They say the will o’ wisp is no mere trick of the light, but a soul-hunter born of old grief and bog-bound bargains. It drifts between worlds, luring the lost with flickers of warmth, each flame a life claimed. Nell followed the eighth light into the mire, her name now spoken only in hush. But the wisp is still hungry. It seeks its ninth. And when the mist rises and the lanterns fail, you must not answer the glow—lest your name be next.