sent up clouds of fine black dust, which caught in his throat, clawing at his lungs. Auto moved beside him, clattering softly on the jagged stones, gears whirring.
"Cipher," Auto's voice cut through the haze, tense, metallic, "environmental readings are unregistered. Gravity inconsistent. Atmospheric density… variable. Multiple entities detected."
Cipher exhaled, grimacing through the ash in his teeth. "Unregistered, unpredictable… sounds about right." He glanced around. The Composite Graveyard stretched endlessly. Nothing looked familiar.
The sky was torn and smeared, black ink clouds curling in slow, deliberate shapes that seemed almost alive. Torn pages from unknown books drifted on the faint wind, letters forming then dissolving before he could read them. Towers of broken books leaned at impossible angles, some collapsing mid-air only to reassemble elsewhere. Rivers of black ink coiled like serpents, swallowing fragments of porcelain dolls, jagged toys, and broken tools. Gingerbread walls, charred and warped, jutted from ash and ink, pulsing faintly as if the Graveyard breathed.
Everywhere, the remnants of stories collided: a heel of glass embedded in ink, a cracked mask spinning in midair, half of a skeletal hand sticking from the ground. All wrong. All broken.
Cipher's chest tightened. The Graveyard wasn't alive—it was watching.
A soft snapping sound drew his gaze. Nothing. Just ash and shadow.
Then movement at the periphery. A figure, pale and still, blinked into existence atop a leaning tower. Hollow eyes reflected nothing, not the sky, not the Graveyard, not him. It didn't move. Didn't breathe. Then it vanished, leaving only a memory of emptiness.
Cipher swallowed hard. "Great," he muttered. "Already being watched."
Auto's gears clicked nervously. "Unknown entity classification. Observational behavior. No hostile engagement yet."
Another movement, sharper this time—a ripple in the ash. Cipher's eyes snapped toward it, but before he could focus, it disappeared again. He felt the air shiver against his skin, smelled faint decay and something metallic, coppery, like old blood. His gut clenched.
The Graveyard seemed to pulse, reacting to him. A flicker of movement at the edge of vision: shadows stretched, unformed, snapping shapes that might have been limbs or walls or beasts. Something scuttled in the ink rivers, but when he blinked, it was gone.
He moved forward cautiously, scythe raised. Each step threatened to sink him into the ash or twist him off a leaning tower. The windless air carried whispers—not words, not sentences, just fragments.
"—she fell into the—""—the spider waits in the—""—the crane cries…"
Cipher's jaw tightened. He could feel his heart pounding not just from exertion but from unseen eyes, unformed mouths, and moving shadows. Each whisper tugged at the edges of memory, pulling stories half-remembered, broken, and corrupt.
A sudden movement—a shape lunging from the corner of a broken book tower. It was gone in a blink, but the air had been torn, a line of ash and shredded fragments spinning in its wake. Cipher struck, slashing at empty air. Silver flames hissed as they met nothing tangible, but the pressure in the ground and the snapping echoes told him something had been there.
A scraping sound from the ink river—threads, long and black, flailed at his legs. He swung, catching one in silver light. It dissolved into ash before he could see its source. Something else moved, brushing against his arm like cold metal teeth. He yanked free. Nothing to see, only the sensation, only the dread.
Static figures blinked closer. One atop a leaning stack of charred books. Another in the shallow edge of the ink river. More began to appear and vanish with unnatural timing, always just at the edge of perception. Hollow eyes, endless and empty, following, observing, mocking even without expression.
Cipher spun, scythe flashing, slashing at threads and shadows. Something hissed close to his ear, hot and dry. He ducked under a snapping claw—or a shard of bone, or a branch? He couldn't tell. The Graveyard refused to reveal itself fully.
Ash swirled around him, choking, gritty against his skin. A whiff of rotting paper made his stomach twist. A feather, sharp as a knife, brushed his cheek. Something skittered along his shoulder and vanished, leaving a trace of blood.
Auto's sensors whirred, clicking and spinning. "Cipher, multiple unclassified entities approaching. Suggested evasive maneuver: high-ground relocation."
Cipher nodded, lungs burning, heart hammering. He leapt onto a leaning tower of books, landing precariously. Ash slipped beneath his boots. He caught himself, scythe slashing at the air. He didn't know what he had hit—threads? bones? something alive? But it screamed, a sharp, high-pitched tearing sound that made him flinch.
The Graveyard's whispers became louder. Partial sentences tumbled over each other:
"—the hut moves…""—the wolf waits…""—the mask is broken…"
They weren't stories he knew, but he felt their weight, the pull of their corruption, the fear embedded in them. He could almost see the forms, just at the corner of vision, half-formed and twitching, but every time he blinked, the shapes rearranged themselves.
The static people blinked in and out, appearing behind leaning towers, at the edges of ink rivers, and sometimes just a few feet away, hollow eyes watching. Cipher's grip tightened. Their presence, constant and silent, was worse than any attack...they made him feel...exposed making him feel on edge.
A shadow flickered across the ash. He swung, silver fire cleaving the air. Nothing. Just the echo of movement. Threads brushed his boots, feathers scratched his arms. Chimera limbs? He didn't know. They were always partial, fragmented, teasing the mind, never fully revealed.
Cipher moved forward, scythe glowing faintly, every step a fight against shifting terrain. The rivers of black ink slithered beneath him, the towers leaned and trembled, broken books toppled unpredictably. He barely noticed the bruises forming on his arms and legs; adrenaline kept him going.
And through it all, the static people blinked, closer now, sometimes behind him, sometimes beside, always vanishing before he could confront them.
Hours...or perhaps minutes...passed, time distorted in the Graveyard. Cipher finally found a small clearing, chest heaving, lungs burning. Ash swirled in the stagnant air, threads of ink writhed across the floor, and the leaning towers creaked, threatening collapse.
The static figures blinked at him from the edges, closer than ever, hollow eyes fixed and empty. Whispered fragments of stories rose, overlapping, indecipherable. Shadows moved in shapes he could not define.
Cipher planted the scythe in the ash, silver flames flaring faintly. His chest heaved, mind whirling with exhaustion and dread.
He did not know what he had faced. He only knew it had survived. And he could not yet identify it.
Somewhere beyond sight, at the edge of the Graveyard, a watcher lingered, unseen, patient, and waiting.
Cipher exhaled slowly, raising the scythe. "Then let it grow," he muttered. "I'll carve my path through its heart."