The Wayfinder's Burden

The corpse road stretched before Elara like a pale ribbon under moonlight. Three steps forward. Pause. Listen to the wind.

Her grandmother's silver compass pendant swung against her chest with each measured movement. The weight of it reminded her she was alone now. Two years since the old woman had collapsed on these stones.

The cairns rose like sentinels on either side of the path, their ancient stones slick with mountain mist. Elara's breath clouded in the cold air. She pulled her wool cloak tighter.

The bend ahead marked the halfway point to Greystone Abbey. She rounded it.

Stopped.

The path was gone. Massive boulders choked the road where smooth stone should have been. Moonlight caught the raw edges of freshly broken rock. A landslide. Recent.

Elara's throat tightened. She forced herself to step closer.

Blue flames flickered beyond the rockfall. Corpse candles. Her grandmother had warned her about these spectral markers—they appeared where souls were trapped, unable to complete their journey to the afterlife.

The wind carried whispers. Names spoken in desperate voices. Mother. Beloved. Come back.

Elara touched her compass pendant. The metal was ice-cold against her fingertips. She recited the calming ritual her grandmother had taught her. "Walk in peace. The road continues. Walk in peace."

The blue flames wavered but did not diminish.

A gentle glow materialized above the rockslide. Soft at first, like distant starlight. Then brighter. The light took shape—translucent features forming slowly. Eyes last.

A woman's face. Middle-aged. Kind. Her spectral form wore the simple dress of a miller's wife.

"Sweet child." The voice was motherly, warm. "The path is broken."

Elara's training kicked in. She straightened her spine. "I am Wayfinder. I will clear the way."

"We cannot cross." The wraith drifted closer. Her edges blurred like watercolor in rain. "Three nights until the full moon peaks. When it rises, we transform."

Fear crawled up Elara's spine. She knew what came after transformation. The old stories spoke of wraiths—corrupted souls who fed on the living. Monsters wearing the faces of the dead.

"Let us stay, little one." The wraith's voice shifted. Desperation bled through the maternal warmth. "Let us remain. Better this than the void."

Behind her, more blue flames appeared. Dozens. Hundreds. The trapped souls of three days' worth of deaths, accumulating like water behind a dam.

Some were beginning to twist. Their forms no longer fully human.

Elara's hand shook as she gripped her compass. The words of the calming ritual died in her throat. This was beyond her training. Beyond her grandmother's fragmented lessons.

"I..." Her voice cracked. "I don't know how to fix this."

The wraith reached toward her with translucent fingers. "Poor dear. You carry such a burden." The hand stopped just short of Elara's cheek. "Your grandmother would weep to see you struggle so."

The mention of her grandmother struck like a blade. Elara stepped backward.

More wraiths gathered now, drawn by the First Wraith's presence. They clustered behind her like frightened children. Their whispers rose—a chorus of names and pleas.

Stay. Please. Don't make us go. Let us remain.

The First Wraith's eyes—the last feature to manifest—locked onto Elara's. Recognition flickered there. "You were just a girl when I died. Cora Ashenmere. I sold your grandmother flour for bread."

Elara remembered. The miller's wife who had drowned saving her daughter. She had walked the corpse road peacefully. Until now.

"I cannot let you stay," Elara whispered. "The covenant—"

"The covenant is broken." Cora's voice hardened. "The road is closed. We cannot cross even if we wished to." She gestured to the rockslide. "And soon we will not wish to. Soon we will hunger."

The other wraiths pressed closer. Their forms flickered between human and something else. Something with too many limbs. Too many teeth.

Elara's breath came short and fast. The compass pendant burned ice-cold in her grip. She wanted to run. To flee back to Blackridge Village and bar the door and pretend this was someone else's burden.

But the wind carried her grandmother's voice. Not a ghost. A memory.

*You are Wayfinder. When others falter, you stand.*

Elara forced herself to meet Cora's eyes. "I will find a way to clear the road."

"Will you?" The wraith's smile was sad. Knowing. "Before the moon rises and we devour your village in our hunger?"

The question hung in the cold air. Unanswered.

Because Elara didn't know. She was nineteen and half-trained and terrified. The ancient knowledge that could save them rested in Greystone Abbey's ritual library. But Father Silas guarded those secrets jealously. He would test her. Demand proof of worthiness she didn't possess.

The wraiths began to wail. Not words now—just raw sound. Grief and rage and growing hunger twisting together.

Elara turned. Ran.

Her measured Wayfinder's pace—three steps, pause, listen—abandoned. She sprinted down the corpse road, stones slick beneath her boots. Behind her, the blue flames multiplied. The wailing grew louder.

When she finally burst past the last cairn onto the mountain trail leading home, she collapsed against cold stone. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Tears froze on her cheeks.

Three nights until the full moon.

Three nights to become what her grandmother had died believing she could be.

Or three nights until Blackridge Village learned the price of an unworthy Wayfinder.