Mirren had tended the Briar for nine winters. She knew which graves to leave alone. The whole forest had grown over an old war, with bone under the roots and rust under the moss. That morning the thorns wept sap the color of a bruise. Under a hawthorn she found a grey hand pushing up through the dirt. It twitched, then grabbed at the air, reaching for her.

Mirren caught the cold wrist and hauled. A man came up out of the dirt, gasping, his eyes blind and white. "The bell," he rasped. "Someone rang the bell. The army is waking up." He clutched her sleeve. "You have to stop it before nightfall, or they all rise."

Mirren had heard enough ghost-talk to be careful. "Why should I trust you?" she asked. The man wheezed out a laugh. "Because I was the warden before you, girl. I buried that bell myself. And I felt you walk over my grave every single day." Her blood went cold. She knew his name from the chapel records: Aldous.

"Tell me how to stop it," Mirren said. Aldous gripped her hand. "The bell calls the dead. To silence it, you must give it a name — the name of the man who started the war. It's carved on a stone under the hawthorn root, right where you found me. Dig there. But say it wrong and the whole army marches."