Keeper of Darkness and The Mysteries's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The stag scraped its hoof and swung its head. The Keeper backed against the roof's edge. He had no weapon. He had only the glasses, the count he could not finish, and the wind pulling at his bathrobe. Then the stag stopped. Its burning eye slid past him, down to something below. The Keeper followed its gaze. In a clear patch among the rubble stood a small tree. Its branches held glowing lotus fruit, warm and bright. The stag's nose twitched. It forgot him. It turned, dropped through the roof hatch, and thumped down the stairs. The Keeper's chest unlocked. He gripped the ledge and breathed. He watched the stag cross the ground below. It reached the tree and tore at the fruit. The glowing lotus vanished into its jaws one by one. Then it lifted its head, chewed, and wandered off between the ruins. Its orange ribs faded into the gray. The Keeper did not waste the gap. He raised the glasses and found the trails again. They spread across the ruin, clear and separate. He counted. He followed each one from start to end and spoke the number under his breath. His finger moved as if ticking off a list. When he finished, he pulled a small logbook from his robe and wrote the count down. Ink on paper. Proof the job was done. His stomach growled. He had been crouched and climbing since before dawn. Below the pancake house, near the front steps, a weathered picnic table waited in the open. He climbed down. At the table sat a figure he had not seen from the roof. Pale skin. Green military fatigues, torn through. A heavy pack still strapped to its back. A ghoul. Its eyes glowed faint green, but it did not lunge. It sat upright, hands flat on the scratched wood, calm as a man waiting for a meal. The Keeper stopped. The ghoul tilted its head toward the empty bench across from it. "You count them too," the ghoul said. Its voice was dry but steady. "I watched you up there. Finger going like a clerk." The Keeper said nothing. His hand found the logbook through his robe. "That deer eats the light tree every few days," the ghoul went on. "Then the trails change. The souls find new paths." It tapped the table. "Your count's already wrong." The Keeper's throat tightened. He looked back toward the ruins. The trails he had just written down had shifted. New lines crossed where none had been. The stag had not just blocked him. By eating the tree, it had bent the whole field. He sat down across from the ghoul. He had his number, and it was already useless. The job was not to count once. It was to count a thing that would not hold still.