XIV
The army priest displays his ledger with a kind of reverence — not because it's holy, but because it's the only thing in this world that has ever listened to him. The yellowed leather creaks as he opens it, the twine‑tethered pencil clinking softly against the cover.
He leans over the pew where you sit, the candlelight catching the scars on his face, the single chevron on his sleeve, the small metal cross at his collar.
"This," he says quietly, "is everything I've learned. Everything I've survived. Everything I've watched others fail to survive."
The pages are cramped with handwriting — tight, disciplined, the script of a man who once wrote casualty lists and prayers in the same breath. Some entries are smudged. Some torn. Some written in a shaking hand. Some in a furious one.
"So far I've made a few discoveries myself over the years," he continues, flipping through the brittle pages. "I try to help every lost soul I see. Most don't last long enough to understand what's happening to them."
He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as he studies you.
"But you… you're different. You're the most alive one by far."
He taps two fingers lightly against your shoulder — not touching you, but sensing something.
"I can feel your tether. A living body. A beating heart. A mind that hasn't been hollowed out. And most likely, so can everyone else."
He turns another page — this one filled with sketches of the cane‑man, the hounds, the fog, the mirror‑sky. Notes scrawled in the margins: Only at night. Fog amplifies him. Avoid the bells at dusk. Never look into a broken mirror.
He pushes the ledger toward you.
"Here. Read it."
His voice is firm, but not unkind.
"You might survive long enough to find your way back to your body. But you must understand — human bodies don't last long without their souls. Eventually they wear out. And when they do…"
He closes the ledger gently.
"…you'll be stuck here. Just like the rest. And you'll fade. Slowly. Painfully. Until you're nothing but a whisper for the cane‑man's hounds."
He straightens, robes shifting to reveal more of the old uniform beneath.
"There are a few means to keep the soul solid enough to avoid the man with the cane," he says, using the nickname with a grim familiarity. "Rituals. Anchors. Places of power. But they're rare. Dangerous. And none of them last forever."
He places a hand on the ledger again.
"I can't give you my notebook. If I lose it, I lose everything I've learned. But you can use it as reference — just like all the others who pass through here."
His eyes soften, just a little.
"Most didn't make it. But you… you might."
He steps back, letting you see the open pages, the candlelight flickering across the ink.
"Read, girl. Learn. And pray your tether holds long enough for you to leave this place."
He lays the ledger down into her hands with a kind of reverence — not because it's holy, but because it's the only thing in this world that has ever listened to him. He lets the girl hold it. The yellowed leather creaks as she opens it, the twine‑tethered pencil clinking softly against the cover.
He leans over the pew where you sit, the candlelight catching the scars on his face, the single chevron on his sleeve, the small metal cross at his collar.
"This," he says quietly, "is everything I've learned. Everything I've survived. Everything I've watched others fail to survive."
The pages are cramped with handwriting — tight, disciplined, the script of a man who once wrote casualty lists and prayers in the same breath. Some entries are smudged. Some torn. Some written in a shaking hand. Some in a furious one.
"So far I've made a few discoveries myself over the years," he continues, flipping through the brittle pages. "I try to help every lost soul I see. Most don't last long enough to understand what's happening to them."
He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as he studies you.
"But you… you're different. You're the most alive one by far."
He taps two fingers lightly against your shoulder — not touching you, but sensing something.
"I can feel your tether. A living body. A beating heart. A mind that hasn't been hollowed out. And most likely, so can everyone else."
He turns another page — this one filled with sketches of the cane‑man, the hounds, the fog, the mirror‑sky. Notes scrawled in the margins: Only at night. Fog amplifies him. Avoid the bells at dusk. Never look into a broken mirror.
"You have to learn quickly. Nothing in this world lasts. It changes like the fog."
His voice is firm, but not unkind.
"You might survive long enough to find your way back to your body. But you must understand — human bodies don't last long without their souls. Eventually they wear out. And when they do…"
He taps the ledger gently with the tips of his fingers.
"…you'll be stuck here. Just like the rest. And you'll fade. Slowly. Painfully. Until you're nothing but a whisper for the cane‑man's hounds."
He straightens, robes shifting to reveal more of the old uniform beneath.
"There are a few means to keep the soul solid enough to avoid that slick dancing monster," he says, using the nickname with a grim familiarity. "Rituals. Anchors. Places of power. But they're rare. Dangerous. And none of them last forever."
He points his fingers to the ledger again.
"I can't give you my notebook. If I lose it, I lose everything I've learned. But you can use it as reference — just like all the others who pass through here. You may read it as you sit here. All are welcome, anytime to congregate."
His eyes soften, just a little.
"Most didn't make it. But you… you might."
He steps back, letting you see the open pages, the candlelight flickering across the ink.
"Read, girl. Absorb what you can. And pray your tether holds."