The duel arena, still ringing with Ilkka’s triumphant roar, felt suddenly quiet. Jaskari met Hilla Varis’s gaze across the packed stands. Her face, usually a mask of fierce ambition, was stripped bare. The disbelief, the grudging respect for Ilkka, all of it was secondary to the raw, dawning terror in her eyes as they bore into him. He didn’t flinch, though a winter draft seemed to seep through his collar. She knew. Not everything, perhaps, but enough to understand that the Sundered Six’s impossible luck wasn’t luck at all. She saw the strings, and she was looking at the puppet master. Then, as quickly as it came, her expression snapped shut, replaced by a glint of steel, sharp and dangerous. Jaskari simply nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible dip of his chin. The silent challenge was accepted. Later, as the townspeople dissolved into a cacophony of celebration, hoisting Ilkka onto their shoulders, Jaskari found himself pressed against the outer wall of the guildhall, watching the revelry with a practiced detachment. Roope, somehow, had managed to “acquire” a keg of sweet berry mead, and Päivi’s attempts to bless it had only resulted in it spontaneously fermenting into a potent, faintly glowing vinegar that still, to everyone’s surprise, tasted quite good. Ilkka, flushed with triumph and vinegar, looked years younger, his gentle smile wider than Jaskari had ever seen it. A familiar heat spread through his chest, like a mug of spiced tea on a cold day. Ukko-of-the-Second-Breath was pleased. The first step, indeed. But the sensation was quickly replaced by that sudden winter chill, a sharp reminder of the deadline. He closed his eyes for a moment, the cheering fading into a distant hum. The scent of woodsmoke and damp earth brought him back, not to Korpikyla, but to the Temple of the Silent Mother, a grey, echoing cavern where orphans like him were raised to serve a god who never answered. His earliest memories were of cold stone floors, threadbare tunics, and the gnawing hunger that was never quite satisfied. He was just another mouth to feed, another quiet shadow moving through the long, empty halls. His only comfort came from the small, broken things he’d find in the temple courtyard – a discarded doll, a chipped prayer bead, a bird, sometimes, that had flown too close to the bell tower and fallen. He’d bury them with a child’s solemn ritual, whispering apologies to whatever spirits might listen. One frigid afternoon, he’d found a songbird, its tiny body stiff, its bright feathers dulled by the frost. He’d cradled it, feeling a profound, aching sorrow for its lost melody. It was then he felt it for the first time. Not a voice, not a vision, but a presence. A hollow heat, like the last embers of a forgotten fire, stirred deep within him. It urged him, not with words, but with a feeling of profound empathy, to simply *try*. He placed his small, chapped hands over the bird, a desperate, childish prayer forming on his lips. And then, a tiny prickle like wool snapping against dried skin passed from his palms to the bird. Its tiny chest shuddered. A faint, almost imperceptible flutter. Its eyes, previously glazed, snapped open, wide and dark. The bird twitched, then hopped, then, with a confused chirp, launched itself into the winter sky. Jaskari had stared, utterly paralyzed, between terror and a wonder so immense it stole his breath. He had brought something back from the stillness. It was a secret he’d kept buried deeper than any grave, a terrifying, exhilarating power that had defined his lonely existence ever since. [Your chosen has taken the first decisive step towards fulfilling their covenant. Recognition score: +18. Current renown threshold: 12%] The system message, a familiar presence, jolted Jaskari back to the present. He still felt the faint echo of that long-ago miracle, the quiet heat and the dread mingling in his gut. He was no longer a terrified orphan, but a provisioner for the most spectacularly incompetent party in Suonia, bound by a god-debt to turn them into heroes or watch them vanish. And now Hilla knew. “Jaskari.” The voice was a low rumble, startling him. He turned to see Antero Koski, leaning on his gnarled staff, his usual doddering facade gone. His eyes, clear and ancient, held a gravity that belied his age. “A moment of your time, boy. In my office.” Jaskari nodded, excusing himself from the jubilant cluster of the Sundered Six. As he followed Antero through the creaking hallways, the sounds of celebration faded, replaced by the persistent creaks of the old guildhall. Antero’s office, usually a chaotic mess of forgotten paperwork and dusty maps, was strangely tidy. Two steaming cups of herb tea sat on the desk. The air smelled faintly of dried mint and old parchment. Antero settled into his rickety chair, gesturing to the other. “Sit, Jaskari. Not as Guildmaster to provisioner, but… as acolyte to acolyte.” Jaskari sat, a tremor of apprehension running through him. “Acolyte?” Antero took a slow sip of his tea. “Ukko-of-the-Second-Breath is a demanding deity, isn’t he? Always was. He chose me, once. A long, long time ago. A Reanimator, just like you.” He smiled faintly, a sad, knowing curve of his lips. “I tried to make my party heroes. Failed, spectacularly, as most do. But Ukko, ever the pragmatist, saw an opportunity. He offered me a bargain: prolonged life, extended duty, in exchange for finding his next champion. And guiding them, when the time came.” He tapped a finger against the Memory Shard Jaskari had covertly placed on his desk earlier that day. “The shard, it revealed much, didn’t it? My folly. My desperation. My hope for you.” Jaskari felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. “You… you orchestrated this? The Sundered Six? Me?” “In part,” Antero admitted, his gaze unwavering. “My time, you see, is ending. The debt must be settled. And Ukko… he is not truly gone, Jaskari. Not dead, like the other gods whose demise ripped open the Glimmering Depths across Suonia. Those dungeons, they are not natural caverns. They are wounds in reality, weeping the power of dead divinities. But Ukko, he is merely trapped. Entombed within the deepest level of the Korpikyla Glimmering Depths, deep beneath this very town.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate plea. “Making them heroes isn’t just about paying their debt. It’s about forging the only weapon that can free our god.”

A Favor for a Ghost