As Seraph ventured deeper into the mist-laden moor, another word began to reach her ears, whispered by the wind, woven into the sighs of the spirits she encountered. Every time she freed a soul, it came again: Galatea. The name was whispered by the Coursers who lingered in the ruins, sighed by human spirits caught in shadowy memories, and murmured even by the half-forgotten remnants of old magic. Galatea… Galatea… It was as if the very land breathed the word.

At first, Seraph dismissed it as another mystery of the moor. Spirits were prone to speak in half-truths, their minds adrift in memories, unable to fully distinguish past from present. But the more she listened, the more she realized it wasn’t just a name—it was a plea, a call, some kind of lost hope reverberating through time.

Intrigued, Seraph returned to the Harvester’s pumpkin patch, her coat streaked with mud and her eyes reflecting the weight of the encounters she had faced. She’d ventured far into the mist, gathering soul seeds and piecing together fragments of Galatea’s name from each spirit’s story. Every soul she released left her with more questions, yet no answers.

The Harvester looked up as she approached, his gaze soft yet unreadable.

“Harvester,” she began, her voice wavering as she spoke. “The spirits keep whispering about Galatea. They talk as if it was… everything to them. But they’re all lost, confused—and some of them are filled with such anger.” She met his gaze, pleading. “Please, if you know anything about it, I need to understand. They need to understand.”

The Harvester was silent for a long time, his expression carved in the shadows of his pumpkin face, and his scythe resting heavily beside him. Then, he lifted his gaze and gestured to the eastern edge of the moor. “There is a place where the fog runs thick, and the moor grows wild and unyielding,” he said, his voice distant. “You may find what you’re looking for there.”

“But… what about Galatea? What was it to the spirits?” Seraph pressed, her voice barely a whisper. “Why does it haunt them so deeply?”

The Harvester’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, something he would not share. “Some truths are best uncovered by those who seek them,” he murmured. “I cannot give you the answers you desire, Seraph.”

With that, he returned his gaze to the mist as if dismissing her, his form stilled and silent. Seraph’s heart sank. She had hoped that he would offer some clarity to the haunting fragments she’d gathered. But he had only pointed her back into the fog, to a place even darker and more mysterious.

She took a shaky breath, feeling a pang of frustration. Why would he withhold this? The moor had been growing more treacherous the closer she came to the tower; the spirits there seemed restless, not only lost but agitated, like beasts trapped in a cage.

Without another word, Seraph turned and headed toward the eastern moor. As she ventured farther, the mist thickened into a dense, swirling cloud, and the air grew colder. Shadows loomed in her periphery, and now, the spirits she encountered were not the quiet, mournful shades she had grown used to. These spirits moved erratically, flickering like unstable flames, their faces twisted with anger and despair. One lunged at her, its form a blurring mess of hollow eyes and outstretched limbs, whispering Galatea’s name with a venom that sent chills down her spine.

Seraph stumbled back, her heart racing. “I’m here to help!” she called out, though she wasn’t sure they would hear her. “I just want to understand…”

But the spirits barely acknowledged her words. They seemed less aware of themselves, caught in a vicious loop, their memories fractured and their anger unleashed. Another one snarled, its face twisted as it clawed at the air in her direction. Seraph dodged to the side, her heart pounding.

She felt helpless, the fragments of Galatea’s name like echoes she couldn’t grasp. She pushed on, feeling her resolve tested, her hope faltering. The whispers of Galatea had grown into cries of fury, and Seraph couldn’t shake the feeling that she was nearing something dangerous—a place where all the pain of the moor had settled and festered.

She stumbled forward, her breath quickening as the shadow of the tower loomed ahead. Yet, despite her fear, a deep sense of duty stirred within her. She had chosen this path, and every spirit she encountered called out for help. They deserved a final rest, even if it meant delving into a darkness that had ensnared them.

Seraph steeled herself, taking another step toward the tower’s foreboding shadow.

Seraph wandered through the rows of ancient books, her eyes scanning each faded spine with anticipation. Each title hinted at secrets too old to understand, yet tantalizingly close. She wanted to believe she was getting closer to understanding why Galatea haunted the spirits, why it stirred such conflicting emotions in them. Yet, every time she thought she was close, the truth seemed to slip further from her grasp.

The titles spoke of “The Bright Flame” and “The Lost Orders,” and one particularly mysterious tome bore the title Of the Eternal Light. But none of them held a clear answer. No names, no faces. Galatea wasn’t there in the form of any person or clear memory—only in fragments of ancient records, concepts layered in cryptic words and long-faded inscriptions. It was as if Galatea was not a person, nor a god, but something more nebulous. A force? An idea? The ambiguity gnawed at her, leaving her both frustrated and intrigued.

As she moved deeper into the library, the silence was occasionally broken by distant whispers. Sometimes, she could swear they were saying “Galatea” in tones that varied from reverence to fear. She tried to understand what that name—or word—might mean to them, but the spirits’ mutterings remained as elusive as ever, giving her nothing solid.

Why isn’t there any information on Galatea? she thought, her frustration mounting. She reached a weathered journal, its spine cracked and its pages fragile. She gently opened it, hoping to find something clearer. The writing was barely legible, but she managed to read one line:

"To seek Galatea is to seek light itself—a journey where one can only find as much as they bring with them."

The phrase lingered in her mind, stirring a feeling she couldn’t quite name. It sounded like a riddle, something that begged more questions than it answered. She let the journal close, a quiet determination settling over her.

At that moment, a loud banging on the library door jolted her from her thoughts. The spirits were growing restless, their movements frenzied. She backed away from the door, her mind racing. The more she searched, the less she felt she understood—and yet, that strange riddle lingered.

Maybe understanding Galatea wasn’t about a name or a history, she thought, clutching the mystery close as she turned to find her way out of the library. Maybe it was about something far more subtle, something I’ll need to uncover step by step.

Seraph carefully wrapped the fragile journal in a cloth and tucked it into her pack, her heart pounding as she moved quickly yet gingerly, knowing that the ancient book might hold clues she hadn’t yet discovered. With the book safely stored, she cast one last glance around the library, her eyes lingering on the dust-coated shelves. She felt as though she was leaving behind something important, but she couldn’t stay here with the spirits growing more hostile by the moment.

Moving to the back of the room, she noticed a narrow, low doorway partially concealed by shadows. As she stepped through, she found herself in a dim corridor that wound its way along the outer walls of the tower. It was just wide enough for her to navigate, and it felt oddly detached from the rest of the place—a hidden pathway likely meant for servants long ago. She hurried along, her hooves muffled by layers of dust and old stone, her breath catching each time she heard the distant, furious wails of the spirits echoing through the tower.

Finally, the corridor led her to a small exit, half-concealed by ivy and stone debris. She slipped out, breathing in the open air, the moor stretching out before her in a pale, mist-laden haze. Seraph glanced back at the tower looming behind her, shadows draped across its old, imposing walls. The aggressive spirits she had passed on her way up seemed to have calmed, but she felt their restless presence all around her, still murmuring about Galatea even from a distance.

Keeping her eyes forward, Seraph trotted quickly to her temporary camp on the edge of the moor. She had set it up far enough from the tower that she could gather her thoughts without feeling watched. Once there, she exhaled a deep breath, grounding herself in the familiar sight of her small campfire and the distant horizon beyond the mist. She lowered herself to her haunches, feeling the night settle around her, quiet and still.

Reaching into her pack, she unwrapped the journal and placed it gently on a flat stone beside her. In the flickering light of her campfire, she examined the cover, running her hoof over the worn leather, contemplating what she had read. The mystery of Galatea lingered like the mist, neither a person nor a god, but something more enigmatic—something that held power over the spirits in a way that Seraph had yet to understand.

But despite the daunting questions, Seraph felt a quiet resolve take root. Whatever this journey held, she knew she couldn’t turn back. She had helped many spirits so far and wanted to keep going, no matter how shrouded in riddles her path became.

As Seraph settled by the fire, her serpent companion uncoiled from a small hollow near her supplies, where it had been waiting for her return. The sleek, emerald-green snake slithered gracefully up to her, gliding along her foreleg before curling itself around her neck, its scales cool against her fur. The snake settled comfortably, draping itself like a living necklace, its body resting just below her chin. Gently, it lowered its head onto her forehead, as if sensing her unease and offering silent comfort.

Seraph sighed, soothed by the familiar weight of her companion. She closed her eyes briefly, leaning into the quiet connection between them. She felt the warmth of the campfire and the steady rhythm of her serpent’s breathing, a calm presence amidst the mysteries weighing on her mind. The serpent’s subtle pressure seemed to ease her tension, reminding her that she wasn’t entirely alone in her search.