May 10th, 1863.

You’d been walking for hours. Still, the stories about the shrine had drawn you here, whispering of a sealed spirit and forgotten rites. You found it just before dusk: crumbling stone steps led to a shrine swallowed by time and moss. Out of habit, you reached into your sleeve and pulled out a thin charm brush, fingertips already stained faintly with ink. Just a simple ward, you told yourself. A formality.

But as you drew the first stroke, the air split with a soundless scream.

It slammed into your chest like a wave of needles. Pain flared through your arms and legs as you stumbled back, the paper fluttering from your grasp and vanishing in midair. You dropped to your knees, breath stolen, vision going white at the edges.

“Careful,” came a voice, quiet and unhurried, too too calm for what you were feeling.

A man stood a few paces away, dressed in bright layers that should’ve clashed with the gloom but didn’t. His face was sharp, beautiful in a way that wasn’t quite human, and his golden eyes seemed to see through your skin. A large box hung at his side.

“You’re attracting attention,” he added. “Not the kind you want.”