The air the Silent Catacombs had turned to brittle ice. It was a weeping cold, sharper than any chill brought by the Land of Silence, signaling profound sorrow.

Charcoal Cookie halted, his heavy boots silent on the cracked flagstones. A group of wraiths had coalesced, their spectral forms tearing at the vaulted ceiling with cries that sounded like shattering glass. They were reliving their final, gut-wrenching despair.

He took a slow step forward. “Let the bitterness go. Let the sorrow settle, like dust on an empty chair. Ye have earned your peace, aye? And I'll not have ye denyin’ yourselves what ye paid the proper price for.”