Chapter 15: Wraith Clearance - Part 1
The silver sword cost fifteen crowns—nearly everything I had left.
The elderly blacksmith who sold it regarded me with the skepticism I'd grown accustomed to. Another young fool buying silver weapons for monster hunting, probably destined to become another corpse for the guards to find.
"For a wraith, you said."
"Warehouse by the docks. The haunted one."
"That place has killed better men than you."
"Probably." I tested the blade's balance. Lighter than steel, different feel in the hand. "But I have advantages they didn't."
"Such as?"
I Shadow Stepped across his workshop—one moment by the counter, next moment by the door, the displacement taking barely an instant.
The blacksmith's hammer clattered to the floor. His face went pale.
"What in all the—"
"Trade secret." I appeared beside him again, another step, and caught his arm before he could fall. "The sword will work?"
"Against a wraith? Yes. Silver cuts spiritual flesh where steel passes through." He was still staring at where I'd been, where I was now. "What are you, boy?"
"Someone who needs a silver sword." I pressed crowns into his hand. "Maintenance requirements?"
He answered mechanically, still processing what he'd witnessed. Oil after every engagement. Store away from iron. Replace blade every fifty strikes against supernatural entities—silver was softer than steel, wore down faster.
I left him standing in his shop, silver sword wrapped in oilcloth under my arm.
Mira met me at the warehouse at dusk.
She'd been practicing with the manual—I could see it in the way she held herself, the subtle confidence that came from growing competence. Her light globe hovered beside her shoulder, steady and bright.
"You've improved."
"I can hold it for twenty minutes now. And I've been working on the directional manipulation—I can focus the light into a beam instead of just ambient glow."
"That'll be useful. Wraiths hate concentrated light almost as much as they hate silver."
We circled the warehouse together, noting what I'd observed before. Three floors. Multiple entrances. Third floor northwestern corner confirmed as the wraith's location.
[DANGER SENSE: MODERATE ALERT]
[Supernatural Presence: Active]
[Entity Status: Dormant (daylight hours)]
"It's sleeping," I said. "Wraiths are strongest at night, but they're present all the time. Daylight just makes them sluggish."
"So we attack now? While it's weak?"
"We scout now. Attack at full dark."
"Why wait if it's vulnerable?"
"Because a wounded wraith in daylight becomes a furious wraith at nightfall. If we start the fight and don't finish it, we've made everything worse." I moved toward the main entrance. "Better to engage when it's at full strength but we control the timing and terrain."
We entered through the street-side door.
The first floor was as I'd expected—decades of decay, collapsed shelving, evidence of squatters who'd fled when things went wrong. Rat droppings crunched underfoot. The air smelled of mold and old violence.
Mira's light globe brightened automatically, pushing back shadows.
"The residual energy here is..." She paused, searching for words. "Heavy. Like the air before a storm, but constant."
"Death echo. The wraith was created here—probably died violently. The trauma soaked into the building itself."
"How do you know that?"
"Meta-knowledge. Can't explain."
"Research. Wraiths don't just appear—they're created by traumatic deaths, bound to locations by unfinished business or overwhelming emotion. This one's been here long enough to settle in permanently."
The second floor was worse. Bloodstains on the wooden planks, old enough to have turned brown but clear in their origin. Claw marks on the walls—not animal claws, something sharper. More deliberate.
"The previous attempts," Mira whispered. "The exorcists. The priests."
"They probably made it to the third floor before..." I didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
We stopped at the base of the stairs leading up. The temperature dropped sharply—ten degrees, maybe fifteen. Our breath misted in air that shouldn't have been this cold.
[DANGER SENSE: ELEVATED ALERT]
[Entity Status: Aware of intrusion]
[Threat Level: High (close proximity)]
"It knows we're here."
The shadows at the top of the stairs moved. Shifted. Coalesced into something almost human—a figure in merchant's clothes, face twisted in eternal drowning agony. Water dripped from clothing that should have been dust decades ago.
The wraith screamed.
The sound wasn't physical—it cut through thought itself, carrying images of cold water filling lungs, hands grasping uselessly at dock pilings, betrayal and murder and endless dying.
Mira's light globe flickered. Died. She gasped, clutching her head.
I grabbed her arm and pulled us both back, down the stairs, through the second floor, out the front door into fading sunlight.
We collapsed against the warehouse wall, breathing hard. The screaming faded as we crossed the threshold, leaving only ringing silence.
"That was—I couldn't—" Mira's hands were shaking. "The images. He was murdered. Someone held him under the water while he—"
"Don't focus on it. The wraith projects its death trauma as a weapon. It's not trying to communicate—it's trying to incapacitate."
"I wasn't ready. My light went out and I couldn't—"
"Now you know what to expect." I pulled her upright. "We retreat. Plan properly. Come back tonight with defenses against that scream."
She looked at the warehouse. At me. At the warehouse again.
"You're still going to do this."
"The building's perfect for headquarters. Good location, defensive structure, cheap price. The wraith is a problem, but problems have solutions."
"And if the solution kills us?"
"Then we'll haunt the warehouse together." I smiled, surprising myself. "Come on. Let's find something that blocks psychic attacks before full dark."
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