《Book Of The Dead》


 B3 Prelude

    Willhem stuttered awake, his dream overlapping reality for a dizzying moment until the pounding anvil resolved itself into a knocking on his door. A quick glance at his shutters revealed a distinct lack of light flowing through the cracks.


    What time was it?


    Muttering to himself, he threw back the sheets and forced his feet into his slippers before he stood, fetching his robe from the stand beside the bed and tying it around his waist.


    ¡°This had better be good,¡± he warned in his thin, crotchety voice as he shuffled to the door, drawing it open to reveal a nervous, sweating servant.


    ¡°I¡¯m very sorry to disturb your rest, Master Willhem, and, of course, I wouldn¡¯t unless the matter needed your direct attention -¡±


    ¡°Spit it out, man,¡± the Arcanist demanded and the servant cringed back from him.


    ¡°Th-there was a light spotted in the upstairs work area. A man was apprehended, but¡­¡±


    ¡°But what? Clap him in chains, knock his teeth out and throw him to the Marshals. I¡¯ll take an inventory in the morning.¡±


    He moved to close the door, but the servant interrupted before he moved it more than a few inches.


    ¡°It¡¯s one of the apprentices, sir! One of the new ones¡­ I thought you would want to see them for yourself before they were¡­ taken away.¡±


    ¡°An apprentice?¡± Willhem muttered.


    He had taken on two new students not three days prior. They¡¯d moved into the dorm two days ago and started lessons and bitwork just that morning. And one of them had the gall to try and steal from him already? Appalling! Not to mention the scandal it would cause, and the damage to his reputation¡­. It may be better if this wayward ¡®prentice vanished quietly rather than call the authorities.


    ¡°Step back, you brat,¡± Willhem snapped and the servant took a hasty step back from the door, allowing the old master to swing it shut.


    A few minutes later, he emerged once more, looking regal(ish) in his somewhat rumpled Arcanist¡¯s robes and a little dishevelled, his hair not properly combed nor his beard fully groomed. Nevertheless, thunder sparked in his eyes, and as the servant fell in on the master''s heels, he thanked the heavens some other poor bastard in Kenmor would receive the old man''s wrath.


    When he arrived at the workshop, Willhem¡¯s temper had only worsened. The cold night air had chilled him to the bone, even through his robes, and his damned knees ached something fierce. When he saw this thief, he may just bash his head in with his Arcanist pliance and be done with it!


    He stomped through the ground floor, where his senior apprentices worked, and made his way upstairs to find a small crowd gathered around one of the cramped and basic stations the juniors used. He recognised two of the men, guards he¡¯d hired to protect his property, and who were about to be fired.


    Another face he knew far better.


    ¡°Mrs Crottan,¡± he snapped, ¡°what in the name of the divines is going on here?¡±


    In the centre of the three figures sat a slight, sandy-blond haired young man hunched over the table scraping at a core using his pliance.


    ¡°Master Willhem,¡± the stout old woman gasped when she saw him walk in, as if he were a ghost. ¡°What are you doing here so late at night?¡±


    He boggled at her.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to discipline this thieving apprentice and have him fed to the crabs!¡± he barked, jabbing a gnarled accusatory finger at the young man, who continued his work, not bothering to look up.


    The dorm mistress stared back.


    ¡°What thief? Lukas here? He isn¡¯t stealing, he¡¯s trying to work! I told him to wait until morning, but he refused to listen. Spooked the guards something fierce. They spotted the light in the upstairs window and jumped to conclusions, came to get me when they realised it wasn¡¯t no thief. When he wouldn¡¯t go back to bed, I told young Jeremy to get your word, since Lukas said he¡¯d stop working if you said so. Didn¡¯t expect you to show up looking like my grandfather''s ghost! Near scared me half to death.¡±


    Willhem blinked through the nattering. Jeremy had been the young servant? And he hadn¡¯t needed to trek here in the cold?


    That boy is fired! the Arcanist thought viciously.


    ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing, boy, causing all this fuss?¡± he finally snapped at Lukas.


    Beneath his fierce, bushy eyebrows, the old master could muster quite the glare when he wanted to, and he unleashed the full fury of those brows now.


    Cool as a winter cabbage, young Lukas turned to his master and held out the core he¡¯d been working on.


    ¡°You wanted it like this, didn¡¯t you, Master Willhem?¡±


    After nearly four decades in the enchanting trade, Willhem found his eyes irresistibly drawn to the core, taking in every detail of the lad''s work at a glance.


    ¡°Your Fah rune is misshapen,¡± he snapped.


    Lukas took the core back and placed it under the glass once more, magnifying it in his eyes.


    ¡°Fuck,¡± the young man cursed, causing Mrs Crottan to gasp.


    A few scrapes and the apprentice turned and handed it back to Willhem, who again assessed it almost against his will.


    ¡°Better,¡± he begrudgingly admitted.


    Lukas nodded, then placed the core to one side in a waiting receptacle, before he opened a drawer to his left and withdrew a new, unmarked one. Without hesitating, he held it beneath the glass and began to scrape away with his pliance.


    ¡°What are you doing, boy?¡± Willhem screeched, coming back to his senses.


    ¡°Working.¡±


    Scrape, scrape, scrape.


    This lad has a steady pair of hands, Willhem noticed, then shook himself.


    ¡°Why in the blazes are you working now?¡±


    ¡°Nobody told me I wasn¡¯t allowed to,¡± Lukas replied matter-of-factly. ¡°I work better at night and I don¡¯t tend to sleep much. Being apprenticed to a renowned and successful Arcanist such as you, Master Willhem, I thought it would be foolish to waste any time. You asked Hunt and I to finish a hundred of these light enchantments before we reported back to you. I¡¯d hoped to finish them tomorrow.¡±


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    Scrape, scrape, scrape.


    ¡°Tomorrow?¡± Willhem stared. He looked down at the workstation and saw there were already four cores sitting in the receptacle, carefully nestled in their cups, protected from chipping or scratching. ¡°Let me see those.¡±


    Lukas immediately put down what he was working on before he passed the three uninspected cores to his master.


    ¡°I suspect the Fah rune will be off on each of them,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯d intended to fix them after having another clean attempt.¡±


    The boy was right, each of them lacked the proper curl at the end of the rune. They¡¯d work, but the error would reduce the efficacy of the enchantment by five to ten percent.


    Willhem blinked.


    He¡¯d taught this apprentice how to do this enchantment that afternoon. A basic bit of busywork for new students to chew on, get used to the equipment, the routine of the place, and generally settle in. Something else the young man had said finally registered with him.


    ¡°I¡­ also used to prefer working at night.¡±


    Such a long time ago, but he could remember those days. As an apprentice, and then after he¡¯d been promoted and started his own shop, he would work through the night multiple times a week, scraping away at cores, honing his craft and preparing items for sale. When everything was quiet and still, it had been so much easier to focus.


    ¡°Night Owl,¡± Lukas said, a slight smile on his face, and Willhem nodded.


    ¡°Night Owl,¡± he echoed.


    A very underrated feat.


    He turned to the guards.


    ¡°In the future, apprentice Lukas will inform you before he begins work. Is that clear?¡± He raised his voice at the end, to get the boy¡¯s attention.


    ¡°It is, sir. I apologise for the trouble, Master Willhem. I didn¡¯t realise I¡¯d broken any rules.¡±


    The Arcanist nodded before he spoke to the dorm mistress. ¡°Mrs Crottan, please inform Jeremy he is fired the next time you see him. Insist that young Lukas gets at least three full nights'' sleep each week, or he will answer to me, otherwise, let him work.¡±


    ¡°I will, sir, not to worry.¡±


    With that, he left the workshop, the lad still scraping away, head down, face to the glass as he went.


    For whatever reason, Master Willhem didn¡¯t mind so much as he braced himself against the cold for the return journey, and he didn¡¯t notice the slight bounce in his step as he alighted the stairs and returned to his room.


    ¡°Night Owl,¡± he chuckled to himself as he wormed his thin frame back under the blankets.


    That boy is going places.


    ~~~~


    ¡°Are you sure you aren¡¯t an Arcanist by Class?¡±


    ¡°Vic, how many times do I have to say it? I¡¯m not an Arcanist. If you bribe the staff, you can probably get a look at my status when I signed up. Curse Mage is my main Class and I picked Enchanter as a secondary.¡±


    The young man who leaned over Lukas¡¯ table shook his head, his eyes pinched shut in mock pain.


    ¡°Then how are you so good? Every time Master Willhem walks past your bench, he leaves with a turgid pliance. I swear by the goddess!¡±


    Lukas had raised his brows slightly at his fellow apprentice¡¯s words, but he didn¡¯t take his eyes away from the glass and the core he was working on beneath it.


    ¡°I¡¯m just glad I don¡¯t have to work on lights and pocket warmers anymore, and we get a little time for our own projects,¡± Lukas muttered as he continued to scrape runes into the small gem.


    Vic squinted as he leaned closer, inspecting the work.


    ¡°What in the realm are you working on here? I don¡¯t even recognise some of these runes.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± Lukas said.


    The other apprentice drew himself up.


    ¡°I¡¯m your senior apprentice by six months, remember,¡± he puffed himself up, a self mocking smile on his face, ¡°so be a dear and explain to your senior what you¡¯re doing so when the Master walks by in a few minutes, I don¡¯t make a fool of myself.¡±


    Lukas rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    He leaned back and brought the core closer to the glass, enlarging the image so they could examine the runes more easily.


    ¡°I suppose you can think of this as a¡­ Repository. It will draw in magick, hold it, then make it available to another spell or enchantment. It¡¯s intended to act as a¡­ power reservoir of sorts.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that just a Power core? We have those already.¡±


    The younger apprentice shrugged his shoulders.


    ¡°We do, and I¡¯m not likely to improve on a thousands of years old design. This is something different. I don¡¯t intend this to be a reserve source of magick for mages to draw on, but to provide energy to already active spells.¡±


    ¡°Like a summon or golem?¡±


    ¡°Exactly like that,¡± Lukas smiled. ¡°I want them to be modular as well, so I can network them together if needed.¡±


    Victor rubbed his chin as he examined the runic script carved ever so finely into the surface of the core.


    ¡°I may not know exactly what¡¯s going on here,¡± he pointed, ¡°but isn¡¯t this going to be pretty ineffective? You¡¯ll get a tiny trickle of power out of the thing, at best.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the challenge. I don¡¯t want this design to require large and expensive cores. Instead, I want to maximise the effect I can get from smaller ones. Efficiency is the key.¡±


    ¡°Well said, lad,¡± Master Willhem harrumphed as he wandered down the line of worktables.


    After being promoted from the upstairs area the previous week, Lukas had been making himself at home amongst the more experienced apprentices working under the Master. It had taken him six months of diligent effort, but that was half the time it normally took to earn promotion from the demanding owner of Willhem¡¯s Arcanist Emporium.


    ¡°There¡¯s no appreciation for good, tight script these days. Need more power? Get a bigger core! Pshah!¡±


    The old man nearly spat on his own workshop floor in disgust.


    ¡°In my day, we¡¯d be beaten with a stick if we couldn¡¯t squeeze every ounce of power from a core. And conduit magick as well! Linking weaker cores is a much cheaper solution than purchasing larger ones, but it¡¯s harder. Half of the workers on this floor still have conduits leakier than a drunk roofer¡¯s shingles!¡±


    A few of the others rolled their shoulders uncomfortably as they continued to work at their benches.


    ¡°Lukas is working on a runic repository,¡± Victor said sagely, ¡°trying to power active spellforms. We were just discussing the efficiency issue, Master Willhem.¡±


    ¡°A repository?¡± muttered the old man as he shuffled closer and peered into the glass. A frown creased his features almost immediately as he muttered to himself.


    ¡°These are some odd choices, young man. Where did you find these runes?¡±


    ¡°In the apprentice library, Master Willhem,¡± Lukas replied promptly. ¡°I spent many hours examining the texts and found this combination in ¡®Magick storage and transference¡¯ by Baksin.¡±


    ¡°Baksin? That lunatic? Still, it will work. It¡¯s just¡­.¡±


    The old man waggled his thick brows.


    ¡°I try not to give too much advice to my apprentices when it comes to their own projects. Especially the good ones. You¡¯ll have to puzzle through on your own.¡±


    He nodded sagely before he leaned down and patted Lukas on the shoulder.


    ¡°Consider the configuration of runes,¡± he whispered, before he glanced around the room to see if anyone caught the move and then shuffled off, snapping at another apprentice.


    Victor shook his head.


    ¡°Look at how much he favours you,¡± he sighed, ¡°and turn, look at him walk. See that hunched posture? He¡¯s stiff as a board.¡±


    ¡°I think he¡¯s just old,¡± Lukas remarked, ¡°and doesn¡¯t giving the advice just mean he thinks I¡¯m bad?¡±


    Regardless, it had been a hint, and the young Enchanter considered the arrangement of runes on the core for a moment before he sighed.


    He¡¯d have to experiment through trial and error to find the correct configuration, which would take time, and more importantly, use up the few cores he was given to work on his own projects¡­.


    ¡°There¡¯s no money in it, you know,¡± Vic remarked looking down on the core once more.


    Lukas frowned.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°What Willhem was talking about. There¡¯s a reason all of us are poor at working with small cores and efficient conduits, and it¡¯s because that sort of work doesn¡¯t make much money. There are many two-bit Arcanists out there who fumble about with the little stuff. You think Willhem got rich selling trinkets like that? No. It¡¯s the showstoppers, the high-end work that really pays. Everyone in here is aiming for that market.¡±


    The more junior ¡®prentice just shrugged his shoulders, an indifferent look on his face.


    ¡°Not me,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve got something else entirely in mind.¡±

 B3 Prelude (cont)

    ¡°Are you sure about this, Lukas? Don¡¯t you think Willhem¡¯s favoured apprentice should be looking somewhere a little more¡­ upmarket?¡±


    Victor¡¯s voice dripped with derision and he looked at the people who crammed the busy streets around them with open contempt. Lukas rolled his eyes. In some ways, he understood the attitude; Victor had been born rich and had barely set a foot outside the walls of Kenmor his entire life.


    That wall loomed behind them now, a massive, towering edifice that blocked out the morning sun, an effect which gave the community that had built itself up outside the western wall its name.


    Shadetown.


    Fifty metres high and twenty metres thick, the wall of Kenmor was designed to resist assault by the most powerful rift-kin out there. The sheer mass of it weighed down on Lukas whenever he stood nearby, a crushing presence that divided those able to afford a place within its boundary from those who could not.


    Of Kenmor¡¯s six million citizens, almost half of them lived outside the city itself.


    ¡°I¡¯ve told you a thousand times what I¡¯m looking for and you still won¡¯t listen,¡± Lukas sighed. ¡°I can¡¯t tell if you¡¯re deaf or thick at this point.¡±


    ¡°Hey. A lesser man would be offended by a comment like that.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps you should be.¡±


    The two men stuck close to each other as they made their way through the crowds. Unplanned and haphazard in its design, Shadetown was a nightmare to navigate if you didn¡¯t know where you were going.


    ¡°Stick close to me and keep a hand on your purse at all times,¡± Lukas warned his friend again. Victor nodded irritably.


    ¡°Surrounded by thieves and ne''er do wells,¡± he scowled. ¡°In the name of the Five, I can¡¯t understand why you like it out here so much.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a little more¡­ comfortable for me, I guess you could say. I understand these people. When survival isn¡¯t guaranteed, when you have to fight for it, desperation will make people do questionable things. Look at you, for example. Have you ever been desperate in your entire life, Victor?¡±


    The older apprentice stroked his chin for a moment.


    ¡°There was a time Lady Shan was throwing a garden party. I was besotted at the time, I would have done anything to get an invite.¡±


    Lukas snorted.


    ¡°Your example goes quite a ways to making my point for me. At any rate, as long as you know where to go, there are areas of Shadetown that are as safe as can be. You just have to know where.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how you learned any of this. All I¡¯ve ever seen you do is work and sleep. In three years, I don¡¯t think I managed to get you out for drinks once.¡±


    ¡°If you went out for drinks less and worked a little more, then perhaps you might be close to finishing your apprenticeship too.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m on schedule, thank you very much. It¡¯s meant to be a six year apprenticeship, remember?¡±


    ¡°I took that as more of a suggestion¡­.¡±


    Victor shook his head, then bumped into a passerby and his hands immediately flew to his purse. He sighed with relief when he found it still in place.


    ¡°I keep telling you, this is a mistake. Willhem favours you, if you stuck around, you¡¯d have a chance to inherit his entire business! How many years does the old goat have left? Four? Five? Why strike out on your own?¡±


    ¡°You keep repeating the same shit. This is what I¡¯m doing, Victor. If you want to tag along, then stop trying to argue for something I¡¯ve explicitly told you I won¡¯t do.¡±


    Victor felt a chill as Lukas turned a cold glare on him. There were times the mild mannered, work obsessed apprentice acted like an entirely different person. One learned that there were red lines with Lukas if you were around him long enough.


    He raised his hands.


    ¡°Okay, okay. I¡¯ll keep my mouth shut. I just didn¡¯t want you to regret your decision.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± came the short reply and the two men moved through the crowd in silence.


    Eventually, they came to a small market square, teeming with stalls and sellers hawking their goods, along with a flurry of foot traffic.


    ¡°This looks like a good spot,¡± Victor observed, ¡°cleaner than what I¡¯ve seen so far.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve just got to know the right places,¡± Lukas nodded, ¡°but this is a little too noisy. The place I want to look at is back there.¡±


    He pointed to a sidestreet and the two made their way over. Lukas walked with confidence as he approached a sweaty, nervous-looking man in fine robes.


    ¡°Mr Finley, nice to see you again,¡± he said, extending a hand.


    ¡°Ah, Mr Almsfield. How are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m well. This is the building?¡±


    ¡°It is. Might need a little work, but its frame is sturdy and the location is among the finest in Shadetown.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious¡­¡± Victor muttered.


    The building in question couldn¡¯t quite be described as dilapidated, but it came close. Rotted panels of wood, broken windows, cracked timbers, crumbled masonry. Clearly, it had seen better days.


    For all that, there was a certain majesty to it. Two storeys high, a wide frontage and the remnants of an ornate, arched doorway gave the structure an element of gravitas.


    ¡°It¡¯s as I told you at the office,¡± Finley said, ¡°the building was once a fine edifice, and the bones of the place are sound. We can step inside if you like.¡±


    ¡°I would love to,¡± Lukas said, his eyes gleaming.


    Victor looked as if he would very much like to object, but he sighed and fetched a scented cloth from his pocket. Covering his face, he braced himself and followed the others through the door.


    Dark and musty, the interior didn¡¯t do much to dissuade Victor of the poor nature of the building, but Lukas flicked his wrist, sending several glowing globes of light around the space to illuminate it. He then held out a palm and conjured a larger ball to take along with him.


    The light revealed what had once been an office space, with several desks, a reception area and attached offices.


    ¡°This used to be an administration building for the area,¡± he told Victor conversationally. ¡°Since this was a bit of a prosperous neighbourhood, they put together their own town hall of sorts and ran their own council out of here. Quite a bit of history in this building.¡±


    His fellow apprentice looked a little green, but nodded politely, as if he was listening.


    ¡°Yes, quite. The people are quite proud of this place. The Market Council House, it was called,¡± Finley enthused, one hand brushing at his robes compulsively.


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure,¡± Lukas remarked, ¡°which is why it''s been in disrepair for almost two decades. All that pride.¡±


    He leaned closer to Victor, but didn¡¯t lower his voice at all.


    ¡°The council was raided by the city guard for tax evasion. Half of them were thrown in prison, the other half executed. Nobody wanted to touch the place for a long time, and after that, nobody wanted to invest the kind of capital required to fix the place up. Too expensive for a building in Shadetown.¡±


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    ¡°Ah¡­ yes¡­ quite,¡± Finley stuttered, a thin smile plastered to his face.


    ¡°I want to see the upstairs,¡± Lukas said and quickly jogged up the creaking staircase.


    Victor and Mr Finley remained where they were. Lukas rejoined them a moment later.


    ¡°Looks good. I¡¯ll need to renovate it, but it would make a spacious living quarters and workshop up there.¡±


    He looked around.


    ¡°There¡¯s supposed to be a basement level as well, isn¡¯t there? I don¡¯t see the entrance.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Finley started. ¡°Yes, there is, actually. The entrance is a little out of the way. I¡¯m surprised you knew about it¡­.¡±


    Lukas gave him a broad smile.


    ¡°I read extensively about this property in preparation for today. As I understand it, Market Square was the first place in Shadetown to have a sewer system constructed. Records indicated that the workers operated out of this very building, so I assumed¡­.¡±


    ¡°Well, you assumed correctly,¡± Finley said. ¡°It¡¯s this way.¡±


    He led them into one of the back rooms before indicating a heavy wooden panel built into the floor.


    ¡°You gentlemen are a little younger than I am. If I could trouble you?¡±


    ¡°Come on, Vic.¡±


    ¡°I am not going down there,¡± Victor warned.


    ¡°You toddler.¡±


    The two enchanters managed to lift the panel, revealing the stairs that descended down into darkness.


    ¡°Mr Finley?¡± Lukas invited.


    ¡°Oh, I, ah¡­ will decline.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself.¡±


    In a flash, the young man vanished down the stairs, leaving the other two awkwardly avoiding glancing at each other for ten minutes. Just when Victor thought the silence couldn¡¯t be any more unbearable, his friend emerged once more, covered in dust and what looked like webs.


    ¡°It¡¯s a mess down there,¡± Lukas coughed, brushing at himself. ¡°I¡¯m surprised how much space there is, though.¡±


    ¡°Enough room for a wine cellar?¡± Victor asked.


    ¡°You could fit four wine cellars down there, easily.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure if I believe you. How much do you know about wine?¡±


    ¡°Not much. Regardless, I¡¯ll most likely use it for storage. Perhaps as a cold room.¡±


    Mr Finley fought to keep a smile from his face at his client¡¯s words. He¡¯d been trying to sell this place for almost eight years after picking it up for a pittance.


    ¡°I hope the building is to your satisfaction?¡± he said in his best ingratiating tone. ¡°With so much space, three floors, effectively, and in such a prime location, this is a wonderful opportunity to purchase a true hidden gem.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll spend just as much on repairs as I will to purchase the building¡­ probably more,¡± Lukas stated, his eyes growing cold. Then he smiled. ¡°But I am interested. I¡¯ll have my agent get in touch with you to negotiate a price, Mr Finley. I must ask you to accommodate her unusual habits, though. She is seldom awake during the day.¡±


    To sell this damn place, I¡¯ll walk through hot coals at midnight, the merchant thought fervently.


    He smiled politely.


    ¡°I look forward to the pleasure.¡±


    That got a slow grin out of Lukas.


    ¡°So does she,¡± he assured the man.


    ~~~


    Filetta stalked down the passageway, keeping her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. She understood it was sometimes necessary, in her line of work, to frequent the sewer, but that didn¡¯t mean she liked it.


    The dank tunnels offered many advantages, of course. There were no pesky patrols to worry about, no marshals, no slayers, no magisters, no nobles with their private armies. Other than the maintenance teams, who were pathetically easy to bribe and intimidate, almost nobody came down here at all.


    Perfect for those who wanted to keep their business private. And Filetta very much wanted to keep her business private. Especially tonight.


    Someone grunted behind her and she turned, a brow arched.


    ¡°Are you trying to be heard, you fucking cretins?¡± she drawled in a low tone.


    ¡°One of these things is hard to carry, let alone two,¡± someone complained, ". Probably Gavil.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care if you¡¯re bleeding your motherless guts out onto the ground, you don¡¯t make a sound. All of you got it?¡±


    Despite the darkness, her Feat enhanced vision allowed her to see each of the ten men nod, and she turned back to lead the way.


    Fucking morons. Why are ninety-nine percent of all criminals so stupid? She lamented.


    It was true that almost half a metre of stone separated the sewer tunnel they were in from the road above, but at regular intervals, one could find gutter drains and street entrances that carried sound remarkably well. She absolutely didn¡¯t trust these lackeys to recognise when they were likely to be heard and when they weren¡¯t.


    Just to emphasise her point, she slipped a blade from her belt and began to twirl it through her fingers, allowing the slivers of light from above to play across the metal.


    Even the thugs weren¡¯t so stupid they didn¡¯t understand her message.


    If only it didn¡¯t smell so badly¡­.


    The place was well constructed, with a narrow path along one wall to allow passage without having to step in the shit, but the stink was something else.


    Thank heavens for nose plugs.


    A requirement to operate in the business, in her opinion. Eventually, the group came to a junction that featured a wide, flat grating over the canals that ran beneath. Filetta gestured to her men to remain behind as she stepped forward.


    A hooded figure emerged from across the junction.


    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± they said.


    Filetta raised a finger and waggled it back and forth.


    ¡°Tsk, tsk, tsk. No hoods, not in this game.¡±


    After a moment of hesitation, the person opposite lifted their hands and pushed back the heavy cloth covering their head. A youngish man, with narrow features and sharp eyes was revealed, his raven black hair hanging shoulder length.


    ¡°What¡¯s the point of revealing my features? There are a thousand ways to fake one¡¯s face.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Do you think this is what I really look like?¡± Filetta smirked. ¡°But it¡¯s courtesy that we conduct our business eye to eye, so to speak.¡±


    She gestured for the man to approach and they moved a few steps closer, until only two metres separated them. She looked him up and down, not bothering to conceal her interest.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t exactly hard on the eyes, are you? There¡¯s a certain air of danger about you. I can practically smell it.¡±


    The man shuffled his feet a little uncomfortably and her grin widened.


    ¡°You¡¯re Elten?¡± she said.


    He nodded.


    ¡°Filetta?¡±


    ¡°The very same.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nice to make your acquaintance.¡±


    She laughed a full throated laugh.


    ¡°Manners? In my line of work, I don¡¯t often get such a polite address. Fuck, I¡¯d kill for a ¡®hello¡¯ most days.¡±


    Elten shrugged.


    ¡°It never hurts to be polite. Though, now I fear I must be a little rude and ask that our transaction be completed quickly. Do you have what I asked for?¡±


    Filetta snapped her fingers and her ten men came forward, each carrying a cumbersome burden wrapped in tight linen cloth. Elten eyed them warily, but didn¡¯t appear afraid in the slightest, which she found interesting.


    Her men laid the ¡®goods¡¯ down on the grating before they stepped back into the shadows.


    ¡°It¡¯s surprisingly difficult to get these,¡± Filetta nudged the closest with one booted foot. ¡°Far more so than I expected. Making sure nobody notices them missing is the trick.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a service you¡¯re being well paid for.¡±


    ¡°Very true. Speaking of which¡­¡±


    Elten removed a heavy pouch from one sleeve and lofted it toward her.


    Filetta snagged it from the air with casual ease.


    ¡°I hope you don¡¯t mind,¡± she said, before she unwound the knot and inspected the contents.


    Gleaming gold caught her eye.


    ¡°Fan-fucking-tastic,¡± she breathed.


    With practised motions, she tied a quick knot and, in a blink, the purse was gone. She glanced down.


    ¡°How are you¡­?¡± she trailed off.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take care of them after you leave.¡±


    For the first time during their interaction, Filetta hesitated.


    ¡°Obviously, you aren¡¯t likely to answer, but I have to ask. What do you want with all these corpses?¡±


    Elten shot her a look as if she were stupid.


    ¡°I figured,¡± she sighed.


    ¡°Next time, I hope you¡¯ll be a little more prompt. I don¡¯t much appreciate being made to wait down here.¡±


    ¡°Next time?¡±


    The robed man folded his arms impatiently.


    ¡°Yes, that was the terms I negotiated. I need this many,¡± he pointed down, ¡°every month.¡±


    She stared at him.


    ¡°You are one sick puppy.¡±


    ¡°Okay?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong, I think I like it.¡±


    ¡°Okay?¡±


    After a moment, Elten shook himself and folded his arms.


    ¡°Well, I hope we can enjoy friendly relations from this point on.¡±


    Filetta tapped her chin with one finger as she eyed him frankly.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I want to be friends,¡± she grinned.


    Elten blinked. Then he went to speak, but closed his mouth. He blinked again.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you next month,¡± he said finally.


    ~~~~


    Tyron let out a breath and felt as if years¡¯ worth of stress melted off him at once. He¡¯d had to wait so long.


    On stone slabs around the basement, twenty corpses lay in various states of decay, awaiting his ministrations.


    Time to get back to work.

 B3C1 - Careful Faces

    Against the jostling crowd, Tyron stood firm as he gazed upward, a pocket of stillness amidst the flowing current of people. He ignored them, and they ignored him, which was often the way of it in Kenmor, he¡¯d come to learn.


    Towering thirty metres tall in front of him, the faces of his mother and father looked down, stern yet kind. He had to give it to the sculptors the Baron had commissioned from the central province, they¡¯d done well to capture the likeness of the famous pair.


    Even going so far as to rename Kenmor square, the beating heart of the city, in tribute to the fallen, beloved heroes.


    Such a tragic story. Taking their own lives after ending the shame of their murderous son, sacrificing themselves to remove the stain on their good name.


    The sheer arrogance of it twisted in his guts like poison. He wanted to scream in rage, to lash out at the misty eyed passers by, gazing up at the mighty statues with wistful expressions. He wanted to kick and punch and stab until the city itself was reduced to a crumbling ruin.


    But he did none of those things.


    A slight smile curled the corner of his lips as he turned away. Letting out his anger wouldn¡¯t bring this city down, so he sealed it away.


    Just wait, Kenmor. I have so many things in mind for you.


    _____


    The bell rang overhead as Tyron stepped through the door and into his shop.


    ¡°Master Almsfield, welcome,¡± beamed Cerry from behind the counter.


    He gave her a short nod. ¡°Ms Tiln, how is the store this morning?¡±


    The brown haired girl gave him a vigorous thumbs up.


    ¡°Everything¡¯s flawless. Business is booming, as always! Rather, I¡¯m shocked at how many people have been coming through lately.¡±


    Tyron grunted.


    A recommendation from the most well known Enchanter in the city will do that. Master Willhem was quite glowing in his praise.


    ¡°How¡¯s our stock?¡±


    ¡°We are starting to run a little low on a few items. The water purification wheel has been a hit.¡±


    ¡°I want to see a full inventory at the end of the day. I¡¯ll see if I can replenish our wares overnight. Where¡¯s Flynn?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s upstairs, Master Almsfield.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. I¡¯ll leave you to it then.¡±


    With a nod to the girl, he stepped behind the counter, ignored the questioning looks from the dozen or so customers browsing the glass display cases throughout the shop floor, and entered the back rooms.


    Once he was upstairs, he knocked twice on the workshop door before he pushed the door open and found his apprentice face down on the table, snoring loudly.


    ¡°This idiot,¡± he frowned.


    Judging by the cores scattered across his table, and the pliance he still gripped in his hand, the man had fallen asleep working at his station again. He stepped up behind the dozing apprentice and shook his shoulder.


    ¡°Hah! I¡¯m awake!¡± Flynn gasped, flailing his arms.


    ¡°Blood and bone, settle down!¡± Tyron scowled. ¡°You fell asleep at your station again. Were you working all night?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ Master Almsfield, good to see you. Why, yes, I was. I hope I didn¡¯t disturb you¡­.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t, since Tyron hadn¡¯t been resting in his bedroom in the room next to this one, but down in the basement performing work of a different kind.


    ¡°If you¡¯re having trouble meeting your quotas, then tell me. You won¡¯t be fired for failing to meet deliveries I¡¯ve set too high, but you will be fired if you waste materials and send faulty enchantments downstairs to be sold.¡±


    The young man cringed away from his master and Tyron struggled to remind himself that he¡¯d hired the apprentice himself after an extended screening process. Flynn Rivner was a skilled Arcanist, with quick hands, a knack for the art, and insufficient backing to get himself into a better apprenticeship.


    Tyron himself had only gotten into Wilhem¡¯s by expending a sizable chunk of the wealth his parents had left for him.


    Seeing Flynn¡¯s dazed and slightly fearful expression, the Necromancer forced down a flash of anger.


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    We¡¯re almost the same age, Flynn¡­. Have a little pride, man.


    ¡°Go home, get some rest,¡± he said finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. ¡°I don¡¯t want to see you in the store until tomorrow morning. There is to be no more working overnight. We will work out the pace at which you produce your best work and we will stick to that. Have I made myself clear?¡±


    ¡°You have¡­ Master Almsfield¡­.¡±


    With the hangdog expression of a beaten puppy, Flynn staggered from his workstation and downstairs. Not a moment too soon, as Tyron had almost succumbed to the irrational urge to put his foot up the young man¡¯s backside.


    ¡°What is wrong with that boy?¡± he wondered out loud, then snorted when he realised how he sounded.


    After running through his apprenticeship in record time and setting up his own business, Tyron had leaped past many of his contemporaries in the industry. In fact, many who were significantly older than he was were still toiling away doing bit-work in other people¡¯s shops.


    It was hard to remember, sometimes, that he was only twenty two.


    With a critical eye, he looked over his workshop, making sure his components, tools and materials were in their proper places. His hands twitched, wanting to be busy, but he took a moment to calm himself.


    The visit to the square had unsettled him, rattled his mentality and upset his emotions. The last thing Tyron could afford was to throw away everything he¡¯d built over the last four years just as it was coming to fruition. The foundations of his vengeance had finally been laid, impatience and a lack of control would destroy everything in an instant.


    After several long, steadying breaths, the young Mage took hold of himself, stepping out of the workshop and locking it behind him. He descended the steps, but rather than turning left and entering the shop floor, he turned right, into a storeroom.


    With solid strides, he navigated his way past the various crates, sealed pots, and other containers of supplies needed for his trade, until he stopped, facing a shelf laden with jars and texts.


    Carefully, he removed a vessel filled with a syrupy green mixture, then reached out with his Arcane senses, searching for his own handiwork. When he found it, he gestured once, twice, thrice in the air before snapping his hands back to his side.


    An almost inaudible click reached his ear and he grasped the side of the shelf and pulled.


    Despite its size and weight, it swung easily, revealing a staircase leading down into the dark. Tyron stepped through, carefully swung the shelf closed behind him, before he conjured a ball of light and made his way into the basement.


    Even then, he had to open two more doors, similarly locked with enchanted sigils, and only when that was done did he finally step inside his private study.


    Tyron insisted on thinking of it as a study, rather than a lair, or laboratory, or anything with such childishly sinister overtones. In his mind, this was a place of learning, a place for him to experiment and develop his skills. Therefore, a study.


    Twenty corpses in various states of dismemberment still lay on the stone slabs placed evenly along one wall. With a practised eye, the Necromancer checked the various enchanted arrays he had placed around the room, to ensure they were functional.


    Sound dampeners, for obvious reasons, heat exchangers to keep the temperature down, again for obvious reasons, along with a few magick-gathering arrays on his desk for powering or charging anything he was working on.


    Despite doing most of the work himself, Tyron was pleased with the results. When he thought back to the times he¡¯d been scribbling in his notebook in caves or on the back of a moving cart, his current arrangements seemed sinfully luxurious.


    It hadn¡¯t been easy to get to this point. He¡¯d had to cash in several of the favours his mother and father had earned for him, as well as dip extremely deep into the finances he¡¯d inherited.


    But now everything was in place. He could finally return to improving his abilities as a Necromancer, and there was so much work to do.


    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s get organised,¡± he said aloud as he sat at his desk and pulled his tattered old notebook open.


    As an apprentice Arcanist, Tyron hadn¡¯t allowed himself to even think of necromancy, let alone commit notes to paper. Living and working around so many people, with essentially no privacy, it would have been insane to take the risk.


    Thus, his notes remained preserved from the last time he¡¯d worked on them, on the Barrier Mountains near the rift.


    Of course, Tyron had performed the status ritual dozens of times since then as he¡¯d steadily improved his new sub-class, but Undead Weaver remained at thirty six, where he had left it.


    And I have to leave it there for a while longer yet. Before I can upgrade my Class at level forty, I need to reach my Skill goals. Death Magick, Raise Dead, Corpse Appraisal, Corpse Preparation, Bone Threading, at the bare minimum, each of these needs to reach their maximum level before I can even consider reaching level forty.


    Which meant he needed to conduct experiments and go through a huge amount of repetition without actually raising any Undead, or fighting with them.


    Once he¡¯d succeeded and upgraded his Class, though¡­ then he would be fully off the leash.


    Tyron wasn¡¯t so naive as to think a level forty Necromancer could be strong enough to bring down the Magisters, the Nobles, or especially the Gods. He needed time and resources to lay the perfect foundation for his advancement, and then he would sprint toward level sixty, or eighty, or however high he needed to go until he felt confident enough to achieve his aims.


    There was a huge amount of testing and experimentation to do with his newfound enchanting skills also. He¡¯d chosen this profession carefully, as he saw possibilities to solve many of his problems as a Necromancer with it.


    He already knew it was possible for undead to share magick with each other, and the more that were ¡®bound¡¯ before being risen, the greater this amount was. This could help with the drain a high number of minions placed on his magick, but not solve the issue.


    After years of finicky, mind-numbing work, he had finally perfected the array he¡¯d been working on as Master Willhem¡¯s apprentice. He was confident it could gather magick and then channel it into an undead as needed, without his active involvement at all. Again, it wouldn¡¯t solve the issue, but if he could cut the cost of each minion down by even ten percent, that would mean for every ten minions he raised, he could have another ¡®for free¡¯.


    And perhaps, with a little luck, persistence and finger-breaking work, he might achieve an even better result. A twenty percent reduction in magick cost would be¡­ very beneficial.


    As his thoughts drifted to the possibilities, Tyron shook himself back to focus. There was no point chasing every rabbit down into the warren, he had to tackle one problem at a time.


    First, Corpse Appraisal and Preparation, the foundational Skills of his profession. He needed to develop and master new ways to examine the raw materials used to create undead, and then ready them to be raised.


    He stood up, and pulled down his butcher¡¯s tools from where they hung on the wall.

 B3C2 - Old Friends, New Allies

    Tyron pulled his cloak a little tighter around himself. A chill wind blew down the cobbled roads of Kenmor, the tall buildings providing less shelter than one thought they would. Perhaps these large stone edifices were responsible for conjuring the city''s infamous breezes? He didn¡¯t know, but travelling inside the walls at night was always particularly cold, even in the summer months.


    The Western Road was filled with traffic, even at this late hour. Thirty metres wide, the thoroughfare cut through the city like a knife, dividing the northern and southern sides. The one and only safe passage into the central province, it was the main artery of the city, and one could argue, all of the east.


    Crossing it was always a chore, but at the newly renamed Steelarm Square, it wasn¡¯t quite as difficult. The wide open square provided enough room for the carts and wagons to spread out, allowing foot-traffic to pass through a little more easily. Since he¡¯d entered the walls from the dock-gate after negotiating deliveries at the Silvership warehouse, this was the obvious choice to cross.


    ¡°Hey! Watch it, idiot!¡±


    ¡°Sorry.¡±


    Tyron raised a hand in apology to a wagon driver as he stepped around a temperamental horse that flared its nostrils when he stepped too close. The Mage slowed his step and moved more cautiously until he was through the worst of it. He¡¯d been rushing, as he tended to do when heading to this part of the city. The sooner this trip was over, the better.


    It wasn¡¯t as if he didn¡¯t have better things to do. A backlog of orders at the shop needed to be seen to, before it began to cause problems. After spending his nights in the basement experimenting on corpses, his enchanting work had naturally suffered. Progress in Necromancy was important, but he couldn¡¯t afford to let his cover slip. Two more sleepless nights should allow him to catch up, so long as the cores were delivered on time tomorrow, which would push him to almost a week without sleep.


    As much as he hated to lose the time, he¡¯d need a good night of rest before resuming his nocturnal studies. With his superhuman constitution and mental fortitude, he could go a long time without sleep, but pushing too far would begin to affect his spellwork.


    Once he reached the northern side of Kenmor, his mouth twisted into a half-snarl without him realising it. The houses were larger, four or five storeys, and expensively apportioned. Despite the population still being dense, the opulence only grew more decadent the further north he went.


    To his right, the Magister¡¯s Tower loomed, and his fists clenched everytime he glimpsed it from the corner of his eye. Beyond that, the Noble Quarter and the Dawn Fortress, home of the baron, could still be seen outlined against the night sky. Separated from the masses by a tall dividing wall, of course.


    Further north, the Gold District, another walled area of the city, but for a rather different reason. Home to the powerful slayers who had crossed the level sixty threshold before retiring, the Gold District was a gilded cage for the strongest warriors and most powerful mages in the province.


    He wasn¡¯t headed there, though, he was headed to Veil Street, immediately adjacent to the slayers'' retirement home.


    ¡°Paper¡¯,¡± a bored guard drawled as Tyron approached.


    ¡°Lukas Almsfield, here on business,¡± Tyron smiled easily as he handed his papers over.


    ¡°Uh huh, that¡¯s what they all say,¡± the man snorted as he leaned casually against his post, eyes flicking over the page. ¡°Only Bronze? Can you afford it in there?¡±


    Tyron¡¯s smile tightened.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a slayer, I¡¯m an Arcanist.¡±


    ¡°Oh shit. Forget I said anything, you definitely can. It¡¯s criminal how much you lot charge for the most basic shit. How hard can it be to heat a fuckin¡¯ toilet seat?¡±


    Why don¡¯t you try it then, idiot.


    He continued to smile.


    After a final glance, the guard handed back the papers, which Tyron stowed carefully away, before he turned and opened the gate.


    ¡°Welcome to Veil Street. Don¡¯t mess with the golds. If they rip your face off, we won¡¯t be doing much about it.¡±


    ¡°I appreciate the warning.¡±


    After he stepped through the gate, Tyron repeated the process at the second checkpoint, ten metres down the road, before he was actually able to step foot on Veil Street. The moment he did so, he was enveloped by soft red light that emanated from the enchanted globes that hung from poles and storefronts down the length of the street.


    At this late hour, the street thronged with people, laughing raucously, drinking and generally staggering about enjoying all the delights of this hedonistic paradise.


    Tyron hated it.


    Much as he had when crossing the Western Road, he moved cautiously through the crowd, being careful not to bump anyone or get in the way. You never knew if the man or woman you accidentally tripped was actually over level sixty and might cave your chest in with one drunken punch.


    Scantily clad men and women moved through the people with the grace of dancers, mysterious smiles on their faces and laughter in their eyes as they serviced the crowds. Several spoke to him as he moved past, inviting him inside for a drink, or something more, but he politely declined each time.


    Eventually, he reached his destination, a massive, five storey edifice, painted entirely red. Somehow, the building managed to pull off the colour without looking gaudy. The contours of the walls, the tiered roof and tastefully suggestive carvings, transformed the structure into a beguiling temple with just a whiff of danger about it.


    Unlike most places of business on the street, there were no tables or service in front of the building, only six heavily armed guards in full armour flanking a massive double door. Held open, a steady stream of people moved in and out, along with a dark smoke that trickled through the top of the opening.


    With a mixture of irritation and reluctance, Tyron squared his shoulders and moved to the door, sliding through the opening when an opportunity arrived.


    The second he was inside, the scent of cloying smoke filled his nose and clung to his throat. The corridor was dark, lit from below with dim red lights projected from cores set at the joint of the wall and floor. From rooms branching to either side, he glimpsed people luxuriating in lush furniture, draped over each other as they sipped from delicate glasses or gleaming metallic goblets. As elsewhere on the street, there was laughter and boisterous enjoyment, but it was different in this building. The laughter was muted, but the indulgence more intense. A feverish need gripped these people so palpably Tyron could almost feel it on his skin.


    He avoided being entangled by beguiling servers dressed in form-hugging black clothing and made his way to the staircase.


    On the second floor, the smoke was even thicker, the lighting even darker, the people even more frantic. Without pausing, he pushed through into a lavish room, the walls covered in padded red leather, and cast his eyes across the dozens of impossibly handsome men and women waiting on the edge of the room.


    When he found the one he wanted, his eyes narrowed and he approached with heavy steps. A young man eyed his approach, eyes widening with recognition and a sly smile on his face. Dressed in a vest and pants that left nothing to the imagination, with an ornate, carved black skull positioned over his crotch, he leaned back, putting his well formed physique on display as Tyron drew closer.


    ¡°You. In the back. Now,¡± Tyron growled.


    ¡°Why Mister Almsfield,¡± the young man smiled coyly, ¡°aren¡¯t you forceful today? Allow me to lead the way.¡±


    He reached out to take Tyron by the hand, but the Mage slapped him away with a glare. With a hurt expression on his face and an excited gleam to his eyes, he sashayed through an open doorway and Tyron followed. Rooms on the left and right were barred with heavy, wooden doors, soft, muted sounds of passion drifting through. The pair walked past them both until they came to an unadorned door that the young man opened before bowing, gesturing for Tyron to enter.


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    Within the room was a plain wooden table with four chairs, modestly lit from an ordinary globe that hung from the middle of the roof.


    With a sigh, Tyron reached into his mouth and removed the filtration device he¡¯d put in before entering. It was uncomfortable, but better than inhaling that damned smoke. He placed it on the table before he sat, adjusting his cloak and resting his hands on his lap.


    ¡°Put him on the table and fuck off,¡± he said tersely.


    The young man pouted.


    ¡°Mr Almsfield,¡± he said, his voice coy, ¡°the mistress has given her instructions and you know that I must obey her wishes.¡±


    Tyron glared at him.


    ¡°I warned you last time. If your mistress has something to say, she can say it to me directly.¡±


    ¡°Why, Mr Almsfield, you put me in a very uncomfortable position.¡±


    Yet he sounded as if he quite enjoyed it.


    The Mage¡¯s hands rose and before the teasing expression on the escort¡¯s face could change, they flickered rapidly through a sequence of sigils.


    The Necromancer¡¯s mind crashed into the other like a smith''s hammer on a pinecone. He tightened his grip cruelly.


    ¡°Put him on the table.¡±


    As if in a dream, the young man detached the carved skull from his belt and placed it on the table, his eyes glazed over.


    ¡°Now cut yourself,¡± Tyron whispered, drawing a jagged line down his own face, ¡°right here. Deep. Do it now.¡±


    The young man nodded, drool beginning to leak from the corner of his mouth, before he turned and left the room.


    ¡°Shit, forgot to tell him to close the door,¡± Tyron cursed as he rose and did it himself.


    He sat back down and looked at the carved onyx skull with a mix of pity and exasperation. After all the pain and sacrifice, that this was the outcome, still angered him to his core. Though if there were one individual to blame¡­.


    ¡°I told you not to piss her off.¡±


    ¡°Really? Really? Are you going to open with that every time, you fucking prick? How about, ¡®Hello, Dove, how¡¯ve you been?¡¯, huh? Would that break your balls? A little bit of polite chatter to open the conversation. That¡¯s how normal people do it.¡±


    ¡°Normal people aren¡¯t talking to the enslaved soul of their friend who wouldn¡¯t stop pissing off a vampire.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think she was this mad about it! Do you have any idea how much cock I¡¯ve seen in the last year? A lot! It¡¯s fine if that¡¯s your scene, obviously, but I¡¯ve never swung this way, Tyron. Now they''re swinging all over me! Day and night, it never fucking stops!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a brothel. Of course it never stops.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for the words of wisdom. Are you any closer to getting me out of here or what? I do not want to be used to cup any more balls.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m working on it.¡±


    ¡°Work faster.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m doing what I can, it isn¡¯t easy. I¡¯m not exactly her boss. In Necromantic terms, she captured your soul fair and square.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have even been there if you hadn¡¯t locked me in my own skull to start with!¡±


    ¡°I know! Alright? I¡¯m trying to get you free, it¡¯s just taking time.¡±


    The two fell into uncomfortable silence for a long moment.


    ¡°... Is she even coming?¡±


    ¡°Give her a second,¡± Tyron sighed.


    Sure enough, several seconds later, they heard someone stomping down the corridor toward the room.


    ¡°How does she do that in heels?¡± Dove wondered.


    ¡°How do you know she¡¯s in heels?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s always in heels.¡±


    ¡°Please tell me you aren¡¯t still staring at her feet all the time¡­.¡±


    ¡°A man needs a hobby.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m never freeing you, am I?¡±


    The door crashed open to reveal Yor in her icy majesty. Her black satin dress managed to cover everything, yet still reveal it all at the same time. Snow-white skin, raven black hair and burning red eyes, she hadn¡¯t aged a day in the last four years, appearing exactly as she had the day Tyron had met her. Albeit, much better dressed.


    Civilisation agreed with the Vampire. She¡¯d been significantly happier in the capital than in the woods. Right now, she looked anything but happy.


    ¡°Again, Tyron?¡± she glared daggers at him.


    ¡°Who¡¯s Tyron? I¡¯m respected businessman, Lukas Almsfield.¡±


    ¡°Oh shut up,¡± she snapped before she stormed into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. ¡°You dare to mark another of my toys?¡±


    The Necromancer glared back.


    ¡°I warned you. Treat Dove with some respect or I¡¯ll do worse to your slave next time. I know you can fix the cut with no scarring. If he gelds himself, I wonder how well that can be repaired with your blood magick.¡±


    ¡°I will do what I want with that pervert until he has paid for his actions.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t push it, Yor, or I¡¯ll pick him up and walk out with him tonight. Do you want to test your Mistress'' patience that far?¡±


    ¡°Be silent,¡± Yor growled, animalistic fury igniting in her eyes.


    Tyron felt her influence try to seize hold of his thoughts. He stiffened in his chair and grit his teeth as he fought her off.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t,¡± he roared as he stood, slamming his hands down.


    The two glared at each other across the table.


    ¡°Mummy, daddy, stop fighting,¡± Dove said plaintively. ¡°Or do with less clothes on. Angry sex is fucking hot.¡±


    Silence hung in the room for a moment before Tyron clapped a hand to his face.


    ¡°You idiot,¡± he muttered before he laughed. ¡°Why do I even bother?¡±


    He sat down and gestured for Yor to do the same. The vampire complied, her anger dissipating a little, though she glared daggers at the skull on the table.


    ¡°I still don¡¯t understand the whole brothel thing. I thought vampires couldn¡¯t even have sex,¡± Tyron shook his head.


    A slight smile curved Yor¡¯s ruby red lips.


    ¡°Sex is a weapon. Even better, it¡¯s a weapon that can¡¯t be used against us. Besides, in places like this, where memories are blurred and inhibitions are low, people are easily parted from their blood. My Coven is drowning in it this past year.¡±


    She practically shivered as she said it and Tyron twisted in his seat uncomfortably.


    ¡°Just don¡¯t go overboard. It hasn¡¯t been easy getting you established.¡±


    She arched a brow at him.


    ¡°Are you saying your investment has gone poorly?¡±


    Anything but. He made almost as much money from the Red Pavilion as he did his own store. Tyron was quickly running out of things to spend his wealth on.


    ¡°I mean, you have greater ambitions than a brothel in a well-heeled part of town. If people start turning up dead, or undead, then your project is going to be burned out before it really gets off the ground.¡±


    The vampire leaned back and pursed her lips. A distracting sight.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t wrong and we are being careful. I¡¯m maintaining a tight grip on my people. Very tight. That isn¡¯t what you should be worried about.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes.


    ¡°What is it this time? More planning permits? Identities need to be mocked up? I¡¯ve been jumping through so many administrative hoops I feel like an acrobat.¡±


    For once, Yor hesitated.


    ¡°Not¡­ so much. This time, it¡¯s politics,¡± she said the word with genteel distaste. ¡°You have agreed to help the Court, and we appreciate your ongoing assistance, but you must recall our previous discussion about factions.¡±


    He did. Vampires, as it turned out, bickered and squabbled between each other even more than non-immortals. To be fair, they had a lot of time on their hands and cared a great deal about hierarchy. In fact, they cared about nothing quite so much as hierarchy, if his understanding was correct.


    ¡°That¡¯s all your side,¡± Tyron waved a hand to dismiss the issue, ¡°I don¡¯t want to get involved. You and your Mistress have my help establishing a presence in this Realm, that was the agreement. If other vampires have an issue, then you need to deal with it.¡±


    Yor¡¯s smile revealed a little more fang than usual.


    ¡°Oh, we have been dealing with issues. The problem will be when our rivals reach out to you directly. This realm, this empire, is ripe for our influence, like a fresh, unplucked fruit. So many potential servants, so much blood. The more others sniff around, the more they will want a slice.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re blocking them, which means they¡¯ll try to go around you and come straight to me.¡±


    She nodded.


    ¡°Not all of us are quite as¡­ socially minded as my Mistress. Others prefer a more direct approach. You will find their entreaties to be difficult to resist.¡±


    ¡°So the answer is?¡±


    ¡°Stay hidden. If they don¡¯t find you, they will need to work with other, inferior intermediaries, people we can safely cut off.¡±


    Thanks to agreements secured by his parents, Tyron was a little more protected and not so easily disposed of. Without that, Yor and her Mistress might have erased him already. Now that they were established, the Coven was growing in wealth and cultivating influence at an obscene rate.


    Tyron leaned forward and rubbed at his temples.


    ¡°Sometimes, I think this alliance is more trouble than it¡¯s worth,¡± he groaned.


    ¡°You¡¯ve only begun to scratch the surface of what the Court can do for you,¡± Yor purred. ¡°We are moving forward with procuring certain knowledge for your use, as an example.¡±


    The Necromancer perked up immediately.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ great news,¡± he said eagerly, eyes gleaming.


    ¡°Are you guys going to fuck or what?¡± Dove demanded.

 B3C3 - Progress

    Cerry Tiln said goodbye to her mother as she stepped out the door into the bustle of Shadetown, the door closing with the ringing of a bell behind her.


    It was dark this early, as it always was in the shadow of the wall, they wouldn¡¯t get direct sunlight for another hour, but even so, she felt invigorated by the dawn¡­ shade.


    She giggled at the thought as she stepped off the doorstep and onto the narrow road, already filled with people going about their day. Farmers were bringing crops and produce in from the fields, stocking their stalls of supplying businesses preparing for a day¡¯s trading. Market square was the centre of trade outside the wall and she¡¯d been lucky to be born in the prosperous area.


    ¡°Mornin¡¯, Cerry,¡± her neighbour, Lyla, called as she stepped from her house. ¡°Off to the store?¡±


    The younger girl nodded happily.


    ¡°That¡¯s right. It¡¯s been so busy over there, Lyla, you have no idea.¡±


    The florist chuckled as she pulled her shawl around her shoulders, falling into step behind her young friend.


    ¡°I¡¯m not surprised. I can¡¯t ever remember an Arcanist opening a business outside the wall. Normally, you find them closer to the castle, not out here with the rest of us.¡±


    Cerry sniffed.


    ¡°That¡¯s because they charge way too much. Master Almsfield is different, his prices are much more reasonable.¡±


    ¡°Well, whatever the reason, I¡¯m grateful for it. I got a heating pan for my bed last week, and my old bones have never felt so spry in the morning. My hip barely aches anymore.¡±


    It was pleasing to hear the wonderful things her employer had been able to do for the people of Shadetown. From Glow-lights, to heating pans, to filters and dozens of other knick-knacks the more well-to-do citizens of Kenmor took for granted, the products had been flying off the shelves. Cerry grinned.


    ¡°I hear so many stories just like that,¡± she said, ¡°people come in all the time to tell me how wonderful it¡¯s been. Most of them have never owned anything enchanted in their lives.¡±


    She leaned forward conspiratorially.


    ¡°My father came to the shop and bought a temperature controlling array and installed it in the kitchen for mother. She¡¯s been singing his praises for the last week, since it always gets so stuffy in there.¡±


    She knew he¡¯d done it because he was too cheap to pay for the renovations necessary to achieve proper ventilation, but her mother had been happy either way. She baked for a living, and with so many ovens going at once, it was like a furnace in there most days. Now, at least the corner she did most of her preparations and decorating in was pleasantly cool the whole day around.


    ¡°I told him to fork over and purchase heating plates for the ovens, but he¡¯s still leery.¡±


    She snorted, affronted that Master Almsfield¡¯s work could be doubted, and Lyla laughed.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll come around. I¡¯m not likely to get time to come into the store, but do pass on my thanks to Mr Almsfield for me, would you?¡±


    ¡°I will when I see him,¡± Cerry shrugged.


    The owner kept strange hours, sometimes working upstairs all day, sometimes sleeping all day and working all night, and sometimes just straight up vanishing for days at a time. On the one hand, it was odd; on the other, it was pleasing to know how much she was trusted.


    ¡°This is me, Cerry. You have a good day now,¡± Lyla patted her on the shoulder before turning down a narrow road.


    ¡°You too!¡±


    Another two streets down and she arrived at the market proper, crowded already, hawkers calling to the crowd, advertising their wares. It was a familiar sound that felt like nothing so much as home. Around the corner, onto Office Street and she was standing in front of the shop.


    She rummaged through her bag for a moment before she found the tightly bound ¡®key¡¯ Master Almsfield had made for her. She waved it in front of the handle, and after a moment, there was a slight ¡®click¡¯ as the door unlocked.


    It was difficult to restrain a small laugh, as it was every morning. Something so ordinary, like unlocking a door, had become ever so slightly magickal, and she loved it. Stepping inside, the store was immaculate as always, gleaming display cases, polished hardwood floors with curved trimmings and finishes. However much it had cost to set up the store, it must have been a small fortune. Half the time, she was afraid of slipping and damaging something she couldn¡¯t afford to replace!


    She closed the door gently behind her and began her normal morning routine. Cleaning the floor came first, then the benches and tables, before she moved on to the glass.


    It was hard to avoid the sad reality staring back at her from those tassled cushions, however: they were running dangerously low on stock. Many of the displays were empty, almost half of them in fact. The store had been extremely successful since it opened, but perhaps Master Almsfield needed to hire more workers?


    Apprentice Rivner worked hard, his handsome face pinched with worry and concentration whenever he was in the store, but perhaps just one apprentice wasn¡¯t enough?


    She wondered about that as she cleaned the windows in the front of the store. Did they need to expand already? There was probably room upstairs for more apprentices to work¡­.


    Lost in thought, she ran through her chores until the doorbell rang and she turned with a squeak, caught by surprise. Flynn Rivner stopped and stared at her, a slight blush on his face.


    ¡°O-oh, sorry, Cerry. I didn¡¯t mean to scare you.¡±


    She felt furious at herself for looking so foolish in front of him.


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing, Apprentice Rivner,¡± she smiled, trying to regain her poise. ¡°How are you this mornin''? I mean, morning?¡±


    Control your tongue, Cerry! You want him to think you¡¯re some country bumpkin!?


    ¡°Ah, I¡¯m fine,¡± he said, shuffling his feet a little before he realised he was still in the doorway. ¡°I-I should head upstairs¡­ then. Nice to see you¡­ uh¡­ Ms Tiln.¡±


    ¡°Nice to see you as well, Apprentice Rivner.¡±


    Her eyes trailed after him as he strode across the shop floor and towards the steps, without trying to make it obvious. He was just so tall, and dignified!


    She sighed.


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    He must have all sorts of fancy women inside the wall chasing after him. A promising Arcanist apprentice with his whole life ahead of him had a lot of prospects.


    She returned to work, only to turn back when she heard Flynn coming back down the stairs, a rueful expression on his face. She glanced down and saw the elaborate case used to hold the finished cores in his hands.


    ¡°Oh! Has Master Almsfield been working last night?¡±


    ¡°It appears so,¡± Apprentice Rivner sighed before he placed the case carefully down on the counter and shook his head.


    There was something about the look in his eye that prompted her to ask.


    ¡°Is something wrong? We certainly needed the work done, half the store is sold out.¡± She gestured toward the cases.


    ¡°Sorry? Oh, it¡¯s nothing. I¡¯m just¡­ shocked is all.¡±


    Cerry was confused.


    ¡°About what?¡±


    Apprentice Rivner went to speak a few times before he finally settled on what to say.


    ¡°He¡¯s just too fast,¡± he said finally with a sigh, gesturing at the case. ¡°I had a look, there¡¯s a hundred cores in here, easily. And I¡¯ve studied the Master¡¯s work carefully, it¡¯s flawless.¡±


    He looked a little despondent as he spoke, which only confused the girl further. Wasn¡¯t that a good thing?


    ¡°Is that¡­ a problem?¡± she asked.


    The Arcanist in training chuckled a little and blessed her with his shy smile, causing her heart to skip a beat.


    ¡°No. I-it¡¯s not a problem, I just don¡¯t know how he does it. I¡¯ve tried to keep up to his pace, but I fail two out of three times if I work that quick.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a wonderful apprentice,¡± Cerry said firmly, ¡°Master Almsfield said so himself on several occasions. Don¡¯t worry, soon you¡¯ll be able to catch up. You¡¯re still an apprentice, after all.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m only two years younger than he is¡­.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t matter at all! Not everyone completed their apprenticeship as quickly.¡±


    ¡°Nobody completes their apprenticeship that quickly. It caused quite a stir. That¡¯s why I applied to work here, you know. I wanted to learn from someone that extraordinary.¡±


    ¡°Well, now you have your chance,¡± she encouraged him. ¡°Don¡¯t be downhearted because it¡¯s hard. It was always going to be hard!¡±


    He nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°You¡¯re right. If I¡¯d wanted an easy apprenticeship, I would have stayed where I was. Thank you, Cerry.¡±


    ¡°Not a problem, Apprentice Rivner.¡±


    ¡°Please. Call me Flynn.¡±


    She blushed.


    ¡°Of course¡­ Flynn.¡±


    They gazed at each other for a moment until a loud thump accompanied by muffled cursing rang out from upstairs.


    ¡°I should go and get these set,¡± Flynn said quickly, grabbing the tray and heading to the backroom.


    ¡°I should finish cleaning!¡± Cerry darted back to her chores. The store would be open shortly, and she had a lot to do!


    ¡ª


    There was something soothing, something meditative, about the work of an Arcanist. Taking the cores, the condensed power of magick itself, and rewriting it, one line at a time, was a mysterious and powerful art. The process itself, however, was tedious, finicky, and required an inordinate amount of fine-motor-control, along with a level of focus that bordered on impossible.


    In other words, it suited Tyron down to the ground.


    Crafting Classes required an absurd amount of grind in order to level, day after day of relentless, gruelling repetition. Couple that with the necessity of experimentation to break through any bottlenecks that arose, and it was well known how notoriously difficult it was to become a master craftsman.


    This went doubly so for those with a crafting sub-class. As an Arcanist, Tyron was limited to only forty levels, and one class advancement. That meant eight Feats in total and a limit to the number of Skills and abilities he could purchase.


    This meant he could never truly equal a master of the craft. Someone like Master Willhem was in a stratosphere he could never reach, able to take the most powerful cores and transform them into enchantments only gold ranked Slayers, or the nobility, could afford.


    That level of control and finesse, he could never possess it, but he didn¡¯t need to. Instead, he had aimed every new ability, every new Feat in an entirely different direction. He wanted to squeeze every drop of power from the simplest and smallest of cores. Efficiency, efficacy, with not even a wisp of lost magick.


    Tyron leaned back from the glass with a tired sigh before he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. No matter how he tried to sit straight, he always ended up with a slight hunch as he worked, leaning over to bring his face to the glass and see even a little better.


    Another one done, only a hundred or so to go.


    It sounded like a lot, but his pace was good, completing each core in roughly two minutes. An absurd pace for the work, and the key reason behind the success of Almsfield Enchantments.


    Arcanists¡¯ work was useful for a lot of things, heating, cooling, cleansing, healing, lighting, basically every aspect of daily living. Of course, most in the trade focused their attention on where the big money lay, weapons and armour for Slayers. Fighting was a constant part of life in the provinces, even if it happened out of sight for most people, at the rifts. The Slayers made the bulk of their money from selling rift-kin components and cores, and they turned around and spent that money on improving their gear, or on alchemical potions or other supplies. Some held exclusive contracts where they traded the best and rarest cores directly to famous Arcanists in exchange for preferential treatment or discounts.


    The constant demand for new and better enchanted weapons and armour, as well as the churn caused by lost gear within the rifts, meant that the majority of cores harvested went to this cause. That meant enchantments for daily life were expensive and rare.


    Rare, unless you could produce the same effect using smaller, more easily obtainable cores.


    Tyron could make a heating plate almost seventy percent as effective as what the best Arcanists in Kenmor could make. Except his were a tenth of the price, formed from a hyper-efficient network of the lowest grade cores.


    Naturally, this meant he was essentially alone in targeting this particular market, poorer folks outside the walls who never dreamed of owning such luxuries.


    In the end, this was an unintended benefit to his true aim. All along, Tyron had focused on maximising the power he could gain from weaker cores because that was all he could afford to use in his undead. No matter how wealthy he became, it would be too ridiculous to engrave and set a high-grade core within a simple skeleton. His current business model came to be after he¡¯d thought long and hard on how he could maximise the benefits of enchanting for his minions, and be successful enough to provide cover for his other endeavours.


    Diligently, and with absolute focus, he continued to etch the runes with his pliance, placing each completed core into the case with the others, before he checked the order sheet, picked up another core and began the process again.


    Three and a half hours later, he was done.


    He stood with a groan and stretched, feeling his back pop. Muttering about old age, he shook out his hands, grabbed the case of finished cores and walked downstairs.


    It wasn¡¯t too busy in the store, given it was roughly lunchtime, only five people wandering amongst the display cases and reading the engraved descriptions of the wares.


    As always, Cerry was a bright and cheery presence, moving from cleaning the shop, to answering questions, to ringing up sales with ease and grace. He shook his head. The girl hadn¡¯t even had her Awakening yet. If she gained some sort of service Class, he¡¯d triple her salary to keep her on.


    A warm smile greeted him as she saw him wander onto the shop floor.


    ¡°Master Almsfield! Nice to see your face today.¡±


    At the mention of his name, several customers turned to catch a glimpse of him, but he ignored them. Cerry nattered on.


    ¡°I have to tell you, my friend Lyla¡­.¡±


    He nodded along as he walked, entering the back room where he found his apprentice hard at work setting the cores into the various wares that they sold. It was a delicate process, but by far the straight forward part of the job. A core inscribed to create flame down the length of a blade was particularly useless until it was set into a blade, after all.


    The back room was filled with the various plates, wheels, dials and other pieces they sold. All of it was ordered from local craftsmen in Shadetown.


    Tyron set the case down on a bench to the side.


    ¡°Here¡¯s another lot. I need these set today, if possible, Flynn.¡±


    He hesitated before he turned away.


    ¡°But don¡¯t push yourself too much. Whatever you can get done by closing is fine. Finish up the rest tomorrow.¡±


    The younger man looked at the case with an odd, queasy expression, which Tyron ignored.


    ¡°Are you two alright closing up? I¡¯m going to sleep.¡±


    Now he turned and stomped back upstairs, throwing off his clothes and collapsing into bed. When he woke, he could check on his experiments. He greatly anticipated the results.

 B3C4 - Mastery

    Rage gripped him.


    Tyron¡¯s fingers curled into fists as the breath whistled between his clenched teeth. Clear as the day it happened, he could see Magnin and Beory on the ground before him, eyes closed, faces at peace, the knife still stuck in his father¡¯s chest.


    Muscles knotted in his forearms and shoulders as he struggled to release the tension. The more he fought against it, the more it gripped him. He felt possessed, trapped inside his own body as grief and anger took control. Conscious thought was relegated to a dim and forgotten corner of his mind.


    Somewhere in this city, the Magisters who had tortured his parents lived, secure in their authority, safe within their tower. Behind them, the nobles, touched by the gods themselves, with the divine right to rule, locked behind a literal wall he could not cross.


    He hated them.


    He hated all of them.


    They had to die. The black rage that possessed him would allow nothing less.


    But it couldn¡¯t be now. He wasn¡¯t ready. He needed time.


    Gradually, millimetre by millimetre, he unclenched his jaw.


    One by one, he eased the tension in his fingers.


    The Necromancer sucked in a deep breath, held it, held it, then released it slowly, before he repeated the process. For ten minutes, he calmed himself, unwinding the knots in his body and heart until he was calm and in control again.


    In time, he promised himself, walk the narrow path, take your time, and you will succeed in the end.


    Only when he was certain he was in control of himself did Tyron swing his feet off the bed and begin to prepare himself for the day. The sun had not yet begun to rise, so the world remained dark as he changed, moving through his austere and organised chamber.


    These episodes are coming more frequently. I may need to do something before it becomes a problem.


    For those long years as an apprentice, living in a dorm alongside his fellow struggling students, Tyron had wedged his feelings so deep inside that there had been no hope of them emerging. To all intents and purposes, he had become Lukas Almsfield, never allowing himself even a second of respite from the relentless act.


    It may well have driven him mad if he hadn¡¯t spent his every waking moment on the study and practice of enchanting.


    Now though? Now that he had his own space, now that he had begun to work as a Necromancer again, his anger had begun to break free from the prison he had used to contain it. The grief he had felt that day burned in him still, raw and abraded, like an open wound.


    Sometimes, he awoke at night, a roar of pure hatred struggling to burst out of his throat.


    As he walked in the city, he felt an irrational urge to strike at those around him, to take out his pain on them, the innocent citizens of Kenmor.


    It was a problem that needed a solution. He needed an outlet, lest these fits jeopardise his task.


    Perhaps when I return to hunting rift-kin, that will suffice.


    It would be some time before he was able to enact that particular plan, however.


    After he washed his face in the basin and slicked back his hair, Tyron carefully applied the glamour, crafting it with a skill and dexterity he could only have dreamed of when roaming the plains in the back of that stupid cart.


    Even though it was night and nobody would enter the store for hours, there was never any need to take a risk. As long as he was outside of his chamber, he would appear as Lukas Almsfield.


    Preparations complete, he trod quietly down the stairs and made his way through the secret entrance to the basement.


    Time to check on his experiments.


    The twenty bodies he had received in his first shipment had been stripped of their flesh long ago. After considering what to do with the remains, he¡¯d ended up dumping them in the sewer, far from the store.


    Hopefully, the rats and other nasties that flourished down there had finished the grisly work for him.


    Afterwards, he¡¯d finally been able to begin to develop and test new methods.


    The first thing he¡¯d done had been to try and create an enchanted lens he could use to scry magick, and specifically, death magick. The lens sat on his bench now, a¡­ moderate success. It had enabled him to see death magick when looking through it, sure enough, but hadn¡¯t been able to detect the minute amounts contained within the bones.


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    A fully working model would let him examine the formation and movement of energy within the remains at the finest level of detail. Many nights of complex work lay ahead of him before he could achieve that, so he¡¯d begun sketching out his next version before moving on to other projects.


    The first thing he needed to do was develop his Corpse Appraisal Skill, which meant developing and adapting new methods to learn about the bones he was working with.


    So he¡¯d focused on listing the information that was important for him to have, and then worked backwards, trying to determine the best way to achieve it.


    Stuck to the wall over his desk, a sheet of paper outlined his current paths of inquiry.


    Magick formation and movement: Develop Lens


    Density: Construct methodology.


    Unseen Influence: ?


    Link Potential: Compatibility test? Related to magick formation?


    Tyron stepped from one set of bones to the next. Each was still a complete skeleton, laid out in place on its own slab around the outside of the basement.


    At four different locations on each skeleton sat a small tool, powered by only a single, low-grade core, one each on the left tibia, the fifth rib, the skull and the scapula.


    The bones in question had been chosen almost at random, but the device was a simple thing, basically two prongs with a gap of ten centimetres between them. On the tip of one prong was a short script that sent a pulse of magick at regular intervals, which was received by a detection script on the other.


    It was his own version of a similar technique used by engineers and builders to determine the grade and quality of stone. The longer the delay between the pulse being sent and received, the more dense the material between them.


    Diligently, he removed and checked each device before recording the results and storing them away.


    As he¡¯d suspected, the density of the skeletons varied quite a bit. Some were significantly stronger than others. Whether more dense bones made better minions was something he wasn¡¯t sure of, but he suspected it would be the case.


    Perhaps the density is related to the amount of magick that can be stored in the bones?


    An unexpected thought. If so, then his density test could be used to determine the ideal concentration of death energy in the skeleton. Of course, it would take a huge amount of tests and quite a bit of maths to work it out, but he was up for the challenge.


    Naturally, the causes behind the differences between each skeleton were a mystery to him. Was it due to diet? The class of the person who had ¡®donated¡¯ the remains, and therefore, the influence of the Unseen? Or some other reason entirely?


    Right now, he wasn¡¯t sure what might be important in the Corpse Appraisal process, so it was better for him to cast a wide net and grasp as much information as possible, then later refine his methods to what was relevant.


    Which brought him to his next point.


    The Unseen was able to change people''s bodies, making them tougher, stronger, faster, through the levels they gained throughout their lives. Someone like Magnin had barely been human, capable of feats of strength ten regular people couldn¡¯t duplicate.


    So was there a way for Tyron to determine how much of the Unseen¡¯s¡­ energy? Will? Potential? Had been invested in a particular set of remains? More importantly, was it possible for him to replicate the effect?


    If he could toughen up the bones himself using the same method the Unseen used to modify living human skeletons, then he could turn any skeleton into a peak product, as if it had been taken from a gold ranked Slayer.


    No point getting ahead of yourself, if you can¡¯t even detect it, then there¡¯s no chance you can replicate it.


    And that was the issue, he had no idea how he might go about measuring the Unseen. As far as he was aware, nobody had any idea what it was, how it worked, or even why it did what it did.


    The only clue he had to go on was that the Unseen had arrived in this realm along with the magick that originated from the first rifts.


    If it used magick, then he could work with it, of that, he was supremely confident.


    Now he moved back along the rows of skeletons, his eyes focused on his next experiment. Around each set of remains sat a rectangular metal band, covered in engraved script. A small array of cores sat at the feet of each set, powering the strip of silver.


    One of the things he¡¯d come to learn, quite by accident, was that silver reacted to death magick, but only under certain conditions. As he moved from one skeleton to the next, he focused on the band. Here and there, he could see a faint blackening of the metal, as if it had begun to rot.


    It was difficult to quantify precisely, but he could roughly work out which skeletons had damaged the metal more than others. This was his attempt to determine if some skeletons were able to transmit more death energy than others.


    As it was, it was clear that two of his skeletons had projected more death magick, as their own strips of metal were quite tarnished, as were those of the skeletons beside them, but only on the side closest to his two suspects.


    Interesting.


    He hadn¡¯t thought this particular experiment would bear fruit so quickly¡­. This could be an enormous discovery.


    It wasn¡¯t clear what made these two skeletons the most¡­ prodigious movers of death energy. They weren¡¯t the most dense skeletons, nor did he believe they¡¯d been the highest level. There must be some other quality of the remains that led to this result, he simply had no idea what it was.


    Excited, he rushed back to his desk and began furiously taking notes, rushing to put all of his thoughts on paper.


    Eventually, he put down his pen, clasped his hands and thought. Ultimately, it all came back to death magick, and how little he understood it.


    That particular flavour of the energy which suffused the realm was the cornerstone of the Necromantic arts, and it would be the deciding factor in his success or failure. Whether or not he could maximise his abilities as a Necromancer boiled down to how well he understood, and could manipulate, that energy.


    He leaned back in his chair.


    He sighed.


    ¡°I really need to work on that lens,¡± he muttered to himself, dragging the prototype closer.


    Developing a spell to enhance his eyes to see death magick had been his first idea, but Dove¡¯s warnings still rang in his head. Magick that influenced the eyes was dangerous. So his next idea had been to use a lens, much like the glass Arcanists used when enchanting.


    Somehow, he¡¯d actually succeeded, but not well enough for it to matter.


    With a frustrated expression on his face, he began to take his model apart.


    Mastering his art would be a long road, but if he was successful, his power would grow by leaps and bounds once he crossed the level forty threshold.

 B3C5 - Rumblings

    Magister Poranus wasn¡¯t happy.


    ¡°Hurry up,¡± he snapped to his manservant, and the man immediately began to bow and scrape.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Magister. Please forgive this humble servant.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t stop working, you blithering idiot!¡±


    ¡°Apologies, Magister!¡±


    The young man immediately straightened and got back to adjusting Poranus¡¯ robes. He hated the formal robes. Multi-layered, tassled, with gold chains running down the sleeves, they were cumbersome to the point of absurdity.


    Nervous of being scolded, or worse, disciplined, the servant¡¯s hands were now shaking, causing him to tangle two of the chains together.


    ¡°You -¡± Poranus blew out a breath. ¡°Go away,¡± he said coldly. ¡°You¡¯re worse than useless. The next time your work is this poor, I¡¯ll have you flogged.¡±


    ¡°I-I¡­ thank you¡­ M-Magister,¡± the servant stuttered as he backed away.


    Poranus snorted and began fussing with the fine chains himself, finally untangling them after several curse-filled minutes.


    Irritated and red-faced, the Magister took a moment to compose himself before he pulled open the door and exited his chambers, only to have his mood immediately sour again.


    ¡°Hello there, brother,¡± Herath greeted him, smiling broadly. ¡°Sent your manservant packing again, I see.¡±


    Poranus eyed the blond Magister through narrow slits, not bothering to hide his dislike.


    ¡°Herath¡­. Why are you loitering outside my chambers?¡±


    ¡°Why, brother! What a thing to say. I merely thought to enjoy your company as we make our way to the Council together.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ that¡¯s¡­ grand¡­.¡±


    The two fell into stride beside each other, one sunny, the other thundering.


    ¡°The support of the Jorlins counts for a lot,¡± Poranus remarked sourly. ¡°I¡¯m surprised you¡¯re still on the Council after your last scandal.¡±


    ¡°My family dotes on me, it¡¯s true,¡± Herath said modestly, ¡°they have been kind enough to forgive my momentary lapses in judgement.¡±


    Poranus snorted. Misappropriation of funds, outright corruption. Of course it was all swept under the rug, since the ones to lose out were slayers and commoners. Herath wasn¡¯t stupid enough to steal from the Nobles, he¡¯d have vanished the next day and lived in agony for the rest of his days.


    ¡°Are you starting to sympathise with the cattle?¡± Herath asked with a raised brow. ¡°We are the jailers. It isn¡¯t good to have tender feelings toward the jailed.¡±


    From one of the larger noble families, these were the kinds of abuses Herath could get away with.


    ¡°You¡¯re accusing me of being soft on the slayers?¡± Poranus said incredulously. ¡°Because I can¡¯t steal from them and avoid repercussions?¡±


    ¡°Of course not. Just a word of friendly advice from your fellow Council member. We are tasked with keeping the peace. We need to work together to hold back the tide.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    Herath continued to try and engage his contemporary in conversation as they walked, nattering on as Poranus grunted back at him. Together, they walked into the Council chamber to find Grand Magister Tommat already in place at the head of the table.


    ¡°Take a seat,¡± the old man rumbled, knuckling his thick, grey moustache.


    Don¡¯t look at his head. Don¡¯t look at his head.


    Poranus averted his eyes from the gleaming reflection of the firelight from Tommat¡¯s shiny, bald head. The flickering light had caught his attention at the last meeting and he was paranoid the Grand Magister had noticed.


    Soon, the other members filed in and the Council began.


    As it progressed, Poranus became increasingly unable to comprehend what he was hearing. Bickering over who was sent to the Keeps, politicking to secure more plum roles for this or that family, crackdowns on Slayers within the city. Generic, blase issues that they dealt with every week. After the first hour, he couldn¡¯t stand it anymore and interjected, cutting Magister Anlyn mid sentence.


    ¡°I beg the Council¡¯s pardon,¡± he began, incredulous, ¡°but are we not going to address what we¡¯ve heard from Reynold Keep?¡±


    Grand Magister Tommat knuckled his moustache and stared at him disapprovingly.


    ¡°Where is your decorum, brother?¡± he rumbled. ¡°You have no call to disrupt the important business of the Council with these baseless rumours.¡±


    Herath tugged at his sleeve surreptitiously, but Poranus brushed him off.


    ¡°Anlyn wants to make sure none of the Chirn are sent to supervise the slayers at the new rift in Cragwhistle, and we all know the Council will agree since they¡¯ve been generous with donations lately.¡±


    He glared across the table at Anlyn who just smiled and shrugged.


    ¡°Meanwhile, we¡¯ve had reports of Slayer unrest on the rise for the past four years. Brand activations are at an eighty year high. Eighty years! I only know that because I went into the record books to check! Ever since the Steelarms died, there¡¯s been a steady increase in acts of defiance and it has yet to be mentioned here in Council, once.¡±


    Tommat slammed his fist down on the trouble as he glared at the younger Magister.


    ¡°Do you really think you can sit here and tell this body how to conduct its business? Is it you who chairs this discussion, Magister Poranus? Or do I?¡±


    ¡°You, of course,¡± Poranus said, with no remorse on his face. ¡°I simply submit to the Council that this is an issue worth discussing.¡±


    A ripple of scoffs and dismissive gestures ran around the table.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°The history of the Brand as a method for controlling dangerous individuals in the Empire goes back thousands of years,¡± Tommat stated. ¡°How are your concerns relevant to that sort of timeframe? The Slayers are riled up after two of their most beloved and successful members were forced to sacrifice themselves in such an unfortunate manner. In a few years, they¡¯ll have settled back down again. It isn¡¯t the first or the last time this happened.¡±


    Poranus couldn¡¯t believe his ears.


    ¡°Grand Magister Tommat, this latest incident occurred at Reynold Keep, just south of Kenmor itself! If things are getting that bad so close to the capital, what are they like at Skyice? Or Dustwatch? Or Blackrift?¡±


    Magister Anwyn raised his hand and Tommat nodded his permission to speak.


    ¡°Perhaps we may be able to strike two birds with one stone. Magister Poranus wishes for us to ascertain the extent of Slayer¡­ disruption far from the Capital, and we are in need of a Magister to be posted in Cragwhistle.¡±


    You piece of shit, Poranus raged.


    Grand Magister Tommat nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°This suggestion makes sense. What say you, Magister Poranus? Anything to contribute before I put it to a vote?¡±


    Poranus pushed back his chair as he stood.


    ¡°Don¡¯t bother to vote, I¡¯ll pack immediately.¡±


    He glared across the table at Anwyn.


    ¡°As usual, the actual work of the Magisters will fall to those from the minor families.¡±


    Beside him, Herath sighed and shook his head. Once again, his colleague would suffer for his poor temper.


    Without another word, Poranus turned and stormed out of the chamber, slamming the door behind him.


    That stupid servant better pack his bags. By the gods, I refuse to suffer the freezing cold in the arse end of the Empire while he slobs about in the city.


    ~~~


    Thunder boomed down the side of the Barrier Mountains as dark grey clouds rolled over the cliffs and poured down over the foothills. Cold and sharp, the wind cut like a blade as it whistled through the jagged rocks that thrust upward through the waving grass.


    Elsbeth drew her cloak tight around her shoulders as she glanced worriedly back toward the weary folk who trudged along in her wake.


    ¡°Not far now,¡± she urged them with a wan smile and the closest, Dram, nodded.


    ¡°Thank ye, lass,¡± he muttered, ¡°we¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°Can you follow this path without me leading, Dram? I want to check on the others.¡±


    ¡°O¡¯ course,¡± he said, a little fire sparking in his eyes. ¡°I didn¡¯t come all this way ta fall on me arse now.¡±


    She gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder before she turned and began to walk back down the line. They were a sorry-looking lot, suffering after several long weeks of travel.


    She came upon a mother travelling with her two children, all three looking haggard and worn. As the priestess walked past, the mother reached out to grasp her sleeve.


    ¡°Please priestess, give us a blessing.¡±


    Elsbeth stopped.


    ¡°Are you sure? The children also?¡±


    The woman¡¯s mouth set in a hard line.


    ¡°Yes, if it pleases you.¡±


    Over the years, Elsbeth had learned not to doubt the courage of these folk, even if she questioned their wisdom. It would do no good to argue, and this was what she was here for, was it not?


    Reaching out to the Old Gods wasn¡¯t like casting a spell, she knew that now. Magick was involved¡­ somehow, but what she did still held an element of the time before, when there were no rifts, or kin. She reached deeply inward and found that which connected her to something far greater than she was.


    ¡°The blessing of the Old Gods be upon you. They see you, may you not be found wanting.¡±


    Immediately, the woman stumbled, as if a great weight had settled on her shoulders, similarly the children buckled. Two boys, the oldest no more than twelve, forced themselves back up, their faces determined, though she could easily read the pain in their expression.


    A blessing from the Three¡­. Many wouldn¡¯t even call it a blessing, more like a curse. Attracting the attention of Crone, Raven and Rot meant they would test you, push you. The Old Gods were hard and cold, they helped those who helped themselves. Should this mother and her children push through the oppression that had been placed on them, there was a chance they could gain favour from one or more of the Three.


    They are strong. Watch as they struggle through, she prayed silently in her heart.


    Part of her still yearned to help them, to relieve their burdens, but she had come to terms with her Gods and what they wanted. If she interfered, if she helped them in any way, then the blessing became meaningless. Worse than meaningless, since her help would offend the Three and tempt them to bring calamity on the family, and on herself.


    Many invited the eyes of the Old Gods, and they could never be sure what might happen. There were no rules that they followed, no consistent or safe way to approach them. They may lay a light burden on someone who took their blessing, or they might shatter their heart on the spot.


    Further down the line, a man struggled to keep up, leaning heavily on another next to him.


    ¡°Are you alright?¡± she asked, as she rushed forward.


    Clearly injured, the man grimaced.


    ¡°Not sure I¡¯ll be able to make it, at this rate, Priestess. Would you intercede with the Rotten One for me?¡±


    Another difficult request. Unlike the Goddess, whose houses of healing provided divine comfort to those who arrived as supplicants, Rot was not so giving.


    ¡°There will be a price for any aid given. Are you still willing?¡±


    Grim-faced, he nodded.


    ¡°I am,¡± he said. ¡°Whatever Rot demands, I will pay.¡±


    Again, she reached out through that connection which bound her and the Gods together. Except this time, she reached for one specifically, the Rotten one, and felt the deity assent.


    ¡°Rot infuses you with a portion of his strength. Do not waste it, for the price will be claimed at a later time.¡±


    Almost immediately, the man sucked in a deep breath and clenched his teeth as vitality flooded him. His friend steadied him as he spasmed, the flesh of his leg mending in mere seconds. When it was done, he was dripping sweat and shaking, testing his leg with small, tentative steps.


    ¡°I thank you, priestess,¡± he nodded. ¡°Now I will not be a burden.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± she said, and smiled.


    Who knew what Rot would claim as his price? Perhaps the man would suffer a light fever, and recover after a few days. Or perhaps the leg would be taken with gangrene, and need to be removed entirely.


    Thankfully, there were no others who asked for her care, responding to her soft-spoken inquiries with wan smiles or weary shakes of the head.


    Several hours later, they arrived at their destination. Ortan greeted them at the gate.


    ¡°More?¡± he asked dourly, his face twisted into a frown. ¡°I¡¯m not sure we can take any more, Elsbeth.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what you said last time, and the time before that, and yet still you survive. Even thrive. It¡¯s curious, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Elsbeth put down her pack with a sigh and rubbed her shoulders. Her feet ached something fierce and she desperately needed a bath after two weeks of hard travel.


    Ortan¡¯s frown only deepened.


    ¡°Are you talking about your gods?¡± he grunted. ¡°I¡¯ve not seen any evidence they¡¯re helping us, just flooding us with mouths that we can¡¯t afford to feed.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure they aren¡¯t your gods yet?¡± she asked, half teasing. ¡°Most of the people out here worship the Three, not the Five. It¡¯s not like you can doubt their existence, you¡¯ve seen my work.¡±


    ¡°How can I forget?¡±


    He sighed heavily.


    ¡°Why are they sending all these people here, Elsbeth? I¡¯m more than willing to help people in need, but this is getting out of hand.¡±


    A question he had asked several times before. She didn¡¯t have any new answers for him.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know for sure. They believe this place will be safe, protected by the Necromancer. Some of the other Priests and Priestesses I¡¯ve met think they¡¯re gathering followers for the first time in thousands of years, bringing their people together.¡±


    At her mention of the Necromancer, Ortan¡¯s expression darkened.


    ¡°Nobody believes he¡¯s even alive anymore.¡±


    ¡°Do I take that to mean you¡¯ve finally stopped dropping hints?¡±


    ¡°He is alive.¡±


    ¡°I believe so,¡± Elsbeth said simply, and forcibly changed the subject. ¡°Now come on. Help me get these people something to eat and a place to rest. Unless you intend to leave them outside the gate?¡±


    The big man sighed.


    ¡°No. Bring them in. I think I have a spot I can put them up.¡±

 B3C6 - Fumbling

    Tyron stepped out of the backroom and came face to face with Cerry.


    ¡°Oh, hel -,¡± he began.


    ¡°Oh good goddess!¡± she gasped, a hand flying to her chest. ¡°Master Almsfield? You look like death!¡±


    The Necromancer blinked and noted that his eyelids felt as though they scraped over sand as he did so. He blinked rapidly a few more times, trying to moisten his eyeballs.


    ¡°Do I really look that bad?¡± he croaked.


    ¡°Oh, I wouldn¡¯t say¡­ you look¡­ yes. I¡¯m sorry!¡±


    He waved her apology away.


    ¡°No need to say sorry. I got caught up with a few things. I haven¡¯t slept in¡­. I think¡­ what day is it?¡±


    Cerry stared at him for a long moment.


    ¡°It¡¯s Selene¡¯s day,¡± she said slowly. ¡°I think you might need to have a rest, Master Almsfield. Respectfully.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Tyron said, then paused and really assessed himself. If he were honest, he felt like shit scraped on mouldy bread. Five days without sleep¡­ and he¡¯d been working essentially non-stop. That wasn¡¯t a good habit to fall into.


    ¡°You¡¯re right, I think I will get some sleep. Can you do me a favour and pass these onto Flynn?¡±


    He handed over a case of cores and Cerry took hold of it with wide eyes.


    ¡°Alright, I will!¡±


    She toddled off, the padded box clutched tightly in her hands. Tyron watched her go before he stepped into the backroom once again.


    He should go straight to bed. That¡¯s what he should do¡­. Working any further in his condition invited disaster. He had no reason to be pushing himself this hard. He¡¯d spent years constructing his position so that there was no need for him to furtively experiment in the middle of the night. He had the luxury of being able to take his time, consider his steps, make careful and thoughtful strides in advancing his craft.


    Instead, he¡¯d thrown himself into it like a drunk finding a new bottle, to the point he was barely keeping up with the demands of his shop. If people noticed he was short on goods for sale, they could reasonably be expected to start thinking about what he was doing with his time. Necromancy wouldn¡¯t be their first or even fiftieth guess, but any undue attention at all was to be avoided, no matter the cause.


    ¡°I¡¯ll just take a quick look,¡± he muttered to himself.


    After another five days, the saturation of death magick within the skeletons had become too strong for him to suppress. To even get them to last this long, he¡¯d had to devise a method to draw out and disperse the energy to prevent the bones from assembling themselves into wild undead.


    Between that and working on his lens, there hadn¡¯t been much time for further experimentation.


    As he stepped into the basement, he quickly walked to his bench and picked up the lens. The craftsmanship wasn¡¯t anything special. In truth, the frame he¡¯d installed the glass into was ¡®workmanlike¡¯ and ¡®functional¡¯ if he was being polite, and straight up crude if he wasn¡¯t.


    But the real prize was the glass itself, the enchantments scraped into the cores embedded in each corner. The network of cores embedded into each corner.


    Getting the lens to filter Death Magick so he could see it had been hard enough. Having it focus in and make it easier to see the minute levels of energy he was searching for had been a level beyond. It''d taken him three whole days to crack it, but he was exceptionally pleased with the results.


    Of course, by that time, the level of energy in the bones was quite high and it¡¯d been no trouble at all to see it, but even that inspection had proven fruitful.


    Mapping the movement through the various bones had been an interesting exercise. There was sure to be a reason behind the particular, almost consistent paths the magick took, but he hadn¡¯t been able to divine that. Even more important had been the moment he¡¯d witnessed the transfer of energy with his own eyes, seeing the Death Magick vanish from one skeleton and reappear in another.


    Naturally, he¡¯d known it was happening already, but being able to see it as well as sense it gave him another avenue, another sense he could use to discover how and why it happened. He¡¯d been buzzing ever since and probably spent too long poring over the bones with the lens, examining each and every little detail, even if he was confident they weren¡¯t important or relevant.


    ¡°May as well do another pass,¡± he muttered, as he picked up the lens and began to peer through it.


    He moved slowly about the room, checking each of the slabs carefully, scanning every stone, every cubic metre of space, until he was satisfied no Death aligned Magick remained in his workspace.


    The bones themselves had been too dangerous to keep, so he¡¯d disposed of them the night before. Of course, even dumping them in the sewer wasn¡¯t safe, as the possibility existed they would find a way to pull themselves together, so he¡¯d gone a step further and ground them to powder before tossing them into the sewage.


    With a little luck, those bones were many kilometres away. The sewer connected to the river, after all, and the river went straight to the ocean. His only remaining concern was that no trace of arcane energy remained for a passing Mage to sniff out.


    Measures had been taken to suppress and dampen the emanations of the Magick he performed down here, but nothing was foolproof.


    When he was satisfied nothing remained, he reluctantly put the lens down on his bench and picked up his book of notes, idly flicking through the early pages.


    The feverish scrawl that greeted him brought a smile to his face. When he had just been starting out, every idea he¡¯d had seemed as good as the next. Frequently, he¡¯d found himself chasing multiple hares down multiple burrows, and the scrawl he¡¯d packed onto these pages reflected that. Half-formed ideas, partially baked sigil sequences, one after the next.


    He flipped forward and, gradually, some sort of order began to exert itself. Long hours on the back of that cart, scribbling away in this book, trying to find a way forward, had forced him to be more rigorous and focused. The influence of Dove also helped in that regard. As a person, the Summoner had been careless, frivolous and unreliable, but as a Mage, he had always taken his craft very seriously.


    With a sigh, Tyron put the book down and made his way upstairs, being careful to ensure he wasn¡¯t seen as he emerged from the basement and then went up to his room.


    For now, his experiments would be on hold until he was delivered his next set of remains. It was frustrating, but he needed to be patient. If he dedicated himself to his enchanting work, then he should be able to build up a supply of goods he could draw on when he inevitably lost himself in his research again.


    When he finally collapsed into bed, he was almost instantly asleep, and only awoke twelve hours later, in the dead of the night. He rose, scrubbed and dressed himself before he went hunting for something to eat. He was ravenous, and suddenly couldn¡¯t remember the last time he¡¯d eaten.


    He raided his pantry and found it limited, but devoured whatever he could find. Fed and rested for the first time in almost a week, he decided it was time to sit down and perform the status ritual.


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    Since he¡¯d resumed his Necromantic activities, he hadn¡¯t checked his progress, so he hoped to see some gains in the key areas he was trying to develop.


    Despite it being the depths of the night and the shop being locked up, he wasn¡¯t comfortable performing the ritual outside of the basement. He walked through the empty store, taking note of the immaculate conditions his employees had left it in.


    I really need to be a little more careful¡­.


    Less reputable people could have robbed the place blind, given his erratic schedule and infrequent appearances. Leaving Cerry to lock up the store every night, a young girl who hadn¡¯t even Awakened, seemed like putting a little too much on her shoulders.


    Once in the basement, he grabbed a fresh piece of paper, nicked a small cut in his thumb and pressed it to the page.


    Soon enough, the familiar text began to appear as his blood crept over the page. He leaned forward eagerly to see what progress he¡¯d made.


    His eyes ran down the page until he found what he¡¯d been hoping to see.


    Your use of and experimentation with Corpse Appraisal has raised proficiency. Corpse Appraisal has reached level 14.


    He¡¯d hoped for two levels, but he would settle for one. That meant the things he¡¯d learned likely had practical applications. He simply had to discover what they were.


    Interestingly, there was another payoff as well.


    Your use and exploration of Death Magick has raised proficiency. Advanced Death Magick has reached level 13.


    More good news. His experimentation with the lens and observation of death aligned energy in the bones seemed to have taught him something. Hopefully after the next set of remains, he could push both of these Skills higher.


    Only when he was confident he was on track to reach level twenty in each would he begin to work on Corpse Preparation.


    Several of his Enchanting Skills had also progressed due to his new and innovative application in developing tools. A welcome development, since they were notoriously hard to advance.


    Name: Tyron Steelarm.


    Age: 22


    Race: Human (Level 19)


    Class:


    Undead Weaver (Level 36)


    Sub-Classes:


    <ul>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Forbidden One (Level 24) </li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</li>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">None (Locked)</li>


    </ul>


    Racial Feats:


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    Feat Selections Available: 1


    Attributes:


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Strength:


    </td>


    <td>


    38


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Dexterity:


    </td>


    <td>


    99


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Constitution:


    </td>


    <td>


    122


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Intelligence:


    </td>


    <td>


    237


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Wisdom:


    </td>


    <td>


    156


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Willpower:


    </td>


    <td>


    110


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Charisma:


    </td>


    <td>


    43


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Manipulation:


    </td>


    <td>


    59


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Poise:


    </td>


    <td>


    59


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    General Skills:


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 4)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Engraving (Level 5)(Max)


    Skill Selections Available: 4


    Necromancer Skills:


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 14)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 13)


    Advanced Death Magick (Level 13)


    Bone Mending (Level 8)


    Minion Commander (Level 6)


    Undead Control (Level 4)


    Minion Modification (Level 5)


    Bone-Soul Melding (Level 5)


    Bone Weapon Sculpting (Bow) (Level 4)


    Death Infusion (Level 1)


    Anathema Skills:


    Abyss Tongue (Level 4)


    Arcanist Skills:


    Expert Magick Scripting (Level 29)


    Channelling (Level 10)(Max)


    Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 15)


    Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 14)


    Expert Network Formation (Level 23)


    Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 17)


    Advanced Core Sense (Level 15)


    Expert Power Control (Level 24)


    General Spells:


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)


    Necromancer Spells:


    Raise Dead (Level 14)


    Bone Animus (Level 14)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 6)


    Shivering Curse (Level 6)


    Death Blades (Level 7)


    Empowered Bone Armour (Level 5)


    Minion Sight (Level 6)


    Spirit Binding (Level 3)


    Death¡¯s Grasp (Level 5)


    Anathema Spells:


    Pierce the Veil (Level 5)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 4)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    Suppress Mind (Level 10)(Max)


    Repository (Level 6)


    Fear (Level 3)


    Glamour (Level 10)(Max)


    Invasive Persuasion (Level 10)(Max)


    Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 1)


    Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)


    Necromancer Feats:


    Skeleton Focus II


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery


    Spirit Mastery


    Undead Specialist


    Anathema Feats:


    Repository


    Wall of Thought II


    Drain Life


    Arcanist Feats


    Magick Thread Control II


    Compact Sigils II


    Conduit Seal II


    Core Networking II


    Mysteries:


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Advanced): WIS +20 CHA +20

 B3C7 - A Visit

    ¡°Couple of quick things,¡± Tyron announced as the staff gathered inside the shop prior to opening. ¡°First, I¡¯m going to be taking a trip out of the city, starting next week. I¡¯ll be gone for approximately six days. That means you and I are going to be extremely busy making sure our storeroom is filled with stock, Flynn.¡±


    ¡°Not a problem, Master Almsfield. I¡¯m not afraid of hard work.¡±


    ¡°Just make sure you let me know if you¡¯re getting too tired to work accurately,¡± Tyron reminded him sternly. ¡°I applaud your enthusiasm, but sloppy work, I do not.¡±


    The apprentice hesitated a moment before he nodded.


    ¡°Secondly, Cerry, this will mainly impact you. So far, you¡¯ve been responsible for opening and locking the store every day, and you¡¯ve been faultless at performing this task, even when I¡¯m not around. I want to commend you on your dedication and professionalism, wonderful traits to have in someone so young. Even after you awaken, I want you to know you¡¯ll always be welcome to work here in this shop.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll want a raise. though,¡± the young woman smiled, full of pride at the praise she had received.


    ¡°After some consideration, however, I¡¯ve decided I have been irresponsible in entrusting this work to someone so young. There is a lot of money and valuables kept in this store. and I would hate it if you were attacked by someone wanting to get inside.¡±


    Cerry went to protest but Tyron held up his hand firmly.


    ¡°I know what you want to say, and as I said a moment ago, you have done excellent work and I couldn¡¯t have asked any more of you, but I refuse to allow this job to put you in any danger. I have contracted another party who will be responsible for opening and closing the shop each day.¡±


    He raised his voice.


    ¡°Come inside.¡±


    The front door opened with a ring of the bell attached to the frame and a woman clad in hardened leather armour stepped inside, a broad smile on her face.


    ¡°Hello all,¡± she said in a friendly tone. ¡°Nice to meet you.¡±


    ¡°This is Wansa, a silver ranked slayer who¡¯s decided to settle in the city for the time being. I¡¯ve brought her on at the recommendation of people I trust, and I hope you can all work together.¡±


    The three of them each said they could, some with more enthusiasm than others. Wansa continued to smile broadly, Cerry looked a little sullen and Flynn still looked a little dazed at Tyron¡¯s rebuke.


    He sighed.


    ¡°Wansa, find a spot to make yourself comfortable, but please don¡¯t interfere with Cerry as she works the floor and handles transactions. Flynn, let¡¯s get upstairs and get to it. I¡¯ve ordered quadruple of our normal shipment of goods this week, and I intend that the cores be carved and set before seven days are done.¡±


    Apprentice Flynn swallowed and nodded heavily.


    ¡°Of course, Master Almsfield.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Still alive there, Flynn?¡±


    The apprentice raised his head from his workstation, red-rimmed eyes staring back at Tyron with barely a flicker of life in them. He could almost picture the young Arcanist as a zombie.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, Master Almsfield, just fine,¡± he wheezed.


    ¡°Did you manage to get those cores set last night?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I did.¡±


    ¡°Great work. This is the last of them then.¡±


    Tyron lifted the heavy case in his hands, filled with another hundred newly completed cores, and placed it carefully on the cluttered bench. Flynn looked as if he might cry.


    ¡°Go home and get some sleep, Apprentice Rivner,¡± Tyron told him firmly. ¡°You can take your time with these. As long as they get done by the time I return, I¡¯ll be more than satisfied.¡±


    ¡°A-are you sure?¡±


    Caught between exhaustion and his desire to keep up, Flynn wavered between a determined expression and a look that seemed as if he were sleeping sitting up.


    ¡°You¡¯ve worked extremely hard this past week, much more than normal, and your output has been quality. I¡¯ve no complaints. Go. Home.¡±


    ¡°Right you are then, Master Almsfield. I-I¡¯ll just¡­ head on home.¡±


    Although he wobbled a bit when he stood from his chair, Flynn was able to make it downstairs alright, though Tyron was still concerned.


    ¡°Cerry, I¡¯ll watch the store for a bit, can you make sure apprentice Rivner gets home safely? I have pushed him too hard over the past week and he¡¯s not all too steady.¡±


    The young girl lowered her head and busied herself with shifting a few items back and forth before she drew a deep breath and turned around.


    ¡°I¡¯d be happy to,¡± she beamed. ¡°Come on, Flynn, let¡¯s get going.¡±


    Despite his mumbled protests, Cerry took hold of one of his arms and practically dragged him out of the store. For his part, Tyron stretched his back and flexed his fingers, listening to them pop with satisfaction.


    ¡°Those two are sweet on each other, you know that right?¡± Wansa said from her post near the door.


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°They are?¡±


    He¡¯d not noticed any signs, the two seemed perfectly natural around each other. Or perhaps that was the sign? A casual, comfortable working relationship was all he thought had developed between the two. Was that unusual between two people of that age?


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure why you keep the two of them around in the first place,¡± Wansa said. ¡°My mistress could replace them in a day with much¡ªerk!¡±


    The moment she said mistress, the Necromancer''s fingers had flashed through a sequence of sigils and he slammed his mind into hers. It¡¯d become far too easy over the years, to dominate the will of others in this manner. If only it weren¡¯t so necessary.


    He glared at the slayer, whose blank eyes stared at nothing.


    ¡°What did I tell you about mentioning your mistress?¡± he hissed. ¡°Or anything to do with them?¡±


    With a contemptuous snort he released his grip on her and the woman slumped forward, gasping.


    ¡°You are here because your mistress owes me, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you can be trusted. And you can be trusted, can¡¯t you Wansa?¡±


    She glared back at him.


    ¡°Or should I have a word, a little chat, with your precious mistress? I don¡¯t think she¡¯d like what I had to say. She may be quite mad at you, perhaps even abandon you. What would that be like, to never feel the touch of your mistress again?¡±


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    Wansa whimpered. The anger in her eyes immediately crumbled, replaced with desperate, naked fear.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be quiet,¡± she breathed. ¡°I won¡¯t mention it again. You have my word.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    He turned his back on her and returned to the counter, leaving Wansa to collect herself. Once a proud slayer who had fought for years at Undermist Keep, she had been reduced to her current state after becoming entangled with Yor and her coven.


    Able to reduce even relatively strong slayers like Wansa to quivering addicts, the methods of the vampires were powerful, but distasteful to Tyron. Yor looked at Wansa as a capable servant, fully able to utilise her mind and abilities, whilst being totally dependent. Tyron only saw a weak, trembling wreck. Emotional, unstable, and ultimately not to be depended on, these enslaved humans were a stopgap solution at best. He would rather have an undead by his side, every time.


    Still, she was a much needed layer of security, and was utterly loyal to her mistress, to the point of insanity. No doubt she was reporting everything he did to Yor, but he could live with that. It wasn¡¯t as if he did much in the shop other than work anyway. But she could never be allowed to compromise his cover.


    Cerry and Flynn gave him an added veneer of authenticity. An unawakened youth was the traditional salesperson of choice for those businesses who wanted to appear trustworthy. Customers could shop confident in the knowledge they weren¡¯t being manipulated by merchant skills or feats. Having an established apprentice like Flynn in his shop gave another layer, another connection to the trade and city at large. Replacing them with more bewitched slaves of the coven would not help him in any regard.


    He breathed out and let the tension drain from him. With no customers in the store, he pulled out the account books and began to go through them line by line. Just as he had for his uncle Worthy so long ago, Tyron found it strangely soothing to work through the numbers. Cerry kept a good record of each transaction, but her arithmetic wasn¡¯t perfect, and he made corrections here and there.


    All in all, the store continued to be very profitable. In any enchanting work, the cores were always the greatest expense, but limiting himself to the smaller grades, usually used for light, weak power cores, producing a little warmth and other such applications, saved him an immense amount of money.


    Compared to the vast sums of money master Willhem made on a daily basis, Tyron was living in poverty, but he had more than enough to fund his activities. With the added funds he earned from his share in Yor¡¯s business, he was on his way to becoming genuinely wealthy.


    He drew no pleasure from it; all he needed was enough to fund the resources he required to fulfil his purpose.


    Cerry arrived back at the shop a half hour later, and Tyron took a few minutes to point out the errors she had made and let her know he had secured the safe in the backroom for the duration of his trip.


    With that done, he went to his room and stretched his back and shoulders once more. A week solid of relentless enchanting work was nothing to him; after three years straight of endless grinding in his apprenticeship, he felt like he was only getting started.


    Barring any unexpected surges in demand, the store should be stocked for the next month, which would leave him plenty of time to complete his excursion and then research on his next set of remains. With the amount of time he¡¯d bought himself, he should be able to research while maintaining a relatively normal sleep schedule. How luxurious.


    Still, there was little point in wasting any time. He stalked around his room, swiftly packed a small travel pack and set out. Just outside the western gate that led into Kenmor, a huge network of coaches and stables could be found just off the main road, which thronged with traffic at all hours of the day.


    Once there, he paid handsomely for a coach, climbed into the back and settled down to sleep. It would take almost three days to reach his destination, travelling around the clock. If possible, he¡¯d like to avoid having to make this sojourn to the backcountry, but there were obligations he had to meet.


    ~~~


    The carriage had been rattling over a rough section of dirt road for several hours, and Tyron was half certain his teeth were going to shatter if he didn¡¯t get some relief. At least he was sure they were approaching their destination.


    He¡¯d paid for speed, a classed Wagoneer who could get the absolute most out of the horses he worked with, but perhaps he should have also sprung for a more padded coach. Something to consider next time, or perhaps he was just getting soft and should try to toughen himself up.


    Soon, the coach began to slow until it finally came to a stop, the horses huffing and whinnying with relief.


    ¡°Here you are, sir,¡± the wagoneer, Eric, called.


    Tyron grabbed his pack and opened the door, alighting to the ground with one wobbly step.


    ¡°Thank you, Eric. It¡¯s a rough journey and I thank you for persisting.¡±


    The middle-aged, stubble-faced man grinned wearily.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m paid for, sir. How long until we head back?¡±


    ¡°A little under a day at most, twelve hours at the minimum.¡±


    ¡°Well then, with your permission, I¡¯ll grab myself a bite to eat, something to drink, take a piss and get some sleep.¡±


    ¡°By all means. If you head to that house over there, they¡¯ll accommodate you.¡±


    ¡°Thank ee, sir.¡±


    As the man trudged off, clearly fatigued, Tyron took a deep breath of the fresh air.


    Still smells like shit. Yet somehow, still better than the city.


    As much as Kenmor had invested in sewers and sanitation, having so many people packed into such a small space was an impossible situation to manage. Shadetown stank even in the best areas, and the city itself was only marginally better. At least, outside of the Golden district and Castle.


    Before him stood several large farmhouse buildings made from cut stone. Centuries old, the stone had a light covering of lichen and moss, as well as a few climbing vines that lent a sense of age to the place.


    ¡°Master Almsfield,¡± a voice greeted him and he turned to see Rita Oldan approaching.


    In her finely made clothing, the farmwife looked more like a prosperous merchant than a person of the land, though her thunderous expression betrayed her less than genteel temperament.


    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± she said in clipped tones as she drew closer. ¡°We expected you two weeks past.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been occupied,¡± Tyron replied coldly.


    If he¡¯d left the corpses sitting in his basement for two weeks, they¡¯d have saturated well before he could begin to work on them. Meeting the deadlines of his collaborators was secondary to advancing his own craft.


    ¡°They don¡¯t care how occupied you are. You¡¯re to meet your end of the agreement.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here, aren¡¯t I? If I arrive according to my own timetable rather than yours, that is something you will simply have to deal with.¡±


    She scowled at him.


    ¡°You may as well let your real face show. Your man is going to be fast asleep in five minutes.¡±


    ¡°I will drop my glamour,¡± Tyron said firmly, ¡°when I am out of sight, and not before.¡±


    Why was everyone he had to work with so stupid?


    Rita snorted.


    ¡°You¡¯re on the Ortan estate. We¡¯re two days from the nearest city and an hour to the nearest farm. You¡¯re as secure as you can possibly be out here.¡±


    She turned to lead him to one of the buildings and paused after three steps when he didn¡¯t follow.


    ¡°I want to go into the basement.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve kept the Venerable waiting long enough,¡± she grated.


    ¡°The old goat isn¡¯t going anywhere. I¡¯ll be there in ten minutes.¡±


    ¡°By Rot, your disrespect will come back to haunt you one day, Steelarm.¡±


    Anger flashed in Tyron¡¯s eyes at the use of his name, but he suppressed it.


    ¡°Basement,¡± he said.


    Mrs Ortan was furious, but she acquiesced, as he knew she must. A few minutes later, she withdrew a long key from her pocket and used it to remove the heavy padlock from the cellar door.


    ¡°I won¡¯t be long,¡± he said, as he ducked his head and walked down the narrow steps into the darkness.


    Conjuring a magick globe, he extended his senses to check on his wardings. When he found them intact and undisturbed, he nodded with satisfaction. One couldn¡¯t be too careful.


    A few keyphrases and a little sigil work later, he stood in a long, narrow chamber, the air heavy with dust and mildew. He empowered his globe, chasing back the shadows to reveal the contents of the cellar.


    At the back, row after row of skeletons, the light in their eyes so dim as to be reduced to a bare spark, almost impossible to see. Almost fifty in total, as there had been the last time he was here. He briefly inspected them, ensuring their condition hadn¡¯t deteriorated, before he turned to the shelf that ran down the left side of the room.


    Stones of irregular shapes and sizes rested there, each engrained with a symbol. Moving down the chamber, he ran his hands along each of the stones, ensuring that each was in its proper place, until he came to the one at the end.


    This one, he picked up and placed carefully in the centre of the dust-covered stone floor. He stood over it for a moment, contemplating, before his hands began to move, fingers flickering through a rapid series of sigils.


    When he was done, mist began to rise from the stone, forming a cloud of chilling white right in front of him. From within the haze, a wailing, defeated voice emanated.


    Let me die, Rufus begged.


    Tyron stood coldly, staring at the trapped spirit. One corner of his mouth lifted the smallest fraction.


    ¡°No,¡± he said.

 B3C8 - Factions

    ¡°I apologise for keeping you waiting, Venerable,¡± Tyron said as he bowed his head.


    A wheezing cackle came from the emaciated figure sat on the large wooden throne at the back of the room.


    ¡°No you don¡¯t,¡± the old man rasped. ¡°You couldn¡¯t give a shit. But that¡¯s fine, I don¡¯t think the three of them care much either.¡±


    He waved a lazy hand up toward the three figures carved and hung on the wall above his head. The two-faced lady, the storm-eyed bird, the withered tree. Crone, Raven and Rot.


    Tyron eyed the three of them, trying to conceal his distaste. He had never forgiven the Old Gods for attempting to force his submission, and had been leery of them ever since. Which had led to some¡­ difficulties, when it came to fulfilling the terms of his advanced sub-class.


    ¡°It¡¯s not like they can¡¯t see what you¡¯re up to,¡± the venerable said, his voice so thin it was barely above a whisper. ¡°Despite your attempts to conceal yourself from their eyes.¡±


    For a moment, the old man lifted his brows to reveal eyes filled with lightning. Tyron averted his gaze and shifted uncomfortably. The venerable chuckled and let his wrinkled brow sink low once again.


    ¡°Thrice-blessed venerable, I¡¯ve come to hear the word of the Three and fulfil the terms of our agreement. What do the Old Gods have to say?¡±


    After a short silence, the old man wheezed a shallow laugh that quickly turned into a fit of coughing. When he was done, the venerable lifted himself on shaking arms so thin he appeared almost skeletal. He reached out to take hold of his staff and leaned heavily on it as he walked.


    ¡°Come on, you little shit,¡± he rasped, ¡°I want to go outside.¡±


    ¡°A-are you sure that¡¯s wise?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been blessed by three gods as old as this damned realm. You think you can tell me what¡¯s wise? You still stink of your mother¡¯s tit.¡±


    Tyron ground his teeth and reined in the flash of anger that threatened to choke him. Despite his fragility, there likely wasn¡¯t anything he could do to this decrepit old man, and the venerable knew it.


    Besides, he had no idea how old this geezer was. The venerable might be a hundred, or a thousand for all he knew. Apparently, he¡¯d lived here on the Oldan estate since it was established, which was at least two hundred years, but despite his best efforts, he¡¯d uncovered absolutely no information about him. As far as public records went, the man didn¡¯t exist, nor did any rumour of his existence.


    ¡°Come and help me, disrespectful brat,¡± the venerable grumbled and Tyron forced himself to take him gently by the shoulder, supporting him as he made his way through the house.


    ¡°Venerable?¡± Rita said as she caught sight of them, her eyes widening with alarm, ¡°are you well?¡±


    ¡°Just getting a little fresh air, my dear,¡± he replied. ¡°Young master Steelarm will assist me, no need to worry yourself.¡±


    She hesitated, eyes flickering to Tyron and back.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course,¡± he waved her off with a stick-thin arm. ¡°Be at ease, girl.¡±


    She was likely forty years old, but looking as he did, he could call her a toddler and get away with it.


    When they reached the outside, the old man stepped blinking into the sunlight, raising his head to the warmth of the light. A few wisps of hair still clung to his skull, reminding Tyron of the stubborn grasses he¡¯d seen on the Barrier mountains, rooted into the bare, unforgiving stone.


    ¡°You¡¯re thinking disrespectfully,¡± the old man noted querulously. ¡°Stop it, and help me over to that rock. That one gets the most sun.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    When he finally got situated, the venerable lowered himself with a sigh and pulled his loose fitting robes a little tighter around his shoulders.


    ¡°Gets a bit too cold for my old bones this far north,¡± he said. ¡°I lived close to the desert in my youth, and sometimes, I feel like I never adapted. The chill gets right through me.¡±


    There¡¯s not a lot it has to get through, Tyron noted, but kept his mouth shut.


    ¡°What do you think the Old Gods are?¡± the venerable asked suddenly, and Tyron suppressed a sigh.


    Every time he came up here, he was forced into discussion about the Three that he simply had no interest in.


    ¡°Ancient creatures of immense power and malevolent nature,¡± he answered honestly.


    The venerable chuckled.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t all that wrong, really. The Three are pricks. You hear me up there?! Pricks!¡±


    He raised his staff and waggled it weakly at the sky.


    ¡°But of course they seem like arseholes to us. How nice are you to ants? Or worms? They were born along with this realm, far before humans, or the dust folk came here. It belongs to them far more than it belongs to us.¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t defend it, so they lost their claim,¡± Tyron shrugged. ¡°If they want to control the realm, then they need to get up and do something about it.¡±


    The motivations of the Three were difficult for him to understand. It seemed like they wanted things, but weren¡¯t willing to exert any of their massive power or influence to get it. Even their followers seemed mad to him. They begged for an intercession that may harm far more than it helped, what was the point?


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    ¡°You think of them as if they were logical actors,¡± the venerable noted. Once again, he revealed his lightning-filled gaze. ¡°That is a mistake.¡±


    Tyron nodded, chastened.


    ¡°Crone, Raven and Rot. They feel no desire to be understood by the likes of you, no need to be comprehended. They will do whatever the fuck they want, and there isn¡¯t a damn thing every living creature clung to this fracturing rock can do about it. And who knows? Perhaps their actions are perfectly logical, from their perspective.¡±


    Tyron doubted it.


    ¡°You little shit,¡± the venerable wheezed a chuckle. ¡°I can read your thoughts on your face, plain as day. Let me ask you this, are you a multi-dimensional force of nature?¡±


    ¡°... No.¡±


    ¡°Then you have a fart¡¯s chance in a fireplace of figuring out what those three pricks want or need.¡±


    It was a valid point, and something for Tyron to consider. The venerable shifted on his rock and gazed out over the rolling hills. South lay Kenmor, in all its glory, and to the north west was Nortwatch, and beyond them Blackrift and Undermist Keeps. It was green here, warmer than it was further west. Perfect farming country.


    ¡°You¡¯ve found more success with the vampires because you find you can understand them better. They¡¯re transactional, they were once humans, they think much the same way you do, except on a much longer timescale.¡±


    The venerable nodded to himself.


    ¡°But it¡¯s an illusion. In reality, you don¡¯t understand them, or what they truly want. They are able to pretend they were human, they remember what it was like, some of them at least, but it isn¡¯t genuine. They are dead, with a heart that beats for nothing and no-one. If you depend on them too much, they will draw you in and bleed you dry.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m being careful,¡± Tyron said stiffly.


    ¡°Bullshit,¡± the venerable snorted and extended one gnarled, pointed finger towards his face. ¡°You lean on them for everything and rush to do their bidding to repay the favour. You aren¡¯t safe from them. The only thing that can protect you from the Dark Ones, is another of those powers.¡±


    ¡°So you want me to lean on you, instead? I don¡¯t trust the Three, and I¡¯m not sure that I ever will. Even the Abyss hasn¡¯t tried to suppress my will and dominate my mind.¡±


    ¡°No, but they will try and drink your soul if you aren¡¯t careful. Those secrets you chase are expensive, and it will lure you deeper every time you have a question. Am I wrong?¡±


    He wasn¡¯t. The few times he had called on the Abyss over the past few years had been tantalising, hints of knowledge and mastery that he yearned for, but wasn¡¯t granted. Each time, he was asked to step further into the void to get what he wanted.


    ¡°You chose to serve three masters,¡± the venerable noted, ¡°because you thought the only way to survive was to play one against the other. As good a strategy as any, I suppose, but it¡¯s not going to fucking work when you ignore one of the masters entirely.¡±


    After a moment of hesitation, Tyron nodded reluctantly. It was true. He was getting too deep with the Court, too comfortable calling on them for favours and paying the prices they demanded. For now, they wanted resources, influence, but soon, they would begin to ask for more, ask for things he wasn¡¯t so willing to part with.


    ¡°What do they want?¡± he finally said.


    The venerable chuckled, then coughed and hacked before spitting up a hunk of phlegm.


    ¡°Hak! Ah, that¡¯s better. They want a few things, since they¡¯ve been waiting so long. They want to speak to you themselves, which will mean enacting the ritual you¡¯ve avoided for so long. For everything else, they will send an intermediary to work with you more closely. Can¡¯t expect you to go gallivanting to the forest everytime they want a word.¡±


    The Necromancer clenched his teeth, but released them slowly. He didn¡¯t have good memories of that place, and he certainly didn¡¯t want some idiot priest poking their nose around his business and risk exposing him.


    ¡°I have a need for discretion,¡± he ground out.


    ¡°You think us followers of the Three don¡¯t? You idiot. Ever seen what happens when they find us? It isn¡¯t pretty. Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯ll be careful. The Old Gods might not give a shit, but we do.¡±


    The old man reached around and scratched his backside before he sighed.


    ¡°I¡¯m done. Can you go tell Rita to bring me a blanket? Then you can fuck off.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Tyron said sourly. ¡°Don¡¯t die on me before I get back.¡±


    Low cackling followed him into the house as Tyron found the owner. There was still time before he had to travel back to the city. He stepped outside and oriented himself before he began to trek east, toward the mist-covered woods that bordered the property in the distance and spread toward the horizon.


    It¡¯d been too long since he¡¯d cleaned the grave.


    ~~~


    Filetta smiled at him as he emerged from the shadows in the sewer. It was a smile he didn¡¯t much like. Predatory, like Yor¡¯s often was, but also playful. Like a cat staring at a bird.


    ¡°Elten,¡± she purred, ¡°how lovely to see you again.¡±


    Tyron suppressed a sigh.


    ¡°The pleasure is mine,¡± he executed a short bow and the woman¡¯s eyes glowed with delight.


    She really was desperate for a taste of good manners.


    ¡°Another twenty of Kenmor¡¯s finest corpses,¡± she said, gesturing for her men to step forward. One by one, they lay their burdens down on the grating, tightly wrapped linen bundles of two corpses each.


    ¡°Excellent,¡± he breathed.


    The first set had proven to be extremely fruitful for his research, but had only opened his eyes to possibilities. He had so much follow up work to do before he could confirm any of it.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen someone so pleased to see a corpse,¡± Filetta observed, a slight smile tugging at her lips. ¡°Let alone this many.¡±


    Tyron stepped forward and passed her the purse directly.


    ¡°Your payment.¡±


    Even more than before, her eyes gleamed at the sight of gold.


    ¡°And I presume you want the same again next month?¡± she said.


    ¡°I do.¡±


    He hesitated a moment.


    ¡°I¡­ would also like to enquire about an additional transaction.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Her eager gaze flicked to his as she wet her lips. ¡°And what might you be looking for?¡±


    ¡°Bones.¡±


    ¡°Bones?¡±


    She glanced down at the corpses.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you have enough¡­ bones, already?¡±


    He shook his head.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°What sort of bones would you require?¡± she asked, curious.


    ¡°Human. In decent condition, not crumbling, not splintered, preferably.¡±


    ¡°Hmmm,¡± she considered for a moment, eyeing him. ¡°I believe we can do this. But I would like to have another meeting in which we discuss the price and time of delivery.¡±


    That was reasonable.


    ¡°Shall we say, here, same time, in a week?¡±


    She frowned.


    ¡°No, nooo. That won¡¯t do at all. Let us say, tomorrow, at the evening bell, in the Golden Gateway.¡±


    If he wasn¡¯t mistaken¡­


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that a restaurant in the city?¡±


    She smiled at him, again, part predator, part play.


    ¡°Why yes, yes it is.¡±

 B3C9 - Dangerous Mix

    Once the bodies were safely stowed in his study, Tyron took a moment to think about Filetta¡¯s proposition. She wanted them to discuss the sale of bones at an upmarket eatery inside the walls? It didn¡¯t seem altogether prudent, in fact, it seemed like out and out madness, but she wasn¡¯t to be dissuaded.


    At least he would be able to appear with his Elten face and not his Lukas one. Detaching the entrepreneurial enchanter from any criminal enterprise was of utmost importance, and if he were honest, he didn¡¯t want to spend any more time in Filetta¡¯s presence than he absolutely had to.


    But he did need bones.


    He was able to craft bows and arrows from them already, it shouldn¡¯t be too hard to work out how to make swords and axes given the knowledge he possessed. If he could figure that out, he¡¯d save himself valuable Skill selections and save a fortune in outfitting his minions.


    I need to test how well bone adapts to enchantments as a material, he thought to himself. If it¡¯s better than metal, that would be an unexpected plus.


    Getting a random mix of bones should be much easier than sourcing whole, intact skeletons, so hopefully, they wouldn¡¯t gouge him too much. They may be useful for practising his threading technique also, another core skill he needed to work on.


    With a shake of his head, he pushed any thought of the upcoming¡­ discussion from his mind. He¡¯d been waiting two weeks for more materials to work with, and he¡¯d be damned if he¡¯d waste the opportunity in front of him.


    After the butchering and disposal was complete, Tyron began to study the remains in detail. He took his enchanted glass (he really needed to come up with a name for it) in both hands, and began to pass it over the bones.


    About the size of a large dinner plate, the lens didn¡¯t allow him to see through it in the traditional sense. When he stared at it, what he saw was the tiny threads of death magick within the bones, rather than the bones themselves.


    It was fascinating to see the process of saturation so early in its cycle. A healthy, living person contained not a trace of death magick in them, and nor did a terminally ill one, he¡¯d checked. Only after a person died did their body begin to take in ambient magick and transform its attribute. Slowly, over time, the process accelerated, saturating the bones fully and giving rise to wild undead. Though this didn¡¯t occur in all places. Some locations, it seemed, were more conducive to the formation of death magick than others.


    Most gravesites, for example, were selected with this in mind, and built in places where the dead wouldn¡¯t stir. Though people had to be careful. If they buried too many in too short a span, that could give rise to undead.


    Tyron thought that phenomenon was due to the newly dead being more capable of forming links with each other, thereby sharing and multiplying the death energy they contained.


    For this reason, most of the deceased in Kenmor were cremated. Though there were many private plots outside of the city, and very few, very exclusive ones within.


    He moved from one slab to the next, carefully annotating the progress of the saturation in each, and once again set his silver wire experiment. If he could identify which were more capable of sharing energy from their saturation growth, then he wouldn¡¯t need to use the wire at all in future.


    For the next step, he approached a heavy sack he¡¯d slung in one corner and opened it, removing a handful of the fine crystals within. He let them trail through his fingers before he fetched a heavy leather glove.


    Bone Salt, this substance was called, though it didn¡¯t really relate to bones, or affect them at all, which was why he wanted it. Merchants in the core trade used it when they bought fresh cores from slayer expeditions to clean them. By rubbing the core with the alchemical salt, a reaction would occur between organic matter and the gem, removing any blood, ichor or grime that remained.


    Merchants, and more importantly, Arcanists, did not like to work with filth-encrusted cores.


    As he understood it, the Bone Salt shouldn¡¯t react to his own living flesh, but he didn¡¯t want to chance it and lose a hand. He hauled the sack to the middle of the room, removed a handful and began rubbing down each of the skeletons, one by one.


    It was a painstaking process, given the absurd number of bones in the human body. Two hundred and six bones, for twenty skeletons, turned out to be a lot of bones. He wasn¡¯t too fussed with the smaller ones, rather he wanted to make sure the larger bones were scrubbed clean.


    The hypothesis went, that by removing any trace of flesh and blood, the skeletons would make better¡­ skeletons. Either the threading would take better to the bones, or the Raise Dead spell would perform better, or the death magick would accumulate faster inside the bones if there weren¡¯t superfluous matter around.


    He left five skeletons untouched by the salt as a control group, keen to see the differences between them. Careful observation over the next few days would hopefully teach him a great deal.


    Unwilling to test too many ideas at once, he reluctantly let his efforts rest there and turned his attention to other matters he could spend his time on. The Raise Dead ritual. The cornerstone of the Necromantic arts. As his last feat selection, he had raised the level cap on this ritual yet again, and he was determined to reach it before he achieved level forty.


    It would be a difficult thing to achieve, he gained levels as an Undead Weaver for advancing his craft as well as for using it. Even if he created no minions at all, simply learning and discovering enough to reach his goals may bring him to the advancement. Hopefully not.


    Opening his old notes, he began to pore through them, taking what he thought was valuable and discarding the rest as he began to compile a new base from which he could build his understanding of this complex piece of magick.


    Since those early days, his knowledge of conduits in particular had expanded dramatically, and those early writings appeared exceedingly amateurish in his eyes. What he could construct now, compared to back then, would be a difference of night and day. If done correctly, he could reduce energy waste between himself and his minions by nearly half compared to what it had been before.


    Engrossed in the work, he lost track of time until after lunch the following day.


    ~~~


    ¡°Shit, shit, shit!¡± he muttered as he stormed down the streets of Kenmor.


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    Between his examination of the remains and the sigilwork he¡¯d been doing, reconstructing the conduit magick in Raise Dead from the ground up, he¡¯d completely forgotten about his meeting with Filetta until it was almost too late.


    He¡¯d been so flustered, he¡¯d almost emerged from the sewers wearing the wrong face!


    I should have worked out a spot where I could switch identities outside of my own home without arousing suspicion¡­. I could have gone to Yor¡¯s¡­.


    A dangerous thought, one he pushed away as soon as it intruded. The venerable hadn¡¯t been wrong when he said Tyron had turned to the coven far too easily. This was something he could solve himself, without bartering or favours, so he should.


    His backup plan had been to emerge from the sewer in a neglected part of town, then head to a clothier for a new set of clothes, and then to an inn equipped with bath facilities to get rid of the stink.


    When he emerged, Elten had never looked better, in a fine set of pants with an elegant robe layered over his silk shirt. Freshly tubbed and scrubbed, Tyron felt more refreshed than he had in years and made a mental note to schedule a regular wash as part of his routine.


    He¡¯d been getting by with soap and cold water for too long. A little civilisation might do him some good.


    All of his preparations took time, however, and the evening bell rang across the city just as he arrived outside the Golden Gateway.


    An opulent building, to say the least. The entire facing was formed of cut marble, with decorative carvings and statues lining the street outside. A line of people, dressed far more finely than he, waited in line, perfuming themselves and fluttering fans as they gossiped and laughed in the cooling air.


    Somewhat hesitant, and unwilling to be late, he approached the oversized gentleman at the door, who immediately frowned at him.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to see Filetta?¡± he said, hopefully.


    ¡°Get to the back o¡ªFiletta, you say? Would you be Mr Elten?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I am.¡±


    ¡°Step right through, sir.¡±


    Under the envious gazes of those still in line, Tyron stepped inside, only to be whisked to a private dining room before he could acclimate himself. He got half an impression of ornate flower arrangements and gleaming silverware before he was sat at a table across from Filetta, who looked¡­ different¡­ than what he was accustomed to.


    ¡°You scrubbed up pretty well, Elten,¡± she smirked, taking a sip of dark, red wine and eyeing him over the rim.


    The Necromancer shifted uncomfortably.


    ¡°Ah, thank you. You as well,¡± he said.


    This was a profoundly uncomfortable environment for him, though he tried not to let it show.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never eaten here before,¡± he said. ¡°I wasn¡¯t quite sure what to expect. I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m a little underdressed.¡±


    Filetta herself was stunning in a tight-fitting green dress that left her shoulders bare, her dark red hair tied up with curls hanging loose behind her ears.


    He¡¯d not realised she had red hair¡­ it was too dark in the sewer to notice, or perhaps he hadn¡¯t been paying enough attention.


    You idiot, that¡¯s not her real face. She can change the colour of her hair just as easily as you can.


    ¡°You probably didn¡¯t expect the thief you do business with to eat in such an upmarket place,¡± she smiled as she said it.


    Tyron winced.


    ¡°Not to worry,¡± she assured him with a wink, ¡°our privacy is assured here. This place has close ties to my kind of people, if you take my meaning.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± he noted.


    She must have noticed something in his expression, and she chuckled lightly, swirling the wine in her glass before draining it.


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing you didn¡¯t expect we would meet somewhere like this? You probably expected something a little more¡­ rustic?¡±


    He nodded, seeing no reason to mince words.


    ¡°I did. Going from our¡­ previous place of business¡­ to this,¡± he gestured around the spacious and meticulously appointed room, ¡°is something of a shock.¡±


    Filetta grinned.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have much reason to come here, most of the time. In my line of work, I deal with sailors, thugs and petty crooks more often than not. It¡¯s nice to have an excuse to bring a client out here. I enjoy a taste of the finer things every now and again.¡±


    ¡°And I presume you would rather wait to talk business?¡±


    She smiled again, that slow, predatory smile.


    ¡°I would.¡±


    Tyron settled back in his seat with a sigh. Although this was a pleasant environment, and though he may be reluctant to say it, the company was stimulating, a part of him was still back in his study, calculating and taking notes. Filetta clearly appeared interested in him, even he could see that much, though he was utterly unable to determine if those intentions were sincere.


    The entirety of his romantic experience could be summed up with a childhood crush on Elsbeth that had never gone anywhere.


    How was he supposed to act in this situation? He had no idea.


    ¡°I had you pegged as a thinker,¡± Filetta said, and he jerked his gaze back to hers and found her laughing silently. ¡°You were a million kilometres away the second I said you¡¯d have to wait.¡±


    That¡¯d been rude of him.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯m not very accustomed to¡­¡± he waved a vague hand, ¡°... this.¡±


    She nodded sympathetically.


    ¡°You¡¯re a virgin?¡± she enquired, arching one brow.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he nodded.


    Filetta blinked, then laughed, her hand slamming into the table.


    ¡°Usually, men are far more embarrassed to make a revelation such as that,¡± she chuckled, her eyes dancing with mirth.


    ¡°I hardly think lying would have done me any good. I¡¯m not the best of actors,¡± he pointed out.


    ¡°No, no. I¡¯m starting to get a better sense of who you are.¡±


    She eyed him, with interest.


    ¡°You¡¯re not the social type, you¡¯re a thinker, a little awkward, but there¡¯s a fire burning in you just below the surface that just¡­¡± she shivered, ¡°... warms me up inside. So let me be blunt, because I think that¡¯s the kind of approach you will appreciate the most.¡±


    Thank the gods, Tyron thought.


    Filetta placed her hands flat on the table and stared him directly in the eye.


    ¡°As you are well aware, Filetta is not my real name and this is not my real face. The same is true for you. I like this arrangement, it creates a separation, a sense of distance, of mystery, if you will. Secondly, I sense an air of danger around you, an intensity that I find fascinating. I have no interest in learning more about what you do, or why you do it, I have a different purpose entirely in mind.¡±


    She leaned forward, and Tyron leaned forward also as she stared straight into his eyes, her expression serious.


    ¡°I want to fuck,¡± she said, and leaned back.


    Tyron blinked¡­ several times. She watched him carefully as she poured herself another glass of wine.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ direct,¡± he said. Then he frowned, ¡°and unwise.¡±


    ¡°It is, both of those things. But I know that you will agree. I have a surefire method of persuasion that works on people like you.¡±


    He couldn¡¯t imagine that would be the case, but something else bothered him.


    ¡°Why?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I find you fascinating, and I have an unhealthy interest in dangerous people. For some reason I can¡¯t quite figure out, I feel you are very dangerous.¡±


    ¡°And why would I agree?¡±


    She pouted at him. He rolled his eyes.


    ¡°You¡¯re lovely, of course, but entangling myself with a member of a criminal enterprise seems excessively foolish.¡±


    ¡°Because,¡± she purred, ¡°you¡¯re having trouble raising your race levels to twenty.¡±


    Shit.


    Filetta grinned and raised her glass.


    ¡°What¡¯s your Constitution score like?¡± she asked.


    He stared at her with hooded eyes.


    ¡°High.¡±

 B3C10 - Being Human

    Tyron stalked through his lab, unsure how to feel as he checked on his experiments and scribbled down measurements in his notes.  It was promising to note that his tests had been progressing in line with his expectations. Either he was lucky, or he was on the right track.


    The work he¡¯d done on the Raise Dead spellform had come a long way as well. In another few days, he would have completed his reconstruction of the conduit magick built into the ritual and already he was confident it would be a dramatic improvement.


    An interesting wrinkle was that the bones he had scrubbed clean of any flesh and blood were accruing Death Magick faster than those without. Did the flesh and bone interfere with each other? Or did the decaying strips of matter take in some of the energy, slowing the absorption rate of the bones?


    Probably the latter, since a zombie had death attuned energy in its flesh and bones. Although¡­ far more in the flesh. Another thing for him to investigate.


    No, his successful experiments and developing research weren¡¯t what was irritating him, but rather his encounter with Filetta two days prior.


    Against his better judgement, he had agreed to her suggestion and he wasn¡¯t sure if he was annoyed at himself for going along with it, or with her for the fact that it had worked. To gain race levels as a human wasn¡¯t an overly complex process, one had to form meaningful relationships and interact with others. Humans were, by and large, a very social race, more prone to collective action than other, longer lived species.


    That was fine for most people, but for Tyron? He¡¯d always found it difficult to trust others, or engage with them on a level playing field, a trait that had grown infinitely worse after his parents had died. Though he had made attempts to form friendships, such as his association with Vic, but with the many layers of deception placed between himself and others, a true connection was almost impossible to form. As such, he had stagnated, the coveted third class slot just out of his reach, which he needed, since one of his options had been taken by the trio of Dark Ones.


    Filetta had proposed a dramatic solution to his problem. It wasn¡¯t necessary to engage in a sexual relationship to level as a human, far from it, but as a method to break down his barriers and get closer to him, it had been scarily effective.


    And that irritated him.


    Was that all it took to get through to him? Paradoxically, the success of the measure only made him more insecure. When the status ritual had confirmed he had gained a race level, his heart had tried to leap and sink at the same time.


    He needed the race levels, but he did not welcome emotional attachment. Not now, not with everything he was trying to achieve.


    Surrounded by the dead and darkness within the basement, Tyron sighed. In the corner, he had stashed the bag of bones he¡¯d collected from Filetta¡¯s goons the previous day. He was yet to start work on them. Perhaps when he was done with his current set of remains, he would get to work attempting to shape swords, spears and shields to equip his minions, but for now¡­


    With an irritated grunt, he pushed his notes away and rubbed at his temples. This wasn¡¯t as productive as it should be, he was distracted. Perhaps if he took a little time to clear his head¡­


    Taking his usual precautions, the Necromancer emerged from below ground and moved surreptitiously through the store, aiming to creep upstairs. Some rest, a bit of food and water, would surely screw his head back on right.


    As he placed his foot on the first step, he noticed an unusual atmosphere within the store. It was quiet, but more than that, it felt tense. Confused, he backed up and walked around to poke his head through the door to view the shop floor.


    Cerry stood, as usual, behind the desk, a forced smile on her face as she fidgeted nervously with the hem of her dress. Wansa sat in her customary place by the door, though her normal, relaxed posture was nowhere to be found. Instead, she was tense, a hand on her weapon as she eyed the lone figure moving amongst the merchandise.


    Tyron¡¯s breath caught in his throat and Cerry noticed him, rushing forward and clutching at his sleeve.


    ¡°Master Almsfield,¡± she whispered urgently, ¡°they came in a few minutes ago and the place emptied out in seconds. What do you want us to do? Wansa could kick them out, but I wasn¡¯t sure if you were happy to sell to¡­ them.¡±


    Dust Folk.


    This one appeared just as he had read they would, covered from head to toe in thick, rough wraps, stitched with their own iconography. To his magickal senses, they pulsed with a strange and alien energy, something he hadn¡¯t experienced before.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Cerry. I¡¯ll talk to them myself.¡±


    The girl sagged with relief before she moved back to her post, appearing far more comfortable now that he had stepped in. With a gesture, he indicated to Wansa to calm down before he moved around the desk and approached the stranger himself.


    ¡°Welcome,¡± he said, speaking a little slowly and enunciating carefully. ¡°This is Almsfield Enchantments and I am Master Almsfield. How can I help you?¡±


    The covered figure turned toward him and he found it disconcerting to be face to face with someone who revealed nothing of their features.


    ¡°Fear not, human, I speak your tongue. Do not address me as one of your mewling, little¡­ squishy things. I forget this word¡­ the helpless ones.¡±


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°Child? Or children?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that one. I am not one of your soggy-bottomed children. I speak clearly, yes?¡±


    ¡°You speak our tongue very well.¡±


    ¡°Yes. See. I have to learn, to trade for tribe. Still, it is difficult to buy when so many are unwilling to sell. Are you willing to sell?¡±


    The voice was like nothing Tyron had ever heard. There was a rustling, like sand sliding down a dune, every time they spoke.


    ¡°I am indeed willing to sell,¡± he affirmed, and he heard Cerry peep somewhere behind him.


    ¡°That is¡­ unexpected. But good! Yes. There isn¡¯t many who will sell your enchanted trinkets to my people.¡±


    ¡°They are probably willing, but unlikely to do so where others can see,¡± Tyron noted dryly. ¡°I¡¯m more open-minded, but even so, conducting our business away from prying eyes will be better for both of us.¡±


    ¡°What kind of eyes?¡±


    ¡°... Where people can¡¯t see us. If you wouldn¡¯t mind stepping into the backroom, we can discuss what you need?¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes.¡±


    Tyron led the wrapped figure by Cerry, who trembled on the spot, and into the room in which most of the setting was done. A flat wooden table with several seats could be found there, and he invited his customer to sit.


    ¡°Is there a name I should address you by?¡±


    ¡°Kash. Humans and their names. Call me, Shadda, yes.¡±


    ¡°Would you care for any food or drink before we discuss your needs?¡±


    Shadda slashed the air with one hand in refusal.


    ¡°No. It is Al¡¯hakash. Forbidden.¡±


    ¡°I apologise, no offence was meant.¡±


    Tyron seated himself, trying not to let his eagerness show.


    ¡°So, what are you looking to purchase?¡±


    ¡°Filters, coolers, ovens, purifiers, water sources. Yes. Many water sources.¡±


    Tyron had no doubt of that. The desert to the south in which the Dust Folk made their homes was unimaginably dry, to the point that water enchantments would break down due to prolonged exposure to such conditions.


    ¡°You¡¯ll need to be specific about the requirements for each of those,¡± Tyron noted with a frown. ¡°Almsfield Enchantments specialises in affordable, efficient, low-power options. If you want something stronger, I¡¯ll need to make it custom for you.¡±


    ¡°I noticed your prices, and the cores you use. Frugal? Is this the word, yes? I like this. My people like to make much with little. I have the requirements written in your tongue.¡±


    Shadda reached within their wraps, loosing one strand with a finger, sliding it in and withdrawing a flat, folded piece of worn parchment.


    As he reached out to take it, Tyron noticed sand trickling from the page onto his table.


    The writing was rough, but legible, and he ran his eyes down the specifics. It was clear that whatever group or tribe Shadda came from weren¡¯t overflowing with resources. None of the enchantments they were asking for were the best available, or even close.


    ¡°I can give you what you need. Much of this I have in stock, although if you are willing to wait, I can produce superior versions that should exceed your requirements.¡±


    With not even their eyes exposed, it was impossible to read Shadda¡¯s expression, but he could tell they were interested.


    ¡°Why would you do this? I will not pay more than is written, yes? I cannot, since I do not have more.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not an issue. There are things I am interested in more than money¡­.¡±


    This was a delicate moment. How to broach this issue?


    He rose and approached the door, making sure Cerry wasn¡¯t listening on the other side before he closed it again softly. He turned to see Shadda had risen from their seat, arms folded across their chest.


    ¡°What deviant things are you planning? Shadda will have no part in them!¡±


    Tyron blinked.


    ¡°What? No! Please be seated! My interest is in magick. Restricted magick. I didn¡¯t want to be overheard.¡±


    ¡°Magick?¡± Shaddah said doubtfully, still postured defensively.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Tyron slapped a hand to his face as he sat down again. ¡°Magick. There¡¯s a particular type of magick that is much more common in your lands than mine. I am interested in securing knowledge rather than more money.¡±


    ¡°I can be discrete, yes? However, this request is difficult, depending on what you ask for. My people will share some things willingly, others¡­ not so much.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m mainly interested in construct magick. Your people are known to be incredibly resourceful when it comes to this particular branch of enchanting and crafting.¡±


    As much as he wanted to come out and ask for spellbooks and forms related to Necromancy directly, he didn¡¯t want anything to tie Lukas Almsfield to the undead. Not even loosely.


    Shadda folded their arms and leaned back in their chair.


    ¡°This¡­ will be difficult. Some things, yes? Some things can be shared, but others? Kash. No. But Shadda can not say yes or no. It is not for me, yes?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine. I¡¯ll complete this transaction for you, as I said, at no extra price. The next time you need to restock, bring back whatever you can. Based on what you have, we¡¯ll see what else I can do for you.¡±


    ¡°I agree,¡± Shadda pronounced, before they bowed their head over the table. ¡°Chan¡¯rela. This is pleasing. This trade will be good for my people.¡±


    ¡°I hope it is profitable for both of us,¡± Tyron smiled.


    If he could get his hands on something useful from the Dust Folk, it would be another avenue for him to improve his craft. In the desert, they used a number of different constructs, including undead ones, to perform tasks in the scorching heat. Constructs didn¡¯t need to drink, or eat, they didn¡¯t care about the sand winds which cut flesh like paper.


    Tyron stood.


    ¡°If you return here in two days¡¯ time, I¡¯ll have everything ready for you. If you could do me a favour, though, please arrive after the store closes. It will be easier for both of us if you draw less attention.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Shadda waved a hand, ¡°I am used to this. I thank you.¡±


    Without another word, the wrapped figure rose and strode from the store. The Necromancer blew out a breath, before he strode back into the store.


    ¡°Our client will be back after the store closes in two days, Cerry.¡±


    He looked her in the eye.


    ¡°I hope that isn¡¯t an issue.¡±


    She looked like she wanted to say something, but held her tongue.


    And just like that, he¡¯d taken on even more work. To deliver on what he had promised, he would need to alter his normal patterns, which meant design work would be necessary. He couldn¡¯t leave this to Flynn.


    He stretched and cracked his fingers. It would be a long couple of nights.

 B3C11 - High Society

    ¡°Vic, I haven¡¯t slept in two days, I¡¯m going to need you to use plain language, for a change.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s difficult. The exalted blood within my veins demands I speak in as roundabout terms as possible.¡±


    ¡°What exalted blood? Your dad is a merchant and your mother is a jeweller. You''re as noble as I am.¡±


    ¡°As much as the Almsfield name rings throughout the land, there is a key difference between our families. Mine is exceptionally wealthy.¡±


    ¡°Get to the fucking point, Vic,¡± Tyron dragged a hand down his face. ¡°I¡¯m tired and I¡¯m not in the mood for your delusions of grandeur.¡±


    The Necromancer had been engaged in a frenzy of work since his unexpected visit from Shadda. Completing the order had required a furious pace of activity, but doing so while upkeeping his experiments had been exhausting. Luckily, the task had been completed on time and the delighted Dust Folk had departed back to the desert with the goods in tow only hours before Vic had arrived and begun pounding on his door.


    ¡°You wound me. I haven¡¯t visited you in weeks and this is the welcome I get?¡±


    ¡°This welcome is about to get a lot less friendly,¡± Tyron glared.


    The guard behind Master Willhem¡¯s apprentice stepped forward, a frown on his face, only for Tyron to turn his stare in his direction.


    ¡°At least welcome me inside, damnit,¡± Vic sighed. ¡°It¡¯s getting cold out here and I¡¯m worried I¡¯ll get murdered.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re perfectly safe, you coward.¡±


    Nevertheless, he stepped aside and allowed his associate into the store.


    ¡°Looks like business has been ticking along nicely,¡± the Arcanist observed as he walked between the glass cases of displayed wares, noting the various ¡®sold out¡¯ items. ¡°Perhaps you weren¡¯t as crazy as I thought you were when you opened this place.¡±


    ¡°Come on, Vic, please get to the point. I¡¯m not kidding when I tell you I¡¯m exhausted. Another time, I would love to invite you in for tea and biscuits, but I¡¯ve just filled a big order and I need some fucking sleep. Out with it.¡±


    The well-dressed apprentice sighed and pouted.


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    He reached into his coat, frowned, fumbled at several pockets before he smiled and withdrew a sealed envelope. With a small flourish, he presented it to his friend, who took it with a weary expression plastered on his face.


    ¡°The Lady Shan is throwing a ball tomorrow evening and I not only have an invitation, but have also been given the privilege of granting an additional seat at the table. Naturally, I thought immediately of you, my dear friend, to take advantage of this rare opportunity.¡±


    ¡°Master Willhem pulled out at the last minute, didn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°... I mean¡­ what are you¡­ I would never¡­ yes.¡±


    Tyron barked out a laugh.


    ¡°Still trying to curry favour with the Master, Vic? You should know by now he doesn¡¯t care for this stuff,¡± he slapped a hand against the envelope which surely contained an invitation. ¡°If you want his favour, then work harder. Enchantments are all that man cares about.¡±


    ¡°It was worth a shot,¡± Vic shrugged, a sly smile on his face. ¡°Although, I must admit, I didn¡¯t think he would accept in the first place. When he did agree, I certainly never imagined he would withdraw at the last second. So, to try and stave off embarrassment, I am forced to lure the Master¡¯s favourite apprentice in his stead.¡±


    ¡°Who is going to be at this thing?¡±


    ¡°Why, an esteemed gathering of rising young entrepreneurs, along with a cadre of Lady Shan''s close friends and allies amongst her peers.¡±


    The apprentice waggled his brows suggestively.


    ¡°A chance to rub elbows with the nobles is worth its weight in gold. You may thank me now.¡±


    Tyron just stared at him, disbelief plastered on his face.


    ¡°You invited Master Willhem to a gathering of young aristocrats?¡±


    Victor¡¯s smile slipped.


    ¡°Well¡­ perhaps I didn¡¯t think it all the way through. Never mind. The details are on the invitation, make sure you aren¡¯t late, or early.¡±


    He began to collect himself and head to the door before Tyron could object.


    ¡°Make sure you wear something worthy of the event. Don¡¯t embarrass me. Look dashing, but reserved, arcane. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll be thrilled to meet someone the old goat actually approved of.¡±


    ¡°Wait a second¨CVic?¡±


    ¡°Oh, and don¡¯t forget your plus one. Everyone is expected to bring a partner. Except me. I¡¯m escorting Lady Shan for the evening.¡±


    Victor radiated concentrated smug energy as he stepped out of the store, his guard shadowing him closely.


    ¡°See you tomorrow, my friend!¡±


    And with a cheery wave, he was gone into the night, leaving Tyron standing on his own doorstep, filled with weary frustration.


    ¡°Well, shit.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Stop fussing,¡± Yor scolded him.


    ¡°I hate these stupid robes. Who could possibly have worn something this unwieldy?¡±


    ¡°This is a type of formal robe that was popular in my Mistress¡¯s realm. Several thousand years ago.¡±


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°And you just had one on hand?¡±


    ¡°You should be grateful, not bothering me with this nattering. Now sit still.¡±


    The carriage continued to roll smoothly along the road as the vampire reached across and settled the complex layers in an esoteric pattern that eventually materialised into an elegant formation.


    She sat back with a look of satisfaction on her pale features. Yor herself was dressed flawlessly in a flowing gown, scarlet, of course, her hair bound in intricate curls and flowed down the nape of her neck. A picture of deadly perfection.


    ¡°This was a bad idea,¡± Tyron groaned, not for the first time.


    ¡°Nonsense. To decline this invitation would be suspicious. Craftsmen of your status would murder their families for the chance to forge ties with the nobility. Not to mention, inviting me has more than made up for your recent dependance on us.¡±


    ¡°I expect the ledger to be squared,¡± Tyron glared. ¡°You promised knowledge, I would have it supplied.¡±


    The vampire smiled, blood red lips peeling back to reveal her fangs.


    ¡°No need to be so forceful. You will have it. Along with these.¡±


    She reached down to the carriage seat beside her and lifted an ornate, palm-sized box. She undid the latch and lifted the lid, presenting the contents to Tyron. Inside nestled five gem-like ovals gleaming with red light, each the size of a fingernail.


    The Necromancer frowned, but reached to take the case regardless.


    ¡°Five at once. That is¡­ unusually generous,¡± he remarked. ¡°Should I be worried about your intentions tonight?¡±


    ¡°Calm yourself. I will behave. Indeed, I do not need to do much other than present myself.¡± She arched an elegant brow. ¡°The young lords and ladies will come running to me for a deeper taste.¡±


    She was probably right. Sculpted by blood magick, she was a picture of perfection, beautiful to the point of fantasy. Even Tyron found it difficult to take his eyes away from her at times, and he knew full well what she was.


    ¡°It¡¯s almost depressing how effective a weapon appearance can be,¡± he said.


    She laughed throatily and he suppressed the stirring of his blood. For some reason, his recent¡­ experience made it even more difficult for him to remain calm in her presence.


    ¡°No time like the present,¡± he muttered, mainly to distract himself, and withdrew the case again, removing one capsule and placing it in his mouth. With a sharp crack, he bit down, releasing the gleaming fluid contained within.


    The moment he swallowed, he felt the burning in his veins and hissed against the pain. Soon, it withdrew, leaving an echo of fire that continued to flow just below his skin. When he recovered, he fumbled for the capsule he had brought for the night and slotted it into the now open groove in the case.


    Yor watched the process through hooded eyes, a slight smile twisting her lips.


    ~~~


    ¡°Invitation,¡± the guard spoke gruffly as he extended an armoured hand.


    With what little grace he could muster, Tyron withdrew the envelope from his sleeve and presented it. The document was inspected carefully by eye before a crystal was waved over it, then inspected again. Finally, the guard nodded his approval.


    ¡°Welcome Mister Almsfield, and guest. Before you enter, a mandatory status check is required. I thank you for your cooperation.¡±


    ¡°Not a problem,¡± he remarked stepping forward and presenting his right hand, palm up.


    With care, the guard accepted a silver needle from another behind him and pricked Tyron, then Yor on the pad of their middle finger. The two of them were presented with a page of creamy paper and he almost rolled his eyes at the waste before he caught himself.


    The two of them enacted the ritual, waiting as their blood flowed over the page, forming the words and numbers that made up their status. These pages were again inspected carefully, then subjected to arcane inspection via the crystal before the guard nodded.


    ¡°Welcome to the Shan estate, Mister Almsfield, Miss Kiris.¡±


    The guard stepped back from the carriage and as he did so, the other dozen stepped back with him, lowering their weapons as the gate slid open to allow them passage inside.


    ¡°Kiris?¡± he asked as he pushed down the nervousness he felt.


    ¡°It¡¯s a word from my native tongue,¡± she mused. ¡°I¡¯ve been feeling nostalgic lately.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing it means ¡®blood¡¯.¡±


    She turned to him slowly.


    ¡°Why would you think that?¡±


    ¡°Because, at the end of the day, that¡¯s all you care or think about.¡±


    The vampire sniffed daintily.


    ¡°A small price to pay for immortality. Are you sure you aren¡¯t tempted? Eternal life has many benefits.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, thank you,¡± he replied dryly.


    When they alighted from the carriage, it was difficult for Tyron not to grimace. The structure before them was an abomination, an exercise in opulence. Fountains hovered overhead, drizzling water down into verdant gardens of exotic flowers as paintings formed of bent light glittered on either side of the path.


    The residence itself was enormous, a towering edifice of radiant, golden stone and coloured crystal, studded with glowing orbs that ensured no part of it would ever be hidden in shadow.


    For one family to command this much space, inside the Castle District no less.


    Tyron did his best to ignore the gigantic fortress that loomed to his right, dominating the skyline. The weight of it felt as if it pressed down on him every time he caught a glimpse in the corner of his eye.


    ¡°Lukas! There you are!¡±


    Victor stepped from a small gathering outside the ballroom door, waving. Rather than his normal apprentice robes, he was dressed in an impeccable suit, his long, dark hair pulled back and tied in a neat tail that trailed down between his shoulders.


    ¡°You¡¯re looking very dignified there, friend, and I see you managed to find a¨Choly shit!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± Tyron frowned.


    His friend gaped like a fish for a moment before he recovered himself with a strangled cough. Cheeks flushed, Victor appeared to struggle to tear his eyes away from Yor with a mighty effort.


    ¡°I see¡­ you found¡­ a date,¡± he managed to grind out.


    Fucking vampires. This is so pitifully easy for them, Tyron thought, not for the first time.


    ¡°This is a friend and business associate of mine, Yorin Kiris. Yor, this is my¡­ friend, and an apprentice of Master Willhem, Victor Tarkyn.¡±


    ¡°A pleasure,¡± she said before dipping into a flawless curtsy.


    As she dipped, Victor¡¯s eyes flicked to her bosom and appeared arrested there. Tyron decided to step in and save him, placing himself between the vampire and the apprentice.


    ¡°You may want to ensure your eyes stay glued to Lady Shan tonight, Vic,¡± he murmured quietly in his friend¡¯s ear. ¡°This is a big opportunity for you, right?¡±


    Victor closed his eyes and nodded slowly.


    ¡°You¡¯re right, I apologise.¡±


    He resolutely turned his back on Yor and marched away, though he walked a little stiffly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you inside,¡± he called over his shoulder. ¡°They¡¯re opening the ballroom in five minutes.¡±


    Tyron waved back before he eyed the various small gatherings scattered around the garden. Murmured conversations and laughter filled the air, dim forms drifted amongst the shadows arm in arm with heads bent together in conversation.


    I hate this.


    An arm slipped around his own and he found Yor at his side, watching the knots of people like a wolf eyeing sheep.


    ¡°What did you say to your friend?¡± she asked pointedly.


    ¡°Nothing. Just¡­ try not to entangle him. He¡¯s accompanying the host tonight and if he goes mooning after you, he¡¯ll probably be found dead in the morning.¡±


    Yor rolled her eyes.


    ¡°I know who he is. I know who all of these people are.¡±


    She licked her lips slowly.


    ¡°There¡¯s more interesting prey here than your little friend, of that, I can assure you.¡±


    Tyron rolled his shoulders uncomfortably.


    ¡°Well, try to exercise some restraint,¡± he said.


    ¡°Not for me,¡± she grinned like a beast. ¡°For you. Did you know that Lady Jana Shan¡¯s older brother will be in attendance? The young Lord Regis Shan is a trainee Magister. Isn¡¯t that interesting?¡±


    Tyron stiffened.


    ¡°Yes. Yes it is.¡±

 B3C12 - High Society pt 2

    The inside of the ballroom was an even more opulent display of wealth. Floating chandeliers drifted overhead, made of concentric rings, each rotating a different direction and speed than the one before. Enchanted gems hovered around these lights, sending glittering beams of fractured light around the room that rippled off crystal pillars, creating patterns that played across the fountains that poured down the walls and ran into a stream beneath their feet.


    Birds formed of mist swooped and coasted high overhead amongst the beams that supported the vaulted ceiling, which was itself concealed behind a magickal cloud.


    Guards in ornate armour lined the walls and manned every entrance and exit, their decorated, gleaming weapons no less effective for the ostentation. Each one would be at least level forty, the rank of a Silver slayer, and capable of slicing Tyron in half with a single blow.


    Around the outside of the room, long tables groaned with food, meats, cakes, pies of all kinds and varieties, each one more over-decorated than the last. When he spotted the six-tiered cake that dominated the central table at the head of the ballroom, covered top to bottom in a perfectly realistic image of who he presumed was Lady Shan, he almost groaned at the absurdity of it all.


    Then the cake winked at him.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Yor hissed under her breath.


    ¡°They enchanted the cake decoration,¡± he managed to choke out, sounding strangled.


    She flicked her eyes to the object in question then back to him in a second.


    ¡°Such a simple thing,¡± she sniffed. ¡°I don¡¯t see why you¡¯re so upset.¡±


    He wanted to launch into a detailed explanation of the amount of time and effort that would go into such a pointless waste, but then he remembered who he was talking to.


    ¡°I suppose this is all rather ho-hum compared to the soirees they throw at the Court?¡± he sighed.


    The vampire''s eyes gleamed with hunger.


    ¡°I attended Lord Virek¡¯s ball twenty years ago. We arrived at his castle by gondola, traversing a canal filled with fresh blood.¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t¡­ wouldn¡¯t the blood clot?¡±


    She looked at him as if he were an idiot. He rolled his eyes and nodded.


    ¡°Blood magick. Right.¡±


    Still seems like a stupid waste. You were boating on your own food? What¡¯s the human equivalent? Sailing a lake of gravy? What¡¯s the point?


    Despite his misgivings, he knew the point. This was all a display, a show of wealth and power designed to impress on the guests the strength of House Shan.


    As he took in the scene, and the many attendees, drifting from conversation to conversation, laughing and gossiping amongst each other, he felt strongly just how much he disliked it. Much as his parents had.


    Not once or twice, but many times had Magnin Steelarm impressed on his son just how much he detested gatherings such as these.


    ¡°Waste of my time,¡± he would groan. ¡°Being locked in a bright, shiny cage with a bunch of puffy birds is still being locked in a cage. You wouldn¡¯t believe how much we were able to charge them to attend these things.¡±


    He shook his head, shaggy black hair swaying around his face.


    ¡°Your mother liked the food, but eventually I had to say I was done with it. I¡¯d rather eat your mother¡¯s cooking off the campfire. Though don¡¯t tell her I said that.¡±


    ¡°Wipe that expression off your face,¡± Yor discreetly jabbed him in the side with a sharp elbow. ¡°You either look bored out of mind or as if you want to murder these people. Neither is a good look to have. Master yourself.¡±


    With a grunt, Tyron mastered his expression and forced the memories and the emotion they carried away.


    ¡°I apologise. I¡¯ll be focused from this point forward.¡±


    ¡°See that you are. This is an opportunity that you may not see again. Networking is the entire point behind these events, though youthful indulgence and play is also encouraged,¡± she flicked her eyes toward an amorous couple in the shadows at the back of the ballroom, being a little more friendly than was strictly appropriate. ¡°No doubt the Shan¡¯s were elated to have an opportunity to meet with the premier enchanter in the city, but when he couldn¡¯t attend, your invitation was vetted, of that I am certain. You wouldn¡¯t be here unless someone wanted to meet you.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± he shrugged his shoulders, feeling awkward in his many-layered robes, ¡°what do we do?¡±


    Yor rolled her eyes.


    ¡°We talk, to people. You aren¡¯t so socially inept as this, I know you aren¡¯t. Do your best to appear wise beyond your years, the robes should help with that, and try to smell like money.¡±


    ¡°Smell. Like money.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but not current money, future money.¡±


    ¡°That makes a lot of sense.¡±


    ¡°Hush. Now lead me around the ballroom, I need to be seen.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    Doing his best to mask his emotions, Tyron allowed Yor to take him by the arm and led her to a small group talking near the centre of the ballroom. Unsure what to expect, he was surprised to see that most weren¡¯t as young as he suspected, but likely closer to himself in age. They easily made way and allowed the new pair to join their circle, bringing them into the conversation with ease.


    ¡°Master Almsfield, a pleasure to meet such an accomplished young craftsman,¡± a dashing gentleman extended a calloused hand, a swordsman perhaps.


    ¡°The pleasure is mine,¡± Tyron replied.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    ¡°And who is this charming young lady accompanying you?¡± the swordsman said, eyes sliding toward Yor, a warm smile on his face.


    Of course.


    ¡°This is a business associate and friend, Yorin Kiris, owner and operator of the Red Pavilion.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I have heard a lot about this establishment,¡± a young aristocratic lady tittered.


    ¡°Most of it good, I hope?¡± Yor purred.


    ¡°Oh!¡± the lady blushed. ¡°Ah. Y-yes. It has become very popular¡­ amongst the Slayers.¡±


    ¡°I would love to cultivate a more genteel clientele, but it is so difficult to provide services that will suit every customer. The Slayers like their entertainment¡­ rough, which is not suited to a more elegant customer.¡±


    Further blushes and abashed glances fluttered around the group and Tyron felt as if Yor¡¯s work was already done for the evening. Just like that, they had been hooked. The swordsman looked like he was about to offer to duel Tyron there and then for the privilege of keeping her company for the evening.


    With what grace he could muster, Tyron excused them from the group and moved to the next.


    In this manner, they drifted from one group to another. He tactfully avoided bringing Yor to the group Lady Shan was in, lest Victor let his control slip in front of the hostess.


    Pleasantries were exchanged, people enquired as to how prosperous his business was and the health of Master Willhem, to which he managed courteous replies. His guest didn¡¯t speak much, she didn¡¯t need to, but he was grateful she was able to show a little more restraint as the evening wore on.


    ¡°Over there,¡± Yor nudged him in the side, ¡°that¡¯s young Magister Shan. In the group by the ice sculpture.¡±


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    ¡°The swan.¡±


    ¡°Not the sculpture, which person?¡±


    ¡°The one in the red robes,¡± she rolled her eyes. ¡°You don¡¯t see the family resemblance?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re in the shadows, I can¡¯t see in the dark.¡±


    ¡°Poor mortal¡­.¡±


    Attempting to appear casual, he began to shift them in that direction, but found his work was done for him when another young gentleman noticed him and exclaimed: ¡°Ah! Master Almsfield, I was hoping to speak to you tonight. If you have a moment?¡±


    Yor shot him a significant look and Tyron schooled his features as he stepped into the circle of conversation.


    ¡°Lukas Almsfield, at your service,¡± he performed a short bow and introduced his associate, who drew all eyes for a moment.


    ¡°Yes¡­ yes! As I was saying, I¡¯d hoped to have a moment to chat with you. But where are my manners! I am Lord Ammos Greyling. It¡¯s a privilege to meet someone as young and accomplished as you.¡±


    ¡°Ammos, who is this commoner?¡± Magister Shan spoke with a barely concealed sneer. ¡°Is this who you requested we invite?¡±


    Ammos Greyling appeared to be slightly older than Tyron, perhaps twenty-five, tall, with blonde hair and an easy-going smile on his face. He turned to Regis without missing a beat.


    ¡°Of course! As you know, the commoner, Master Willhem, the most respected and successful Arcanist in the province, was expected to attend, and I¡¯m certain you hadn¡¯t objected to his presence?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Regis rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Well now, are you also aware of just how many of his many apprentices have received his personal endorsement over the years?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    He spoke the word curtly, but there was a hint of interest in the trainee-magister¡¯s eyes now.


    ¡°Two,¡± Ammos grinned. ¡°Just two. The first was¨C¡±


    ¡°Annita Halfshard.¡±


    ¡°... Right! And the second is this young man in front of you. Impressive, no? Of course I had to meet him!¡±


    With the objections dealt with, Ammos turned back to Tyron with a flourish.


    ¡°You may or may not be aware, but your senior apprentice, Annita, exclusively does commission work for the noble houses, so we are all familiar with her incredible skills.¡±


    Tyron bowed once again.


    ¡°It¡¯s an honour to be mentioned alongside such luminaries as Master Willhem and Master Halfshard. I still have a long road before I can compare my abilities to theirs.¡±


    ¡°Is it true that your primary Class isn¡¯t Arcanist?¡± Ammos asked, leaning in, eyes wide.


    A little confused, Tyron nodded.


    ¡°That¡¯s right. I took it up as a secondary.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating! What do you say, Regis? Are you impressed now?¡±


    It appeared as if he may indeed be a little intrigued. At least his sneer had dissipated as he examined Tyron head to toe with an evaluating gaze.


    For his part, the Necromancer tried to keep his eyes on Ammos. Standing this close to a Magister was a gust of oxygen onto the ever-burning embers of rage in his chest. Internally, he fought to contain it as he carried on the conversation.


    ¡°Unfortunately, unlike my Master and Master Halfshard, I have directed my expertise in other areas, so it¡¯s unlikely I¡¯ll be able to service the great houses in the same manner.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard something of this,¡± Ammos noted, green eyes twinkling. ¡°You opened your shop in Shadetown, of all places. Quite the scandal!¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Is it really? Master Willhem was more than willing to attend the opening and place his plaque on the store.¡±


    ¡°That was the scandal! Imagine that old fusspot stumbling around outside the walls. The poor thing.¡±


    Ammos chuckled and shook his head as Regis contributed a question.


    ¡°You mentioned you focused on other areas. What has been the focus of your craft?¡±


    ¡°Conduit magick,¡± Tyron answered immediately.


    These two would have no interest at all in his advances in efficiency and what he was capable of achieving with low-grade cores. It was unlikely they¡¯d even seen a low-grade in their lives.


    ¡°In the field of networking, arrays and conduits, Master Willhem declared I was his equal. I¡¯m not sure I believe him, but I can certainly state my ability in this area is exceptional.¡±


    ¡°His equal?¡± Regis muttered.


    ¡°As I said,¡± Tyron smiled, ¡°I personally don¡¯t think it¡¯s true, but his praise is welcome.¡±


    It had cost a huge chunk of the wealth his parents had left for him to purchase his apprenticeship with Master Willhem, but it had been worth every gold piece.


    ¡°With a reputation like that, you would easily find work for the Slayers, or the noble houses,¡± Ammos noted, ¡°so why would you open a store outside the walls?¡±


    So I can practise Necromancy in my basement without people prying.


    He couldn¡¯t very well say that.


    ¡°To increase any craft in level requires not only improvements in understanding and technique, but also volume. Outside of the city, I sell largely cheaper wares and do small commissions, but the flow of work is constant and large.¡±


    ¡°I see. Attempting to raise your skills as quickly as possible. I should expect no less from someone who completed their apprenticeship in half the time.¡±


    Ammos Greyling was full of praise.


    ¡°I hope you aren¡¯t so busy that you aren¡¯t willing to take on any additional work?¡±


    It was likely that Tyron had only been invited for this moment. The lordling had wanted to evaluate him in person, to see if he was worthy.


    ¡°I am, of course, more than happy to entertain commissions from the noble houses, if they deem me worthy.¡±


    He turned to Regis.


    ¡°As a commoner, of course I am in no position to discriminate between the great houses. Should the Shan family have a desire for my expertise, I would be more than happy to provide it.¡±


    Or the magisters¡­.


    ¡°Wonderful!¡± Ammos grinned. ¡°It just so happens I have a little something I¡¯ve been working on. Nothing grand, but if you would be available, I¡¯d love for you to take a look over it as a¡­ consultant, of sorts. Naturally, you will be compensated generously.¡±


    ¡°It would be my pleasure.¡±


    Tyron bowed once more, not even having to fake the smile on his face.


    If he could impress at this commission, he could expect others. Regis had personally heard him accept the task, and would likely hear of his performance. All he needed was a foot in the door.

 B3C13 - Commissions

    Tyron should have spent the rest of the week grinding and polishing his enchanting skills, brushing up on his knowledge of conduits and ensuring he was in peak condition to work with Ammos Greyling. Ties to the noble houses were worth a great deal to him in ways that had nothing to do with finances.


    Access to the corridors of power, a chance to interact with the Magisters, to plant seeds and extract information.


    He was in no position to take advantage of anything he may learn right now, but later¡­ later, he may well be capable of anything.


    Instead, he had inevitably been drawn to his experiments, no matter how he had tried to resist.


    ¡°Fascinating,¡± he breathed as he continued to examine the contaminated silver-lining around one particular skeleton.


    The discovery that some remains transmitted more death magick than others had been made with his first batch of dead, but already that kernel of new knowledge had been expanded. The variation between the skeletons on the cold stone slabs in the study was as much as twenty percent, but one particular set of remains was an outlier of extreme proportions.


    Laid carefully around the skeleton, the strip of silver was charred black on both sides, a residual sign of the death aligned energy that had passed from this skeleton to those on either side. In fact, the silver was so degraded, the circuit no longer functioned!


    For whatever reason, this one set of bones generated and transferred death energy at a rate ten times higher than his current working average.


    ¡°What could the reason be? Class? Working conditions? Something to do with the remains specifically?¡±


    He had begged for more information about the corpses he was given, and Filetta had been able to provide him with¡­ a little. It was better than nothing, but not by much. Likely the providers of his materials were unwilling to provide anything that might lead him to track down their sources, either because he could incriminate them, or make a deal directly with wherever they looted these corpses.


    No matter the cause, this particular skeleton was valuable, and he intended to keep it.


    He would need to separate the bones when he stored them to ensure they didn¡¯t form a wild undead, something that was inevitable given the amount of energy accumulated within the remains. In fact, because of this one skeleton, all of the remains were approaching saturation far faster than they should.


    It was a snowball effect. The skeletons beside this one received more energy, which meant they made more energy, and then passed it to those alongside them, and so on. The bones furthest from his outlier were the least saturated, but they were still well ahead of schedule.


    ¡°Perhaps some remains simply have an affinity for death energy,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°A predilection, and perhaps it isn¡¯t determined by how they lived, or even how they died, but simply an¡­ inborn trait?¡±


    A theory, one he didn¡¯t have evidence for. Tyron sighed and put his notes down. He had so many questions about the fundamental nature of Necromancy, and almost no answers. Someone, somewhere, had surely solved these riddles already, but he had no knowledge of them, and no capacity to ask around.


    Once more, his thoughts turned to Arhinan the Black, reviled and feared Necromancer who had amassed an entire army of undead servants and led them against the empire. If some repository of that man¡¯s knowledge still existed¡­.


    It was a pipe dream. If it existed at all, if he could locate it, if he could access it and if the work survived in any condition to remain useful, only then could he possibly learn something. Far too many ¡°if¡¯s¡±.


    Were he to devote his energy to such an investigation, he would probably waste so much time his own research would have yielded results by the time he discovered anything.


    It was frustrating, and slow, but pursuing his own avenues of inquiry was the best way. He had time on his side, years if need be, to master his craft.


    There wasn¡¯t much time until he was needed at the Greyling estate, however.


    ¡°Ah, shit!¡± he cursed when he realised just how little time was remaining.


    He rushed to seal away his precious specimen in four separate containers, ensuring it couldn¡¯t rise on its own before he ran upstairs, changed clothes and washed himself. After he fumbled and cursed with a second set of those accursed robes Yor had leant him, he managed to somewhat arrange them properly before he rushed out of the store and signalled a carriage to take him into the city.


    In the privacy of the coach, he reinforced his glamour and took another of the vampire-made blood pills, grimacing as the substance within raced like fire through his veins.


    An incredible creation, only possible through their mastery of blood, to manipulate whatever magick was contained within.


    A mandatory status check was performed at the gate to the noble quarter, and again before he was allowed access to the Greyling estate.


    Just as ostentatious and obscene as what he had seen at the ball, the Greylings had clearly spared no expense in the construction of their familial abode. Yet it wasn¡¯t into any of the towering structures that Tyron was directed, instead his coach pulled up towards the rear of the estate, outside a much more humble, though still well-built, workshop pushed up against the rear boundary wall.


    The sound of hammers ringing on steel, the smell of forge-fire and the tang of alchemical compounds filled the air.


    Ammos said he had been working on ¡®a little something¡¯.


    The man himself, along with four guards and an immaculately presented maidservant stood waiting for Tyron to alight from his coach, and he did so with what grace he could whilst battling his damnable robes.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡°Master Almsfield,¡± the noble scion smiled and spread his hands wide, ¡°welcome to the Greyling estate. Thank you for taking up my invitation.¡±


    As decorum demanded, Tyron bowed at the waist before replying.


    ¡°I have to admit, Lord Greyling, I am most curious to see what you¡¯ve been working on in this facility.¡±


    ¡°Nothing so grand as what you are imagining,¡± the young man chuckled, ¡°most of the workers inside are busy with projects for the family, maintaining the equipment our guards use, that sort of thing. No, my little project is being worked on in that room there.¡±


    He indicated a door on the far end of the workshop and indicated for Tyron to follow. They walked together, along with the entourage of guards as Ammos expounded upon his project.


    ¡°This is a little something I commissioned to celebrate reaching level forty, a suit of armour. The best of the best materials were used to forge it right here in the family workshop,¡± he declared proudly, then smiled a little wryly, ¡°but when it comes to the quality of our Arcanists¡­ we can¡¯t quite match up, so naturally, I had to bring in some outside help.¡±


    He pushed open the door and gestured for Tyron to step inside. Within the room, he found a short, rail-thin woman dressed in a loose-fitting shirt and pants scowling at him.


    ¡°This is bullshit, Ammos,¡± she growled.


    The Necromancer froze for a moment before he put two and two together. He stepped forward and extended a hand.


    ¡°Master Halfshard, an honour to meet you.¡±


    The diminutive Arcanist flicked her eyes up and down his manifold robes before dismissing him with a contemptuous wave of a hand, returning her gaze to the lord.


    ¡°You paid me to come and do the work, so I¡¯ve been here working, for a fucking week. Now you want this¡­ barely qualified upstart to check my work? I should throw down my tools and walk out this instant!¡±


    ¡°Now, now, esteemed Master. Nobody is here to check your work, that would be ridiculous! I simply thought this would be a wonderful opportunity for Master Willhem¡¯s two most favoured apprentices to collaborate! You have final say on any decisions, of course.¡±


    ¡°I have final say? Fine. Get rid of him.¡±


    She pointed at Tyron without looking at him. A stunningly rude gesture, yet he found it almost refreshing compared to the flowery phrases and circular discussions of the nobles.


    ¡°The man gets what he pays for,¡± he shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ll take a look and see if I have anything to offer. If not, I¡¯ll leave without saying a word. That should satisfy your pride and your client, right?¡±


    Master Halfshard turned a baleful glare on him for daring to speak, but he brushed past her and into the workshop, already inspecting the armour laid out in pieces on the table. Not unlike a skeleton, he noted.


    ¡°I¡¯ll leave you two to get acquainted,¡± Ammos Greyling stated before he ducked out the door and closed it behind him. A tactical retreat, given he likely expected Halfshard to explode.


    Tyron found a glass lying on a bench and picked it up before holding it before his eyes as he leaned down to inspect the armour. Incredibly fine, delicate sigils had been engraved on every piece. Each arcane circle would provide a different magickal effect, powered by the cores which were yet to be set in place.


    Before his senior apprentice blew up at him, he cut her off.


    ¡°Obviously, you¡¯re better than me,¡± he said as he continued to pour over the engravings. ¡°You have Arcanist as a main Class, for starters, and you¡¯ve been working for what, fifteen years longer than me? There¡¯s no chance I¡¯m better at enchanting than you.¡±


    ¡°Then why don¡¯t you fuck off?¡±


    ¡°Because Lord Greyling is paying me to look at the conduit work on this suit of armour.¡±


    Annita Halfshard paused for the first time, frowning.


    ¡°The conduits?¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    Satisfied with the shinguard he¡¯d been looking at, he moved to the twin piece for the other leg.


    ¡°Since I can never be as good as you or Master Willhem, level capped as I am, I chose to focus on certain aspects of enchanting, namely conduits and arrays. In this one area, our Master declared I was his equal.¡±


    She snorted.


    ¡°Bullshit.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m inclined to agree, but when it comes to this one aspect of enchanting, I¡¯m very good. Better than you, in fact.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Annita squawked, outraged.


    ¡°Right here, see this? Your sigils aren¡¯t aligned properly, this network is leaking three percent.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit!¡±


    Despite her protestation, the esteemed Master snatched the glass from his hand and leaned down to inspect it herself. After a minute of careful examination and muttering, she threw the implement down.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with it, you charlatan!¡± she declared.


    ¡°Do you have a shifter? I¡¯ll prove it to you here and now.¡±


    ¡°Like hell you will,¡± she growled, but nevertheless pointed him to the right side of the room where the implement he was looking for rested on the side table.


    Tyron moved with confidence to the table and began to arrange sigils on the shifter. A handy piece of equipment, it let an Arcanist carve sigils into the surface and then power the array using a spare core. Since the slate was regenerative, one could carve in the surface over and over again. Was it as good as attempting to enchant a core directly? No, but as a teaching tool, or for demonstration and experimentation, it had its uses.


    ¡°Luckily, I don¡¯t need to copy your enchantment runes,¡± he remarked as he worked, ¡°because I have no idea how any of that works.¡±


    Master Halfshard snorted.


    ¡°But the components you¡¯ve used to form your networks are off. Look here, this is how you¡¯ve done it.¡±


    He took a step back and allowed his senior apprentice to inspect the slate, which she did, carefully. Then she compared it to her own work on the armour to ensure he¡¯d copied it accurately.


    ¡°Now let¡¯s power this circuit.¡±


    He placed a nearby core into the shifter, completing the rune network and lighting it with magickal energy. The two of them could both sense the arcane power running through it clearly.


    ¡°If I rearrange the sigils like so,¡± he made some minute adjustments and powered it again.


    The difference was slight, but it was there, as he knew it would be. Annita could feel it too.


    The diminutive woman chewed her lip as she stared down at the network on the shifter.


    ¡°Well, fuck,¡± she said.


    She turned to look at the armour splayed across the table, a look of irritation on her face.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to have to adjust every network on the entire sodding suit?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Tyron said, ¡°I¡¯ll do that. You finish working on the big ticket items. As I said, I have absolutely no clue how most of that is working.¡±


    He wasn¡¯t lying. Hugely expensive enchantments to reinforce armour, project shields, add resistance to the elements and all the other insanely complex things going on inside this one armoured suit were way, way out of his wheelhouse.


    The fact that Annita had been able to pack so many dense networks onto each and every piece of armour, and have them not interfere with each other, was almost miraculous. Without a doubt, she was the best Arcanist he had ever seen, with the possible exception of Willhem himself.


    ¡°Are you handy with a pliance? I don¡¯t want you ruining any of my work.¡±


    ¡°Handy enough to satisfy our Master.¡±


    ¡°Good enough.¡±


    Without any further discussion, the two grabbed separate sections of armour and moved to the workbenches. With a pliance in hand and a glass positioned in front of his face, Tyron set to work.

 B3C14 - The Dead

    ¡°Hey there, lover.¡±


    Filetta grinned at him as she sauntered through the sewer, her crew following behind, canvas-wrapped corpses over their shoulders.


    Tyron sighed.


    ¡°Is it really necessary to let your men know that we slept together?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I share everything with my crew,¡± she boasted, ¡°thieves need to be a tight-knit bunch to operate.¡±


    Judging by the appraising, and somewhat respectful looks he saw on a few of the men¡¯s faces, she¡¯d embellished the story quite a bit.


    He brought a hand up and massaged his right temple.


    ¡°What did you tell them?¡± he asked, almost despite himself.


    The thief, dressed in her work clothes, form fitting black cloth and leather boots, smiled suggestively.


    ¡°I praised your stamina, high constitution and pain tolerance.¡± She licked her lips. ¡°These pansies were ready to lose their lunch before I was half way through describing the night.¡±


    His pain tolerance? What did that have to do with any¨C


    The Necromancer grimaced.


    ¡°You lied to me, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    A look of hurt innocence flashed over Filetta¡¯s face.


    ¡°Elten, what a thing to say. Whatever could you mean?¡±


    ¡°You told me that stuff was normal!¡±


    One of the men froze, putting down a corpse, glanced up at Tyron and shook his head slightly.


    ¡°It¡¯s not uncommon for some couples to strike each other,¡± she deflected.


    ¡°And the knives?¡± he ground out.


    The goon stumbled and almost fell flat on his face, looking up at Tyron with a look of disbelief and admiration. Filetta stepped forward and sank her boot directly into the ruffian¡¯s side.


    ¡°I admit¡­ I got a little carried away,¡± she said after regaining her balance. ¡°In my defence, you seemed to enjoy yourself.¡±


    He had.


    The evening had begun normally enough. They¡¯d eaten, had drinks and conversed before Filetta had led him into a back room. At first, she¡¯d been stunned by his utter lack of experience, but had leapt into educating him with¡­ unseemly relish.


    She¡¯d taught him how to kiss first, as good a starting place as any, and things had progressed rapidly from there. In hindsight, he¡¯d clearly let his guard down too much and let himself be led by the nose. It was deep into the night before she had gotten especially¡­ inventive.


    ¡°It was¡­ nice,¡± he managed.


    Filetta pouted at him.


    ¡°Only nice?¡±


    ¡°Fine. More than nice,¡± he rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Well then, if that¡¯s the case, you¡¯ll hardly want to refuse when I invite you to another intimate get together? Let¡¯s say, tomorrow night?¡±


    A frown crossed his face.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    Some of the men let out strangled chuckles before Filetta silenced them with a deadly glare. She turned back to Tyron, an icy glint in her eyes.


    ¡°Why. Not?¡± she said, each word chopped as if by a guillotine.


    ¡°I¡¯ve already reached human level twenty,¡± he pointed out, ¡°it worked just as you suggested it might. Though I¡¯m a little nervous that was all it took to form an emotional connection with you. Ultimately speaking, I got what I wanted out of the arrangement. As for you¡­¡± he trailed off for a second, before he shrugged and decided to be blunt. ¡°If all you¡¯re looking for is someone to fuck, then I¡¯m certain you have far better irons in the fire than me.¡±


    He had no illusions that Filetta was looking for some sort of exclusive relationship, it was likely she was sleeping with a range of people, and he didn¡¯t care, it was none of his business. What had transpired between them had been transactional.


    Filetta stared at him for a moment before she let out a harsh laugh and shook her head.


    ¡°Holy shit, Elten. I thought I managed to unwind you a little, but you¡¯re still strung so fucking tight. I¡¯ll spell this out a little more clearly for you.¡±


    As she spoke she strode forward until she stood right in front of him, glared up with her brown eyes and jabbed him in the chest with one finger.


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    ¡°First of all, I don¡¯t have that many ¡®irons in the fire¡¯,¡± she sniffed, ¡°finding people you trust enough to get naked around is difficult in my line of work.¡±


    ¡°You trust me?¡± he said incredulously.


    He was the shady as shit bastard who purchased human corpses off her every month. She had to think he was some sort of mad-alchemist, healer engaged in black practices or just straight up suspected him of Necromancy!


    ¡°Of course not!¡± she hissed. ¡°But you have nothing to gain from my death, whereas every other thief I run with does.¡±


    That was a good point.


    ¡°Second of all, I¡¯m interested in you. That means I want to spend time with you. You¡¯re easy enough to look at, your conversation is educated, well-mannered and humorous, and you don¡¯t look down on me for my lifestyle.¡±


    Who am I to go around critiquing other people''s lives? He thought ruefully to himself.


    ¡°There! I can tell the thought had never even occurred to you. Third, the sex was surprisingly good! You learned quickly and were respectful in bed, that¡¯s surprisingly hard to find.¡±


    She prodded him again.


    ¡°Now, did you enjoy spending time in my company or not?¡±


    He blinked.


    I¡¯m going to regret this, aren¡¯t I?


    ¡°I did,¡± he sighed.


    ¡°Good,¡± she grinned, before she reached up, seized him by the hair and pulled his mouth down to hers.


    They separated after several long seconds, and judging by the triumphant gleam in her eye, she knew his heart was pounding in his chest.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow,¡± she breathed before she blew him a kiss and turned, sauntering off into the darkness, softly cursing out her men as they went.


    ¡°No knives!¡± he called to her retreating back, but she pretended not to hear him.


    ~~~


    Real progress, at last.


    Tyron stared greedily at the scarlet letters on the page before him, exaltation burning in his chest.


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 17)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 16)


    He was getting closer. The techniques he was developing to assess the remains he worked on had been deemed worthy of recognition by the Unseen. A welcome indication he was on the right track.


    The main focus of his experiments had been Death Magick, how it formed and spread between the dead and undead. To unravel that mystery, his tests with the silver strips and the invention of his lens had taken him far.


    A lesser focus, though no less important, had been his attempts to uncover methods to ascertain the quality of a given skeleton before he worked on it. Bone density, flexibility, damage and wear, all needed to be assessed if he was to choose the right skeleton for the right job. Tougher, hardier bones were more suitable for frontline duty, carrying shields and blades, whereas more fragile or flexible material was appropriate for archers.


    Tyron was a little disappointed his efforts at moulding bones into shields and blades hadn¡¯t been recognised yet, but he hadn¡¯t been able to put in the time required to master the art. Completing the commission for the young Greyling lord had taken longer than he would have liked, but Annita had insisted on double and triple checking all of his work.


    His senior apprentice wasn¡¯t used to collaborating, and it showed. Still, her ability to weave enchantments together was nothing short of monstrous, and her command of every element in the process doubly so. He eclipsed her in one aspect alone, and even that was close.


    Once she¡¯d been satisfied and the armour delivered to Ammos, who¡¯d been full of praise, Tyron had needed to spend a good deal of time catching up on his work in the store, then he¡¯d doubled down to make sure he was ahead of demand once more. His apprentice had looked on the verge of death by the time they were done, to the point he¡¯d been tempted to point the Death Lens at him to see if there was a response, but the work had been completed before the next delivery of remains from Filetta.


    Advanced Death Magick (Level 16)


    Another jewel in his crown. Despite feeling like he was no closer to truly understanding how this particular form of arcane energy functioned, at least he was able to identify and study certain behaviours it displayed.


    ¡°One more push. Maybe two,¡± he muttered to himself.


    When these three Skills reached their current allowed maximums, he could truly resume his necromantic work. Creating functioning Undead, studying them, working on the other, vital aspects of his craft.


    Despite his progress, there was still so much to do. His work on the Raise Dead spell had been rewarded with progress, but his focus so far had only been on the conduit aspect of the ritual. Creating the undead ¡®intelligence¡¯ and improving the binding of the minion itself were more difficult for him. Hopefully, the vampires or the Dust People could help him there.


    Satisfied with what he saw, he carefully destroyed the status page, leaving not even ashes behind.


    His butcher work complete, he disposed of the remains in the sewer, confident the rats would do their work, and packed his work away.


    With all he¡¯d done to improve his craft, another level in Undead Weaver couldn¡¯t be far away. He¡¯d have to be careful, but as long as he regularly performed the status ritual, he could be sure not to trigger his next Advancement before he was ready.


    After a wash and a change of clothes, he decided to get some sleep. It was only midday, but he had no pressing work to do and thought he may as well rest to prepare for a solid week of experimentation.


    His eyelids were just starting to close when he heard a timid knock at his door. At first he thought he was mistaken, his staff almost never bothered him in his chambers, but when the knock came again, louder this time, he sighed, rolled out of bed and threw on a robe.


    Cerry greeted him at the door, looking hesitant, but also curious.


    ¡°Good afternoon, Cerry,¡± he said, ¡°is there a problem?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ Master Almsfield. There¡¯s a pretty la¨CI mean, there¡¯s a lady here to see you. She¡¯s downstairs. In the shop.¡±


    Tyron blinked.


    Yor? Filetta? Neither were people he wanted to see here. In the case of the latter, he definitely didn¡¯t want her to connect his two false identities.


    Feeling a little stressed, he closed the door, dressed himself in a hurry, and rushed downstairs. When he arrived, Cerry was busy trying to look as if she wasn¡¯t paying attention and even Flynn was conspicuously working close to an open door, setting cores.


    Blood and bone. Save me from these busybodies.


    Irritated with his staff, he swept his gaze across the shop floor and almost staggered when he saw the sun-haired young woman perusing the glass cases. She turned and spotted him, a polite smile appearing on her face as she began to approach, but she froze minutely halfway across the room, her eyes widening. Her stride resumed almost immediately, but he¡¯d seen that pause.


    Elsbeth recognised him somehow.

 B3C15 - Old Gods

    ¡°Master Almsfield,¡± Elsbeth greeted him, much more warm than she had appeared before. ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Elsbeth Renner, I believe you were expecting to see me?¡±


    He was? He was!


    That cursed shrivelled prick had told him they¡¯d send a liaison to speak with him. If he¡¯d thought about it for a second, he would have known this was coming.


    ¡°The pleasure is mine,¡± he fumbled, dipping into a slight bow to cover his confusion.


    More than anything, the way she¡¯d almost instantly seen through his disguise was like a knife in his heart. Was he that transparent? How had she done it?!


    An awkward silence descended as he stood, brain churning until he suddenly became fiercely conscious of his two gossiping employees burning a hole in the back of his skull with their eyes.


    ¡°Uh. Please. If it pleases you, could you join me in my¨Cjoin me upstairs for some refreshment? We can discuss more privately there.¡±


    Elsbeth smiled again, a twinkle in her eye as she acquiesced and he turned to guide her, shooting a glare at Cerry and Flynn as he went.


    Both studiously avoided his gaze.


    Only when they¡¯d entered his living quarters and he¡¯d activated the magickal protections around the door did he turn and demand ¡°How did you know it was me?¡±


    His childhood friend stared at him, open mouthed, a hint of reproach on her face.


    ¡°That¡¯s the first thing you say to me?¡± she said. ¡°Really?! No, ¡®Hi Elsbeth, turns out I¡¯m not dead¡¯, or ¡®Hey there, Elsbeth, it¡¯s great to see after four years, how have you been?¡¯¡±


    Tyron slapped a hand to his face, and, after a moment, dismissed the glamour that hid his features.


    ¡°Yes, you''re right, I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s just¡­ unnerving to have my disguise seen through so easily. I depend on this glamour to keep me alive.¡±


    She simply stood, tapping her foot on the floor as she levelled a steady gaze at him.


    He sighed.


    ¡°Hello, Elsbeth. It¡¯s wonderful to see you after four long years. I would have reached out to you, to let you know I was alive, but it felt too dangerous. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    The priestess nodded slowly before she thrust her arms out to her sides.


    ¡°Now a hug,¡± she demanded.


    He rolled his eyes and stepped forward, enfolding her with his arms. To his surprise, she squeezed him tightly, to the point he almost felt his ribs creak. How¡¯d she gotten so strong?


    When they separated, she brushed a tear from the corner of her eye and Tyron invited her to sit at his table as he rummaged for some tea and biscuits.


    When he sat down and sipped his drink, he found himself at a loss for words. Elsbeth looked¡­ different. She was still radiant, but that innocent glow that she had always carried with her was subdued. After four years of serving such gods, she must have gone through a great deal.


    ¡°How have you been?¡± he asked softly.


    ¡°It¡¯s a struggle, out there,¡± she said, waving a hand vaguely toward the west. ¡°I¡¯ve seen just how hard life can be for people, how much they have to struggle just to survive. I learned a lot.¡±


    Tyron snorted.


    ¡°If I know you, then you¡¯re still doing everything you can to help them.¡±


    The Priestess of the Old Gods stuck her tongue out at him.


    ¡°So what if I am?¡± she said as she laughed and shook her head. ¡°I¡¯ve always wanted to help people, that¡¯s why I wanted to be a priestess in the first place.¡±


    The Necromancer held up his hands.


    ¡°That¡¯s not a criticism. Quite the opposite. I¡¯ve never met anyone who had as kind a soul as you ¡®Beth. I¡¯m pleased to see that hasn¡¯t changed.¡±


    He hesitated.


    ¡°Are you still able to help, though? Considering your¡­ patrons?¡±


    Elsbeth lifted a brow.


    ¡°You think Crone, Raven and Rot don¡¯t help people?¡± she took a long sip of her tea and nibbled on an almond biscuit as she thought. ¡°In a sense, I suppose they don¡¯t, but they can be more supportive than you give them credit for. My teacher told me many times how surprised she was to see how many blessings I¡¯ve been able to wrangle out of them. Raven especially is getting sick of me.¡±


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    ¡°Isn¡¯t that dangerous?¡± Tyron was alarmed but Elsbeth waved away his concerns.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. Raven bestowed a blessing on me at my Advancement, so I don''t think they''re really that mad.¡±


    A blessing from the Raven?


    ¡°Is that how you were able to see through my glamour? A gift of sight?¡±


    His guest looked at him, a slight frown on her face.


    ¡°What? No. You¡¯re making it far more complicated than it is. That glamour may hide your features, and disguise your voice to a certain extent, but your mannerisms, the way you stand, the way you hold yourself? All of that stays the same. I¡¯ve known you since we were kids, it was easy to recognise you.¡±


    He stared at her.


    ¡°Seriously? You spotted me by my mannerisms? So quickly? You thought I was dead!¡±


    ¡°I never believed you were dead, even before Ortan tried to convince me you¡¯d survived,¡± Elsbeth snorted. ¡°And yes. If Worthy had walked into this place, he¡¯d have recognised you just as quickly.¡±


    The thought of his uncle wandering into the store caused Tyron a painful pang in his chest.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s a problem,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Is it? There¡¯s less than a handful of people who know you well enough to do what I did. Don¡¯t be too paranoid.¡±


    ¡°How¡­ how is he? Worthy? And Aunt Meg?¡±


    Elsbeth looked at him, sadness brimming in her eyes.


    ¡°Not great,¡± she said. ¡°The loss of his family hit him hard. He and Meg are still operating the Inn, but it¡¯s¡­ not like it was.¡±


    He could see she wanted to say more, but she feared it would be too painful for him to learn anything else.


    ¡°So¡­ now that you¡¯re here, we¡¯ll have plenty of time to catch up. I¡¯d love to hear more about your journey over the last four years, but first, I¡¯d be grateful if we could discuss more serious issues for a moment.¡±


    His old friend hesitated before she sighed and nodded.


    ¡°Fine. Do you have any questions?¡±


    ¡°I assume you¡¯re the intermediary the Venerable said would be sent my way?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. Since you won¡¯t talk to them yourself, I¡¯ll be around to pass along their words.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t exactly make themselves easy to trust,¡± he grunted.


    ¡°They don¡¯t care if you trust them,¡± Elsbeth rolled her eyes. ¡°They¡¯re gods. Don¡¯t think of them like people, they were never mortal. You¡¯ve taken on certain obligations and you have to fulfil them, that¡¯s all there is to it.¡±


    It hadn¡¯t been an easy decision to Advance his Anathema sub-class the way he had, but he¡¯d known he couldn¡¯t afford to throw any possible source of power away, given what he was up against. That didn¡¯t mean he was willing to forget what the gods had almost done to him, and to Elsbeth, but he could look past it if they dealt with him more fairly in future.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re here. Tell me, what is it that the Three want from me? Build them an altar? Kill some priests? Defile some temples?¡±


    ¡°What? No!¡± Elsbeth wrinkled her nose in disgust. ¡°Why would they want you to go around murdering priests? Generally speaking, they don¡¯t care to interfere with the church of the five, and us followers don¡¯t want to draw attention to ourselves and get burned at the stake, so we avoid them as much as we can.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what then? What do they want me to do?¡±


    ¡°Nothing much. They want you to kill the Five Divines.¡±


    Elbeth took another sip of her tea, watching him over the rim of the cup. He stared back at her open-mouthed. After a few long seconds, he closed it.


    ¡°As in¡­ today?¡± he said finally.


    ¡°Obviously not,¡± she retorted. ¡°But ultimately, that¡¯s what they want you to do. It¡¯s only taken five thousand years, but the Three seem to have finally decided enough is enough. They want to reclaim the spark of divinity they gave away.¡±


    This was good news, since that¡¯s what Tyron wanted as well. With the help of the Old Gods, he might even have a chance of succeeding. Although there had to be a catch, or five.


    ¡°Is there a particular reason they want me to do this? Can¡¯t they just do it themselves?¡±


    Elsbeth shrugged.


    ¡°Can¡¯t, or won¡¯t, I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m not even certain if they want you to kill the Divines directly yourself, or just help create the circumstances that lead to the outcome they desire. The only way to learn more would be to ask them yourself, though they probably wouldn¡¯t elaborate.¡±


    ¡°Probably not,¡± Tyron agreed sourly.


    He thought for a moment.


    ¡°What do they want me to do in the short term? If all they had in mind for me was to help with some grand design far into the future, there¡¯s no reason to send you here now.¡±


    ¡°Of course there¡¯s more,¡± Elsbeth agreed. She hesitated before she continued. ¡°Have you gone out much, since your parents¡­ died? To the keeps, or anywhere else in the province?¡±


    He shook his head.


    ¡°I basically locked myself to an Arcanist¡¯s bench for three years straight,¡± he confessed. ¡°Since I completed my apprenticeship, I haven¡¯t travelled that far from the city.¡±


    ¡°People are¡­ pissed.¡±


    It was weird to hear her swear.


    ¡°Pissed?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Really pissed. When Magnin and Beory died, most of the slayers didn¡¯t believe the explanation they were given. Instead, they blamed the Magisters.¡±


    Dove had told him that might happen before his family had perished. Slayers hated the Magisters on principle, it didn¡¯t take much for them to assign blame to the hated mages.


    ¡°I think they kind of expected it, the Magisters, I mean. They were out and about the first year, making themselves known, making an example of any infractions they uncovered.¡±


    She shivered.


    ¡°They were brutal. The things they can do with those marks¡­ Anyway, I believe they expected things to die down after that, but it didn¡¯t. Things only got worse.¡±


    Tyron was confused.


    ¡°What are you telling me, Elsbeth? What¡¯s going on out there?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a rebellion brewing,¡± she told him. ¡°In all of the keeps, but especially the most remote ones. Slayers are renouncing their vows, many are turning from the worship of the Five, and they¡¯re banding together. The Old Gods are trying to harness this momentum. They¡¯ve been gathering followers, trying to create a locus of power, far from the Magisters¡¯ reach.¡±


    Was there any place in the Empire that they couldn¡¯t reach?


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°Cragwhistle.¡±

 B3C16 - Cold Welcome

    Tyron was confused.


    ¡°So there¡¯s a rebellion of sorts developing out there. Although, it doesn¡¯t seem like much from what you¡¯ve said. Slayers can kick up as much of a fuss as they like, they¡¯re helpless once the Magisters turn the screws,¡± he finished bitterly.


    Not even Magnin and Beory had been able to deny the power of the brand. Resist it, delay, blunt, perhaps, but ultimately, even they had fallen prey, despite their preparations.


    For all their power, the Slayers were the most helpless people in the Empire. The stronger they became against the rift-kin, the more vulnerable they were to the Magisters.


    ¡°Even if they could rebel despite the marks, what could I do about it? I can¡¯t¡­ lead them.¡± He couldn¡¯t think of anything he was less suited to do. ¡°I¡¯m not even willing to fight at all until I reach my milestones and advance my Class.¡±


    Elsbeth shook her head and looked at him as if he were dim.


    ¡°What do you think is going on out there? Armies in the field or something? Don¡¯t be ridiculous. Is there anyone on this plane who understands their weakness more than the Slayers? You think they¡¯re just going to start throttling Magisters in the streets?¡± She raised her eyebrows and shook her head once more, sending her golden hair rippling in waves down her back. ¡°They are moving slowly. Trying to train unmarked people in secret. If this is going to work, it¡¯s going to take years.¡±


    Tyron leaned forward and pressed his palms together, his elbows resting on the table. This made a little more sense, but such things had been tried before. It was impossible for Slayers to rebel, the brand would strike them dead if they ever raised a hand to a Magister or Noble. Even with all they had done to mitigate the mark, it was likely even Magnin and Beory hadn¡¯t found a way around that particular restriction.


    It was, however, possible for them to raise up others, to teach and train villagers, or hire a rat and give them a bit more experience than was strictly necessary. His father had been the one to tell him about it. Magnin could even name a few of the incidents. The Farmer¡¯s rebellion. The Sundered Siege. The Red Fields.


    It always ended the same way. Throughout history, the Magisters had been consistently shitty at their job. A surprising fact, but when they had literal divines on their side, as well as the unbreakable magick of the brand, it may be excusable that they dropped the ball every couple of hundred years. However, they found out eventually. Sometimes they uncovered an unmarked warrior in the rifts and got on top of things early, sometimes they woke up to find a Keep had been burned down and one of their order had been strung up by the neck.


    Once it started, it was basically over. The Gold Slayers would be compelled to crush the rebellion, and if the situation was dire enough, they would bring help from the Central Province. Not even Magnin knew who these enforcers were, he just knew they were absurdly strong, and inhumanly brutal.


    ¡°This is dangerous stuff, Beth,¡± he warned her. ¡°How deeply are you involved?¡±


    With an exasperated scoff, she slapped the table with the flat of her palm.


    ¡°You can¡¯t seriously¨Care you trying to warn me off? I know what you want, Tyron. I think it¡¯s a stupid waste, but you¡¯re determined to do it anyway.¡±


    The Necromancer felt the anger in his chest roar into life. He clenched his jaw and spoke deliberately.


    ¡°You think it¡¯s a waste?¡± he rasped. ¡°After what they did to my family?¡±


    She sensed his pain and her eyes brimmed with sympathy, but she didn¡¯t back down.


    ¡°Yes. Yes. Because your mother and father did everything they could to ensure you would be free, that you wouldn¡¯t have to live your life for vengeance.¡±


    She reached across the table and clasped his hand.


    ¡°Look at what you have here. Look at what you¡¯ve built. A shop, a trade, respect from you workers, a chance to make a difference in people''s lives. You probably don¡¯t know this, but the people down there in the Market are so pleased, so proud, to have someone like you living and working down here with them. They love your work, they rave about it.¡±


    There was a dull ache in his chest, but it was quickly consumed by the fire.


    ¡°All of this,¡± he waved at the building around them, ¡°only exists because I want vengeance.¡±


    He released her hand.


    ¡°It seems a little strange that the person who¡¯s supposed to be getting me to help this doomed rebellion is trying to talk me out of it. What do you need me to do? What do your patrons need me to do?¡±


    Despite everything she¡¯d gone through the past four years, he could still see the old Elsbeth in the way she looked back at him. She cared so much, and she didn¡¯t mind who knew it, her emotions were still written all over her face. It was¡­ difficult for him to hurt her, even now, but he was unshakable.


    ¡°I¡¯d hoped¡­ after everything that happened, you might have had a chance to be happy. That¡¯s all.¡±


    Tyron shook his head decisively, his eyes void of feeling.


    ¡°No.¡±


    The word cut through the conversation like an axe blade, silencing them both. He waited. Elsbeth drew in a slow breath.


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    ¡°For now, there isn¡¯t much that you¡¯re requested to do. Mainly, funnel resources. Gold, weapons, supplies, things that can¡¯t be traced. You have contacts in the city that aren¡¯t connected to any followers of the Three. Information is the other key element. There are already people on the inside passing along snippets, but they¡¯re Slayers. You can access places that they can¡¯t. Hear things that they won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°And the Three expect me to stick my neck out like this for no reward? Our relationship is very much one of give and take.¡±


    His old friend pulled a face.


    ¡°You¡¯ll get your reward. Probably.¡±


    ¡°Probably?¡±


    ¡°Well, I haven¡¯t been told what it will be, and the Three aren¡¯t exactly known for their generous natures¡­. So I have no idea what you¡¯re going to get.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t they literally hand out divinity itself on a whim?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Once.¡±


    ¡°Technically five times.¡±


    ¡°... In one instance.¡±


    Tyron sighed.


    ¡°As long as they provide something that will help me with my Necromancy research, I¡¯ll be satisfied.¡±


    ¡°Your Necromancy research? What do you mean?¡±


    He rubbed his hand through his hair and scowled at Elsbeth.


    ¡°It¡¯s not like there¡¯s a manual or teacher I can use. Necromancy is illegal in the empire, remember? I have to figure everything out myself. It¡¯s painstaking work, and slow going. I¡¯d love for a little help from my patrons, but they seem extremely reluctant to come good on their promises.¡±


    Elsbeth scratched at her chin with one finger as she thought.


    ¡°Well. I have no idea if there¡¯s anyone amongst the worshippers of the Three with any knowledge of necromancy, but there might be. I¡¯ll ask around, and if I can¡¯t find anything, I¡¯ll appeal to the Gods myself.¡±


    A generous offer, much better than what he¡¯d received from Yor and certainly far beyond the vague whispers of the Abyss. Even so, he was concerned.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t this dangerous for you? Approaching the Old Gods and needling them for favours isn¡¯t something I would consider¡­ safe. I don¡¯t want you to risk yourself.¡±


    The Priestess scoffed.


    ¡°Pestering the Gods to help people they wouldn¡¯t normally help is basically my job. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll make sure you get some help. If you¡¯re going to stick your neck out for them, the least they can do is cough up a few secrets.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ grateful. Really grateful. I appreciate it ¡®Beth. I haven¡¯t been comfortable dealing with the Three, but with you around, I think¡­ we might be able to get somewhere.¡±


    She beamed at him.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m here for. I¡¯m a link between the people and the gods.¡±


    With their business concluded the two old friends fell to reminiscing, joking back and forth and discussing their experiences over the past four years. They talked back and forth until Tyron realised just what the time was.


    ¡°Oh. I¡¯ll have to ask your forgiveness, Elsbeth. I have an¡­ appointment in the city.¡±


    She nodded easily and rose from her seat.


    ¡°That¡¯s alright. I have a place to stay not far away, so we can meet up again soon.¡±


    ¡°Probably best if you don¡¯t come too often¡­.¡±


    She rolled her eyes.


    ¡°Yes, yes. Mr Secrecy. I understand. I¡¯ll be discreet, don¡¯t worry. I won¡¯t come back until I¡¯ve started making my enquiries. When I have something for you, I¡¯ll make sure to let you know.¡±


    ¡°Fantastic.¡±


    She walked around the table and enveloped him in a firm hug before he escorted her down the stairs and out the door.


    It had been good to reconnect with her, and it was almost odd to have someone be so unreservedly on his side. If there was anyone in the realm he would trust to deal with him straight, it would probably be Elsbeth. She didn¡¯t have a deceitful bone in her body. If the Old Gods decided to screw him over, she would likely just tell him to his face, which was far better than a knife in the back.


    Thinking of knives made him shudder. If he wanted to make it to the restaurant on time, he would need to leave shortly. Filetta would be pissed if he was late.


    ~~~


    Two days later, Tyron had mostly healed from his encounter with the thief and was busy in his workshop when he received another visitor. It was closing time and heavy clouds hung in the sky overhead, when a wide-eyed Cerry knocked on his door, practically vibrating at the effort of restraining her gossip-loving spirit. Wondering who in the world it would be this time, he descended the stairs and almost tripped and fell flat on his face when he saw Yor standing on the shop floor, dressed as if she were attending a ball.


    Cerry studied his every move out of the corner of her eye, and once again, he could see the door to the back-room creak open so Flynn could listen in.


    These idiots!


    Trying to regain some semblance of poise, Tyron stalked across the shop floor until he drew near enough to hiss, ¡°What in the Abyss are you doing in my shop!¡±


    The vampire eyed him with icy dignity.


    ¡°Perhaps we should take our discussion somewhere private,¡± she announced, caressing the final word.


    Cerry squeeked behind the desk and Tyron was pretty sure he heard Flynn fall off his seat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he stood to the side and gestured for Yor to follow him upstairs. The whispers downstairs from the few remaining customers chased him up each step until he ripped open the door at the top and strained with all his effort not to slam it behind him after his guest had passed through.


    She watched him with a slight smirk on her blood red lips, doubtless waiting for him to explode with rage, but he throttled it and matched her stare for stare.


    ¡°I assume the cloud cover is helping you rise a little earlier in the day?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Not to mention winter is drawing near. The days grow shorter, and the nights grow longer.¡±


    ¡°I thought we had an agreement that you wouldn¡¯t come here in person. There¡¯s a reason I¡¯ve been trudging over to your place of business and it isn¡¯t because I like the atmosphere.¡±


    Yor looked at him imperiously.


    ¡°I would have thought you would be a little more grateful. Besides, having a reputation for associating with beautiful women is hardly overtly damaging. Besides, Master Almsfield and I have already been seen in public together.¡±


    ¡°But not here. Wait, did you say women?¡±


    Did she know about Elsbeth?


    ¡°The Court delivers on its commitments,¡± she announced, reaching into the bag slung over her shoulder and removing a tightly bound volume. ¡°Let it not be said that we renege on our agreements. As we agreed, this grimoire has been provided by my Mistress for you to peruse.¡± She raised a finger. ¡°For one month.¡±


    Tyron stared at the book with naked hunger.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Yor added, almost as an afterthought, ¡°I also brought this.¡±


    She reached into the bag once again and removed a carved, onyx, skull.


    ¡°Fuck me,¡± Dove exclaimed. ¡°You live here, kid? The place looks positively habitable. I was expecting a stinking cave or some shit.¡±

 B3C17 - Skull Life

    ¡°This is more like what I was expecting. A true shit-hole. Something dank and dripping. You¡¯ve come back up in my eyes, Tyron. I knew you still had that filthy, cave-dwelling creep inside you.¡±


    ¡°Dove¡­¡±


    ¡°No, seriously. I¡¯m fucking proud of you. You didn¡¯t let the wealth or the luxury get to your head. You knew who you were, deep down, and created a stinking basement filled with bones and guts like the troglodyte you are. I¡¯d applaud, but for obvious reasons, I won¡¯t.¡±


    Tyron sighed and placed the skull down on his table before he placed the grimoire next to Dove and slumped into his chair.


    ¡°How many skeletons do you have down here? You¡¯ve been getting busy! Hope you aren¡¯t killing them all yourself. I do have to say, it¡¯s nice not to be stuck hanging off some dickhead¡¯s¡­ dick. I¡¯ve seen some shit recently, Tyron. Some dark, dark shit.¡±


    ¡°Dove,¡± Tyron said, more insistently.


    ¡°What?¡± the skull replied, begrudgingly, his previous, familiar, lively and sarcastic tone vanished.


    ¡°We need to talk. Now that you¡¯re here, we need to work out¨C¡±


    ¡°Work out what? Huh? Work out what?! What to do with me? Go on then, tell me what you¡¯re thinking. What are we going to do here?¡±


    The flip from normal Dove to this anger was so immediate the Necromancer didn¡¯t know how to respond for a moment, but he pressed forward. Of course his friend was angry, who wouldn¡¯t be in his circumstances?


    ¡°Yor is gone, it¡¯s just you and me here right now. I can smash your skull and you can be free again. Go on to your¡­ afterlife. Finally.¡±


    ¡°IT¡¯S NOT THAT EASY, DIPSHIT!¡±


    The voice of the spirit roared throughout the basement and Tyron winced, hoping his sound dampening enchantments were up to the task. Thankfully, his mentor restrained himself before he spoke again.


    ¡°If you tried to free my soul, what do you think would happen? Yor would just swoop in and bring me back again. She pretty much told me so on the way over here.¡±


    As he spoke, some of the bitterness and despair that the former-summoner had kept locked deep inside began to leak out. His was a miserable existence, and had he been alive, he had no doubt madness would have claimed him by now.


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean she would succeed,¡± Tyron insisted. ¡°If we can find a way, we can move you on before they get hold of you. Or I can conceal the fact that you¡¯re gone long enough that they lose their chance.¡±


    ¡°Kid¡­ just¡­ don¡¯t. Fucking. Don¡¯t. You¡¯ve got no chance of winning when you go against the vampires and you fucking know it. They¡¯ve been doing this shit for thousands of years. You¡¯re smart, Selene¡¯s tits, you¡¯ve got the fucking gift, but we both know they can run circles around you when it comes to controlling the dead.¡±


    It was true, of course it was. That was the entire reason why he¡¯d been so desperate to get his hands on their secrets all this time. To his knowledge, they were the most knowledgeable and powerful masters of the Necromantic arts, not only in this realm, but in all of them.


    Tyron slumped, defeated. He glanced across at the book sitting flat on his table.


    ¡°I¡¯m willing to bet that book contains precisely the opposite spells to those I would need to set you free.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a fool''s bet. It¡¯s basically a guarantee. In fact, I¡¯d go further and say they¡¯ve done everything they can to ensure what they gave you is of as little use as possible. Need to keep stringing you along, edging, but never letting you finish.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t need to say it in quite those terms¡­.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, I¡¯ve been unliving in a brothel for the last year.¡±


    Suddenly sure that he was right, Tyron reached over and flicked open the cover of the volume, turning over the heavy black cover and looking at the first page.


    ¡°On the binding and domination of spirits and the dead,¡± he read aloud, then sighed. ¡°Yep.¡±


    He flicked a few more pages.


    ¡°And of course, all the sigils are written in some ancient vampiric bullshit.¡±


    ¡°She said the book had come from her Mistress¡¯s collection, it¡¯s probably a thousand fucking years old and certainly didn¡¯t originate from this plane.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think this is just a case of using different symbols to represent each sigil,¡± Tyron muttered, flicking through a few more pages, frowning. ¡°I think they¡¯re using a different form of spell-structure entirely.¡±


    ¡°And you only get a month to try and decipher any of it,¡± Dove barked a laugh. ¡°Pricks.¡±


    Tyron grimaced. He could do it in that sort of time frame, though it would consume his every waking hour. And even then, he wouldn¡¯t be able to decipher all of it. If there were sigils in the book that he didn¡¯t know in his own system, then how was he supposed to interpret them? And even if he did, nothing he learned would help Dove, which was his primary concern at that moment.


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    He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, trying to think.


    ¡°There has to be something we can do to help you die. I refuse to let you keep suffering like this.¡±


    ¡°Look¡­ kid. I hate being like this, don¡¯t get me wrong, but I¡¯ve reached the point that I¡¯ve kind of given up on being able to escape. This is the problem you run into when you get involved with Necromancers. Especially when you get on their bad side. You can¡¯t fucking die! I¡¯m guessing that prick Rufus is still hanging around somewhere, am I right?¡±


    Without lifting his head, Tyron nodded slightly.


    ¡°Hah! I knew it. And the girl as well?¡±


    He hesitated this time, but nodded again.


    ¡°Fuckers. They deserve it. For a while, anyway. Look, I¡¯m pissed. I¡¯m pissed at you for bringing me back the first time, I¡¯m pissed at myself for being such an idiot around Yor, and I¡¯m absolutely pissed at her for bringing me back again. We had a tearful goodbye and all that shit, it was perfect! Then she decided she couldn¡¯t let my comments slide and had to fuck with me, and not in a good way! But¡­ although I¡¯m pissed, I¡¯m kind of resigned to it. I¡¯m stuck like this now, and will be for a long fucking time. At this point, I¡¯m just hoping that she¡¯ll remember to let me go eventually.¡±


    A miserable way for a soul who¡¯d done more for him than almost any other to end.


    ¡°So I won¡¯t bother trying to kill you,¡± Tyron relented. ¡°You¡¯re almost certainly right, there¡¯s likely no point in it. I¡¯m sorry, Dove.¡±


    ¡°Tyron, I¡¯ve heard your apologies way too many times. They don¡¯t matter anymore. They don¡¯t help. I¡¯m just going to ignore how unrelentingly shit this all is as best as I can until I¡¯m finally set free.¡±


    It was a hard thing to hear, but he nodded, accepting it.


    ¡°I just wish¡­ I could still do my magick,¡± the spirit trapped within the skull mused, wistfully. ¡°I really loved it, you know? Not like, physically, but I enjoyed studying and expanding my knowledge. The Slayers I worked with would sternly deny it, but I was serious about that, at least.¡±


    Yet another thing Dove endured because Tyron had taken it away from him. Yet another blow to his heart. The Necromancer¡¯s chin dropped to his chest.


    Then he lifted it again.


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t Arihnan the Black dead?¡±


    ¡°Uh, yes? He¡¯s been dead for a thousand fucking years! Took everything beyond the boundary mountains down with him, as I recall my history.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what? I thought Granin fell much later?¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah, but having half your fucking empire ravaged by Undead isn¡¯t exactly great for your longevity. They hung in there for a while, but eventually fell to the kin. The paths through the mountains were lost shortly after, and nobody¡¯s been back over there since.¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t what I was talking about. You¡¯ve obviously read more than me, but as far as I know, descriptions of the Necromancer describe him as skeletal, like, actual bones.¡±


    ¡°Well, of course. He was a lich, an undead magick user. You know about this shit, kid. Some undead can still use magick, like the vampires.¡±


    ¡°But Arhinan started out as a person?¡±


    ¡°Yyyess? So?¡±


    ¡°Just like you.¡±


    ¡°Again, so?¡±


    ¡°So you can use it too!¡±


    ¡°No I fucking can¡¯t. Oh no. Shit. No. Tyron, I know that look in your eye. Fucking STOP, right now.¡±


    Tyron felt his heart quickening in his chest as his eyes began to flick from side to side rapidly, ideas cascading through his head.


    ¡°You can¡¯t use magick because you don¡¯t have a source. Of course you don¡¯t, the source is a physical thing, a part of our body, which you don¡¯t have, but what if we made one?¡±


    ¡°Kid, I am not your test dummy.¡±


    But Tyron wasn¡¯t listening. He sprang up from his chair and began to pace back and forth.


    ¡°Any lich must have an alternate way to collect and store magick. I know wild liches exist, but without studying one, I can¡¯t work out how they do it. Arihnan, though¡­ he had to create his own when he transitioned to unlife. He had to. I¡¯ve been experimenting with repositories for exactly this purpose, funnelling energy into an undead vessel. Now your case is a little unique, but it should be possible. I can create a matrix that stores magick easily enough, that¡¯s just basic, but finding a way to connect it to your spirit¡­. That¡¯s harder.¡±


    ¡°This fucking kid¡­.¡±


    Dove knew what was going to happen next. The crazy was taking over, he could already see it.


    ¡°Fuck me.¡±


    ¡°If I can bind your spirit to a skull, then surely I can bind a repository of power to your spirit. I just¡­ I just¡­.¡±


    The kid carried on mumbling to himself as he paced back and forth, his arms tracing vague lines in the air, his hands flashing through seemingly random sigils as he pondered what sequence might bring him the result he desired. This was exactly the look on his face Dove had awoken to when he¡¯d first found himself locked inside his own skull. The same expression he¡¯d had when he created his first revenant.


    Can¡¯t get any fucking worse, Dove thought to himself, resigned to his plight, but, shockingly, the kid turned to him, a hint of lucidity returning to his gaze.


    ¡°Do you want me to try this?¡± Tyron asked.


    Dove was so shocked it took him a moment to reply.


    ¡°W-what?¡± he stuttered.


    Tyron stormed to the table and stared directly into the glowing orbs within the hollow sockets of the carved skull.


    ¡°I won¡¯t try this without your permission. I may succeed, I may not, but if I do, you¡¯ll have access to magick again.¡±


    ¡°I really didn¡¯t think you were going to ask me.¡±


    ¡°I like to think I¡¯ve matured.¡±


    ¡°Nice to see.¡±


    There was a long, drawn out pause.


    ¡°Dove?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fucking thinking, damn you! Give me a second.¡±


    ¡°Look. I¡¯m not sure if you¡¯ll be able to use your Summoning magick anymore, and I have no idea if or how the Unseen will interact with you in this state. All of this is unknown, so yes, you would be the experimental case and that¡¯s shit for you. But, I¡¯m confident, Dove. If the two of us work together, we can figure it out.¡±


    The trapped spirit thought a little longer.


    ¡°I¡¯ll only agree if you promise to try and fix me up with a body as well. I want hands and legs, for fuck¡¯s sake.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ tricky. But sure. I¡¯ll do my best.¡±


    ¡°And a dick.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±

 B3C18 - The Gift of Magick

    ¡°You¡¯re generating magick already, somehow. It¡¯s not much, miniscule, if I¡¯m being honest¨C¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t mock my size.¡±


    ¡°¨Cbut it¡¯s there. This must be how your spirit generates enough energy to maintain itself.¡±


    ¡°I always wondered about that, because you never created a conduit between the two of us, right?¡±


    Tyron nodded in confirmation as he continued to peer down at the carved skull through his Death Lense.


    ¡°At the time, I figured it was just a function of your status. A high level Slayer would be a powerful spirit and sustain itself. I didn¡¯t really have the time to investigate, so I just glossed over it. Now though, I have to wonder how it works.¡±


    ¡°You need to remember I¡¯m not in my original vessel anymore. Perhaps when you stuffed me into my skull, the bones were generating magick the same way your bony boys do, converting ambient magick into death attuned energy. Considering I was hanging around all your skeletons, they could have been feeding it to me as well.¡±


    Tyron put down the lens and pondered for a moment, arms folded over his chest.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ possible. Are you suggesting that perhaps your current¡­ ¡®vessel¡¯ works as a descriptor, I suppose¡­ your current vessel is different? Modified, somehow?¡±


    ¡°One way to find out.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I can crack it open without freeing your spirit.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to break it, you ass! Aren¡¯t you a fancy schmancy Enchanter or some shit? Bust out the tools and get fancy, for fuck¡¯s sake!¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Fucking found it!¡±


    ¡°Thank the mother¡¯s mammaries. I was getting sick of being rolled around this table.¡±


    Hunched over the table, Tyron continued to focus through his glass, tracing the incredibly fine filaments carved on the inside of the ¡®cheek bones¡¯.


    ¡°Blood and bone, I can¡¯t believe they managed to fit such dense script in there. It¡¯s not even powered by a core! Fuck me.¡±


    It had taken two straight days of exhaustingly careful analysis to find the script. If he hadn¡¯t been so careful, he likely would have tripped one of the four hidden matrices that would have dissolved the skull to dust in his hands. Disabling those had taken a full day on its own.


    ¡°They seriously didn¡¯t want anyone to examine this thing too closely.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me a thing, that hurts my feelings. And, let¡¯s be real, the only person who was going to look at it was you. They didn¡¯t want you to look at it too closely.¡±


    ¡°I can see why,¡± Tyron muttered, ¡°this is¡­ incredible stuff. If I¡¯m not wrong, this script does exactly what you suggested it might. It takes in ambient magick and converts it to death aligned energy. That¡¯s what¡¯s been powering you.¡±


    ¡°If¡­ if you damaged it in some minute way, would that¡­ drain me of power? Over time? Maybe I¡¯d be able to escape that way, before they notice what¡¯s happening.¡±


    Tyron sat back and gave the suggestion the thought it deserved. Ultimately, he shook his head.


    ¡°It¡¯s possible it might work the way you suggest. But it¡¯s also possible that it would just drain you until you couldn¡¯t be in your ¡®awake¡¯ state, and then you¡¯d just be sleeping inside the skull forever, rather than being set free.¡±


    ¡°Well, shit.¡±


    ¡°It might work. I can do it, for sure, if you want me to.¡±


    ¡°... No,¡± Dove sighed, ¡°if I stopped waking up, Yor would realise something was wrong and just fix it. Even if she didn¡¯t, I wouldn¡¯t get free. Damn it all. Let¡¯s keep going with your plan.¡±


    ¡°Well, this is a huge step forward. I need to copy out this script and study it. If I can figure out how, I can use this to feed you the power you need. Instead of taking in ambient energy, I¡¯ll feed it magick straight from my power array. This script will do the work of conversion for me, and feed that magick straight to you.¡±


    Unspeakably excited, Tyron got to work. Due to the incredibly fine work and the awkward position it had been done, he had to use small mirrors, his fingers, and a thin paint that he eventually blotted onto a clean sheet of paper to get a clear picture of the enchantment. Only then could he get to work on interpreting it.


    ~~~


    ¡°It¡¯s ridiculously sophisticated,¡± Tyron groaned as he rubbed his eyes. How long had it been since he slept? It didn¡¯t matter, he was fascinated by what he was seeing.


    ¡°Of course it is! This is vampire bullshit. I¡¯ve never seen Yor do anything in a straightforward manner if she had the option to do it in a needlessly bizarre and labyrinthine way instead. I imagine the attitude filters through every aspect of their spellwork as well.¡±


    Tyron grunted as he continued to trace lines and sigils onto yet another clean copy of paper.


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    ¡°Apparently, there are differences between vampire groups; some of them are a bit more direct in their methods. I was warned that they might come for me.¡±


    ¡°Oh great. So not only are they of limited help, they¡¯re an active danger as well.¡±


    ¡°To be fair, I never considered Yor to be anything other than dangerous.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think she could hurt me! I was already dead!¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t mocking you, just stating a fact.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Well don¡¯t look so smug when you do it.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Oh yes you were, smuggy.¡±


    ¡°Can I focus on this enchantment, please?¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    As Tyron continued to work, he couldn¡¯t help but muse out loud.


    ¡°I always intended to use my enchanting skills as a way to enhance my Necromancy, but I didn¡¯t expect to get the chance so soon.¡±


    Dove was a little confused.


    ¡°What do you mean, so soon? You¡¯ve been out here at this shop for months. What have you been doing all this time?!¡±


    ¡°Trying to max my core Skills before I hit level forty.¡±


    ¡°Oh, shit. I guess I kind of assumed you¡¯d advanced to Silver ages ago.¡±


    ¡°Never had the chance. I¡¯ve been running experiments, trying to increase my Corpse Appraisal and Corpse Preparation. When that¡¯s done, I want to hit my cap with Raise Dead as well, possibly Bone Stitching too.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a lot of work, but it¡¯ll put you in good stead going forward,¡± Dove mused.


    ¡°Only after that was I intending to start implementing my Enchanting ideas. Trying to focus on too many things at once would stall my progress on every front.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of, you probably haven¡¯t thought much on this so far, but I wonder if you have any ideas about your third Sub-Class? I assume you¡¯ve hit human level twenty?¡±


    Tyron paused.


    ¡°I have. Reached it I mean. To be honest, I¡¯ve not given much thought to it, considering everything I have on my plate already. Something that can make my undead better, that¡¯s all I have right now.¡±


    ¡°Huh. I thought you might consider some sort of Mage Class so you have a better variety of spells to play with. Or a defensive Class to keep yourself alive.¡±


    The Necromancer shook his head.


    ¡°If you think about it, all of those purposes can be served by simply having stronger minions. I could add some sort of fire Mage subclass and throw fireballs around, to do what? To damage my enemies? Stronger undead fighting for me will do that just fine. Protect myself? Some sort of Defender subclass? Stronger undead could protect me just as well.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re probably right,¡± Dove considered ¡°Your subclasses are meant to supplement and support your main class. So what¡¯s going to help you create better minions?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. With the Enchanting, I had a clear idea of what I could do, the weakness it could shore up. Specifically, helping lighten the burden on my magick. For the next step, I¡¯m not sure. Perhaps I¡¯ll have a clearer picture after I advance my Class again.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Where the heck do you think you¡¯re going to stick that?!¡±


    ¡°Deep, deep inside you.¡±


    ¡°Tyron. That¡¯s so filthy, it brings a tear to my eye. Metaphorically.¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡±


    ¡°Seriously though, where is it going to fit? I¡¯m only skull sized!¡±


    The young mage picked up the matrix he¡¯d designed and held it in front of the skull, spread across his two palms.


    ¡°It looks bigger than it really is, and, to be honest, there¡¯s more surface area inside your skull than you think there is.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯m big after all.¡±


    ¡°I thought you said size doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    ¡°That was before I learned how massive I was.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Right. Anyway, if I make it much smaller than this, then the amount of power it can store won¡¯t be significant enough to do much with. I can create another array and connect it to this one, doubling or tripling the available energy, when you have a body and I have more room to work with.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough. Still, are you sure this is going to work?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea. This is entirely guesswork.¡±


    ¡°That gives me a lot of confidence¡­.¡±


    ¡°Look, it should work, I believe it will work, but I¡¯m not a vampire with thousands of years of experience, alright? I¡¯m just trying to figure this out as best I can.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right, you¡¯re right. I told you to go ahead and try in the first place. Fine, turn me over and stitch me up. I¡¯m ready.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to have to bolt you in place while I¡¯m working, this is going to take hours to get it housed properly.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ great. Off to sleep for me then.¡±


    ~~~


    A week without sleep. Seven days straight of continuous work, and it all came down to this. He felt exhausted, down to his bones. His head swam every time he moved, and his eyes felt completely raw. Simultaneously, he felt elated. The deep-rooted satisfaction that came from new discovery, from pushing his Skills to their limits and developing something new. It was a euphoric experience.


    The grimoire he had received from Yor lay forgotten on the side of the table as he unclamped the carved skull and turned it back over, placing Dove carefully in the centre of his workspace. If all had gone well, then his power array was currently absorbing ambient magick, storing it, and then feeding it to the matrix the vampires had etched on him. If it worked as he believed it did, then that power would be converted to death magick before being sent straight to Dove¡¯s spirit.


    What effect that would have, and what Dove could then do with that energy, he had no idea. Hopefully, the former Summoner could draw on that reservoir to cast spells. He wouldn¡¯t be able to do what he¡¯d done before, namely, Summon creatures from the Astral plane, since Death Magick wasn¡¯t useful for that purpose, but he could figure something out. Maybe.


    ¡°W-w-what the¡­ what the fuck?¡±


    The dim lights in the hollow eyes of the skull flickered and brightened as the spirit within stirred himself from his ¡®rest¡¯.


    ¡°Hello, Dove,¡± Tyron croaked before he coughed, took a sip of water from his flask and tried again. ¡°H-hello. Shit. How do you feel?¡±


    ¡°Better than you, I think, which is an achievement, since I¡¯m fucking dead. I know what you¡¯re asking, though; I can definitely feel something is¡­ different.¡±


    ¡°For want of a better term, you¡¯re all hooked up. I¡¯ve tested every part of the power network, and it¡¯s functioning as it should. The work I did to connect it to the existing matrix is also working, energy is flowing. It¡¯s nothing like what you would have had available as a human, but it''s a heck of a lot more than you had before. A hundred times, at least.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I can feel the difference, for sure. I feel¡­ better? Somehow? More solid. I can see a bit better also.¡±


    ¡°If we give it a day to build up, we can try and get you to cast some verbal spells, something simple. See if it works?¡±


    ¡°Fuck yes,¡± Dove breathed. ¡°I can¡¯t fucking wait.¡±

 B3C19 - A Shift in Dynamics

    Yor couldn¡¯t sense Tyron inside his little shop, which was usually a sure sign he was locked in his basement, fussing over bones and running experiments. It would have been amusing, watching him struggle to unlock even the most basic knowledge she had been taught in the first year of her apprenticeship, but it wasn¡¯t; she knew what kind of mind was housed in that skull.


    Still, it would be years before he could build his knowledge to the point where she couldn¡¯t consider herself better in the Necromantic arts.


    She was tempted, if only slightly, to enter the shop and make a show of herself, but decided against it. There was no need to antagonise him, especially when he¡¯d been so testy lately. She sighed. That meant she would need to infiltrate his ¡®study¡¯. A trivial exercise, to someone with her talents, but it meant entering the sewers, which she was reluctant to do.


    After a moment of concentration, Yor felt her senses expand, until every whisper became a shout, every glint of light a jagged beam in her eye, even the touch of the air on her dead skin felt oppressive. After a few seconds of searching, she relaxed, allowing everything to return to normal.


    She walked around the corner and down the street until she came across what she had been searching for, a sewer grate, used by the maintenance crews to enter the tunnels. Through the small gaps in the metal plate, she could already smell the stench below, which caused her to grimace with distaste. She could go through the shop and break the protections on the hidden entrance¡­.


    Tyron would be incensed¡­.


    With a final sigh, Yor stepped into the gathering shadows between market stalls and melded with the shadows. A moment later, a thick trail of blood oozed across the ground with gathering speed, falling into the drain and out of sight.


    When she arrived in the basement and began to reform her body, she¡¯d hoped for a strong reaction to her dramatic reveal. Doubtless, the boy had been wrestling with the tome she had given him, a valuable text for someone of his level, if he could interpret it. She expected a weary and bedraggled Tyron to turn and exclaim at the mysterious pillar of blood that slowly resolved itself into her glorious form.


    When her eyes were whole, what she saw was rather different than expectations.


    Rather than weary and bedraggled, Tyron appeared like a madman, unshaven and filthy, wearing soiled clothing, his hair a mess of gnarled golden locks and eyes almost completely bloodshot. Instead of carefully translating the sigils of the vampires, he was engaged in a furious argument with¡­ a hand. The Necromancer was throwing his arms around the place, pointing and yelling while the hand darted back and forth and made rude gestures at him.


    Dove was positioned nearby, sitting on the table, apparently talking also? What were they doing?


    Her ears were completed a few seconds later and she was treated to their¡­ stimulating discourse.


    ¡°That¡¯s not how it works, you donkey,¡± Tyron bellowed, throwing his arms in the air once more. ¡°The transfer isn¡¯t lossless, regardless of what you think you see. I can detect the residue through the lens and you fucking know it!¡±


    ¡°Would you just listen to me, you cockless wonder! I know it isn¡¯t lossless, alright? I fucking know that. What I¡¯m saying, is that we are talking a fraction of a percent! That much shouldn¡¯t matter, it can be safely ignored!¡±


    ¡°We have to find efficiencies! YES, even here! Just because the loss is small doesn¡¯t mean it can¡¯t be reduced or eradicated!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re just a fucking perfectionist! Let it go!¡±


    ¡°Yes I am, and no I won¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°Am I¡­ interrupting, something?¡± Yor drawled once her vocal chords had reformed.


    Tyron turned to see the still congealing mass of vaguely Yor-shaped blood in the corner of his study and blinked.


    ¡°Oh, hey Yor. Has it been a month already?¡± he began to fumble around on the table for the volume. ¡°Where did I put that book?¡± he muttered, blinking owlishly.


    That was it? She definitely felt her display deserved more of a reaction than that!


    ¡°Good to know your security is so lacking that any undead can simply materialise inside your private sanctum without you even noticing,¡± she observed acidly.


    ¡°What?¡± he replied absently, still shifting things on his desk, ¡°oh. Security. I have wards in the sewers around here specifically for undead. I knew you were coming five minutes ago. Sorry I didn''t greet you properly, I was¡­ distracted.¡±


    The oaf snickered and she glared at the carved skull on the table.


    ¡°I see our time apart has relaxed your manners. It won¡¯t take long for that mistake to be corrected.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve learned a couple of things over the last month, I think you''ll be impressed with my progress. Like this: Death Bolt!¡±


    A blast of magick flew from the hand on the table toward her, shocking the vampire to the point she almost didn¡¯t react. Thankfully, her speed was more than a match to the task and she slapped the spell down with the flat of her hand.


    ¡°What was that?!¡± she demanded of Tyron, and infuriatingly, he turned back to face her and said: ¡°what?¡±


    ¡°That cretin,¡± she declared, pointing imperiously at the skull, ¡°just attacked me with a spell!¡±


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Tyron pinched his brow and groaned.


    ¡°For fuck¡¯s sake, Dove. You promised me you wouldn¡¯t do that.¡±


    ¡°I was tempted beyond my means to resist!¡±


    ¡°No, none of your bullshit, I¡¯m disconnecting the hand.¡±


    ¡°What! That¡¯s bullshit.¡±


    The Necromancer ignored his protests, at which point, the skeletal hand on the desk leapt up onto its fingertips and tried to skitter across the table, but Tyron dove on it and muttered a few words as he tinkered with something. Instantly, the hand fell motionless and he placed it back on the table.


    ¡°I¡¯m really sorry about that, Yor, I warned him not to do anything stupid, but between you and me, I¡¯m pretty sure he¡¯s gone insane being locked in that skull.¡±


    ¡°Is he the only one who¡¯s gone insane?¡± she asked him, pointedly looking him up and down.


    The young mage followed her gaze, uncomprehending, before he gave an embarrassed cough and plucked at this filthy clothes.


    ¡°Oh, this. Yes, it¡¯s been¡­ busy¡­ over the last month. I do have to thank you for the book, though, it¡¯s been¡­ exceptionally helpful. If only I could¡­ ah! Aha! I knew I put it somewhere.¡±


    He shuffled across the room and picked up Dove, who squawked in protest, to reveal the vampire text had been sitting under the skull, propping him up slightly. Tyron brandished the bound volume triumphantly.


    ¡°Here it is. Thank you very much for providing this, it was incredibly informative. If you get a chance, pass on my appreciation to Master Hikaari. Really insightful and clearly presented ideas.¡±


    The words were distinguished, but they came from such a dishevelled and wild looking frame that she almost laughed at the incongruity.


    ¡°So you translated it, then?¡± she asked, a little surprised.


    ¡°Oh, a good chunk of it, I suppose. The useful bits. I copied a lot of it, I can figure the rest out later.¡±


    ¡°Oh? I thought you might struggle a little more with the vampiric runes.¡±


    Tyron blinked. Blinked again.


    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s right. That was the point, wasn¡¯t it? I was supposed to have a hard time cracking it, extracting only a little information after painstaking effort and then giving it back.¡±


    ¡°We wouldn¡¯t be that cruel,¡± Yor smirked.


    ¡°Yes you would.¡±


    He didn¡¯t even sound upset about it. The words were delivered flat and without emotion, stating the reality in concrete terms.


    ¡°That¡¯s probably what would have happened if I didn¡¯t find that script in Dove¡¯s skull. Reverse engineering that gave me almost two dozen sigils that I could turn around and apply to the book. It¡¯s like picking at a particularly gruesome knot,¡± he plucked at the air vaguely with his fingers, ¡°once you manage to get a few threads, the rest unravels much more easily.¡±


    She turned her eyes to Dove, placidly silent on the bench.


    ¡°You found what? What have you done?¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious? I linked a power array to the matrix you put in the skull to feed him death magick. Then I used the information in the book to start binding his soul to a body. We managed to get the hand connected, but I¡¯m trying to find a more efficient way to do it, since there¡¯s a bit of energy loss and there isn¡¯t really any reason why there should be.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s normal in magick to expect some energy loss,¡± Dove scoffed. ¡°You just need to get over it.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t accept loss I can¡¯t explain,¡± Tyron shot back, red eyes glaring.


    ¡°I could have been dancing around with a full skeletal body by now if it weren¡¯t for this dickhead,¡± Dove sighed. ¡°Even having a hand to move was incredible.¡±


    ¡°And you did all this¡­ in a month?¡± Yor asked.


    Tyron looked abashed.


    ¡°Well, I had to manage my experiments and make sure the shop was stocked. That¡¯s probably why I look like such a wildman. I haven¡¯t slept in¡­ Dove?¡±


    ¡°Five days.¡±


    ¡°Shit.¡±


    The vampire looked at him sideways.


    ¡°You know¡­ the undead do not need to sleep. If you shed the confines of your mortality, you could be so much more.¡±


    ¡°Oh, this again. Wait, don¡¯t you sleep everytime the sun is up?¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ technically.¡±


    What the vampires experienced was closer to torpor than sleep.


    ¡°But there are other forms of undead, if you do not wish to be a vampire. You aren¡¯t far away from transforming Dove into a lich. The same process could be undertaken for you. Only much more sophisticated.¡±


    He grimaced.


    ¡°No thanks. And I wouldn¡¯t consider Dove anything close to a proper lich. He has a trickle of power available to him, and no access to the Unseen. How do you manage that? Being dead? Well, I suppose you have access to blood, don¡¯t you?¡±


    The Necromancer rubbed at his eyes and sighed.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a way to do it. There wouldn¡¯t be any point to becoming a lich if you could no longer progress in the eyes of the Unseen. Any hints or clues, Yor?¡±


    She smiled and shook her head, her raven black hair waving softly against her neck.


    ¡°I will only say that it is, in fact, possible. To give away such a powerful secret for free, however¡­ I cannot allow it.¡±


    ¡°I figured. Well, here¡¯s your book. And here¡¯s Dove.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡±


    The spirit protested as Tyron plucked him from the bench and presented him to Yor along with the tome.


    ¡°I¡¯d appreciate it if you could bring him back again sometime soon,¡± he said, ¡°as difficult as it is to have him around, it¡¯s very useful to have another Mage to talk to and help figure this stuff out.¡±


    He hesitated.


    ¡°Besides, he¡¯ll probably drive you nuts if you keep him around for too long. Having access to magick has made him a little bit¡­ unbalanced.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind,¡± she said wryly, shaking her head.


    Even when she thought she knew what he was capable of, he continued to surprise her. This was definitely someone worth keeping close to the Court.


    ¡°I¡¯ve little doubt that Dove fully intends to make a nuisance of himself so that I feel compelled to be rid of him,¡± she said, talking to both of them, ¡°so rather than squash his feeble efforts, I will instead offer to return him to you next month. As long as he behaves.¡±


    Tyron looked pleased, but then glanced down at the skull and shrugged.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s up to him. I can¡¯t make him behave.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a child,¡± Dove huffed.


    Yor and Tyron looked down at him incredulously.


    ¡°I just act like one to annoy people,¡± the skull admitted. ¡°It usually works.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t fucking say. Thanks, Yor. I¡¯ll see you in a month, then.¡±


    ¡°Weren¡¯t you coming to our regular catchup in two weeks?¡± she asked, arching her brow.


    He slumped.


    ¡°Can¡¯t we just talk here and now? Or in a month?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not. We have an arrangement. The conditions must be met.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± he relented, then stumped toward the stairs. ¡°I suppose you can see yourself out, then? I¡¯m going to bed.¡±

 B3C20 - Investments and Returns

    Work continued in a flurry of activity for Tyron. After Yor returned with Dove, he slept for two days before he awoke, feeling like a dead man. With some food and drink in him, he felt much better, but noticed as he pulled his clothes on he was looking dangerously thin.


    Once upon a time, he¡¯d had his Aunt Meg and Uncle Worthy chasing him down and shoving delicious tavern meals down his throat. Since his Awakening, he¡¯d never really settled into a healthy routine, not even when he¡¯d enrolled as Master Willhem¡¯s apprentice. He¡¯d worked himself to the bone, hunched over his bench at all hours, eating whatever he could scrounge from the kitchens when someone reminded him to eat.


    Should he hire a cook? Perhaps someone to feed the staff in the store¡­ he knew Flynn didn¡¯t eat properly, although he might have seen Cerry bringing him food?


    No, he was the only one who needed help in this regard. He looked at the contents of his pantry. Dried meat, hard biscuits, pickled vegetables¡­


    ¡°Am I travelling?¡± he muttered incredulously to himself, before slamming the cupboard door closed. ¡°That¡¯s it, I¡¯m getting a proper meal.¡±


    Having decided his course of action, he finished dressing himself and left the store after a brief discussion with Cerry, stepping out into the crowded streets for what felt like the first time in weeks. He carefully tried not to think about the fact it likely was the first time in weeks.


    There were a few good places to eat near the market square, reputable taverns, although he also had the option to go into the city and find something more upmarket¡­.


    To hell with it, he decided, I can¡¯t be bothered travelling inside the walls.


    Rather than head to the stables and coach hiring houses, he wandered through the market itself, enjoying the sunshine and feeling the bustling crowd moving around him. After a time, he realised with a jolt, he didn¡¯t feel that surge of irrational anger or hatred at these people moving around him, going about their day. Farmers manned stalls, selling fresh produce from the fields, shoppers haggled with crafters and tradespeople offering their wares and services, and it all seemed¡­ fine.


    He wasn¡¯t sure if it was a good or bad thing that he felt more calm, or why. Perhaps being around more people, Filetta, Dove, Victor, Elsbeth, even Yor to some extent, had been good for him, helped unwind a little of the tension he¡¯d been holding tight inside his chest.


    Regardless of the reason, his rumbling stomach urged him to find something more substantial to fill it, and so he left the stalls and moved to the outer edge of the square, where the more established businesses could be found.


    He trailed his eyes across the stores until he found himself staring up at one quizzically. There was no way¡­ right?


    With a bemused expression, he pushed his way through the door, eyes wandering. It was a small place, with only five wooden tables and simple furniture, but it was clean, and the smells wafting from the kitchen were delicious, a hint of smoke and roasting meat.


    There weren¡¯t any staff manning the counter, so he leaned against it and waited, until someone came through and he almost fell over.


    ¡°Welcome!¡± she said, with a bright smile. ¡°Are you here to eat?¡±


    ¡°Wha- ah¡­ yes. Absolutely, thank you.¡±


    ¡°No problem. Why don¡¯t you grab a seat and I¡¯ll be over in a minute to let you know what¡¯s in the pot today.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    He tried not to act weird, she clearly didn¡¯t recognise him. After four years, she¡¯d done a lot of growing up, but she was still far too attractive to be that man¡¯s daughter.


    ¡°Don¡¯t see a well dressed gentleman like you around the market all that often,¡± she said as she walked up to the table with a jug of water and a glass. ¡°Are you from around here?¡±


    ¡°Me? Yes, I run¡­ I own a store nearby.¡±


    ¡°Oh really? Which one?¡±


    ¡°Almsfield Enchantments.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s you? Master Almsfield? Well, welcome to my humble store! I know it isn¡¯t much, I awakened as a cook not that long ago, but you¡¯ll not find finer cuts of meat this side of the wall, that¡¯s our guarantee.¡±


    ¡°Yes, your father¡¯s a butcher, I take it?¡±


    She nodded, happily.


    ¡°That¡¯s right, been at it for a long time. Used to work out on the rifts, monster parts mostly, but now he¡¯s working on cows and game. Speaking of which, we have roast beef over the fire with vegetables, or a venison stew. Do either take your fancy?¡±


    ¡°The roast, thanks.¡±


    ¡°Gravy?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°And anything to drink?¡±


    ¡°An ale if you have any.¡±


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    In short order, she¡¯d served the meal and given him some space to enjoy it, stopping by to offer him a top up and engaging in some chat. He managed to steer the conversation to where her father had worked before, and she explained their flight from Woodsedge.


    ¡°It was horrible,¡± she shivered. ¡°That noise was like nothing I¡¯d ever heard before. And the monsters¡­ sorry, I don¡¯t like to talk about it much. My father and I barely made it out, but we lost my mother. It was¡­ a very painful time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to have brought up such awful memories,¡± Tyron said awkwardly, kicking himself for prying. ¡°It seems you¡¯ve done well to find your feet,¡± he gestured to the store around them.


    ¡°Oh, thank you. It hasn¡¯t been easy, but we¡¯re getting there.¡±


    She hadn¡¯t lied about the food either. Her cooking Skill was likely still quite low, and it showed in the food, but the meat was exquisite. All she needed was time and practice, some trial and error, before her Class and Skills began to climb.


    He finished his plate with relish, considered asking for more, but checked himself. He thumbed a coin from his pouch and onto the table.


    ¡°I hope that covers everything.¡±


    ¡°That more than covers everything! Wait there and I¡¯ll get you some change.¡±


    ¡°No, no. It¡¯s quite alright, I need to be on my way.¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not, sir, you wait right there!¡±


    She rushed out the back of the store, leaving Tyron standing by himself in the dining area. After glancing around a few times, he turned and sprinted out the door.


    Behind him, the proud sign, painted in red and white read Gunderson Meats and Eatery.


    ~~~


    ¡°Someone to see you, Master Almsfield.¡±


    ¡°Damn it all! Who is it this time?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Ah. I¡¯m¡­ sorry.¡±


    Tyron sighed and pushed himself back from his bench, tossing away his pliance.


    ¡°Sorry, Cerry, I didn¡¯t mean to snap at you. I¡¯m just getting tired of people coming to the store and bothering me when I¡¯m trying to work.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s quite alright, Master Almsfield, I completely understand.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not alright, and it won¡¯t happen again. Now, who was it?¡±


    ¡°Right! I don¡¯t think I know this person, I haven¡¯t seen them in the store before, but they said they had a delivery for you?¡±


    He frowned and pushed himself up from his seat.


    ¡°A delivery? Did they say who from?¡±


    ¡°No¡­¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll go talk to them.¡±


    Irritated at being disrupted, he tried to smooth the frustration from his face as he descended the stairs. If it was one of his suppliers, then it wouldn¡¯t do to be snapping their heads off for entering his place of business.


    But he didn¡¯t recognise the man in dusty looking robes, holding a wide, stitched hat waiting on the shop floor. He stood unusually still, only shifting his head slightly as he looked down at the wares on display.


    ¡°Hello, can I help you, sir?¡± Tyron asked, forcing a slight smile onto his face.


    It was the best he could do.


    ¡°Are you Master Almsfield?¡± the man replied, turning to face him directly and staring him right in the eyes.


    ¡°Yes, I am.¡±


    The straightforward demeanour of the stranger was almost threatening, but the Necromancer didn¡¯t sense any ill will. Perhaps this was a cultural thing? Or maybe this person was just odd¡­.


    ¡°Our friend from the desert asked me to deliver this to you. Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d want them in your store again.¡±


    He reached deep into his own voluminous sleeve and retrieved a scroll case from within, presenting it to Tyron on his open palm.


    The Mage¡¯s eyes lit up with greed the moment he laid his eyes on it. He reached out and carefully took the case in both hands.


    ¡°Many thanks. Would you care to stay for some refreshment?¡±


    ¡°No. Our business is concluded and I must be elsewhere. Thank you.¡±


    With the slightest tip of his head, the well-tanned stranger turned on his heel and strode from the store. Such actions could be considered rude, but Tyron was more than pleased. Nothing to delay him from examining the scroll!


    ¡°I¡¯ll be heading back upstairs, Cerry. Let me know if you need me.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Master Almsfield. Did you know that person?¡±


    ¡°No. Never met him before in my life, but I was expecting this to arrive, at some point.¡±


    Without another word he strode up the stairs two at a time and burst into his workshop, grinning.


    Of course, it wouldn¡¯t be sensible to simply open the case without some precautionary measures, so he scried it with his eye spell, used magick to examine the case and carefully inspected it through his lens before he opened it.


    Inside, he found a small sheet of paper wrapped around a longer one. The first sheet was a short letter from Shadda, written in a barely legible scrawl.


    I have spoken to the elders and they consented to allow me to send you this. It is nothing special, but better than nothing.


    Shadda


    ¡°Man of few words,¡± Tyron muttered as he put the letter aside and withdrew the scroll.


    He unravelled it eagerly, only to find it was significantly longer than he expected it to be, slipping from his grasp and rolling off his bench and onto the floor.


    Gingerly, he gripped the top and bottom and began to carefully roll it back up until he was holding the first section in front of his face. This would have been so much more convenient as a book¡­.


    However, his mild complaints were washed away as he read, then shuffled the scroll to examine the next section, then the next.


    These were instructions for golem building! Exactly what he¡¯d been hoping for. What¡¯s more, they included a detailed written description of the sigils used for the construction of the artificial mind.


    The Necromancer almost felt like dancing. With this, he could finally begin to unravel the process behind the simple artificial consciousness that was implanted in his minions. Once he understood it, he could begin to improve it.


    This could be the beginning of a monumental leap forward in the quality of his undead. Just thinking of the possibilities had him on the edge of abandoning his workshop and rushing down to the basement.


    Settle down, Tyron. Breathe.


    He couldn¡¯t go down there yet. There was work to finish for the shop, and vanishing during the day when the staff were around carried an element of risk.


    With care, he rolled up the scroll and returned it to its case before putting it aside and forcing himself to return to his enchanting. He had plenty of time. All the time in the world.


    It would take a lot of work to fully unravel the information contained in the scroll, and much more to then apply that to the Raise Dead ritual. Combined with what he¡¯d learned from the vampiric text, it may be enough to push his level in that spell to its maximum.

 B3C21 - The Verge

    So much progress in such a short amount of time, it was dizzying. With the knowledge Tyron had gained from the vampiric text, along with the treasure he had received from the Dust Folk, he was finally in a position to develop the most difficult aspects of the Raise Dead ritual.


    Naturally, Tyron threw himself into his work, feverishly scribbling and theorising in his study, only emerging when he was forced to.


    Several social engagements demanded his time. One with Filetta, another with Victor, but he was too distracted to properly engage with either.


    Even focusing on his shop and ensuring the smooth running of his business was immensely difficult. He felt as if he¡¯d been stalled at the starting line for so long, but now he was finally ready to race.


    Secluded in his basement, Tyron continued his experimentation as he built out his ideas. Testing on the remains he sourced from the thieves had never ceased, and he continued to see minor breakthroughs. Attempts to develop a method that would allow him to accurately determine the suitability of a specific skeleton were finally bearing fruit.


    Almost by accident, he had discovered the location of death magick first began to accumulate in the bones. In the last set of bodies he had received, one must have been incredibly fresh, since it contained extremely small trace amounts of death aligned energy.


    After he inspected the remains carefully with the lens, he quickly butchered the corpse so that he could examine the bones more carefully. In this examination, he determined that the highest concentration of power was located in the ribs on the left side of the body, closest to where the heart had been.


    Further tests had led him to develop a metric for working out how long a particular set of remains had been deceased by measuring the accumulation of energy in this particular area, and by the spread. The complexity came in when he learned not all corpses were created equal. Some spread death energy much faster, not only to the remains around them, but also within themselves.


    Thus, the Tyron quotient was born. A formula by which he could not only calculate how long the remains had been dead, but how quickly energy spread throughout the corpse. Although he hadn¡¯t been able to test the theory yet, it would make sense that those remains which were more receptive to Death magick would make better and stronger minions, or at the very least, cheaper to maintain ones.


    Furthermore, his earlier experimentation with alchemical substances, namely the mixture used to cleans rift-kin cores that he¡¯d applied to the bones to remove every trace of organic matter, had led him down another avenue of study.


    After spending a suspicious amount of time talking to Alchemists and doctors, he was finally able to concoct a method that allowed him to determine bone density, as well as produce a solution that actually improved the density of bones when they were submerged in it! Again, he would need to actually raise some minions to test how effective it was, but it was yet another feather in his cap.


    Naturally, all of this progress had him extremely excited that he was closing in on his goals, but he found himself strangely hesitant to conduct the status ritual and check how far he¡¯d made it. The thought that he would learn he was still far from maximising his Skills was a crushing possibility, and it was far too easy to allow himself to be distracted by his work on the Raise Dead ritual.


    The ritual itself comprised of three main components, a conduit between himself and the undead he created to funnel arcane energy, an artificial mind to allow the undead to ¡®think¡¯, and a binding that effectively enslaved the undead to his will.


    The text the vampires had provided dealt with the final part, the binding of undead entities. Although there wasn¡¯t much he found he could do to improve this aspect of the ritual, full and total control over basic undead was already full and total control, after all, he was able to understand it much better.


    He also felt this knowledge would be much more useful when it came to binding more complex undead, such as ghosts and revenants. His control over those was far less robust.


    What Shadda had provided allowed him to gain insight into the second aspect of the ritual, the construct which formed the ¡®mind¡¯ of the undead. Finally able to place many of the sigils in their proper context, his understanding of them grew by leaps and bounds. After several weeks of study, he could finally say he fully comprehended how the mind was constructed and how it functioned.


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    The first element of the ritual, the conduit, he¡¯d already completely rebuilt from the ground up using everything he¡¯d learned from his enchanting work.


    Finally out of excuses, Tyron could no longer put it off, and he conducted the status ritual. Drawing a nervous and shaky breath, he pressed his hand to the page and spoke the words, not even watching as his blood flowed over the paper.


    When it was done, he snapped his eyes down and read quickly, greedily, desperate to see if he¡¯d finally reached his goals.


    Past the dozen notifications of the progress he¡¯d made, he saw something that caused his heart to skip a beat.


    Undead Weaver had reached level 38.


    Two whole levels had been gained from his shenanigans with Dove and his improvements to his craft. Only two left before he would need to advance his Class.


    He bit his lip in frustration.


    That meant he couldn¡¯t perform the status ritual again until he was certain he¡¯d achieved what he needed, lest he risk triggering the advance early. A frustrating position to be in, but it was inevitable that his level would increase. He¡¯d known it would happen eventually, though he¡¯d hoped it wouldn¡¯t be this soon.


    Still, there were two notifications that caused his heart to leap inside his chest.


    Corpse Appraisal has reached level 19.


    Corpse Preparation has reached level 19.


    So close! He was so close! One final push and he¡¯d have reached the first of his requirements. He was so pleased he pushed himself away from his desk, pumping his arms with glee.


    Even better news.


    Raise Dead has reached level 24.


    Six more levels and he would reach the cap which had been increased by his Undead Specialist Feat. To do that, he¡¯d need to make substantial improvements to the remaining two aspects of the ritual he was the least comfortable with, but at least he had a chance now, thanks to the help he¡¯d received.


    Some minor improvements to his enchanting didn¡¯t help much, though he was a little surprised to see his Bone-Soul Melding and Spirit Binding had improved dramatically. In fact¡­ they¡¯d both reached their maximum level.


    Bone-Soul Melding has reached level 10 (Max).


    Spirit Binding has reached level 10 (Max).


    Advanced Death Magick has reached level 17.


    Which had to be a result of his work with Dove. Or, more accurately, his work on Dove. It was true, his understanding of how to bind spirits to objects had advanced spectacularly, as had his knowledge of fusing those objects to a bound spirit.


    A welcome reward for the work he¡¯d done. Besides making Dove happy, of course. The more abilities that reached the max level before his Awakening, the better a position he would be in.


    There was nothing else major in terms of improvements, so he turned his attention to selecting another Necromancer ability.


    Anoint Undead - Bequeath a portion of your power to a set of remains before it is raised, empowering the ritual.


    Purify Bones - Purge the bones of impurities as preparation for the Raise Dead ritual.


    Yet again, the Undead Weaver Class knew exactly what Tyron wanted and gave him two options he didn¡¯t want to pass up, but only let him choose one of them.


    Choosing either one of these would add an extra step to the preparation of his minions, and likely tip his Corpse Preparation Skill up to twenty immediately.


    The descriptions lacked detail, as always, so Tyron did his best to intuit what the words meant. What did it mean to ¡®bequeath¡¯ his power? Was it a simple infusion of magick, or something more dramatic, and permanent? How did it empower the ritual? What effect did it have? So many questions about this one ability!


    Purify Bones, on the other hand, he understood much better. Within this realm, magick infused everything to some degree, slowly corrupting everything it touched.


    How long until rift-kin native to this realm were born? Nobody knew the answer, nobody wanted to think about it.


    This Skill would enable him to remove that influence from the remains he was working with, purge every trace of foreign magick from them. What effect would that have? Likely, it would enable the bones to more readily create and receive Death Aligned energy, hastening the process.


    He brought his hand to his chin and considered. It would be a worthwhile addition to his current abilities, and it suited his needs, fulfilling his primary goal of creating better and stronger undead¡­ but.


    Now that he knew such a thing was possible, he could attempt to recreate the method on his own, saving a skill selection. There were sigils used to drain magick power, they weren¡¯t too dissimilar from those used to absorb energy from the atmosphere. He didn¡¯t know them, but if he asked Master Willhem¡­.


    The fact that the possibility existed was enough for Tyron. He placed his mark next to Anoint Undead. Whatever this skill did, he had no idea how he could replicate it.


    Ending the ritual, he sat still as the power of the Unseen flowed through him. After five minutes, he felt ready and pushed himself up from his seat, destroying the ritual paper with a thoughtful expression on his face.


    ¡°It¡¯s close,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°Very close.¡±

 B3C22 - Business With the Master

    ¡°Is it just me, or does Master Willhem look happy today?¡±


    ¡°Happy?¡± Victor scoffed. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if the old man even knows how to smile.¡±


    He leaned closer to his fellow apprentice, Artin.


    ¡°In fact, I heard a rumour that he pushed all the knowledge of joy, happiness and love from his mind, purged it from his brain in order to become a better Arcanist.¡±


    Artin shoved him off.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you have work to do, Vic?¡±


    ¡°Me? I completed all of my assigned tasks last night!¡±


    ¡°Last night? Did spending so much time with the Night Owl rub off on you after all?¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯t compare me to that guy,¡± Victor rolled his eyes. ¡°All he knows how to do is work. Last time I saw him at his shop, he looked like death itself. He eats, breaths and drinks magick.¡±


    ¡°Which is what you should do too!¡± A thin, squirrely voice pierced through them, and the two apprentices snapped around to see their Master glaring at them from behind.


    ¡°Talented, but lazy, just like so many who¡¯ve come through my doors,¡± Master Willhem poked Victor in the side with his walking stick.


    ¡°You must admit, I¡¯ve been putting in more effort lately, Master,¡± Victor spluttered as he tried to fend off the nimble stick. ¡°My studies have been advancing steadily as well.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s about time,¡± the Master grunted, before he turned his glare on Artin. ¡°And you¡­¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± the young Arcanist squawked, gesturing to his workbench and pliance. ¡°I¡¯ve been working this whole time!¡±


    ¡°You call this work?¡± Willhem snapped. ¡°Your sigils are sloppy, poorly aligned, this Ruohm isn¡¯t even in the right place! Are you trying to ruin the reputation of my shop?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± Artin stared down at the core through his glass, ¡°... well¡­ damn. But this isn¡¯t for sale, Master Willhem, this is my own project.¡±


    ¡°If your projects are garbage, then what does that say about my workshop?¡± Willhem retorted. ¡°You¡¯re a long way from completing your apprenticeship with rubbish like that.¡±


    The old Master continued down the line, poking and scolding his apprentices as he went. Artin stared at his work even harder before he slumped back with a groan.


    ¡°How can he even see that? I¡¯ve been scraping away at this damn thing all morning and I thought it was fine.¡±


    Victor rested a hand on his shoulder and shook his head in pity.


    ¡°That old man is one of the greatest Arcanists the province has ever produced. There¡¯s almost no chance he doesn¡¯t have an enchanting related Mystery. Possibly two. I think poorly formed runes stand out to him like a bad smell. That¡¯s why he always enjoyed Lukas¡¯ work, that guy was always so precise in his work it probably smelled like a bouquet of roses.¡±


    Suddenly he snapped his fingers.


    ¡°Of course! I recognise that pep in his step now. Lukas must be coming.¡±


    ¡°The Night Owl?¡± Artis wonders. ¡°Why would he be coming? He already completed his apprenticeship.¡±


    ¡°Probably wants to nose through the Master¡¯s books and get some advice.¡±


    If you couldn¡¯t find Arcanist knowledge in Master Willhem¡¯s library, then it probably didn¡¯t exist in the Western Province.


    ¡°Oh, speak of the kin and they shall appear,¡± Victor observed as a shadow darkened the door to the workshop.


    The door opened, and the dark-eyed, blond-haired face of Lukas Almsfield appeared. Once again, he looked as if he hadn¡¯t slept in days.


    ¡°Lukas,¡± Victor greeted him cheerfully, ¡°you look like shit.¡±


    ¡°Vic,¡± his friend replied, ¡°you look stupid. How are things working out between you and Lady Shan?¡±


    ¡°Well enough,¡± Victor demurred. ¡°She is charmed by me, as all people are. It¡¯s difficult, being this handsome and successful, but I bear the burden as best I can.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh,¡± Lukas said, not really paying attention. ¡°Is Master Willhem about? I sent a message letting him know I¡¯d be in today.¡±


    Victor and Artis shared a significant look before the latter replied.


    ¡°I think he went upstairs a few moments ago. He was down here scolding us not long before you arrived.¡±


    ¡°Scolding you?¡± Lukas frowned, then leaned forward and inspected the core under the glass. After a moment, he winced and shook his head. ¡°You can do a lot better than this, Artis¡­.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve already heard it from the Master, I don¡¯t need to hear it from you too!¡± the apprentice groused, flinging his arms into the air.


    ¡°He¡¯s a bit sensitive about it,¡± Victor whispered, loudly, to his friend.


    ¡°Sorry if I hit a nerve,¡± Lukas replied, sounding not the least bit sorry. He continued to peer into the glass. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ are you drunk? Have you been concussed lately? These lines are¡­¡±


    ¡°Fine! Fine!¡± Artis grumbled as he snatched the core and shoved it into a drawer containing several other failures. ¡°I¡¯ll start again!¡±


    Before Victor could say something encouraging, Lukas nodded and said: ¡°Good idea, that one was terrible. Nice to see you both. Victor, Artis.¡±


    He waved to the two of them and then found his way upstairs. It was uncomfortable for Tyron, being back in the workshop. Many of the apprentices still toiling away at their benches, doing bitwork and simple commissions for the Willhem commercial empire, had been there when he graduated. Over a third of them had been there before he¡¯d even started. Still they ground away, using what free time they had to scrape away at their personal projects, hoping to improve their Skills and finally reach the standards the Master set for them.


    There were more than a few envious stares drilling into his back as he moved to the far side of the room and ascended the stairs.


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    He found Master Willhem working with the newest apprentices in the cramped upstairs workroom. It felt like decades ago the Master had first seen him here, mistaken for a thief, working through the night.


    Tyron waited respectfully until the instruction was finished before he bowed low as his teacher turned to face him.


    ¡°Lukas, my lad,¡± Willhem greeted him warmly. ¡°It¡¯s always a pleasure. Things are going well at your shop, I hope?¡±


    ¡°They could hardly go badly with your endorsement,¡± Tyron replied dryly. ¡°For which I am truly grateful.¡±


    The thin old man waved his gratitude away.


    ¡°Pish! That¡¯s nothing. A plaque on a wall, doesn¡¯t cost me anything. It isn¡¯t often I get an apprentice who truly appreciates the craft. A little thing like that to help you get established is the least I can do.¡±


    The two young apprentices working upstairs were staring at their Master as if he¡¯d gone insane, and Lukas held back a chuckle. The number of apprentices Willhem had given his blessing, at this point, was two. And one of them didn¡¯t even own a shop!


    Almsfield Enchantments was the only purveyor of enchanted goods in the entire city, other than Master Willhem¡¯s own, that carried his guarantee for quality. That assurance was a heavy burden, one that Tyron¡¯s own apprentice, Flynn, struggled to work under. Nevertheless, it had been a huge risk for Willhem to give him that, putting his own reputation on the line, and Tyron would never forget it.


    ¡°Things seem fine in the workshop,¡± he observed as a way of making small talk, ¡°not much has changed, if I¡¯m being honest.¡±


    The old man wheezed a laugh.


    ¡°Of course they haven¡¯t changed. This place hasn¡¯t changed in two decades and that¡¯s the way I like it. I¡¯m far too old to be changing the way I work, so I won¡¯t! Whoever takes over after me can upset the apple cart if they choose, but I won¡¯t.¡±


    The old Master glanced slyly at Tyron from the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction, but the young man only smiled.


    ¡°Speaking of your successor, I did a little work with Master Halfshard recently on a set of runic armour. She¡¯s incredible. The only other person I¡¯ve seen work with such dense, smoothly flowing script is you.¡±


    At the mention of her name, a complex expression flickered over the old man¡¯s face.


    ¡°She¡¯s an odd one, that¡¯s for sure,¡± he muttered.


    Tyron sensed the odd mood of his teacher and felt a little confused. Wouldn¡¯t he be proud of having such an accomplished and highly skilled student?


    ¡°A full Arcanist like her, she¡¯s far ahead of me in terms of skills,¡± he freely admitted, ¡°I learned a lot just from working alongside her.¡±


    ¡°You fixed her conduits, didn¡¯t you?¡± Master Willhem surmised.


    ¡°They were almost as good as mine, and I¡¯m pretty much a specialist. She¡¯s extremely impressive.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ that¡¯s enough talk on Master Halfshard. For what reason have you come to visit your old Master?¡±


    ¡°I was hoping to have the opportunity to examine your library and pick your brain a little, Master Willhem.¡±


    ¡°Oh? What are you working on?¡±


    Tyron hesitated a little. It was dangerous to reveal too much, but he¡¯d already committed by coming this far.


    ¡°I¡¯m interested in creating null-magick zones, leeching the ambient energy from an object in order to better enchant it.¡±


    The Arcanist raised his brows.


    ¡°That¡¯s fairly advanced work, I¡¯m surprised you would be bothered to take that step. I¡¯m not slighting the products you sell in any way, but the difference it would make for such things would be¡­ almost undetectable.¡±


    Tyron gave a slight smile.


    ¡°I¡¯ve had a few commissions lately, and as a result, I¡¯ve decided I need to work with more purified materials. I believe you do so with some of your high-end items as well, so I thought I¡¯d look into it and see how applicable it is.¡±


    Willhem held his chin and nodded thoughtfully, his gaze directed upwards as he thought.


    ¡°This kind of thing has an effect when you want to imbue a specific affinity of magick into an object directly, which does increase the efficacy of enchantments which deal in the same type of energy. I remember I made a sword for the Chirn¡¯s. I used an obsidian shard for the blade, cleansed it of energy and filled it to the brim with fire magick. When I finished working on it, the sword was so damned hot it could melt steel.¡±


    He laughed.


    ¡°They had to pay me to make a special hilt and gloves so anyone could hold the thing. Right, this should be interesting then. Come this way, my boy.¡±


    With a hop in his step, the old man turned and led them back downstairs, out of the workshop and next door, into the library. The guards on the door, and the librarian who worked inside were only too happy to wave the owner in, whereas an apprentice would likely get a kick in the shin.


    It wasn¡¯t often the apprentices were given the chance to actually enter the building, normally they¡¯d make their requests through a slot in the wall and have the book delivered. Tyron had been in a few times, but never to the restricted sections towards the back, which dealt with the Master¡¯s personal collection. When he noticed Tyron¡¯s odd look, his Master waved his concerns away.


    ¡°I keep these volumes back here because there¡¯s no real application for ninety-nine percent of students. It¡¯s not hard, or particularly dangerous to do, but the benefits are so low outside of specific applications that it¡¯s a waste of time for students to dedicate themselves to it. The number who will get the chance to do that sort of work is¡­¡±


    ¡°Low? I presume that¡¯s because you have the market cornered, Master Willhem,¡± Tyron chuckled.


    Everyone in the city knew who the best Arcanist was. If you wanted extreme, high-end enchanting done, then you went to Willhem. However, the old man worked alone, refusing any help, and at this stage in his career, he only accepted a handful of commissions a year. Only the top, top spenders had a chance to purchase his personal work. For everyone else, they could commission his shop, which would mean the work was performed by his senior apprentices, or the few paid Arcanists he kept on staff, and overseen by the Master. Or you could work with Master Halfshard, or any of the few dozen other high-end shops in the city.


    But if there was one thing everyone in the empire knew about the Nobles, it¡¯s that they obsessed over having the best.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ true,¡± Willhem acknowledged. ¡°But it won¡¯t be for long. As I mentioned the last time we spoke, I¡¯ll be retiring soon, and I¡¯d like to have someone I can trust to leave in charge of my store.¡±


    The old Master gave him a significant look. Tyron shrugged uncomfortably.


    ¡°Without an Arcanist Primary Class¡­¡± he began, but Willhem threw his hands in the air before he could finish.


    ¡°You could change your Primary. It¡¯d be hell. It¡¯d be expensive. You would never be as good as if you¡¯d Awoken it, but you would still be the best damn Enchanter I¡¯ve seen in a long, long time. You¡¯ve a gift for the magick, boy! I can¡¯t understand why you¡¯re so dead set on keeping your Curse magick. You aren¡¯t using it, you aren¡¯t going out to the rifts to fight against the kin. It¡¯s such a waste of your talents.¡±


    The old man was worked up, his pale face turning red, but Tyron¡¯s expression firmed.


    ¡°It pains me to disappoint you, Master Willhem,¡± and it genuinely did, ¡°but for personal reasons that have to do with my family, I refuse to give it up. Were this not the case, I would gladly take you up on your offer, and acknowledge the honour that you show me. I¡¯m terribly sorry, but I cannot do this.¡±


    He bowed low at the waist towards his teacher, who mastered himself with some difficulty.


    ¡°So you said before, lad,¡± he said roughly, before he coughed. ¡°Well¡­ well I suppose that¡¯s the end of that.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m grateful for everything you¡¯ve done for me, Master Willhem. Truly. When I had nowhere to go, your workshop was a refuge for me. If ever you need anything from me, you have only to ask.¡±


    ¡°For the time being, I¡¯ll be the one doing you the favours,¡± he grumped, returning to his usual, somewhat cantankerous mood. ¡°Take these two volumes, they¡¯ll be more than enough to get you started. If I¡¯m not mistaken, from the base level knowledge there, you¡¯ll be able to figure the rest out on your own.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have them back to you safely before two weeks have passed.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    The air was still awkward between them, but they parted on good terms after discussing Tyron¡¯s work for a while. It truly was a shame. Being offered the keys to the Willhem empire was a dream to every Arcanist in the entire province, and Victor would probably punch him in the face if he ever found out that not only had his friend Lukas been offered that fortune, but turned it down to boot. Were he anyone else, Tyron would accept, and put himself through the torture required to meet the Master¡¯s expectations. But he wasn¡¯t anyone else. He was Tyron Steelarm, and he didn¡¯t want wealth, or status, or the acclaim of the nobles.


    He wanted revenge. He wanted them to burn. And then he wanted to strip their flesh, stuff their souls back into their unliving corpses and bind them to his service for all eternity.

 B3C23 - New Minions

    The acknowledgement of the Unseen was more than just a number on a page. It was more than just recognition from one''s own progress, the advancement of knowledge and execution of a Skill.


    It was both of those things, but it was also a measure of support the Unseen, whatever it may be, offered to a person. The higher his Skills levelled, the more power the all encompassing entity that swallowed this world would push alongside him.


    Secure in this knowledge, Tyron couldn¡¯t wait to get to work.


    Twenty fresh corpses awaited his attention. These weren¡¯t for experimentation, these would not be ground up and dumped into the sewer. For the first time since he¡¯d left the mountain above Cragwhistle, he would raise the dead.


    However, there was a lot of work to do before he reached that step.


    Eagerly, he pulled his butcher¡¯s tools down from their spot on the wall, giving each blade a quick check to ensure it was sharp and free of nicks. Hakoth had always obsessed over the condition of his knives, and Tyron had found it a good lesson to learn. He didn¡¯t particularly enjoy butchering human remains, to put it mildly, and the less time he spent doing it, the happier he was. Well-maintained tools ensured the work progressed smoothly.


    With his unnatural level of hand coordination and strength, he finished all twenty in a little over two hours, dumping the flesh into the main sewer stream connected to the river. Next, he cleansed the bones in his alchemical solution, wiping away every trace of blood and other organic material, leaving them glistening and clean. He¡¯d constructed a wide bath for this purpose in an attempt to expedite the process.


    A steel plated, layered shelf had been attached to the wall, the top row about level with his head. He could fit five skeletons at a time, using a mechanism to lower the entire rig down into the prepared solution. After ten minutes, he could raise them up and shift the rig along pre-prepared grooves in the wall to the next station, into which he lowered the shelves again. In that ten minutes, he¡¯d finished loading another set of five into another steel shelving rig, which were placed into the cleansing solution.


    It had taken him longer than expected to come up with a working model of the null-magick field. Master Willhem had probably overestimated him, or understated the difficulty, but after three weeks, he¡¯d learned enough to return the books. Effectively, the enchantments did what he had attempted to do with Dove, but in reverse. Rather than feeding in ambient magick and converting it, he leeched out energy that contained affinities, and returned it to neutral.


    Naturally, that arcane power then had to go somewhere, it would diffuse into the air naturally, but Tyron siphoned it into a power array. May as well put it to use.


    ¡°This is a little more sophisticated than I remember the process,¡± Dove observed from the table. ¡°From what I recall, all you needed was knives, a flat surface and a cave.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been tainted by civilisation. What can I say?¡± Tyron replied as he carefully laid out the next set of five skeletons on their trays.


    Getting all this metalwork, and the sliding racks, and the large metal baths installed had been quite a process. He couldn¡¯t do it all himself, obviously, what did he know about carpentry, or metalwork. He hadn¡¯t wanted to rely on Yor for the task either. He¡¯d been getting too comfortable doing that. In the end, it had been Elsbeth and her contacts amongst the followers of the Old Gods who¡¯d delivered a metalworker who could do what he asked, and someone to help him install it all.


    He¡¯d been reluctant to allow someone else into his study, but someone sworn to silence by a god was about as reliable a person as he was likely to find.


    When the first set of five were done in the leeching array, he lifted them up, shifted them along the track to the right, and brought in the next five, moving each set along. Then he took them and slid the skeletons off the rack, one at a time, laying them on a stone slab, still atop the stiff metal sheet they¡¯d been placed on.


    ¡°Good thing bones don¡¯t weigh that much,¡± he muttered, pulling the next from the rack.


    The metal was heavy, but for a bronze class slayer like him, it was more than manageable.


    Using this system, he had all the skeletons cleaned, cleansed and sitting on their slabs, with density tests and death magick sensitivity testing complete within an hour.


    ¡°What¡¯s next?¡± Dove asked.


    ¡°Still have to test for gaps and leaking power in the bones,¡± he said, as he walked around placing small tokens at the feet of each skeleton.


    ¡°And what the fuck are those?¡±


    ¡°Oh. These are just little reminders of what each skeleton is going to be used for. Those three will be archers, too brittle for anything else. Those six are pretty dense, they¡¯ll be sword and board, the rest will be spears.¡±


    ¡°Can you make bone spears?¡± Dove asked.


    ¡°Not yet.¡±


    ¡°What about swords and shields?¡±


    ¡°Also not yet.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a lot to work on. What the fuck have you been doing all this time?¡±


    Tyron muttered something under his breath but focused on his work. The old method of surrounding the bones in a cloud of his own magick to find weaknesses and leaks in the material was long gone. He¡¯d created a new lens for that purpose and he employed it now. Whenever he found a gap, he used his bone moulding Skill to manipulate the bone until the problem had been resolved.


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    ¡°Hang on¡­ what¡¯s that token. It¡¯s different from the others. Is that one not going to be a spear-skelly?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call them spear-skelly¡¯s,¡± Tyron frowned. ¡°And no, that one¡¯s a little special. Actually, thanks for reminding me.¡±


    He stepped over and shifted that particular skeleton to the most central slab, ensuring it was surrounded by the others.


    ¡°This is the skeleton most conductive to death magick of these twenty. It¡¯s going to be¡­ a locus skeleton, I guess you could say.¡±


    ¡°A locust? It¡¯s going to grow wings?!¡±


    ¡°No you idiot, a locus. It¡¯ll be easier to explain after I¡¯ve started working on it.¡±


    ¡°Alright. But if I see a skeleton bug, I¡¯m leaving.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t work with anything non-human right now,¡± Tyron told him. ¡°Eventually, I¡¯ll be able to raise other creatures, but not yet.¡±


    Tyron moved from skeleton to skeleton, completing the process, then he infused each with a tiny amount of Death Magick, kick-starting the saturation process.


    The initial stages of Corpse Appraisal and Preparation were complete. Tyron leaned back, stretched his spine before he laced his fingers and flexed them.


    ¡°Time to put those magick hands to use,¡± Dove told him.


    ¡°Yep. I feel like I¡¯m a little out of practice doing this.¡±


    ¡°By the way, magick hands was my old nickname.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove.¡±


    Weaving the artificial musculature and ligaments was one of the first things Tyron had ever learned to do as a necromancer, and in his opinion, it remained one of the most fundamental and key Skills in his arsenal. This was where a true master of Skeleton minions differentiated themselves from the less dedicated. He was determined to make every aspect of his minion creation as flawless as it could be.


    Stepping to the first skeleton, he began to work from the toes up.


    All his fears about being out of practice fell away as he continued to work. With the Feats and Skills he had, along with the bonuses he received from his enchanter sub-class, his hands were incredibly dextrous, his fingers danced as he laced together the weave with an effortlessness a younger Tyron would have gaped at.


    Despite the ease with which he worked, it still took hours to complete all twenty skeletons.


    ¡°Done for today,¡± he said to the skull resting on his table. ¡°I assume you want to sleep here?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I thought I¡¯d get up and do a fucking dance. I don¡¯t want to sleep here, but I will. What other choice do I have?¡±


    Tyron could only sigh.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to work on your body once these twenty are done. I promise.¡±


    ¡°Your promises aren¡¯t worth that much to me at this point.¡±


    ¡°But they¡¯re all you¡¯re going to get, unfortunately.¡±


    The resentment Dove held towards¡­ everything¡­ was perfectly understandable, and there was nothing Tyron could say to make it better. Rather than offer platitudes and words, he decided he would simply speak as straight as he could to the former-summoner.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you in the morning, Dove.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    It was difficult for Tyron to sleep, he was so excited by the prospect of raising minions after so long, until eventually he forced himself to rest, using the Sleep spell to quiet his mind.


    In the predawn darkness, he awoke and descended to his study immediately. Before anything else, he grabbed his Death Lens and carefully examined each skeleton, noting the progress of the death aligned energy in each.


    ¡°Good morning to you too,¡± Dove noted, grumpy.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to wake you unnecessarily,¡± Tyron said as he continued to work.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m actually interested in watching this. You should have made a lot of progress over the last few years.¡±


    ¡°These will be the finest minions I¡¯ve ever created,¡± Tyron assured him.


    Satisfied with the progress of each skeleton, Tyron turned to his bench, reaching beneath it to remove a thin, long wooden case. Grasping it carefully in both hands, he placed it next to Dove, whose eyes glowed with curiosity.


    ¡°Got something good in there?¡±


    Tyron grinned, happy to share the fruits of his labour.


    ¡°This is why I became an enchanter in the first place. Take a look!¡±


    He flung the case open and pulled it in front of the skull so Dove could see the contents.


    ¡°I see¡­ shitty cores. Shitty cores arranged very neatly.¡±


    ¡°Bah,¡± Tyron scoffed. ¡°What you are looking at is a precisely calculated, intricately worked array. In fact, it¡¯s an array of arrays. Each of these will go into one of the twenty skeletons. This is my masterpiece.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what does it do?¡±


    ¡°Essentially, they gather and store power, as well as share it between the twenty linked arrays. Thanks to what we learned working on your skull, I¡¯ve even been able to improve them beyond my original vision, changing the gathered power into Death aligned energy before feeding into the network.¡±


    ¡°Your skeletons are going to be able to passively gather their own magick? Do you want them to cast spells?¡±


    ¡°No. I just want to have to pay less magick to upkeep them and fuel their movement. With this attached, these skeletons will cost nothing to maintain, and will likely not need to draw on my energy even when they¡¯re walking around. Only when fighting will I have to pay anything at all!¡±


    ¡°Which means.¡±


    ¡°Which means¡­ I¡¯ll be able to maintain an army of skeletons ten times the size of what I could before. In fact, with the added death magick flowing through them, the skeletons may even be stronger just from that.¡±


    Grinning happily, he pulled the first of the core arrays out and began to set it into the first skeleton. He fused the enchantment to each skeleton in the same place, inside the ribcage on the spine. It was the most protected spot, difficult for an opponent to shatter or target with spells and arrows.


    Eventually, he might find a way to shape armour for each of his skeleton minions, and this area would be the most important to reinforce. Damaging the array wouldn¡¯t harm the skeletons, but it was a lot of work for him to remove and replace them.


    When all twenty were set to his satisfaction, he returned to the bench and removed another, smaller case. Inside was another array, more elaborate than before.


    ¡°And this one is?¡±


    ¡°This one is for my locus. Think of it as a power storage and regulator. It¡¯ll manage the amount of energy being distributed through the array, evening it out and supplying extra where it¡¯s needed.¡±


    ¡°So one of the skeletons is going to be¡­ like an Arcane battery for the others?¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Skeletons share energy between each other naturally, we know that, but this is going to supercharge that process.¡±


    With the utmost care, he placed the larger array around the first on the central skeleton before he connected the two. When it was done, he leapt back to the bench, snatching up his Lens and examining each of the skeletons in turn. He grinned.


    ¡°It¡¯s already working,¡± he gloated. ¡°The energy is flowing.¡±


    He was so pleased, he clapped his hands together in glee. How many skeletons could he maintain like this? A thousand? And when he advanced his Class? How many then?

 B3C24 - Rise From Your Grave

    ¡°It kind of looks like you''re marinating them. Have you gone full canine? Your hunger for sweet bones can no longer be contained?¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t I already explain this to you?¡±


    ¡°You did, but I¡¯m bored.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m working on your fucking hands right now, and you¡¯re distracting me?¡±


    ¡°I understand that you want me to feel bad, but I¡¯m still pissed off. I had to sit here for two days before you started.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been undead for years at this point. Two days shouldn¡¯t be a big deal. I told you I¡¯d have time at this point in the process to focus on you, and here we are.¡±


    ¡°It looks weird, that¡¯s all I¡¯m saying.¡±


    Tyron sighed and turned to look at his twenty skeletons. Currently, they were submerged in the bone strengthening solution. Each slab now had raised sides so he could cover each set of remains in the alchemical mixture. It would take a few days for the skeletons to fully saturate with Death Magick, so he was using this opportunity to test the efficacy of the solution at the same time.


    ¡°This seems like a lot of work for the most basic of the basic minions, Tyron,¡± Dove observed. ¡°Not to mention, it looks fucking expensive. Are you really going to do this for each and every one of your skeletons? For Revenants, sure. Treat the bones nice and tender, power them up, enchantments, the works. But for these bony boys? No chance this is worth it.¡±


    ¡°In a sense, you aren¡¯t wrong,¡± Tyron replied as he turned back to focusing on what he was doing, namely connecting Dove¡¯s soul to a pair of skeletal hands. ¡°Let¡¯s imagine I reach a point similar to the only powerful Necromancer I¡¯ve seen records of, Arihnan the Black. An army of undead, tens of thousands of minions. Would it be practical to go through all this trouble for each and every one of them? No, of course not. Zombies and Skeletons, the simplest undead minions, are meant to be disposable. Easy to make, easy to lose.¡±


    ¡°So what¡¯s the point of all this, then? You¡¯re going in the opposite direction.¡±


    ¡°First of all, I¡¯ve always been determined to make the best possible minions I can. If my skeletons become twice as strong as they¡¯re meant to be, then the effort will be worth it. Even without that consideration, this is all for the sake of experimentation. Right now, I¡¯m doing everything I possibly can to improve the quality of the minions. It may turn out that some things don''t have a significant effect, or aren¡¯t worth the time and expense, or are impractical in battle.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re employing the ¡®throw everything at the wall¡¯ approach.¡±


    ¡°For the love of whatever you consider holy, don¡¯t reference your dick and walls.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    ¡°Basically, yes. I still have a couple of steps before I can raise them, but it should only take another day.¡±


    ¡°In the meantime, what about me? How¡¯s it going?¡±


    Tyron leaned back with a sigh.


    ¡°Give it a try,¡± he gestured toward the hands he¡¯d been working on.


    They were carved, just like the skull, each bone lovingly recreated. It had taken a huge amount of effort to ensure they articulated properly, were powered, and properly linked to the former Summoner. Despite all his careful work on his new minions, these hands might just be his greatest masterpiece so far. Not quite undead, they nevertheless were close, perhaps a cross between golem-making and Necromancy.


    As he watched, the fingers twitched, then curled. Slowly, both hands flexed as Dove tested each finger in turn, until he lowered all of them on both hands, except the middle one, which he pointed proudly in Tyron¡¯s direction.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± the Necromancer said sarcastically.


    ¡°This is amazing,¡± Dove breathed. ¡°I¡¯d almost forgotten what it was like to have a pair of hands. Look at this!¡±


    One of the hands fell over, then propped itself up on its fingertips and skittered across the table to one of Tyron¡¯s books, which he promptly pushed onto the floor.


    ¡°Yes. Amazing.¡±


    ¡°Not being able to interact with the world around me has been so maddening! Finally, I can impart my will onto reality.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re starting to sound like a villain.¡±


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    ¡°Tyron, I¡¯m an undead mage trapped in a skull who fucking hates everyone. Of course I¡¯m a villain. I¡¯m pretty sure you''re a terrorist who wants to burn down the empire, kill their gods and murder the nobles. So I wouldn¡¯t exactly consider you a ¡®good guy¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Are you saying my revenge is unjustified?¡± Tyron clenched his jaw, turning a baleful stare on the skull.


    ¡°Whoa, don¡¯t give me the stink eye. I¡¯m just saying it''s a matter of perspective.¡±


    He grit his teeth but forced his anger down as best he could. Someone else would probably say it wouldn¡¯t make sense to wreak so much havoc, cause so much upheaval and kill so many people, in order to avenge two, no matter how unjust their deaths. Destroy the Magisters? Kill the Nobles? Topple the Divines? Any normal person would probably call him a madman.


    But he didn¡¯t care.


    Tyron no longer had it in him to spare a thought for what other people might think or feel about what he intended to do. Intellectually, he understood what would happen if he were to succeed. There would be chaos. Complete, and utter, chaos.


    If the Magisters were destroyed, their tower knocked down and their control over the Slayers eliminated, society as a whole would collapse in an instant. Most of the Gold Slayers were decent people who just wanted to kill kin and try to preserve the realm, but there were many who were not. What would happen when the chains were taken off and the immoral, unbeatable warriors were set loose on the public?


    Were the Nobles to die, then it would mean war, immediate, irrevocable war. The empire was founded to the east, and they would not sit idly by and allow a huge chunk of their land to fall to outside influence, nor let their distant relatives¡¯ deaths go unpunished. There would be an invasion, a punitive force, followed by a great purge, as everyone and anyone the least bit suspicious was put to death. Blood would run in the streets of Kenmor for years on end.


    And finally, if he succeeded in his ultimate, unreachable aim, and killed the Divines, then their followers, the clergy, and all the support the gods themselves offered to hold back the rifts would be gone overnight. An unthinkable, unmitigated disaster. More kin would roam free, more breaks would occur. How many innocents would die, torn to shreds by the mad beasts from beyond, before the situation became stable again, or the realm was finally lost? Thousands. Tens of thousands. Millions maybe.


    He knew all of this. He just didn¡¯t care.


    No matter how long he thought on it, or considered the implications, his thoughts didn¡¯t waver. Tyron could no longer imagine living in a world in which the people responsible for the deaths of Magnin and Beory continued to live. It was unthinkable, against the laws of reality as he viewed them. The light could be cold, the ground liquid, up and down could reverse themselves, but his parents would be avenged.


    Ideas like good and evil never entered his mind.


    ¡°Now that you have hands, we need to work on the rest of the upper body,¡± he said, brushing the earlier conversation aside. ¡°We need a spine, collar bone, shoulders, arms and ribs.¡±


    He shook his arms out.


    ¡°That¡¯s going to be a lot of work.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t as simple as just creating musculature and attaching the bones together, he needed to stitch them to Dove¡¯s soul as well. Only then could the mage control them. That process was far more difficult and intricate than just creating skeletons.


    Essentially, Tyron was creating a semi-lich. Rather than binding Dove to his own remains, he was binding him to a golem-like skeletal frame. It would probably have been easier to do it with his own remains, but there would have been added complications as well.


    Managing the Repository, the well of power that Dove had access to via the enchanted array, was another factor that had to be taken into account. If they added too many ¡®parts¡¯ to Dove¡¯s soul, and he didn¡¯t have the magick required, who knew what kind of damage that could do to him?


    ¡°I do appreciate what you¡¯re doing, kid,¡± Dove said, almost begrudgingly. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°I get it. It¡¯s difficult to be grateful to the person who put you in this mess in the first place. Don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯ll do my best to get it together quickly, but this process is extremely difficult. I¡¯m figuring it out as I go and any mistakes are going to blow back onto you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not like my existence can get any worse.¡±


    ¡°If you believe that, then you¡¯re stupid,¡± Tyron said flatly. ¡°Or maybe you want me to enslave you to my will? Or for Yor to do it? She could¡¯ve. Easily.¡±


    ¡°Once upon a time, I¡¯d make a lewd joke at this juncture.¡±


    ¡°Is this personal growth? Should I applaud?¡±


    ¡°Fuck you.¡±


    ¡°No thanks.¡±


    ¡°Very funny. I¡¯m still hoping I can convince you to give me a dick. I might get laid again before you manage a first time.¡±


    Tyron hesitated for a fraction of a second.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± he said.


    A moment.


    ¡°You piece of shit! Who is she?!¡±


    ~~~


    The last thing Tyron needed to do was use his new ability, which would ¡®empower the ritual¡¯, somehow. The sensible thing to do would be to vary the amount of arcane energy he fed into each skeleton so he could measure the result, but he wasn¡¯t going to do that. Instead, he was going to pour in everything he could to each minion in order to produce the best result.


    For that purpose, he had prepared plenty of Power cores and even a stash of mage candy if they proved insufficient.


    He took a deep breath.


    ¡°Here we go,¡± he muttered to himself.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got this, kid,¡± Dove gave him a double thumbs up.


    He stepped to the first slab, raised his hands and began to push his power out through his palms. Words resonated throughout the dark cellar as the Arcane energy swirled in a dense cloud, hovering over the ribs.


    When he¡¯d poured out everything he could, he cut off the flow and collected himself. Then he raised his hands again, and enacted the Raise Dead ritual.


    His words slammed into the air like hammers and his hands seemed to cut through reality itself as he used his magick to bend the world to his will.


    Dull, purple light began to gather in the eyes of the skull.

 B3C25 - Necromancer

    ¡°So how does it feel to have a legion of mindless slaves at your beck and call once more?¡± Dove asked.


    Tyron blinked. He was tired. Very tired. Constantly emptying and refilling his magick to use the Annoint spell, as well as casting a long and complex piece of ritual magick twenty times, was draining, to say the least.


    But he¡¯d done it.


    Almost a full day of constant spellwork. His mouth was as dry as a bone and his head pounded, but it was all worth it. He greedily gulped down water from the canteen he¡¯d left on his bench and nibbled at the biscuits he¡¯d brought down for the day.


    Twenty skeletons stood to attention next to their slabs, totally motionless, the only sign of their unlife the flickering purple light in their eye sockets.


    ¡°Feels good,¡± Tyron said finally, almost gleaming with pride as he cast his eyes over the finest skeletons he had ever made.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t supposed to admit you feel good having mindless slaves¡­.¡±


    Tyron snorted.


    ¡°You¡¯re the guy who was desperate for me to enslave ghosts and create Reventants. Now I¡¯m supposed to believe you¡¯re all squeamish about ¡®enslaved¡¯ artificial minds.¡±


    ¡°Good point.¡±


    The two skeletal hands on the bench danced about on their finger tips for a moment before they both pointed at the Necromancer.


    ¡°But you¡¯re back at it finally. Making undead. Necromancing. Now you just need to work out if any of the insane shit you did was actually worth it. For the time and expense, these skeletons better be capable of punching holes in brick walls.¡±


    ¡°Unlikely.¡±


    ¡°Then it was a complete waste of time. Scrap the whole project, start again.¡±


    ¡°Also unlikely. How about you shut up for a minute and I¡¯ll actually take a look at them? Then we can discuss if what I did was worth it.¡±


    Putting Dove from his mind, Tyron stepped to the closest skeleton, eagerly rubbing his palms together. He could feel the connection between them, the conduit for magick to flow through, as well as the deeper bond that bound the skeleton to his will. Excitingly, the skeleton was drawing nothing from him, just standing there. The ambient magick it collected was enough to power it.


    ¡°The first thing I need to determine is the effectiveness of the Reservoir and the conduit work I¡¯ve done,¡± he said, mostly to himself.


    ¡°And how are you going to do that?¡± Dove replied anyway.


    ¡°Slow and painful repetition.¡±


    ¡°The way of the Mage,¡± the former Summoner said approvingly. ¡°Better get some paper ready. I sense measurements in your near future.¡±


    Using the Mage Eye, it was possible to see the flow of energy in a general sort of way, but for Death Magick specifically, Tyron turned to his Lens. After drawing up some tables and settling himself on a comfortable chair, the experiments to determine the efficacy of his enchanting and conduit work began.


    Walk to there, he ordered the skeleton with his mind.


    It did so. He carefully peered through the lens, sensed the link inside him, scribbled something down.


    Walk back to that spot, he ordered.


    It did so. He carefully peered through the lens, sensed the link inside him and scribbled something down.


    And so on, and so on.


    For five hours.


    When it was done, Tyron was grinning broadly, staring between the paper in front of him and the minions around the room.


    ¡°This confirms it, Dove,¡± he whooped, ¡°look at these numbers! And it¡¯s so efficient. There¡¯s almost no leakage at all, the amount is so tiny I can barely measure it. This is why it¡¯s important to strive for as close to lossless as possible!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. Congratulations, kid. You worked hard for this.¡±


    So many years of effort, all for this. What he¡¯d done was relatively simple, enchanting-wise, especially since a lot of it was based off the repository ritual he¡¯d learned from the Unseen. Even so, what he had done was executed to an absurdly high degree. The flow of energy between the minions was flawless, or as close to it as he could manage. Every skeleton drew in power of their own, and fed a portion of it to the locus, who then stored it and distributed that power to the others based on their need.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    Marching one skeleton up and down the room had drawn on none of Tyron¡¯s magick. None. In fact, the skeleton was almost able to sustain that much activity purely on the energy it absorbed itself! A small trickle had been drawn from the Locus to sustain that movement, almost undetectable.


    Two skeletons marching, same story, there was zero drain on his energy. Three? Same. Four? Same.


    It was only when ten skeletons were walking at once that he had to pay any magick at all.


    ¡°It¡¯s a successful test. But I don¡¯t think these bony boys are going to be walking around all naked-like that often, right? You still have to give them weapons, shields, armour maybe. The additional weight will increase the magick drain. Also, this is just walking, moving quickly, fighting, digging a fucking hole in the ground, all of that is going to take a ton more energy.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Tyron nodded impatiently, ¡°but think about it. Having the minions exist and move without me having to pay any price for it is astounding on its own! Will they draw more power when fully equipped and fighting? Yes, of course. At the same time, I can expand and develop this system to pull in and distribute more magick. There¡¯s no reason I need to stop here.¡±


    Undead who were formed in roughly the same area at roughly the same time already spread Death magick between each other. The more undead created at once, the more total Death aligned energy was generated every minute between them. Tyron was effectively piggy-backing on that natural system with his enchanted artificial one. He could network more than twenty minions together if he wanted to.


    Or he could bind the locus from different groups together and have them share energy between squads of twenty¡­.


    Ultimately, he would need to find a way to draw in more magick to fuel his minions, but with this alone, he had dramatically cut the cost of maintaining his undead horde.


    ¡°Their movement is so smooth,¡± he noted as he commanded a skeleton to show him its full range of motion. ¡°Look at the articulation on these fingers! I could get them to hand-cast magick, I think¡­.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that fucking obvious? You did these nifty digits, after all,¡± Dove wiggled his fingers at him.


    ¡°I really did get a lot better at weaving. The mobility of my fingers has made a huge difference.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t think it would?¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure.¡±


    The early signs were good and Tyron was immensely pleased with his new minions. When he got weapons in their hands, he was confident they would be able to wield them better and more efficiently than his previous creations, simply from the quality of their musculature.


    ¡°So how are you going to arm them? It¡¯ll look a bit suspicious if you go and buy a heap of weapons. Smuggling them into your basement without anyone knowing is going to be another trick.¡±


    Without saying a word, Tyron walked to the corner and withdrew a femur from an open topped box. He turned and waved it in the skull¡¯s direction.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to make all the weapons from bones?¡± Dove exclaimed. ¡°By the sweet melons of mercy, how much work do you have to do to get a single fucking skeleton in fighting condition?¡±


    Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°There are advantages and disadvantages to the Necromancer Classes, just like every other.¡±


    ¡°Not Summoner. It¡¯s flawless.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh. How many of those Astral creatures could you bring out at once?¡±


    ¡°Four.¡±


    ¡°I can maintain hundreds, and I¡¯m not even Silver ranked yet.¡±


    ¡°Yeah but yours are shit. They don¡¯t sparkle with ethereal light.¡±


    ¡°True.¡±


    It was a lot of work¡­ but the reality was, Tyron had time on his side.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got the leasure to slowly amass my strength right now,¡± he said. ¡°I get twenty fresh corpses every month along with a shipment of bones. When I have a decent number of minions, well armed and maybe even armoured, then I can advance my Class and take my next steps from there.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like you¡¯re getting a little complacent,¡± Dove warned him. ¡°You think you¡¯re so safe that nobody will find you. The powers that be around here have been in charge for a very, very long time, for a good reason. They don¡¯t fuck around. The second one of the Divines notices you, you¡¯ll be snuffed out like a candle.¡±


    ¡°You think a god is going to reach down from the clouds and smite me?¡± Tyron laughed.


    ¡°No. They¡¯ll tell a noble or a priest and a gold ranked slayer will pull your face out of your arse ten minutes later. Don¡¯t forget the Magisters. They monitor the city like fucking hawks. One whiff of Death Magick and they¡¯ll come down on you like a lightning bolt.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like to see them try,¡± Tyron snarled.


    ¡°No you fucking don¡¯t,¡± Dove said. ¡°Twenty bony boys isn¡¯t going to protect you from them.¡±


    He paused a moment.


    ¡°I¡¯m just trying to warn you that you¡¯re still on the clock, even if you think you aren¡¯t. Every day that passes brings you closer to the inevitable moment of discovery.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Tyron breathed out slowly. ¡°Maybe I do need to be a little more purposeful with my research.¡±


    He¡¯d been investigating in so many directions. Perhaps it was time to narrow his focus.


    ¡°Well, for the time being, I need to learn how to make shields, swords and spears out of bones.¡±


    ¡°How in the shit are you going to do that?¡±


    ¡°Well, I can already mould bones into bows. I¡¯ve been trying to replicate the technique to make other weapons.¡±


    ¡°Trying to grab Skills without having to purchase them? I like the way you think. Let¡¯s see what you¡¯ve managed so far.¡±


    Tyron brought out one of his attempted swords and held it in front of the skull to inspect. Dove studied it carefully.


    ¡°This is¡­ terrible.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s supposed to have an edge. I¡¯m no blademaster, but I¡¯m sure that swords have an edge. You know¡­ for cutting.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t get the bone to compress properly,¡± Tyron explained, exasperated. ¡°You can¡¯t make a sword out of just normal bone, the material isn¡¯t strong enough, it¡¯d shatter in an instant. It stands to reason you need to compress it somehow, but I haven¡¯t been able to figure out the trick.¡±


    ¡°Same for a spear tip, I guess.¡±


    ¡°And for the outer face of a shield.¡±


    ¡°Well, explain to me how you¡¯re trying it and I¡¯ll see if I can think of something.¡±

 B3C26 - Enter the Dragon

    ¡°Lord Regis Shan, a pleasure to see you again,¡± Tyron bowed.


    The young master of the Shan family, resplendent in his Magister¡¯s robes, nodded slightly, almost succeeding in hiding his contempt.


    ¡°Master Almsfield. Thank you for coming on such short notice. We¡¯ve made an area available for you to work, if you could come this way?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    The Necromancer straightened, a professional smile on his lips, and burning anger in his heart. One step behind his host, he entered the Red Tower.


    Not that the imposing structure itself was red, but rather that was the colour associated with the Magisters thanks to their robes. Somewhere in this building dwelled the heart of the brand network. Tyron felt his pulse quicken at the thought, but he was careful to regulate his emotions. Nothing good would come from getting himself too worked up. At this point, he didn¡¯t even know why they had summoned him.


    ¡°There will be a final Status check here,¡± Regis gestured to a secure room immediately inside the gate.


    ¡°You¡¯ve already checked me three times,¡± Tyron chuckled, concealing his nerves. ¡°Any more status rituals and I¡¯m going to run out of blood.¡±


    ¡°Besides the Baron¡¯s castle, this is the most secure building in the entire province,¡± Regis replied dully. ¡°Normally, someone like you¨Ca person of your status would not be able to enter at all. The ritual, if you please.¡±


    ¡°I assume this is much the same as the previous check?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°As you can see.¡±


    With a sigh, he stepped into the waiting cage, assisted by the heavily armed and armoured guards stationed at this point. The door clanged shut behind him and he waited a second before a small gap slid open, through which he pushed his hand.


    There was a sharp pain as his palm was cut, followed by the sensation of paper being pressed to the wound. He spoke the ritual and felt queasy as yet more blood was pulled from his body and onto the page. When that was done, an ointment was smeared on his hand which he knew would heal the wound in a few minutes. In fact, it was already itching like mad.


    He stood silent in the cage for a few minutes longer as they inspected his sheet until finally the cage door rattled as it was unlocked and the door hauled open.


    ¡°Thank you for your patience,¡± the guard said, his face hidden behind the faceplate of his helmet.


    ¡°Not a problem,¡± Tyron said. ¡°Everything in order, I take it?¡±


    ¡°We unlocked the cage didn¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°R-right. Thanks.¡±


    He stepped out to find Regis waiting for him in the corridor.


    ¡°This way,¡± he said and began to walk at a brisk pace down the corridor, forcing Tyron to jog to catch up.


    Lined with perfectly aligned bricks on either side, the corridor was both long and narrow, causing a suffocating feeling to rise in him the further he walked. Was the entire building like this? One giant claustrophobic warren of paths and security checkpoints?


    Unlikely, this was probably just what it was like for the outsiders who were brought in.


    As they travelled, in silence, his skin prickled repeatedly as they passed through invisible enchantments, some powerful enough to cause his hair to stand on end.


    This building really was locked down to an almost ludicrous degree. It would be impossible for them to get any work done if the Magisters had to pass through all this security every day, which was probably why the senior members lived in the tower itself.


    ¡°Do you live in the tower?¡± he asked innocently as he continued to trail in Regis¡¯ wake.


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± the lordling replied, the words clipped. ¡°I am still an Initiate. When I¡¯ve finished my trial period, I will become a full Magister and be permitted to live in the tower.¡±


    As a dutiful third son should. Tyron knew that Magisters weren¡¯t allowed to inherit noble estates or titles, so the heirs were never sent to train as one. However, it was expected for the noble families to send spare progeny to help fill the ranks. Nominally, they would swear off their allegiance to their families when they joined, but even the poorest turnip farmer in the province knew that was just lip service.


    The bickering and infighting of the noble houses played out inside the tower just as it did in every other aspect of life in the province.


    ¡°I hope you are successful in your ambition, Lord Shan.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me Lord Shan. It¡¯s inappropriate. Magister Shan is fine.¡±


    ¡°As you say.¡±


    Of course, Regis wasn¡¯t a lord, and never would be. Perhaps it was rude to remind him of that fact? Though he¡¯d been perfectly happy to play up his noble inheritance at his sister''s birthday gathering.


    ¡°I have to say, it¡¯s a little intimidating to be here,¡± Tyron admitted openly. ¡°This is where the most powerful mages control the fate of the province, after all.¡±


    A slight smile crossed Regis¡¯ face.


    ¡°That¡¯s true. The tower is where the divine fight against the rifts is organised. All of our people are kept safe thanks to the work that is done within these walls.¡±


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Spoken as if you were fighting the rift-kin yourself, not just holding the leash of those that do.


    To think that these people actually thought that way, it was just what Tyron had expected, yet he still found it disgusting. None of this showed on his face, of course. His glamour remained in place, despite the many attempts to unmake it he had endured while entering the building.


    The Old Gods were good allies when they wanted to be.


    ¡°In here,¡± Regis gestured finally, after almost ten minutes of fast-walking through a twisted network of narrow corridors.


    Had they gone any longer, Tyron might have no longer been able to track their route.


    He looked into the small chamber Regis indicated and found it quite sparse, with only a plain wooden table and two chairs inside. With little else to do, he entered and lowered himself into the closest seat. Regis stepped in after him, closing the door behind him but curiously didn¡¯t sit down. Instead, he stood by the closed door, his arms folded in front of him.


    Tyron tapped his fingers on the table, drumming out a complex rhythm using his absurd coordination and control.


    ¡°It¡¯s quite a thrill to be invited here, truly,¡± Tyron said, ¡°and I hope I can be of service, but I have to wonder what it is I¡¯m supposed to achieve inside this room?¡±


    He glanced around. There weren¡¯t even tools inside. No glass, no pliance, or anything one would expect to see in a professional Arcanist workshop.


    Regis¡¯ face tightened.


    ¡°We just need to wait here for a moment and then all will become clear, I assure you.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t know either.


    This was getting more intriguing by the minute. He attempted to engage Regis in further conversation, but the lordling was reclusive and gave him short, non-answers to most of his questions. Eventually, he relented and waited patiently for someone else to show up.


    It was difficult to say how long he waited in that small, cramped and windowless chamber before finally the door was pulled open to reveal a new arrival. A stout, middle-aged man with a short beard and weathered face entered, apologising as he did so.


    ¡°Very sorry to keep you waiting,¡± he said, closing the door behind him. ¡°It¡¯s so difficult to move around on these lower floors, I get lost half the time I come down here.¡±


    Tyron rose from his seat to greet the Magister, for that is what he was, judging by his robe. In fact, not an Initiate like Regis either, but a full Magister.


    ¡°Lukas Almsfield,¡± he introduced himself, bowing at the waist.


    ¡°I know who you are, of course. We were the ones to invite you,¡± the man said as he sat down and indicated Tyron should do the same. ¡°I am Magister Gilden. I hope young Regis has been able to keep you company?¡±


    ¡°He has been an excellent guide and conversationalist.¡±


    Magister Gilden quite openly looked like he didn¡¯t believe a word of it, but was pleased to hear him say it nonetheless.


    ¡°Now, I don¡¯t want to waste any more of your time, so we will get straight to what caused us to bring you here, shall I?¡±


    ¡°If it pleases you.¡±


    ¡°It does.¡±


    The genial expression faded from Gilden¡¯s face, replaced with a cold and hard-edged facade.


    ¡°I probably don¡¯t need to explain this, but the work we perform here in the tower is inextricably linked to the survival of this province. The Slayers, and by extension, the Magisters, are what protect our people from the ravages of the rifts. Without us, there would be chaos and we would fall to the beasts like so much of the realm already has.¡±


    Oh yeah, you¡¯re a real bulwark of civilisation.


    Unaware of the sarcasm running through Tyron¡¯s mind, the Magister continued.


    ¡°That means we have to be careful, more than careful, with who we work with and in what capacity. You¡¯ve been thoroughly vetted before even reaching this point, and were it not for the¡­ unfortunate gaps in your records, then you may well have been sitting here some time ago.¡±


    Of course there were gaps in ¡®Lukas Almsfields¡¯ records. He didn¡¯t exist until Tyron had made him up when he arrived at Woodsedge. Of course, to adopt the persona on a semi-permanent basis, more had been required. Falsified records, bribes and a little illegal contract magick had been required to establish him more firmly within the bureaucracy. However, to make life that much easier, he had put his place of birth as Woodsedge, which no longer existed. Any records kept in the city had been lost in the catastrophe.


    ¡°I trust you¡¯ve been able to investigate to your satisfaction then?¡± Tyron said.


    Surprisingly, Gilden shook his head slightly.


    ¡°Not really,¡± he replied shortly. ¡°But Master Halfshard and Master Willhem have vouched for you, along with young Lord Ammos Greyling and our own Magister Initiate Regis here. With all of that together, we are at least willing to give you a chance.¡±


    So saying, he reached into his robe and removed something, placing it on the table, along with a pliance, and a small, handheld glass.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you take a look at that and tell me what you think?¡± Magister Gilden suggested.


    Tyron frowned. Some sort of test? Despite himself, he was intrigued. What sort of device would the Magisters consider difficult enough to use as a test of ability?


    The object was cylindrical, formed of several saucer-sized disks stacked on top of each other, with a central rod connecting them all and holding them roughly two centimetres apart. There were five disks in total, each perfectly flat with completely smooth edges.


    And layered onto the top and bottom of each disk was dense, dense script, all powered by a high-grade core mounted onto the top of the rod.


    With none of the normal conveniences of a workshop, it was difficult for him to get a good angle to properly examine the script, but he supposed that was part of the test. He grabbed the glass, small enough to hold in a single hand, and peered through it as he tried to decipher the sigils and work out their pattern.


    In only a few seconds, he was frowning.


    Contained in the bunched runes were a plethora of networks, at least ten on each disk, and he had a strong suspicion that not all of the networks were performing a useful function. They were there to act as decoys, to add complexity and confusion to the pathways to even further muddy the waters.


    Slowly, his curiosity grew to something more fierce as Tyron¡¯s intellect began to heat up. He loved puzzles, he loved sigils, he loved enchanting and more than anything else, he loved magick. It may have been a parlour trick designed to weed out the incapable, but the device was cunningly designed and beautifully made.


    The room faded from his perception as he focused, even the two Magisters vanishing from his awareness as he turned the object in his hands, his eyes darting from place to place as he peered through the glass. At one point, he even put the glass down and began to feel the script with his fingers, relying on his sense of touch to separate the miniscule runes from each other.


    He went over it from top to bottom, several times, before he eventually picked up the pliance and traced several runes, muttering to himself as he pieced the networks together, tracking the flow of energy. The variety of sigils used was incredible, and there were many he had never seen before, but with context, he could figure them out.


    Finally, he placed it back on the table, his awareness returning. His shoulders ached.


    ¡°It¡¯s an energy exchanger,¡± he said, then pointed to each of the layers in turn, ¡°from water to fire to air to ground, and then back again.¡±


    He shook his head.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen anything like it. Containing such opposed affinities of magick so close together, the thing should explode if you ever used it, but I bet it doesn¡¯t. Whoever made that is a genius.¡±


    ¡°Would you like us to pass on your regards to the creator?¡± Gilden said.


    ¡°I can speak to Master Willhem myself.¡±

 B3C27 - Divine Right

    ¡°Did I pass?¡± Tyron asked, glancing between Regis and Gilden.


    He thought he¡¯d been quick, but honestly couldn¡¯t say how much time had passed. Getting absorbed in a complex piece of magick to an unhealthy degree was one of his flaws, and one he didn¡¯t know how he could work on.


    Magister Gilden chuckled.


    ¡°Well, if we had any doubts as to your talent, those have been assuaged. You certainly figured that out a lot quicker than I did.¡±


    ¡°Oh, are you an Arcanist then?¡± Tyron enquired politely.


    ¡°I am, though I didn¡¯t train under your esteemed Master. I have to ask, why did you put down the glass and begin to use your fingers?¡±


    How much could he say?


    ¡°Recently I had the fortune to work on a rare enchanted item. I had to decipher the script inside the object without breaking it, and getting a good line of sight was difficult, so I used my fingers to examine the script. I¡¯ve continued to use the practice since it seems like a useful skill to have.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m impressed you can discern the difference between the lines.¡±


    ¡°I must have sensitive fingers. I really can¡¯t explain it any better than that.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating. Well, at this stage you have earned the right to learn a little more about what we may wish for you to do. Though I must stress at this point, Master Almsfield, that your tests are not yet over. Your aptitude for the art of enchanting is high, but we will need to thoroughly examine your abilities before we are prepared to commission you for work.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Tyron nodded, ¡°there can be no room for error in the work of the Magisters, I totally understand.¡±


    ¡°Good. For the most part, we train our own Arcanists to manage the many enchantments used within the tower. The defensive arrays, such as the ones you passed through, the reinforcements, the power arrays, so on and so forth. I am one such Arcanist as well. Naturally this allows us to hold as many secrets as possible close to our chests, but occasionally we need outside expertise to work on more ambitious projects. It is at such times we will reach out to non-affiliated specialists, such as yourself.¡±


    Magister Grindel extended a hand along with the compliment and Tyron permitted himself a small smile.


    ¡°Over the years, we have called on Master Willhem and Master Halfshard, along with a handful of others at the peak of the craft, to complete work for us. Should you prove capable enough, we would like to add you to that list of trusted craftspeople.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m honoured you would consider me,¡± Tyron bowed in his seat. When he straightened, he bore a pensive expression on his face. ¡°If I may ask, do you have a project in mind for me? Or are you simply¡­ enrolling me? I don¡¯t mind either way, I simply want to stress my limitations and proficiencies. As someone who doesn¡¯t have Arcanist as a primary Class, my growth potential in the field is limited, and my build is relatively narrow in focus.¡±


    ¡°We are aware of your choices and abilities. Master Willhem was able to answer our questions on that front. In terms of a project we have in mind, it¡¯s too soon to be talking about something like that. Perhaps there is, perhaps there isn¡¯t. For now, we will progress you to the next stage.¡±


    ¡°Will I complete the full process today?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Oh no,¡± Magister Gilden replied as he pushed back his chair and stood with a sigh. ¡°We have one more stop today, and then you¡¯ll be able to go back to your shop for the time being.¡±


    For the first time in a while, Regis Shan spoke up.


    ¡°Do you want me to accompany you, Magister Gilden?¡±


    The older man hesitated a moment, then shook his head.


    ¡°Best not. Head back to your rooms and continue your studies for now. Thank you for your help today, Initiate.¡±


    Regis bowed low at the waist, turned and walked through the door without so much as a glance in Tyron¡¯s direction.


    Well fuck you too.


    If his senior noticed this cold treatment, he didn¡¯t react, instead he stepped into the corridor and gestured for Tyron to follow him, which he did.


    ¡°These passages are deliberately obtuse. Without a guide, it¡¯s very easy to get lost. We need to head up a few floors, so follow close behind me.¡±


    ¡°Up a few floors?¡± Tyron asked. ¡°Into the tower proper?¡±


    Gilden began to walk at a brisk pace and the Necromancer hurried behind him as his guide talked over his shoulder.


    ¡°These floors are still part of the tower. Work gets done here, even if it¡¯s a bit inconvenient. As a matter of fact, the tower extends down beneath the surface level quite a ways, so there¡¯s a lot that goes on outside the upper floors. We¡¯ll head up to the fifth floor, that¡¯s about as low as they¡¯ll go.¡±


    ¡°They?¡±


    ¡°The person you¡¯ll be speaking with.¡±


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    ¡°Should I be nervous?¡± Tyron laughed.


    Gilden turned just enough to eye him over his shoulder as he continued to walk.


    ¡°I am,¡± he said simply.


    Tyron didn¡¯t speak anymore as they made their way through the maze and up the stairs. Eventually they came to a simple, if sturdy, wooden door. Once they reached the fourth floor, the layout of the tower changed to something more conventional and comfortable, but here on the fifth floor, things were more spacious and¡­ commodious. Tapestries hung from every wall, rich, woven carpets ran down every passage and spherical light globes were fitted to ornate iron sconces mounted on the walls.


    Magister Gilden looked as if he were trying to control his nerves, something that didn¡¯t do Tyron¡¯s attempts to maintain his cool any favours. Who were they going to meet? Some upper crust Magister in charge of enchanting in the tower? How was that intimidating? Obviously it was someone important, so he schooled his expression and steadied his breathing.


    Gilden knocked.


    ¡°Enter,¡± came a female voice.


    After a brief pause, the Magister pushed open the door to reveal a comfortable sitting area that led to an ornate desk, behind which a woman sat, with perfect posture, reading a document placed in front of her.


    ¡°Take a seat,¡± she said without looking up, ¡°I will be with you in a moment.¡±


    Following his guide, Tyron entered and tried not to stare at the opulent display of wealth inside the room. Everything glittered with the sheen of magick, even the clock. Almost everything in the room was enchanted to one degree or another.


    He looked down.


    Even the rug was enchanted. He pressed his shoes firmly into it and felt a hint of warmth. It generated heat to keep their feet warm? Put on some damn socks!


    He sat and neatly arranged his robes before he allowed himself to lean back slightly, his gaze focused on the person he was here to meet.


    It was difficult to say how old she was, not young, certainly, and he noted she did not wear a Magister¡¯s robe, which he found curious. There was a certain elegance, a dignity in the way she moved, even slight motions like turning a page were executed as smoothly as a dance. She had brown hair that fell in gentle curls to her shoulders, and wore a simple styled dress decorated with far too many gems.


    He couldn¡¯t help but wonder who this could be, but then she placed her paper down neatly, folded her hands on the table in front of her, and looked at him.


    In an instant, he felt pierced by her icy blue gaze, as a terrible weight fell upon him.


    A Noble!


    Not just any noble, not like Regis, or Ammon, or Lady Shan, lordlings and lady¡¯s without title or authority. They didn¡¯t have the wealth, or the power, or the Class.


    After a single second of being the subject of her stare, he knew that this person, whoever she was, did. She possessed the Divine Right to rule.


    Desperate to break eye contact, he bowed low in his seat and kept his head down to conceal the sweat breaking out on his forehead.


    ¡°It is an honour to be in your presence,¡± he managed to say smoothly. ¡°Your humble servant is known as Master Lukas Almsfield.¡±


    After a long pause, she spoke.


    ¡°You may rise.¡±


    To be perfectly truthful, he didn¡¯t really want to, but he did, and met her gaze once more. She tilted her head slightly to the side, the merest hint of a frown on her face.


    ¡°I am Lady Erryn,¡± she said. ¡°I am responsible for ensuring the smooth operation of the tower and act as a liaison between the court and the Magisters.¡±


    He bowed once more.


    ¡°A pleasure, Lady Erryn.¡±


    When he straightened, he found she was still frowning at him, and he began to feel even more nervous.


    ¡°Break,¡± she said.


    Wham!


    Sharp pain exploded. Tyron¡¯s head reeled back as his hand flew to his nose. Was it broken? No, there was no blood. In fact, there was no injury at all. What had happened? He felt as if she had punched him in the face.


    Actually, that wasn¡¯t quite it¡­ she had punched him over his face. She¡¯d attacked the glamour!


    There were mirrors all around the room, but if he so much as glanced at one to check it remained in place, that was as much as confirming he wore one. He straightened and turned his eyes directly on the noble.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry if I¡¯ve offended you,¡± he said, unsuccessfully trying to keep all the heat from his tone. ¡°But I do not believe I have done anything to warrant such an act.¡±


    She still stared at him, her eyes endlessly cold.


    ¡°I apologise,¡± she said finally, though she clearly didn¡¯t mean it. ¡°We must be careful, in our work, to ensure those we engage with are beyond reproach.¡±


    It was all he could do not to slump in his chair. Whatever the Crone had done to reinforce his glamour, it had held. He needed to buy Elsbeth a cake or something.


    ¡°I will do my best to meet your expectations,¡± he managed to say.


    ¡°Your word is freely given and welcome, but does not suffice for our security. Additional steps need to be taken.¡±


    ¡°Well then¡­ what do you require of me?¡±


    ¡°That you listen.¡±


    She turned and nodded slightly to Magister Gilden, and he turned his face away, then her stare returned to Tyron and he felt locked in place.


    ¡°By my authority, you will not speak of what you have learned here. You will not share what has been discussed, what you have seen or heard, through any means. Should you fail to heed this command, your heart will cease to beat, and you will die. Divines make it so.¡±


    Tyron felt the weight of her authority come crashing down on him like a mountain. It bypassed his resistance, slipped beyond his defences and wrapped around his mind without him being able to do a single thing about it.


    Divine Right. The highest power of the Nobles, afforded to them by their Classes that were handed down by the Five themselves. He had never felt it before, but he knew what it was. Magnin and Beory had known all about it. There were reasons why they avoided the capital like the plague.


    After a minute in which he felt he was suffocating and suffering a migraine, Tyron slowly began to recover. He was still seated on the chair, a hand clutching at his heart as he sweated profusely.


    ¡°You may go now,¡± Lady Erryn said, once again reading through her papers.


    Magister Gilden stood immediately, and Tyron staggered to his feet.


    ¡°By your will,¡± he managed to say, before he turned and followed his guide.


    The trip back to the shop was lost in a haze to Tyron, but he made it back somehow. He collapsed into his bed the moment he could, his head still pounding, and his heart still thudding in his chest.


    The Divine Right. He hadn¡¯t expected it to be so terrifying.


    But even more than his fear, there was anger, like a roaring bonfire burning in his chest. He was certain. Absolutely certain. He had sat in the presence of the person who had overseen his parents¡¯ murder.


    Lady Erryn.


    What an undead she would be.

 B3C28 - Mountains of Bones

    ¡°There¡¯s obviously a Skill you¡¯re missing,¡± Dove groaned for the eleventh time that day. ¡°If it were possible to do what you¡¯re trying to do without it, then you would have figured it out already.¡±


    Tyron ground his teeth as he tossed aside another shin bone. Shins made the most sense for swords, since they, along with the bones of the forearm, namely the ulna, were the hardest in the body, and about the right size.


    ¡°I know,¡± he finally retorted as he reached across to grab another from the box to his right. ¡°I also know what the Skill is: Bone Compression, I passed it up at level thirty six.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe this. You mean all this time you knew what you were missing?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I knew. If I already know how to shape bones thanks to the bow making Skill, then what¡¯s the point of buying nine thousand other ways to manipulate bones? It stands to reason that I should be able to figure out how it should work given what I already know.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not how it works, fuckface.¡±


    Dove wandered over and poked him with a skeletal finger.


    ¡°Just because you¡¯ve picked up some stuff without having to ¡®pay¡¯ for it doesn¡¯t mean everything is just going to drop into your lap! You¡¯re trying to gain a Skill you don¡¯t have, and another Skill you don¡¯t have at the same damn time! You don¡¯t know how to compress bones magickally, and you don¡¯t know how to form a sword from one, even if you did!¡±


    He put his hands on his bony hips and shook his head.


    ¡°No wonder you haven¡¯t been getting anywhere. This has been a waste of time.¡±


    Tyron scowled and shoved the skeletal construct away with one hand. Dove shrieked and covered himself.


    ¡°Who said you could touch my pelvis?¡±


    ¡°I made your pelvis.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t give you the right to ravish me without permission.¡±


    ¡°Balls of the Gods, Dove, if you don¡¯t shut up, then I¡¯m going to wire your jaw shut.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m bored! It¡¯s great to have a body again, but I can¡¯t leave your fucking basement, so the level of enjoyment I get out of it is pretty fucking limited!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not all that sympathetic,¡± Tyron muttered as he focused on the shin once again.


    How was he supposed to compress the damn thing? He was getting better at shaping bone the way he wanted to, and quite a few of his efforts looked like functional swords, but they just plain weren¡¯t. It was like dough. Exceptionally hard dough, but still dough. He could shape it, mould it, stretch and flatten, or squash the whole stupid thing into a ball if he wanted, but he couldn¡¯t change its density. He couldn¡¯t make it into a ball, and then squish it into a smaller one.


    Actually, the ball analogy worked fairly well, so he began to adjust the shin, stretching it in some places, pressing it in others, as he attempted to create a round shape out of it. The exercise was more difficult than he¡¯d thought, and required a significant amount of concentration, effort, and magick expenditure on his part.


    ¡°Oh, you don¡¯t care about my suffering? Why am I not surprised?¡±


    Tyron continued to work as he argued with his former-mentor.


    ¡°Oh no, you can¡¯t walk around the city and have to stay here practising magick. How terrible.¡±


    Dove stared at him, the purple flame burning in his empty sockets, then threw up his hands.


    ¡°Of course you think it¡¯s perfectly fine. Living as a hermit in a cave practising magick is your idea of paradise! Some of us want more from life. In fact, almost all of us want more from life. You¡¯re the weird one.¡±


    ¡°Dove. I went through an enormous amount of effort and personal expense to create that body for you. I wove it to the best of my ability, enchanted it, bound the entire thing to your soul. It was a long and painful process, and I went through all of that in an attempt to bring you some measure of happiness in your life.¡±


    He glared up at the skeleton.


    ¡°So forgive me if I¡¯m not all that patient while you prattle around my study whining about how you can¡¯t drink, eat or fuck. I don¡¯t care. I. Don¡¯t. Care. You can help me with what I¡¯m doing, or study and practise your own magick, but if you keep whinging like a whipped dog, I swear I will crush that fucking skull and leave you to Yor forever.¡±


    Finished saying his piece, the Necromancer looked down and continued his moulding, fuming silently. Dove watched him for a long moment.


    ¡°You¡¯re cranky. Something stressing you out, kid? Other than the ever present threat of death hanging over your head. I wouldn¡¯t stress about it. Death can be a lot less permanent than you think.¡±


    A grimace flickered over Tyron¡¯s face.


    ¡°Yor has already told me my soul is likely to get seized upon by one of a number of Vampires if they manage to sniff it out after I die. I¡¯m tempted to make arrangements for the Abyss to take it upon my death, just to avoid the possibility.¡±


    ¡°You¡­ never told me that.¡±


    ¡°Dove, you¡¯ve been so wrapped up in yourself you haven¡¯t had the time or attention to pay to anything other than Dove. Which I understand, given how shitty everything is for you, but there¡¯s been no reason for me to go blabbing to you about my worries.¡±


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    ¡°Well, there is now. Whatever is bothering you has gotten you so worked up you¡¯re threatening to destroy this incredible specimen of perfection.¡±


    The former-summoner ran his bone hands suggestively over his skeletal frame, which managed to get a smile out of the younger mage.


    ¡°That¡¯s the most bizarre thing I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±


    Normally, his skeletons moved with a ruthless efficiency, even the revenants. Once Dove had gained his full form, he¡¯d began prancing, dancing and engaging in all sorts of very un-undead-like movements. It was strange to see, to say the least.


    ¡°Just wait until I show you what I¡¯m capable of when I¡¯m fully equipped,¡± Dove boasted, thrusting his bare, bony hips forward repeatedly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll kill you. I mean it.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    Thankfully, he stopped.


    ¡°What¡¯s bothering you? It can¡¯t just be that you are still failing to make a sword. Actually, what the heck are you making right now?¡±


    Tyron held up his completed sphere.


    ¡°I thought I¡¯d mould it into a ball shape and then try to compress it. Essentially, if I manage to make the ball smaller, then I¡¯ve succeeded.¡±


    ¡°But you would need to apply force equally from all sides, wouldn¡¯t that be harder?¡±


    ¡°Maybe it''s harder in practice, but it seems easier conceptually. I don¡¯t have to worry about where I should and shouldn¡¯t be trying to compress, I just try and compress the whole thing.¡±


    ¡°That makes sense,¡± Dove mused, scratching at his bone chin. ¡°I¡¯m not distracted, though. Out with it, spill your problems into the open so I can point and laugh at them.¡±


    The ball in his hands stubbornly refused to shrink, no matter how he pressed or manipulated it, but he didn¡¯t give up.


    ¡°I¡¯m just stressed. There¡¯s always too much to do, and with the advancement approaching, I¡¯m worried it won¡¯t be optimal. I can¡¯t afford to miss out on a Class Advancement that suits my goals and needs.¡±


    ¡°Your needs are rather specific. Something that supports a large number of powerful undead that you can use to fight and level against the rifts and against the empire. Essentially, you need to be on the path of Arihnan the Black.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Tyron said. ¡°I need an army of minions, nothing else will be sufficient. Having come so far, the thought of failing at this point is just¡­ unacceptable.¡±


    ¡°Which is why failing to make a sword is pissing you off so much.¡±


    ¡°Probably. I don¡¯t know, Dove, I just don¡¯t understand why this thing won¡¯t fucking shrink.¡±


    He was trying to use his hands and magick to press on the ball from all sides at once, but all that happened was the bone cracked, forcing him to repair it.


    At least he was training his Bone Mending at the same time. Part of his irritation stemmed from the fact he was certain there was some sort of unified bone modification Skill which would allow him to perform all of these functions at once. Mending, Shaping, Compressing, probably Merging as well, he just wasn¡¯t high enough Level to access it. The thought of wasting multiple Skill selections, and then losing them to an Advanced Skill down the line filled him with dread.


    ¡°Look, kid. You¡¯re already fucked. A lone wolf, going up against an entire empire full of expert wolf-killers. Rebellions like this get cut off at the knees a couple of times every century. The odds of you succeeding are infinitesimal.¡±


    ¡°This is real encouraging so far.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying you should relax a little and go with the flow! The current course of action is already certain death! Not much room to go down from there.¡±


    The skeleton construct considered for a moment.


    ¡°Or you could let go of your need for revenge and live a quiet life enchanting. You do have that option.¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡±


    The Necromancer stared at the sphere in front of him as if by his will alone he could condense it.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care how powerful they are, or how many get in my way. They will pay for what they¡¯ve done.¡±


    He said it simply, as if stating a universally accepted truth. Up was up, down was down, Tyron would have his vengeance.


    ¡°Well, in that case, I think you need to pick up the pace. You¡¯ve got what? Forty of your new bony boys? I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s going to cut it against the empire.¡±


    He¡¯d worked tirelessly to hone his Skills and Spells while perfecting his ability to create undead over the past month. While maintaining the stock in the shop and keeping up appearances, he had devoted every spare waking hour to his craft. The problem wasn¡¯t that he hadn¡¯t been working hard enough, it was the lack of progress.


    His current minions may be the strongest he¡¯d ever created, but there weren¡¯t enough of them, and he was only gaining twenty a month. He still needed more. He needed ghosts, and powerful revenants to anchor his force. Weapons for the skeletons had to be secured, and then he needed to start fighting.


    None of it could happen until he Advanced.


    He was on the precipice. He just needed to find the courage to fling himself off the edge.


    Like forging a blade, he was trying to create the perfect version of himself. Right now, he was in the fire, unsure of when he could pull himself out. There was no way to be sure, so he may as well just go for it.


    ¡°I¡¯ve decided,¡± he said firmly. ¡°Tomorrow, I¡¯ll perform the status ritual. Delaying any further is only going to drive me insane.¡±


    ¡°Good man!¡± Dove clapped him on the back. ¡°Good to see a bit of ¡®Fuck you!¡¯ energy back in your eyes.¡±


    Metal changed in the fire. It grew softer, more malleable. Only when you took it out could you make something useful with it. Shape it.


    The sphere of bone weighed heavily in his hand. He tilted his head as he gazed at it.


    Bone, as it was, could be shaped, he could do that much, but he couldn¡¯t hammer it. There needed to be a qualitative change before something like that with metal. Cold metal couldn¡¯t be compressed, it had to be heated first. So what did he have to do to the bone before he could compress it? Heat it? That didn¡¯t make sense, it would just crack.


    Dove was talking, but Tyron was no longer listening.


    What could he do that he knew could create qualitative change within bones? Death Magick was the answer. It was the only form of energy that remains could accept.


    He¡¯d taken the Death Infusion Skill a while back but hadn¡¯t yet found much use for it outside of a few experiments. He could pour Death Magick into an object via touch, transmuting the neutral energy from his body into the more dangerous form. It allowed him to kickstart the saturation process of remains whenever he wanted. He hadn¡¯t tested it yet, but he could use it as a weapon in a pinch, a literal touch of death.


    Wanting to understand more about Death Magick, he¡¯d picked it since it allowed him to produce the stuff on demand, but since he hadn¡¯t found a way to utilise it when creating minions, he hadn¡¯t devoted the time to the Skill he should have.


    There were trace amounts of Death Magick in the sphere of bone presently, but that could rapidly change. With a frown of concentration, he began to infuse it with arcane power.


    Death aligned energy flowed from his hand and into the ball as he watched it carefully. The light around his hand began to darken as he poured out more. More.


    The sphere was saturated now, but he didn¡¯t stop. More power. More Death. The ball itself began to darken as he continued, the bone going from a bleached white to an ominous, smoking black.


    Now.


    Suffused with so much power, the bone didn¡¯t behave as it had before. He could sense the difference. Taking the sphere in his hands, he gripped it physically, and also with his will.


    He pressed.


    ¡°You prick. I can¡¯t believe you figured that out.¡±

 B3C29 - Advance or Die

    He¡¯d done everything he could think of, but Tyron was still unbelievably anxious. What if it went wrong? What if his Advancement options were terrible?


    For the millionth time, he cursed his lack of a proper Class guide. Without any clue of what was even possible for a Necromancer to grow into, he was totally fumbling in the dark.


    His nerve wavered, but he firmed it again as he stared down at the blank piece of paper.


    You did everything you could. Raising more minions isn¡¯t going to help, you¡¯ve learned everything that you can at this point.


    It wasn¡¯t completely true, and he knew it. He could spend years chasing down every idea he had, seeing which ones bore fruit and which didn¡¯t, modifying, tinkering, squeezing every last drop from his Spells and Skills. It was easy to become ninety percent proficient at a Spell, but the last fraction took twice as much time and energy as the previous ninety.


    More and more, he¡¯d begun to feel time was against him. As more minions accumulated in the sewers around his shop, more and more Death Magick was creeping into the air. He did his best to suppress it, going so far as to install enchantments that both concealed his minions and converted any ambient Death energy to unaligned neutral power.


    But all it took was one slip, and he would be exposed. He needed to get his minions out of the city and get to fighting with them. That meant completing his advancement.


    He¡¯d already delayed it once. When talking to Dove, he¡¯d said he¡¯d do it the next day. In reality, that had been three weeks ago. Discovering how to compress bone had been a major breakthrough, and he¡¯d experimented extensively, even managed to create decent swords and shields, though he wasn¡¯t prepared to arm his minions with them yet. Then he¡¯d delayed a little longer, so he could process the next batch of twenty bodies and raise them. Just in case.


    So now he had sixty skeletons stashed in the sewers, increasing his risk even further.


    ¡°Stop stalling, Tyron,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°Just do it.¡±


    With a shaking hand, he withdrew the dagger from his belt and pressed his thumb into the tip. The cut was much deeper than required and he winced as the blood flowed freely. Still, he pressed the digit to the page and enacted the ritual.


    Immediately, the blood began to creep across the paper, forming letters, words and sentences until it came to a stop, the ritual complete.


    Not daring yet to read, he snatched up a clean bandage and pressed it to his thumb, wrapping it tight to prevent further blood loss. Then, with no excuses left, he sighed and looked down at the page, trembling with nerves.


    There were several lines about improvements to his Enchanting, but he glossed over them quickly to focus on what he cared about.


    Your understanding of the methods needed to assess remains has advanced. Corpse Appraisal has reached level 20.


    Your understanding of the methods needed to prepare remains has advanced. Corpse Preparation has reached level 20.


    You have discerned a method to forge bone like steel and mould it to your needs. Bone Forging has been learned. Bone Weapon Sculpting (Bow) and Bone Mending have been subsumed.


    Your understanding of Death Magick has deepened. Advanced Death Magick has reached level 20.


    Your capacity to modify existing minions has improved. Minion Modification has reached level 7.


    Your ability to insert Death aligned energy through touch has improved. Death Infusion has reached level 4.


    Your skill at weaving magickal sinew has increased. Bone Animus has reached level 20.


    Your understanding of the ritual has grown stronger. Raise Dead has reached level 30.


    Your comprehension of the spell has grown stronger. Anoint Undead has reached level 3.


    You have raised minions and improved your craft. Undead Weaver has reached level 40. You have received +2 Strength, +4 Constitution, +6 Intelligence, +2 Wisdom, +2 Willpower, +2 Manipulation and +4 Poise.


    The world slowly tumbles toward chaos and your patrons delight. The Abyss hungers. Forbidden One has reached Level 25. You have received +2 Constitution, +2 Intelligence, +2 Willpower, +1 Manipulation, and +1 Poise.


    Name: Tyron Steelarm.


    Age: 23


    Race: Human (Level 20)


    Class:


    Undead Weaver (Level 40)


    Sub-Classes:


    <ul>


    <li>Forbidden One (Level 25) </li>


    <li>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</li>


    <li>None </li>


    </ul>


    Racial Feats:


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    Feat Selections Available: 2


    Attributes:


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Strength:


    </td>


    <td>


    42


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Dexterity:


    </td>


    <td>


    99


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Constitution:


    </td>


    <td>


    132


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Intelligence:


    </td>


    <td>


    251


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Wisdom:


    </td>


    <td>


    163


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Willpower:


    </td>


    <td>


    113


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Charisma:


    </td>


    <td>


    43


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Manipulation:


    </td>


    <td>


    64


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Poise:


    </td>


    <td>


    68


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    General Skills:


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 4)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Engraving (Level 5)(Max)


    Skill Selections Available: 5


    Necromancer Skills:


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 20)(Max)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Death Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    Enhanced Minion Commander (Level 6)


    Undead Control (Level 4)


    Minion Modification (Level 7)


    Bone-Soul Melding (Level 10)(Max)


    Death Infusion (Level 4)


    Bone Forging (Level 10)(Max)


    Anathema Skills:


    Abyss Tongue (Level 4)


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    Spell Concealment (Level 10)(Max)


    Arcanist Skills:


    Expert Magick Scripting (Level 30)(Max)


    Channelling (Level 10)(Max)


    Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 15)


    Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 15)


    Expert Network Formation (Level 25)


    Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Core Sense (Level 15)


    Expert Power Control (Level 26)


    General Spells:


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)


    Necromancer Spells:


    Raise Dead (Level 30)(Max)


    Bone Animus (Level 20)(Max)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 6)


    Shivering Curse (Level 6)


    Death Blades (Level 7)


    Empowered Bone Armour (Level 5)


    Minion Sight (Level 6)


    Spirit Binding (Level 10)(Max)


    Death¡¯s Grasp (Level 5)


    Anoint Dead (Level 3)


    Anathema Spells:


    Pierce the Veil (Level 5)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 4)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    Advanced Suppress Mind (Level 17)


    Repository (Level 6)


    Fear (Level 3)


    Glamour (Level 10)(Max)


    Invasive Persuasion (Level 10)(Max)


    Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 5)


    Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)


    Necromancer Feats:


    Skeleton Focus II


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery


    Spirit Mastery


    Undead Specialist


    Anathema Feats:


    Repository


    Wall of Thought II


    Drain Life


    Arcanist Feats


    Magick Thread Control II


    Compact Sigils II


    Conduit Seal II


    Core Networking II


    Mysteries:


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Advanced): WIS +20 CHA +20


    Undead Weaver has reached level 40. Choose an Additional Feat:


    Zombie Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Zombies.


    Skeleton Focus III - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.


    Spirit Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Spirits.


    Flesh Mastery - Increased skill with flesh based undead and abilities.


    Minion Controller - Improve the capacity to direct undead.


    Intelligent Dead - Improve the minds of undead minions.


    Boon Giver - Spells and abilities that empower the dead are strengthened.


    Undead Weaver has reached Level 40. Choose one additional Skill or Spell:


    Skills:


    Ghoul Flesh - Instil Death Magick into the flesh of the deceased


    Bone Compression - Harden and compress bone.


    Bone Weapon Sculpting (Sword) - Create swords from Bone


    Bone Fusion - Meld bones together.


    Spells:


    Crepify - An infusion of power to Undead Flesh, rapidly healing damage and strengthening it for a duration.


    Undead Leader - Bind undead to one of their own to empower it and increase its intelligence.


    Command Spirit - Replaces Commune with Spirits and raises the maximum level to 20.


    Death Fist - Replaces Death¡¯s Grasp and raises the maximum level to 20.


    Mark for Death - Curse a target. Your minions will hunt it and be stronger when fighting the victim.


    Purify Bones - Purge the bones of impurities as preparation for the Raise Dead ritual.


    Black Miasma - Create a cloud of Death saturated energy that empowers and heals undead while hindering the living.


    Forbidden One has reached level 25. Choose an additional Feat:


    Dark Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Dark Ones.


    Abyssal Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Abyss.


    Scarlet Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Scarlet Court.


    Ruler in Shade - Your false faces are harder to overcome or pierce.


    Corrupting Presence - Encourage Death Magick growth in all around you, even the living.


    Bewitching Gaze - Those who look into your eyes are more susceptible to magickal influence.


    Black Soul - Tune your spirit to the void.


    Dead Flesh - Adapt your body to contain death aligned energy.


    Stormwise - Empower all of your abilities when the sun is hidden by cloud.


    Still Blood - Your blood will cease to flow, and change.


    Tyron slumped forward, relief filling him. He¡¯d done it. He¡¯d actually done it! Even more than he¡¯d hoped, he¡¯d been able to max out far more abilities than expected. The odds of him getting the Advancement he wanted had vastly increased.


    A part of him wanted to rush through his ability selections, just so he could pick his Advancement that little bit faster, but he held himself back and went through the notifications carefully.


    Almost immediately, a smile tugged at his lips. He¡¯d been right, there was a unified bone manipulation skill, and he¡¯d gotten it! This was a great achievement, though it wasn¡¯t without its shortcomings. He¡¯d be able to make swords now, sure, but he wouldn¡¯t have the knowledge and instincts that selecting the Bone Weapon Sculpting (Sword) would have gotten him. He¡¯d need to work out how to make the best swords, shields, spears and whatever else he wanted on his own.


    Even Raise Dead had reached level thirty. A warm sense of pride filled him as he gazed down on the notifications. His father and mother had always emphasised mastering the basic elements of a Class, and here he was being faithful to their advice.


    He felt a pang in his chest, but pushed it aside.


    He needed to choose his final Feat from his current Class, and the choice was difficult. Anything to do with flesh based undead was out, obviously, as was Boon Giver, since he didn¡¯t focus on powering up his minions after they were created, but that left several things he was interested in. Skeleton Focus III was still appealing to him, as skeletons would form the bedrock of any undead army he hoped to build. Intelligent Undead and Minion Controller were also tempting, but his lack of information held him back. He¡¯d get better at controlling more minions, but by how much? Similarly, how much smarter would his minions get? How useful would that be? Did he even need either when he could create Revenants and have them direct his other undead?


    After some hesitation, he selected the next rank in Skeleton Focus. It was disappointing not to reach the fourth, and presumably highest level in this Feat chain, but this was the widest applicable boost he could get for his minions right now.


    Then he needed to select a new Spell or Skill. His last for the Undead Weaver Class. The two new options were obviously powerful. Bone Fusion would have been incredibly tempting if not for his breakthrough, as he suspected he knew what it would allow him to do. Creating bone constructs, much as he had with Dove, but with real bones, would be possible with that Skill. With Bone Forging, he should be able to achieve the same end result, though with far more trial and error.


    Black Miasma, the other level forty selection, was interesting. It allowed him to empower and heal his undead as a fight was going? That was certainly a powerful effect, though it likely would cost an unbelievable amount of magick to create and maintain. Thankfully, his maintenance costs had gone down as much as they had, along with his capacity climbing through the roof.


    He could choose it¡­.


    His eye flicked down to the Forbidden One Feats. This was his first chance to see them, and many of the options were¡­ unappealing.


    Curry favour with the patrons? He grimaced. If he had to, sure, but at the cost of a Feat? Unlikely.


    Ruler in Shade was tempting, more than tempting. Having his mask broken was one of his greatest fears.


    Bewitching Gaze was something he felt would be useful, but wasn¡¯t enamoured with selecting. Manipulation was a necessity of his existence, but he didn¡¯t enjoy it. For survival, he would gladly shove his preferences aside.


    These transformational Feats¡­. He shuddered. Doubtless, they would be powerful, even if he couldn¡¯t understand exactly what they did. How he was supposed to keep a low profile if his flesh became imbued with Death Magick, he had no idea.


    Stormwise¡­. Surely not.


    He checked the wording of Black Miasma, it specifically mentioned cloud. The Unseen was always precise with its language, which meant these two abilities would interact. If he stood within the miasma while his minions fought, the Feat would become active. That sort of synergy seemed too obvious to be accidental. Perhaps his patrons had a finger on the scale in his favour? Still, the combination would be potent, he was sure.


    He selected both options. Then took a deep breath. This was the moment.


    He confirmed his selections, endured the change, then pressed his thumb to the page once more. Blood flowed, and he leaned forward, breath caught in his throat.


    Undead Weaver has reached Level 40.


    Select a Class Advancement from the following:


    Necro-Master: Further your understanding of the Necromantic craft.


    Following on from Necro-Acolyte that he¡¯d been offered at level twenty, this was likely the default advancement for reaching the silver rank. It didn¡¯t hold much interest for Tyron.


    Soul Binder: Bend the spirits of the dead to your will.


    Likely this advancement didn¡¯t focus on ghosts alone, but perhaps other types of spirit-based undead, perhaps revenants also. There was a whole world of more powerful ghosts out there, including some who could manifest themselves physically. This Class would be his first opportunity to learn the secrets of their creation.


    Lich Initiate: Learn the secrets of eternal life.


    Tyron paused as he saw this option. A Lich? Would this Class really give him the Skills and Spells needed to turn himself into a Lich and change his race? Interestingly, he didn¡¯t need to use those abilities on himself, he could turn others into undead and bind them to his will.


    Lord of the Ossuary: Harness the most powerful skeletal minions.


    With his complete mastery over every Bone related Skill he had, this option didn¡¯t surprise him. This would be another path toward creating revenants, something he could already do, but would also have the greatest chance of empowering them. Perhaps it would also facilitate a large number of minions as well? A possibility, to be certain.


    Bone Smith: Constructs of Blood and Bone will serve.


    This was¡­ unexpected. Perhaps it had become available due to his unlocking of the Bone Forging Skill? Perhaps it would focus on the creation of weapons and armour, as well as larger constructs.


    Acolyte of Death: Death energy will heed your call.


    Another unexpected option, focused on Death aligned Magick itself. No doubt this had become available thanks to his maxing of Advanced Death Magick.


    But what would the Class focus on? Using Death Magick to fling spells and empower minions, probably. It sounded powerful, but wasn¡¯t what he focused on.


    No more options appeared, and Tyron leaned back to think. This was where his ability as a Necromancer would flourish. From the beginning, he had known that his Class was one that grew much stronger at the higher levels relative to other Classes.


    Now that he¡¯d reached level forty, he was finally at the point where he would become a force to be reckoned with, even against other slayers. All he needed was a few things to go right. With enough minions to fight, he could gain levels extremely quickly, so long as he could occupy a rift.


    So what did he want? What would make him the strongest? What was he best at?


    He didn¡¯t want to be a Lich, so choosing that option felt wasteful, even if he was very curious as to what he may learn. Necro-Master was also out. It was generic and likely weaker than the others. Soul Binder would doubtlessly be strong, but ghosts were not his area of expertise at this point. There would be much he would need to learn to maximise their strengths. Could he really afford to wait that long?


    Acolyte of Death was tempting, but somewhat mysterious. Would it focus on minions, or something else? Death Energy would heed his call, but in what way? His lack of knowledge was frustrating. This Class would be powerful, he was sure, but would it synergise with him?


    Bone Smith and Lord of the Ossuary. Those were both fascinating options that worked well with what he could currently do. Already, he had ideas for constructs he could create to support his skeletons in the field. With the guidance of Bone Smith, he could make those ideas a reality. However, there was a chance he could do that anyway.


    Lord of the Ossuary. The most potent skeletal minions he knew of were revenants, which he could already make, and wights, which he couldn¡¯t. Of all the options he had available, this was the only one that hinted that it would help him reach the quality and quantity of minions he needed to threaten an empire.


    He chose it.

 B3C30 - Growth

    The Awakening.


    Tyron Steelarm. Your mastery of your craft has advanced by leaps and bounds, proving your choice of Ascension was a wise one. Your soul burns with hunger, now you shall fashion an army to feed it.


    You are Ascending.


    +20 to all stats.


    You are able to advance Mysteries to the next stage.


    You have received the Class: Lord of the Ossuary


    A perfectionist, focused on achieving the peak of performance with one form of undead, a Lord of the Ossuary can create the ultimate Skeletal warriors, and more. To advance, raise skeletal minions and have them fight in your name.


    Class Attributes per level:


    Strength +2;


    Dexterity +2;


    Constitution +3;


    Intelligence +3;


    Wisdom +2;


    Willpower + 2;


    Manipulation +2;


    Poise + 3;


    The maximum Skill limit of Raise Dead has been increased to 40. Your knowledge of this Ritual has been expanded. You may now apply it to horses. Your knowledge of this Ritual has been expanded, you may now engrave spells upon the minds of your skeletal minions.


    The maximum Skill limit of Bone-Soul Melding has been increased to 20.


    The maximum Skill limit of Bone Forging has been increased to 20.


    The maximum Skill limit of Bone Animus has increased to 40.


    Through your feats, you have been granted a new Mystery. Your insights into Death Magick and the properties of this energy have unlocked: Essence of Death, at the initial stage.


    The rush of power was so intense that he could no longer stand. He crumpled to the floor, legs quivering as his body and mind underwent another grand transformation.


    Some time later, Tyron shivered. The strength given to him by the Unseen since his Awakening was nothing to sneeze at, but his second advancement still hit him pretty hard. An additional twenty to all of his attributes, a hundred and eighty points in total, rocked him to his core, to the point he had collapsed to the floor, but still conscious, unlike his early levels.


    The further he rose, the more he left normal humanity behind. In normal circumstances, he would now be classified as a Silver ranked Slayer. For most people, that was as high a rank as they would ever reach. Compared to the average citizen, who didn¡¯t have the advantage of the power granted to combat focused Classes, his current status page would look like something out of legend.


    At sixty-two, he was already stronger than a human had any right to be, his muscles tense with power. In his old village, perhaps only Rufus¡¯ father, the blacksmith, would still be stronger than he was, despite him hardly getting any points in it from his Classes.


    With over a hundred dexterity, he had cleared the first threshold, able to control the movements of his body with unearthly precision. A useful trait for casters to have to help them cast spells and rituals that required gestures. For Tyron, it was all about his finger-control. Carving runes, weaving thread, casting rituals, he needed all the fine-motor dexterity he could get.


    He sat up and wiggled his fingers, chuckling at the strange sensation he got as he did so. With both hands in front of his face, he experimented, bending each digit to different angles, forming shapes, first mimicking the movements on both hands, then moving them separately. How much better would he be able to do his work now?


    Of all of his physical properties, his constitution was by far the highest, nearly reaching the second threshold and two hundred.


    Although he hadn¡¯t been in a fight recently, he could still tell his body was hardening. He no longer cut himself by accident. Paper couldn¡¯t slice through him, the sharp edges of his tools didn¡¯t penetrate his hardened skin. Even Filetta remarked at just how hard it was to make a mark on him. Illness was almost a distant memory, and his ability to endure the harsh conditions he placed on himself, poor diet, lack of rest, was always rising.


    Which probably wasn¡¯t a good thing, he chuckled to himself. Once again, Tyron made a note to try and take better care of himself. It was hard to do once he got absorbed in something, but it was important, even if he could survive it.


    His Intelligence had almost reached the third threshold, his highest attribute. He¡¯d long grown used to the difference it made, sharpening his memory, accelerating his decision making, and more importantly, increasing the store of Magick at his command.


    Still seated on the cold stone floor of his study, he took a deep breath and held it, focusing on the well of arcane power that dwelt within his body. It was this source that would eventually turn all who dwelt in this realm to kin, he knew, but even so, he rejoiced to feel it swollen with energy, more than he had ever felt before.


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    At this point, he was confident that the Magick Battery feats he had taken were not a flat increase to his capacity, but rather increased the amount of Magick his body could hold per point of Intelligence. That was what he¡¯d hoped for, but couldn¡¯t confirm it was true before making the selection. The realisation sent a wave of relief rushing through him, and he threw back his head and laughed.


    Wisdom, close to the second threshold, was his second highest attribute. Who knows why the Unseen designed things this way, but it divided the attributes of all who fell under its reach into Physical, Mental and Social groups, and then divided those three into power, control and resistance.


    Tyron¡¯s physical power was low, but his control and resistance were comparatively very high. His mental power was absurd, his control lagging behind, and his resistance was the lowest of the three, though still high.


    That control eased the difficulty he felt wrestling his vast reserve of Magick to do as he wished, easing spellcasting to the point where his early struggles felt like a distant memory. There was no ritual or spell Tyron currently knew that challenged him at all. Bending the Magick to his will, holding his nerve, maintaining precise movement of his hands and clear diction of his voice were easier than they had ever been.


    Socially, he was still relatively weak and vulnerable to manipulation. Those with extremely high Social attributes were dangerous to be around, especially if they had the Skills and Feats to match. Most people refused to shop from a merchant or store that employed such an individual, as they could be persuaded to part with almost anything they owned without realising what was happening.


    Many professional musicians and bards, who travelled the provinces entertaining the people, were accompanied by a guard at all times. With their powers of persuasion, they could create an uprising, or convince blushing milkmaids or strapping farmhands into doing things they would later regret.


    Not that Tyron would ever have the capacity to do such things. He manipulated minds in a rather more¡­ direct fashion.


    He would always be weak socially, that didn¡¯t bother him. He needed to do more to ensure he wasn¡¯t vulnerable to it, however. The last thing he wanted was to be talked down by someone as he sought to enact his vengeance.


    The rest of the changes were¡­ eye-opening. The additions to his Raise Dead ritual were¡­ staggering, especially the last part. Being able to raise horses made¡­ some kind of sense. Skeletons on skeletal horses. Sure. Why not? Engraving spells on their minds? What did that mean? Could he create skeletons who could use magick? Skeleton mages? That would be¡­ absurd. How could he possibly supply enough energy to minions such as those?


    Or would he have to? With his enchanting arrays, but scaled up¡­ perhaps he could figure something out¡­?


    Tyron shook his head, it was too early to think on that. He tried to focus on the present.


    All of his bone related Skills and Spells had their maximum levels increased, which was to be expected. If he raised them to the cap once again, his proficiency with skeletal minions would reach another peak altogether. That thought alone was enough to get him excited.


    And who knew what powerful Skills, Spells and Feats would be available at this rank? Only his main Class could go beyond level forty and give him real power, and now he was finally able to realise this potential.


    The Necromancer pushed himself from the floor and stood, a little wobbly at first, but his balance returned steadily with each moment that passed. New ideas were already bubbling away in his brain as the knowledge and impressions the Unseen had imprinted there began to surface, but he pushed them away.


    It was too soon. Over the next few days and weeks, those concepts would settle and he could examine them at his leisure then. For now, he had other priorities.


    To help himself acclimate to his new body, Tyron began to walk in slow circles through his study, his hands trailing over the cold stone slabs, free of remains for the time being.


    It was hard to focus. He was so full of energy, so full of drive! He wanted to rush out of his store, wanted to return to what it had been like before, out on the rifts with his minions, fighting against the tide of kin. In combat, he would quickly reap levels, doing what a Necromancer should, growing quickly in the face of death, but he couldn¡¯t, not so soon as that.


    There was so much to do. The shop couldn¡¯t be abandoned, nor could his persona as Lukas Almsfield. It was bearing surprising fruit, after all. He¡¯d been contacted several times about helping with commissions for high ranking families, and even the Magisters had come calling, screening him for their services. Coming face to face with a true Noble had been unexpected, and dangerous, but access to people of that rank was precious if he was to plan his vengeance. It would also help him if he was to support the growing rebellion from the shadows.


    No. He would leave to fight and train his abilities, but it would have to be carefully planned.


    As he was wont to do in such hectic moments, Tyron reached for paper and a pen, and began to write.


    ~~~


    ¡°You want how many?¡± Filetta squawked.


    Tyron pulled his shirt on and buttoned it carefully.


    ¡°Being honest? As many as you can get, but at a bare minimum, I need a hundred over the next two months.¡±


    Still tangled in the sheets, the thief rolled from the bed and began to rummage for her own clothes.


    ¡°You really think it''s that simple for us to find fresh corpses?¡±


    This surprised the Necromancer.


    ¡°I thought there would be far more than a hundred deaths in and around Kenmor in a week, let alone a month.¡±


    Filetta rolled her eyes in the dark.


    ¡°Yes, obviously. The city has millions of people in it, there are tens of thousands of deaths every year. The issue isn¡¯t finding dead people, it¡¯s smuggling. We need to spirit the remains away and replace them with something before they go into the fire.¡±


    ¡°What do you use?¡± Tyron asked, curious.


    ¡°Cow parts, so I¡¯m told,¡± she shrugged, ¡°I don¡¯t handle that end of things. I¡¯m more of a customer relations expert,¡± she leered.


    Now it was time for Tyron to roll his eyes.


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll pay extra, obviously, and I¡¯ll need more regular shipments of bones as well.¡±


    ¡°More bones as well? Why the rush? The faster we move, the greater the risk of discovery. You know that, right?¡±


    Tyron finished with his shirt and began to pull on his coat.


    ¡°Of course I know that. This is a temporary matter. Once I have the hundred, we can slow the pace for a time, to dissipate any heat that might have accumulated.¡±


    Filetta nodded slowly.


    ¡°Very well. I¡¯ll talk to my people and we¡¯ll do what we can.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m grateful,¡± Tyron nodded, then turned and pushed open the door, stepping out into the corridor.


    Another hundred minions should suffice to start with, but he would need more in his fight against the rifts. Unfortunately, there was a limit to how many he could gather in the city without drawing suspicion.


    He may have to purchase a few shovels. Grave robbing might be back in fashion.

 B3C31 - Dark Bargains

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you¡¯ve already reached your second Advancement,¡± Elsbeth pouted. ¡°Just how much have you been grinding?¡±


    Tyron raised a brow and took a sip from his cup, a wry smile twisting his lips.


    ¡°Can you blame me for being driven? All things considered?¡±


    His old friend sighed and shook her head, looking sad.


    ¡°No. No, I suppose not.¡±


    She looked as if she wanted to say something, but ultimately restrained herself with a shake of her head.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s still a good thing you managed to reach this point,¡± she said, looking for the positives. ¡°Are you planning to celebrate? Some sort of party?¡±


    The Necromancer looked at her as if she were crazy.


    ¡°Of course not. You want me to wave a banner and announce I¡¯m a level forty Necromancer?¡±


    ¡°Well, you have a fake first Class right? You could pretend you advanced in that.¡±


    ¡°Then I would have to get branded,¡± he told her acidly. ¡°On my documents, I¡¯m a curse mage, which is a registered combat Class.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s right,¡± she sighed, deflated. She rested her cheek on her hand, looking glum. ¡°It would have been nice if we got to celebrate something for you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not like you can celebrate advances in your Class openly,¡± Tyron observed wryly. ¡°Or do they welcome priestesses of the Old Gods in the taverns and restaurants these days?¡±


    ¡°In some of them, they do,¡± she replied seriously. ¡°I reached my first advancement two years ago, and the other priests arranged a gathering for me. It was fun.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not really bothered by it,¡± he said.


    She pounded the table.


    ¡°But I am!¡±


    ¡°Calm down and drink your tea,¡± he scolded her. ¡°We¡¯re supposed to be talking about revolution and uprisings, not advancement parties.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    She harrumphed and took a quick nibble on her pastry to calm herself.


    ¡°It¡¯s taking time to connect everyone together. There¡¯s always been a loose association between pockets of believers, but never a firm, reliable network. The Gods are taking an active role now for the first time since¡­ possibly ever, so connecting all the groups and establishing lines of communication is happening faster than I would have thought possible.¡±


    This was big news. The Old Gods actually doing something? He could only imagine how shaken the believers were.


    ¡°How¡¯ve your fellow clergy taken this¡­ change in divine policy?¡± Tyron wondered, a twinkle in his eye.


    Elsbeth frowned at him.


    ¡°I know you don¡¯t really like them, but they¡¯re gods, Tyron. Try to show a little respect. And the change has been met with¡­ confusion, for the most part.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d think they¡¯d be happy their gods are taking a more active role in the realm.¡±


    ¡°Then you don¡¯t know the Old Gods as well as you think,¡± she snorted. ¡°Drawing their gaze can be a blessing or a curse and it¡¯s a flip of the coin which one it¡¯s going to be. Just because the Three are being active, doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re being helpful. It could be quite the opposite.¡±


    That was sadly true. From what Tyron knew, drawing the gaze of Crone, Raven or Rot was celebrated amongst the faithful¡­ to an extent.


    ¡°Rebellions against the Nobles and the Magisters have never succeeded before, but they¡¯ve never had the support of the true divinities either. The Old Gods aren¡¯t going to smash the empire to pieces, but they¡¯re willing to assist their clergy and followers. This is a momentous step.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s something worth thinking about,¡± Tyron muttered. If the Old Gods wanted the empire to fall, they could do it easily, most likely. ¡°How much can the Five Divines resist them? Can they really just do what they like?¡±


    Elsbeth made a face.


    ¡°Nobody can answer that question. The Old Gods would laugh and say they can tear them apart with a thought, but who knows if that¡¯s true? Perhaps they can do that, but don¡¯t because they want the mortals to rise up and throw the false gods down, or because they want them to suffer as their power is slowly stripped away.¡±


    ¡°Or perhaps they can¡¯t do it and are just lying.¡±


    ¡°Or that. Personally, I think it¡¯s the suffering angle. They can be extremely vengeful.¡±


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°I¡¯ve no doubt.¡±


    ¡°At any rate,¡± Elsbeth pressed her palms to the wooden table. ¡°The centre of this rebellion is going to be at Cragwhistle.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡±


    Cragwhistle was as far from civilisation as one could get. Which might be the point, but that distance and isolation would make a lot of things difficult.


    ¡°There¡¯s a rift, and almost no Magister control,¡± Elsbeth shrugged. ¡°And the Old Gods have been gathering followers there for years. You wouldn¡¯t recognise the place now if you saw it. A lot has changed.¡±


    ¡°I bet. It¡¯s probably the best place for me to hunt as well,¡± Tyron mused, ¡°considering the lack of Magisters and Slayers. Only problem is, it would take weeks to get there, and weeks to get back.¡±


    He pondered the issue for a moment before he noticed Elsbeth shifting uncomfortably in her seat. The two of them were together in Tyron¡¯s upstairs rooms above the shop, protected by wardings that dampened sound and prevented scrying.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you?¡± he asked after a moment. ¡°The bathroom is through that door.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need the bathroom,¡± she blushed. ¡°I was just¡­ thinking on whether or not I should share a thought I¡¯d had.¡±


    Tyron leaned forward, intrigued.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re going to have to share it now you¡¯ve got me interested.¡±


    ¡°I suppose,¡± she sighed. She fell silent for a moment. ¡°Obviously, reaching Cragwhistle would be difficult for you, and for your minions. But¡­ there is a way you could travel that distance much faster.¡±


    ¡°Elsbeth¡­ where did you learn about this method?¡± the young mage asked with narrow eyes.


    ¡°From Raven,¡± she replied, hesitantly.


    ¡°Is it dangerous?¡± he asked slowly.


    ¡°Yyyes,¡± she replied, slowly, averting her gaze.


    ¡°What do they want me to do?¡± he gave in.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to tell you this,¡± she defended herself, looking him in the eye. ¡°I was against it, but Raven insisted. And he¡¯s loud. To be honest, I was surprised they suggested it in the first place.¡±


    ¡°Elsbeth. Just tell me what it is.¡±


    She drew a deep breath and then the words tumbled out of her in a rush.


    ¡°YoucouldtravelthroughtheAbyss.¡±


    Tyron blinked.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The¡­ Abyss.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ a great idea¡­ and also¡­ a terrible one.¡±


    She averted her gaze.


    ¡°You know what it would cost? To do something like this?¡±


    Clearly, she herself was aware. Raven must have told her.


    ¡°I¡¯ve paid their price before,¡± he told her, more coldly than he¡¯d intended, and she flinched.


    No matter how far they¡¯d come from where they¡¯d begun, she still thought of him as who he¡¯d been back in Foxbridge. He was not that person anymore.


    ~~~


    ¡°Congratulations,¡± Yor smiled, showing more than a hint of fang. ¡°You¡¯ve reached your goal, that is to be commended. I presume that means you will be taking a more active role in securing your vengeance?¡±


    Tyron tried to ignore the swaying walls and faint hint of intoxicating smoke that remained in the air, or the sounds of music and¡­ other things that still reached his ears.


    ¡°Is there any particular reason you insist our meeting be held here?¡± he asked flatly.


    ¡°I find the atmosphere conducive to relaxing and productive conversation.¡±


    ¡°No you don¡¯t,¡± he snorted, ¡°I can tell you¡¯re practically blood drunk. You know how much I hate coming here, that¡¯s the reason.¡¯


    ¡°Perhaps that¡¯s the case, it¡¯s an interesting theory. Regardless, you agreed to meet here at the Red Pavillion, and that is what we shall continue to do.¡±


    The young mage glanced around the room, sensing with more than just his eyes.


    ¡°Is this room properly secured?¡± he queried. ¡°I can never tell how strong your wards are.¡±


    The vampire leaned back and stretched, pulling her sheer black dress tight across chest.


    ¡°That¡¯s the key to a good defence. If someone sees a fortress, then they know you have something you want to protect. If they see a little rabbit hole, they won¡¯t suspect a thing.¡±


    Tyron was about to protest that no defence was hardly a good defence, but she held up a finger and pierced him with her blood red gaze.


    ¡°If they stick their hand in the bunny hole, then it gets bitten off. A powerful defence disguised as one that is weak.¡±


    It made sense. He should take notes.


    ¡°Fine. I have a few things I want to discuss.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Can I expect another transaction to take place? How interesting.¡±


    He grimaced, but didn¡¯t deny it. There were many ways to get what he needed, but none of them were attractive. The reason he¡¯d become a Forbidden One was so he could trade favours with his three dark patrons, hopefully without any of them getting their fingers on his soul. He¡¯d been successful, so far.


    Right now, he needed the favour of the Abyss, and he knew of only one method to get it.


    From the seat beside him, Tyron picked up a small chest, similar to a jewellery box, and placed it on the table. Yor leaned forward with interest as he opened it, only to appear disappointed to see nothing but small, glass spheres inside.


    ¡°Is this a new fashion?¡± she wondered. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ different.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Tyron shook his head. Fashion? How did her head work? ¡°These are vessels. I need souls.¡±


    She immediately knew what he wanted.


    ¡°You think we are going to help you pay one of our rivals?¡± she grinned. ¡°How wicked.¡±


    ¡°I think you would rather I owed you a favour than them. I can¡¯t get what I need to fill these,¡± he gestured to the spheres, ¡°but you can.¡±


    That wasn¡¯t entirely true. He could get the spirits required, but it would be difficult. Difficult and¡­ unpleasant. Collecting them in the city would be impossible, he couldn¡¯t be wandering the streets conducting dark rituals to bind souls every time he stumbled across a dead beggar. Gaining access to the spirits of the recently deceased right under the noses of the priests and priestesses who served the Five Divines would also be an absurd risk.


    No, he would need to leave the city for an extended period of time to gather what he needed, and even that wouldn¡¯t be without risks.


    His only other alternative would be to go through Filetta and her crew, but he suspected they would baulk at bringing him a few dozen people and slaughtering them in front of him. After all, the spirits were bound to the place of death, not the corpse. He got none at all from the bodies they brought him.


    For Tyron to gather the souls he needed, people would have to die. Then he would take their spirits, and feed them to the amorphous horrors that lived outside the fabric of this reality. It was a nightmarish, terrible thing he was going to do.


    But he was still going to do it.


    ¡°Bring me the spirits, and I will bind them myself,¡± he said. ¡°I know your coven doesn¡¯t exactly have clean hands. You won¡¯t need to do anything you aren¡¯t already doing, except give me the souls of those you¡¯ve killed.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s true there is the odd feeding accident, among other business,¡± Yor admitted freely. ¡°But this favour is still a costly one. I hope you¡¯re prepared to pay the price.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get a loan from the Old Gods,¡± he shrugged. ¡°They seem quite well disposed to me at present.¡±


    Yor¡¯s eyes narrowed.


    ¡°You¡¯re playing a dangerous game if you continue to beg favours from each in turn. If we believe you will go to the others for payment, we will ask for something they won¡¯t want to give up. And what position will that leave you in? If you think dealing with us is hard, you can only imagine how painfully we deal with each other.¡±

 B3C32 - Stretched Thin

    ¡°You have to hone your concentration further.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I struggle to maintain my focus for long periods of time.¡±


    Tyron compared the scripting he¡¯d had his apprentice, Flynn, complete over the past five hours. As time stretched on, they grew progressively worse, small errors creeping in by the three hour mark.


    ¡°It¡¯s something you must improve at if you want to be able to work in this field as a Master of the craft,¡± he told him. ¡°Being able to produce flawless sigils, hour after hour, is the hallmark of the trade.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Flynn hung his head in shame but Tyron just tapped him on the shoulder so he would look up again.


    ¡°It¡¯s not an insurmountable problem. Most apprentices struggle with this. Too many focus on trying to produce a flawless enchantment, and then stop once they¡¯ve succeeded. It isn¡¯t enough to create work without errors, you have to be able to do nine times out of ten for eight hours at a time. The level of mastery is completely different.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what should I do? To improve, I mean.¡±


    His Master pulled open a drawer filled with cores.


    ¡°Practice. Have a routine to sharpen your focus and shake off distractions before working on a core. Don¡¯t accept anything less than a perfect result. Then repeat until you can¡¯t do it anymore. If you continue to repeat this practice, your endurance and precision will increase.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯ll forgive me, Master Almsfield, when should I do this? I don¡¯t want to interfere in the normal running of the shop.¡±


    Tyron almost responded with ¡®skip sleep and do it at night¡¯, but closed his mouth at the last possible moment. Flynn wasn¡¯t like him and, like most people, lacked his nocturnal habits and obsessive drive. He considered the question.


    ¡°I¡¯ll give you two days off per week for the next few months so you can devote them to improving your Skills and focus. You can have free use of the store¡¯s supply of cores as well. Only the chips, of course.¡±


    Chips referred to the lowest grade of cores, not even large enough to form a full sphere inside their monstrous host. Instead, they were a shard, a sliver of crystal that could be difficult to work with, along with having poor power absorption.


    They were readily abundant, found in the smallest and most common types of kin, but had little use in traditional enchanting. Most of the time, they¡¯d be used as a reagent in alchemical mixtures or fused together to create a crude form of Mage Candy.


    Flynns face fell when he learned he¡¯d have to work with the difficult gems and Tyron relented enough to tell him why.


    ¡°Working with chips forces you to be extra precise with your sigil-work and spacing. If you don¡¯t concentrate on applying your knowledge and skills, then it won¡¯t work. Too many apprentices get comfortable and lazy, performing the basic enchantments by rote, without considering the implications.¡±


    The irregular surface of the chips meant that even if you were applying the same enchantment to ten of them, you would have to adjust it ten times to fit each specific one.


    Despite the difficulty of the task, Flynn¡¯s expression firmed and he resolved himself to the work.


    ¡°Thank you for the extra lessons lately, Master Almsfield. I know how busy you are.¡±


    Tyron scratched at his cheek, feeling slightly guilty.


    ¡°Yes, there¡¯s been a lot to do, and I''ll be leaving for a trip in a few months, but while we have time, I¡¯ll do what I can to help. You¡¯ve been a good apprentice and I don¡¯t want you to feel neglected.¡±


    At this unexpected praise from his young teacher, Flynn smiled happily.


    ¡°However, I would appreciate it if you stopped flirting with my clerk in front of the customers.¡±


    ¡°Sorry!¡±


    ~~~~


    ¡°What¡¯s a sword, anyway? At what point does it qualify as a sword?¡± Tyron threw the sharpened bone he¡¯d been working on to the stone floor of his study.


    ¡°You are asking the wrong fucking guy,¡± Dove replied, bending down to pick it up and swishing it through the air a few times. ¡°Seems fine to me. It¡¯s got some heft, seems to cut, the edge appears to be sharp. What else do you want?¡±


    The Necromancer threw his hands into the air and paced back and forth.


    ¡°I¡¯m never going to learn the sword crafting Skill now, so I¡¯ll never know if I¡¯ve actually achieved a satisfactory level in the eyes of the Unseen.¡±


    ¡°Which means you won¡¯t know when you¡¯ve actually succeeded,¡± Dove mused, understanding. ¡°This is only a problem for moronic perfectionists like you. In all likelihood, you succeeded weeks ago. How many hundreds of these stupid things are you going to make?!¡±


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep going until I¡¯m satisfied!¡± Tyron snapped back.


    The walls were covered in notes, diagrams, excerpts from texts and a dozen metal blades leaned against the stone slabs around the room. There were swords of all sorts, falchions, rapiers, short swords, long swords, even a two-handed bastard sword.


    ¡°Will you ever be satisfied?¡± Dove asked sceptically. ¡°Until you produce a masterwork blade and get a mystery or something, you¡¯ll never stop. If it¡¯s made from bone, can cut and stab, do you really need to give a shit beyond that?¡±


    To demonstrate, the former Summoner executed some clumsy thrusts and parries, whipping the sword through the air and enjoying the satisfying swoosh sound it made. He was so bad even Tyron could point out the flaws in his technique.


    ¡°I was satisfied with my progress on the spears and shields,¡± he defended himself. He was not some obsessive maniac who didn¡¯t know when to quit!


    Dove laughed sarcastically.


    ¡°Those are spears and shields,¡± he mocked. ¡°All you had to do for a spear was make a pointy bit you could attach to the end of a stick! There¡¯s a reason they¡¯re considered the poor person¡¯s weapon. As for the shield, as soon as you made something you could hit without it breaking, you¡¯d done your job. Swords are a different matter. I¡¯ve seen Swordsmen who literally slept with theirs, the kinky fuckers. They have to have the right weight. They have to have a cutting edge and sharp tip. They need to be perfectly balanced. The shape needs to be right. The curve of the blade, if there is one. There¡¯s a million different ways to make the fucking things, and each has its own merits. People get obsessed with finding the perfect one and the amount of money Slayers will spend to get ahold of their dream blade is absurd.¡±


    Tyron found it difficult to relate to them. His father, the most renowned Swordsman in the province, perhaps ever, hadn¡¯t given a shit when it came to his weapons. He collected them, in a sense, but he¡¯d only had one requirement when it came to the blade he bore into combat.


    ¡°As long as it doesn¡¯t break when I swing it, I¡¯m happy,¡± he would laugh, weighing a blade in his hand. ¡°When you get to my Level, that¡¯s a tall order, most swords shatter. Keep the fancy enchanting rubbish away from me, it just gets in the way.¡±


    Magnin had favoured simple longswords that allowed for a two-handed grip, giving him flexibility to swing with extra power when he wanted to. Straightforward in design and make, all he¡¯d had to worry about was finding materials strong enough to withstand him and a smith capable of forging them.


    If it was good enough for Magnin Steelarm, it was good enough for Tyron. He stood up and grabbed hold of a new set of femurs, infusing them with Death Magick the moment he touched them. With a determined expression, he began to fuse and mould the bones, as familiar now with the basic components of a sword as a smith.


    He moulded the fuller, hardened the edge to the limit of his ability, then did the same for the point. He used a shoulder blade, or scapula, to create the hilt as a separate piece.


    Modifications were necessary, of course. A traditional longsword was a flexible and versatile weapon, but would be difficult for his skeletons to wield shoulder to shoulder, so he shortened it a hand. This was probably a good idea anyway. To properly create a bone-weapon that long, he would have needed to include even more raw material, cutting into his dwindling supply.


    When it was done, he took the blade and connected it to the hilt, checking the grip before he tried a few test swipes. The balance was good, which surprised him, that was where he failed the most often.


    ¡°Looks good,¡± Dove complemented his work, stepping closer to inspect the blade. ¡°Let¡¯s assume that this design is good enough. Practice it a few more times and then can we please move on with our fucking lives?¡±


    ~~~


    Tyron stretched his back, groaning. Nearby, wiping down the display cases, Cerry chuckled at his display.


    ¡°You sound like an old man, Master Almsfield. My grandfather does exactly the same thing at the end of a day.¡±


    ¡°I am old,¡± he told her seriously, ¡°old in spirit. Now my body is finally catching up.¡±


    ¡°I think you¡¯ve just been working too hard,¡± she chided him, then pouted. ¡°Even Flynn has been locked up in the workshop the last few days. You two are going to fall over dead at this rate.¡±


    ¡°Apprentice Rivner is working hard to succeed in his lessons so he can graduate and become a full Arcanist. There will be time for your dates when he¡¯s done,¡± Tyron chided her, causing the girl to flush.


    ¡°Oh! I didn¡¯t mean anything by it!¡± she protested, but he just waved her off.


    ¡°Back to cleaning. He¡¯ll be down soon enough.¡±


    Chastised, she went back to polishing the glass display cases until they gleamed, the various products nestled on their cushions within, labelled with a note written in flawless calligraphy. Those notes had cost a small fortune, Tyron recalled. Those who had truly mastered the art of decorative writing were few and charged well for their services. It was worth it, though; each letter was like a painting, drawing the eye.


    The past few weeks, Tyron had been working himself ruthlessly hard, ensuring the store was well managed and supplied as business continued to grow, along with his nocturnal production work. Minions didn¡¯t create themselves after all, and Filetta had delivered on his request. For the next while, he could expect regular deliveries of remains, and he had a lot of work to do to get one batch out the door before the next arrived.


    As dusk fell, there was little business in the shop, which meant he was a touch surprised when the bell rang over the door. He turned to the entrance to see someone he hadn¡¯t expected.


    Cerry flinched and shifted herself to another cabinet away from the door as the heavily robed and cowled form he recognised as Shadda entered the shop.


    He gestured to Wansa to put her weapon away as he stepped forward.


    ¡°Greetings. It¡¯s been some time.¡±


    The Dust Folk shuffled into the store, face hidden.


    ¡°Human, Shadda has returned, yes. My tribe is happy with what you sold. Much praise for Shadda. Some for you. A little. And so cheap! A little knowledge, this is easy, yes?¡±


    Tyron blinked. Obviously, his work had gone over well in the desert. That was comforting to know.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go into the back room to talk.¡±


    ¡°We escape the prying eyes. I learn.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Good.¡±


    Soon they were seated and the Dust Folk was eager to get down to business.


    ¡°The moisture condensers, they work so well, on so little magick. My Graal, my¡­ leader?¡±


    ¡°Chief?¡±


    ¡°Is close, yes. My chief is very pleased. We want more, twice as much as last time.¡±


    ¡°The same terms as last time, then?¡± Tyron enquired. ¡°What you procured for me was very interesting and I would love to learn more.¡±


    ¡°Chan¡¯rela, of course. Shadda has come prepared.¡±


    From within the robes emerged a slim, bound volume, possibly only a few dozen pages. Tyron seized it eagerly.


    ¡°Two days,¡± he assured Shadda, ¡°come back in two days and I¡¯ll have everything you need.¡±

 B3C33 - The Legion Grows

    The carriage rattled across the worn cobblestone road, with four wagons in train behind it. Tyron looked back over his shoulder to make sure they were keeping pace as he¡¯d instructed and was pleased to note that they were.


    ¡°Our stop is coming up,¡± he told the driver.


    ¡°Right you are, sir. I know where we¡¯s going,¡± the gruff man replied, his face more beard than anything else.


    At this late hour, darkness had fallen over Shadetown. There were few people about, and most houses weren¡¯t lit, their residents sleeping comfortably. Occasionally, someone stuck their head out a window and swore down at the carriages for making such noise so far from the main road.


    ¡°Here we are, then,¡± the driver said, pulling back on the reins and slowing the horses to a stop.


    A warehouse loomed to their left, four men on the door, faces shrouded in the night. Tyron dismounted the carriage and approached them.


    ¡°Good evening to you all. Apologies for the late hour. Are you prepared to load the wagons?¡±


    One of them leaned over and spat on the street.


    ¡°¡®Course, we¡¯re ready. It¡¯s fucking late, let¡¯s get on with it.¡±


    Tyron glared at him.


    ¡°Make sure you move my cargo with care. Rudeness, I will tolerate. Sloppy work, I will not.¡±


    Something in his gaze warned the porter not to try his luck, and before long, the men were working in pairs, bringing out box after box and sliding them onto the wagons. Tyron watched, impatient as the process went on until each of the wagons was stacked four boxes high and then lashed down with solid rope and a thick covering.


    ¡°Hope that¡¯s to ya satisfaction,¡± the man grizzled.


    Tyron flashed gold in his hand.


    ¡°Is this to yours?¡± he replied.


    Greed flickered in his gaze as he reached for the coin. Tyron seized his wrist in a powerful grip, forcing the hand down, then placed the coin carefully in his palm.


    ¡°The same again next time,¡± he said.


    Without looking back, he turned and mounted the carriage once more, closing the door behind him.


    ¡°We can go,¡± he informed the driver, and with a click of his tongue, he had the horses moving again.


    They made frequent stops on the journey, not for any practical reason, but mainly for Tyron to inspect his precious boxes and ensure they hadn¡¯t been disturbed or damaged.


    The driver complained, but he settled the man with extra coin for the delay. The trip was much slower than when he travelled alone, but that was to be expected. It was four days before they arrived at the Ortan Estate, and by that time, Tyron was stiff and irritable from sitting in the carriage for so long. As usual, Rita Ortan greeted him as the wagons pulled up outside the manor.


    ¡°Welcome, Master Almsfield,¡± she said, barely concealing her sarcasm at the use of his name.


    He scowled at her.


    ¡°Hello to you as well, Mrs Ortan. I take it you received my letter?¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± she cast her eyes over the wagons laden with the odd, rectangular boxes. ¡°It seems you¡¯ve been busy.¡±


    There was clear disgust on her face and Tyron felt a true spark of anger ignite. Could this woman not contain her emotions at all?


    ¡°If you¡¯re done being obvious about what I am doing here, perhaps you could take yourself elsewhere before you get all of us murdered by the Magisters in our sleep?¡±


    She scoffed at his blunt warning, but the heat in his words gave her enough pause that she made an effort at least.


    ¡°I take it your driver and wagoneers will need lodgings and food?¡± she asked with stiff dignity.


    ¡°They will,¡± he nodded, ¡°and I will reimburse you for the cost.¡±


    ¡°So you should,¡± she sniffed. ¡°The Venerable would like to see you while you are here on the Estate.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure he would,¡± Tyron said flatly, ¡°but if he wants to chat, then he needs to come to me. I¡¯m going to be busy.¡±


    She rounded on him in anger, but he coldly met her gaze.


    ¡°This is not an appointed meeting time,¡± he reminded her. ¡°I am not obliged to meet him. I¡¯m sure he is spry enough to make his way down to the basement.¡±


    So saying, he turned back and instructed the men to begin unloading the wagons, stacking the boxes meticulously under his supervision by the basement entrance before they were dismissed for the night. No longer required, the wagons could leave in the morning; only the carriage and driver needed to stay the full two days before Tyron was ready to leave again.


    It was deep into the evening by the time everything was done to his satisfaction and the workers could finally retire, yawning broadly as they stumbled off. Despite his fatigue, the Necromancer knew he wouldn¡¯t be able to sleep, not without magick, anyway. He was far too excited.


    He trailed his hands along the smooth wood of the boxes, pleased with the quality and finish on them. Most crates of this sort were crude, not designed to last, but these were solid, the wood expertly cut and treated to resist the elements. Waterproof, they protected the precious cargo within from wind and rain, while inside, they were lined with enchantments to prevent the leakage and detection of Death magick. He¡¯d even designed them to be opened from within, preventing anyone from prying at their contents.


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    He waited an hour for everyone to settle on the grounds before he began to ¡®unpack¡¯. Starting at the uppermost containers, there was a series of clicking sounds as his skeletons reached out their fingers and undid the clasps, then pushed the crates open from within. It was a ghastly sight, several sets of skeletal arms reaching out from within the boxes, but Tyron was delighted. Three skeletons per crate, they emerged and shifted their own containers before he ordered them down into the basement, pressing themselves tight against the wall. It was going to be a tight fit in there.


    Layer by layer, the skeletons rose, then made way for the next group before they marched down the steps, their bones clacking against the stone steps. Tyron¡¯s eyes gleamed with pride as he watched them move. These were his finest creations, each representing the accumulated effort and knowledge he had compiled since becoming a Necromancer. They were stronger, faster, more durable, more efficient. In fact, as they moved and shifted the crates, he felt barely any drain on his magick at all, causing him to grin.


    When all his new minions had finally removed themselves, only the final few boxes remained. These were opened in a more conventional manner to reveal stacks of swords, shields, spears, bows and arrows which were removed, carted down into the basement and distributed amongst the skeletons according to his will.


    Those with the weakest bones had been assigned as archers to keep them away from the thick of the fighting. These skeletons were also the lightest, able to move deceptively fast and with surprising grace.


    The heaviest skeletons with the most durable bones were his front line, large bone shields on one arm, spears on the other. Those in the middle were his swordsmen, longswords forged of bone gripped in both skeletal hands held in front of their faces.


    Tyron admired his new soldiers, checking on their intricate arrays, weaponry and connection to himself. All he needed now was to bulk out the numbers of basic skeletons, and ¡®enlist¡¯ a few revenants to his cause.


    With a thought, he summoned his one remaining revenant, the nameless swordsman he had fought so long ago. Covered in dust after so long in the cellar, he looked very much the worse for wear. Tyron examined the undead carefully, then probed it with his mind.


    Even now, after years had passed, there was still an undercurrent of resentment and rebellion simmering beneath the surface. When he had bound the soul of the slayer, there had clearly been a mistake, since his minions should not be able to harbour this much ill will towards him. Thanks to what he had learned from Yor¡¯s book, Tyron knew how to fix that now, but wasn¡¯t sure if he should.


    ¡°You¡¯re outdated,¡± he told the revenant, gesturing to his new undead. ¡°Things have changed a great deal since you were made. Not to fear, though, I can fix you up. You¡¯ll be fit to serve again soon.¡±


    A flash of rage, a despairing wail, then silence, as Tyron enforced his will.


    ¡°Once upon a time, I might have set you free, but not now. Not with everything I need to accomplish.¡±


    He pushed past the revenant and cast light, revealing the line of stones resting on a dusty wooden shelf.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care about your despair anymore, or your suffering, or your pain. So you will serve. All of you, will serve.¡±


    Beneath the shelf sat another row of small, labelled boxes. He reached out and grasped the one labelled Rufus. Inside, he found the bones, traces of rotten flesh still clinging to the remains, a leering skull, hastily fused back together, resting atop the pile.


    ~~~


    The Venerable found him in the morning, hard at work. Tyron had remained in the basement all night, pulling apart his old minions and putting them back together again as best he could.


    Coughing as he stepped into the damp air choked with dust, the old man blinked as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.


    ¡°Are you favoured of Rot, boy?¡± he asked, querulous. ¡°My lungs are going to grow mould if I stay down here another ten minutes!¡±


    ¡°Then feel free to leave,¡± came a voice from near the back of the cellar, and the venerable grumbled to himself.


    ¡°At least come over and help me down the steps,¡± he demanded, his thin voice resonating in the narrow stone cellar.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you have a cane for that?¡± Tyron¡¯s voice drifted from the darkness.


    ¡°It¡¯s not enough at my age.¡±


    ¡°How old are you again?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s none of your business.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Tyron snapped. ¡°Wait there a second.¡±


    The young mage strode from the recesses of the cellar, his face creased in a scowl, his hair and clothes covered in cobwebs and dust.


    ¡°You could¡¯ve cleaned the place before you started working here,¡± the venerable said, his thin voice hardly penetrating the dust-choked air.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have much time, and it takes more than a little dust to bother my constitution,¡± Tyron replied as he stepped forward briskly.


    With care, he helped the old man down the steps, and the venerable took in the sight of the many skeletons lined against the walls.


    ¡°Weapons made of bones? Looks like you¡¯ve been progressing well,¡± he noted as he peered at a sword.


    The skeleton snapped its head towards him and the venerable chuckled.


    ¡°Takes more than that to scare an old dog like me.¡±


    Tyron shrugged, somewhat impatient. He only had two days in which to update his old minions as best he could, and create new revenants. He wanted Rufus to be one of them, but his skeleton still needed a lot of repair work after what Magnin had done to him.


    ¡°I was told you wanted to talk, but I hope you forgive me if I continue to work while you speak,¡± Tyron said, bending down to the pile of bones he was currently re-threading.


    The musculature on his old minions was totally inadequate. He was lucky they¡¯d even been able to walk! The venerable nodded agreeably, watching with interest as the Necromancer''s fingers began to dance through the air with impossible speed and grace, fine threads of magick trailing from his fingertips.


    ¡°You¡¯ve come a long way,¡± the venerable said, ¡°I¡¯m a bit surprised. Seems like you haven¡¯t been wasting your time down in the capital.¡±


    The younger man flicked an irritated glance at the older as he continued to move with dizzying speed.


    ¡°You think my desire for vengeance is so weak the comforts of the city would be enough to snuff it out?¡± he scoffed. ¡°You don¡¯t know me, old man. I¡¯m desperate enough to throw in with your gods to get what I want. Underestimate my drive at your own peril.¡±


    The venerable didn¡¯t respond immediately, continuing to watch him spin his threads into muscle and sinew.


    ¡°The gods seem to think you have a chance to succeed,¡± he finally said, quietly. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen the Three put their faith in anyone like this for a long time. I hope you are worthy of it.¡±


    It was difficult, but Tyron managed to suppress the urge to spit out a deprecating or sarcastic reply. Worthy? He didn¡¯t care about being worthy. Whatever Crone, Raven and Rot had in mind certainly wasn¡¯t for his benefit, but their own.


    The venerable seemed to sense his mood.


    ¡°Even if you don¡¯t care about the Three, then spare a thought for their followers,¡± he urged quietly. ¡°At the behest of their gods, they are sticking their necks out for the first time in centuries. At the very least, try not to let them down.¡±


    Tyron glared up at the old man.


    ¡°Do you know what¡¯s going to happen? If you have details, spit them out.¡±


    ¡°Something great,¡± the old man said, ¡°and terrible. It¡¯ll come quickly from here. I hope you¡¯re ready, boy.¡±

 B3Chapter 34 - Tending

    Tyron looked down and let the emotions run through him. Rage, pain, grief, shame. It was difficult to be here, hard to endure the internal tumult he felt every time he stood in this place, but still he forced himself to. It was here that he renewed his purpose.


    Magnin and Beory looked the same as they had in life. They were laid next to each other, arms touching, facing the sky above through a gap in the trees. This place was on the edge of the Ordan estate, but he wasn¡¯t worried anyone would find it, or what they might do if they did.


    His parents were encased in a clear, ice-like substance, as hard as diamonds. Of course, they had arranged for everything when they¡¯d died, or at least, everything they could manage, including the preservation of their own remains.


    The greatest swordsman of the west had told him that the bodies he and Beory would leave behind would be the best materials he would ever find, and the two of them had taken steps to ensure they would be preserved. He hadn¡¯t been wrong, Magnin¡¯s soul was gone, his supreme swordsmanship gone with it, but this was the body of someone who had pushed close to level eighty, possibly gone beyond it.


    Tyron deeply hoped he was never forced to a place where he had to make use of it. It wasn¡¯t sentimental attachment that prevented him from making use of what his family had left behind, but he didn¡¯t believe he had it in him to butcher his own parents. He was simply too weak.


    Wherever their spirits had gone, he hoped they were happy, finally free of the concerns that had bound them in this place. No more brand, no more demands on their time and energy, just the endless adventure they had craved.


    They deserved that.


    Down here, in this place, Tyron would burn everything their killers had built down to the ground. Not for them, Magnin and Beory hadn¡¯t wanted him to walk this path. He would do it for himself.


    Leaning forward, he placed a hand against the cold, clear surface that encased the two figures. For a time, he struggled to think of something to say, anything, but eventually gave up. They weren¡¯t here, all that remained was flesh and bone, anything he said wouldn¡¯t reach them, so he didn¡¯t bother.


    He gave them one last look, then turned and left.


    ~~~


    Tyron¡¯s hands ached and a persistent throbbing pounded in his head, but he was satisfied with the work he¡¯d gotten done. Updating his old skeletons to bring them fully in line with his current ones wasn¡¯t possible, but he could do a great deal to strengthen them. First, he¡¯d grouped with the other skeletons they¡¯d been raised with and bound them with the same enchantments the others had. Having prepared the cores and networks ahead of time, all he¡¯d had to do was attach and activate them.


    Unwinding and fixing the bone stitching was harder. It took more time and required a great deal of dextrous weaving on his part, leaving his fingers pained and stiff, but he¡¯d succeeded in this also. Then he¡¯d repaired their bones, patching up any cracks, and equipped them with his new bone weaponry. After the spruce-up, his old skeletons were looking good as new, ready to take on all comers.


    After which, he¡¯d turned his attention to the more important work. If he was going to take on the rifts, he needed more revenants, and he needed to make them as well as he could.


    Rufus had been split down the middle by Magnin, and looking at the bones, Tyron still couldn¡¯t believe how clean the cut was. He¡¯d done what he could to fuse them back together before departing the mountain, but a proper repair would take time and effort. After ensuring everything was together enough to endure the journey, he carefully packed the remains of the would-be swordsman back into his box, along with the stone that held his soul. When he finished his work, Rufus would have a new home, and a new purpose.


    Laurel was also destined to become a revenant. A talented archer with a great deal of skill, she¡¯d be useful as a minion, more than most anyway. The shield-bearing slayer he¡¯d fought would join them, along with the young mage. Tyron wanted to test his ability to create a spell-casting undead, and a mage in training would make an excellent candidate.


    With those four, he would have five former slayers in his service, ready to lead his skeletons into battle. They were only iron-ranked, hardly the powerful minions he would prefer, but after he¡¯d given them the full treatment, he expected they would serve their purpose.


    His work completed and everything packed away, Tyron slumped against the wall. He¡¯d barely made it in time, but soon he would depart. Exhaustion gripped him, and he was covered in dust, but he forced himself to carry his ¡®luggage¡¯ up and out of the cellar before locking it with almost two hundred skeletons inside.


    Job done, he returned to the manor house for a meal and a bath before the long journey back to Kenmor.


    Mrs Ortan found him in the kitchen, filching a second slice from a meat pie he¡¯d found cooling on the window sill.


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    ¡°You don¡¯t have to steal,¡± she told him, fists on her hips. ¡°If you ask for a meal, I¡¯ll have you served.¡±


    He shook his head as he chewed, then swallowed.


    ¡°Not enough time,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯m leaving in ten minutes.¡±


    She shook her head.


    ¡°You work so fast, I¡¯m surprised you get anything done,¡± she said, looking at his still dust-covered form. ¡°Whatever happened to taking your time and doing your tasks right? Saves time in the long run.¡±


    Tyron grunted as he choked down another bite.


    ¡°Turns out¡­¡± he said, ¡°... if you work fast and do it right, you save even more time.¡±


    The matron barked out a sharp laugh.


    ¡°Everyone thinks that way, but nobody actually pulls it off. They always end up finding things they overlooked and having to redo the task all over again. It¡¯s the most common pitfall on a farm, people fall for it all the time. There¡¯s always more work you could be doing, so the urge to work faster is always there, but it¡¯s a trap.¡±


    He¡¯d heard much the same from Master Willhem. The old man could work at incredible speed when he wanted to, but he usually didn¡¯t. Tyron had watched him work in one of the rare moments he¡¯d been allowed to observe the Master practising his craft. Willhem¡¯s movements were never fast, and never slow. He worked at a steady, even pace, ensuring that no mistakes occurred at every step, even though he never made any.


    Tyron swallowed the last of the pie.


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind,¡± he said. ¡°Any chance I can wash off?¡±


    ¡°Please do,¡± Mrs Ortan told him acidly, eyeing her floors. ¡°Try not to brush against the walls until you¡¯re clean.¡±


    ~~~


    The journey back was quicker than the trip there, and Tyron did his best to sleep the whole way, but still felt exhausted when he finally alighted from the carriage out the front of Almsfield Enchantments.


    The carriage driver was just as fatigued, having pushed through the journey without break for two days. Tyron thanked the man before he personally unloaded the crates he had brought back and placed them in front of the store.


    ¡°Wansa,¡± he called as he stuck his head through the door, ¡°I need a little help.¡±


    The burly slayer stepped outside and he indicated the boxes.


    ¡°Can you take these into the back room please?¡±


    She squinted as she stared down at the crates, then at him.


    ¡°I¡¯m not here to carry your stuff,¡± she told him coldly.


    ¡°You¡¯ll do it anyway,¡± he yawned, ¡°because you know what will happen if you don¡¯t.¡±


    He brushed her off.


    ¡°Besides,¡± he called over his shoulder, ¡°it¡¯s not like I ask you to do this stuff all the time. Help me out.¡±


    The inside of his store was bustling with an unusual number of customers, who thankfully didn¡¯t recognise him. Cerry was doing her best to manage the floor, moving from one group to the next, answering their questions as best she could by reading from the ledger containing the specifications of every product they sold.


    Where the heck was Flynn? The man was supposed to help with sales when it got busy. Tyron slipped through the crowd and behind the counter without Cerry spotting him and made his way upstairs where he found his apprentice plying his trade in the workshop.


    ¡°Flynn!¡± Tyron snapped and the young man nearly leapt out of his skin. ¡°Cerry is getting flooded downstairs, what are you doing?¡±


    He stepped forward and peered over his stammering apprentice¡¯s shoulder to see the core he¡¯d been working on. Tyron tsked.


    ¡°That¡¯s awful. What happened there?¡±


    ¡°It was fine until you startled me,¡± Flynn groaned. ¡°My hand slipped. Couldn¡¯t you have knocked?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have had to if you were doing your job. The floor. Now.¡±


    With a sigh, his apprentice pushed his chair back and rose, placing his pliance down on the bench.


    ¡°Are you coming, Master Almsfield?¡±


    ¡°What? No. I¡¯m going to bed.¡±


    ~~~


    For three days, Tyron slept, ate, scrubbed himself and tended to minor chores around the store. He¡¯d been burning the candle at both ends, lately, then inserted an extra wick somewhere in the middle. When he awoke on the fourth day, he felt revived. His head was clear, his eyes weren¡¯t grainy, he even looked a little less pale. What a picture of health. Of course, it couldn¡¯t last, there was simply too much to do.


    The first night back, he¡¯d taken his crates and brought them down into the study, carefully unpacking the remains, but then leaving them be. After resting, he was ready to get to work creating his revenants. Of course, as a superior form of undead, they deserved his very best attention, so he lavished it on them.


    He ran his hands along the bones, sensing for even the slightest imperfection and repairing them to pristine condition. Each skeleton was treated to remove remaining tissue, cleansed of magick and then held in the strengthening solution for a full day, the bones soaking up every drop. The series of tests he had developed was carefully applied until he knew every detail of the bones, then he began to modify them.


    Tyron¡¯s newfound capacity to manipulate bones allowed him to make all sorts of modifications which were never possible before. He strengthened the arms, shoulders and collar bone, fusing spare material into the skeletons after treating it. He toughened up the ribcage and skull as well, compressing them to their limits.


    Armour forged of bone was next. Helmets, shoulder plating, arm guards, dyed black by the infusion of Death Magick within.


    He wove an intricate and meticulous thread for each of them, settling it deep within their bones and pulling the skeletons together. They would have a flawless range of movement and fully articulate hands. Tyron was particularly proud of the spines, which had more flex than any other skeleton due to the extra weave he¡¯d done there.


    The bones slowly accumulated death magick as he worked until they approached full saturation, and it was time to finish the job.


    He took hold of the stone containing the first soul, feeling it weigh heavily in his palm. It was time.

 B3C35 - The Legion Grows

    Do you think I deserve this?


    Laurel¡¯s voice echoed from the spectre that hovered in the centre of the obscuring cloud of mist created by the Commune with Spirits spell. Ghostly eyes filled with rage glared at him, baleful and red. Tyron folded his arms across his chest.


    ¡°You went after a Necromancer in the hopes of getting some coin, Laurel. You knew what might happen.¡±


    You have no reason to keep me. Set me free.


    Freedom had always been the deepest of Laurel¡¯s desires. She didn¡¯t want to be controlled, she didn¡¯t want to be bound or limited by the circumstances of her birth or place a limit on her own potential. In many ways, she¡¯d been like his parents, manically devoted to living an unbound life. He couldn¡¯t keep a smile from twisting his lips.


    ¡°Freedom? You won¡¯t get freedom for a long time, friend. You¡¯ll serve instead.¡±


    The spectre screamed, like a wind of death blown straight from a crypt.


    You want me to apologise? You want me to beg?


    Tyron only shook his head.


    ¡°Do you think I care about what you did anymore? The only reason we are speaking at all is because I felt like I owed it to you, given the time we spent together. I¡¯m not sure if you can see it in your present state, but look there, your vessel is ready and waiting. The next time we speak, you¡¯ll be there, inside your skeleton, bound to serve until I die.¡±


    I will kill you.


    ¡°No¡­ you won¡¯t.¡±


    ~~~


    The creation of a revenant was something that Tyron had learned without the aid of the Unseen, but after all his research and strides forward, he felt that he understood the process so much better now. Of course, that could just be his new mystery whispering in his ear. Any Necromancy he performed since earning Essence of Death had felt that little bit more natural, as if death was revealing itself to him.


    The process involved binding the spirit to the bones, something he had intuited. A spirit was a manifestation of magick, and magick could be moulded into any shape when enough will was applied. To create a revenant, he had to pour their spirit into the skeleton like molten iron, fusing the ghost and the threads laced inside the bones together. Only then would the ghost have control over the remains.


    Was it strictly necessary to use the skeleton and spirit of the same person to achieve this result? Possibly not, but Tyron believed it was certainly much easier, and likely produced a better undead. After all, who was more familiar with Laurel¡¯s frame than Laurel herself?


    The first time he¡¯d done this, Tyron had struggled mightily to control the process, but now, it was simple. He exerted his will and enacted the ritual, layering the two spells atop each other as he Raised the Dead and summoned the ghost simultaneously. Laurel¡¯s spirit wailed as he bound it to her bones, but he didn¡¯t so much as blink.


    Finally, he bound her mind in shackles of iron, using what he had learned to correct his mistakes from the past. There would be no rebellious fits from this revenant. She would obey unconditionally and never be able to turn her rage against him.


    When it was finished, light bloomed within the skeleton, inside the hollow sockets of the skull, and a brighter fire within the rib cage, the telltale sign of a revenant. It was there that the spirit was most concentrated.


    He bid his latest minion rise.


    ¡°You look good, Laurel. One of my finest creations, I must say.¡±


    Wordless rage boiled through the connection he shared with the undead, but it was confused and aimless. Magickally prevented from directing her emotions towards him, they floundered aimlessly, thrashing for something, anything, to strike at. He handed her the bow he had prepared. Made from reinforced bones and enchanted to produce greater speed from the projectiles it launched, it was an excellent piece of work.


    ¡°This is the best bow you¡¯ve ever gotten your hands on. Hopefully, it¡¯ll serve you well.¡±


    Wordlessly, he ordered her to collect the quiver of arrows, which the revenant silently slung over her armour. She drew an arrow, knocked it to the bow, and drew back. A shimmering thread of purple light ignited as the hand came back, stretching until the string rested next to Laurel¡¯s bony cheek. She released, and the arrow whistled through the air for the barest fraction of a second before it shattered against the stone wall.


    The ease at which the skeleton had moved pleased him greatly. The main advantages of a revenant was that it carried over at least some of the Skills the spirit had possessed in life. Laurel had been a gifted archer from a young age. It was a shame she¡¯d never made it to her first Class advancement¡­.


    ¡°You¡¯ll do,¡± he said.


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    ~~~


    It was too hard to keep the smile off his face as light swirled from the rock on the ground, so he didn¡¯t bother. The mist formed and within, the shadowy form of Rufus¡¯ spirit.


    Let me die! He raged.


    ¡°No chance. I¡¯ve got a use for you. It¡¯s about time someone did.¡±


    The ghost thrashed and howled, twisting around itself as it tried to break free of the spell that bound it in place. The anger that burned in Rufus was so bright Tyron could almost feel it like heat on his face. It warmed him.


    ¡°Do you have any idea how long it¡¯s taken me to fuse your stupid face back together? I didn¡¯t find all of your teeth, though, sorry about that. I¡¯ve substituted some for you. You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    Did Rufus even know how he¡¯d died? Tyron had never told him before.


    ¡°I¡¯m curious if you remember much of your death,¡± he pondered. ¡°That was the one and only swordsmanship lesson Magnin had ever taught you. A valuable experience, to be sure.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t you, Rufus rasped, taunting. I had you. I HAD YOU.


    ¡°And look at you now,¡± Tyron clapped his hands sarcastically. ¡°You¡¯ve continued your winning streak in life.¡±


    Suddenly, it didn¡¯t seem interesting any more. Why was he here, taunting a dead man? Rufus wasn¡¯t just defeated, he was bound and broken, about to be enslaved. There was no benefit to it.


    ¡°Speak to you again soon, Rufus,¡± he waved his hands and ended the spell, sending the spirit back into the rock.


    When the Ritual was complete, Rufus was entombed within his own skeleton, his will shackled just as tightly as Laurel¡¯s. He ordered his new revenant to walk up and down the study, keenly inspecting its gait to ensure the repairs had worked properly. Thankfully, everything seemed to be in order.


    Ignoring the rage and despair that thundered inside the undead, he handed a finely crafted longsword, the best Tyron had made, enchanted with a fairly basic form of hardening that would hopefully prevent the weapon from chipping, or worse, breaking. His Bone Forged arms were yet to be truly tested in the heat of battle, regardless of what he¡¯d done to them on his own, and part of him still didn¡¯t trust they would be durable enough to survive.


    ¡°Give it a swing, Rufus,¡± he ordered aloud. ¡°Let¡¯s see how you move.¡±


    His latest revenant slashed the air, unable to even contemplate refusing his commands, and Tyron was pleased to see the articulation of the wrists and elbows. His father had always emphasised how important wrists were for swordsmanship, though Tyron himself had never really understood it. Nevertheless, the range of motion was pleasing and his latest revenant appeared sufficiently deadly.


    ¡°A shame you didn¡¯t get more levels,¡± he told his minion. ¡°Eventually, you¡¯ll be replaced with better slayers, but I¡¯m happy enough with this for now. Welcome to your new existence, Rufus.¡±


    The spirit within the revenant was apoplectic with rage, but had no outlet for it. Externally, the undead stood as still and silent as any normal skeleton, though it looked much more impressive with its custom-made armour and brightly burning spirit fire. If not for the connection that allowed him to sense the emotions of the soul trapped inside, Tyron would have no idea how Rufus felt about his captivity. Ultimately, it didn¡¯t matter. To achieve his revenge, he needed powerful undead servants, and that meant revenants would inevitably be part of his retinue. Far better if he tested his techniques on the weak souls he had available, unranked slayers like Laurel and Rufus, than later, on actually competent people.


    Similar to Laurel, he dismissed Rufus and turned his attention to his next project. He didn¡¯t know the name of the slayer who had borne the shield in their conflict, though he could summon the spirit to find out. Tyron opted not to. Although this person had tried to hunt him down for profit, there was no real grudge between them, and he felt that taunting the souls of deceased foes may prove to be a slippery slope. Already, he found it difficult not to talk to his minions, despite repeatedly telling himself not to. Next, he¡¯d be conjuring up the spirit of every slayer and marshal he killed to throw rocks at them.


    A waste of time.


    So he didn¡¯t bother. Instead, he focused on each step of the process in creating his latest revenant. He had four archetypes of skeletons at the moment. Sword and board, sword only, spears, bow and arrow. Rufus would act as the revenant leader of the longsword wielders, he had Laurel for the archers, and now this nameless slayer for the more defensive of his minions.


    To emphasise his role, Tyron had taken great care in preparing this particular skeleton and its armour. The skeleton itself had almost doubled in weight due to the reinforcement he¡¯d done, which didn¡¯t mean a lot in the greater scheme of things, skeletons were exceptionally light, but the final result was much tougher than before. For the armour, he¡¯d done similar, reinforcing the bone before compressing and moulding it to the proper shape. This revenant would be the most heavily armoured by far as well, with bone plating covering its entire chest, along with thick, overlapping plates down the spine. Even the knee and ankle joints were protected, a touch which had taken far more time than he¡¯d expected.


    When the ritual was complete, the revenant rose and he once again put it through its paces, watching with keen interest as the skeleton swiped its weapon through the air, or braced its shield while he threw bones at it. He was satisfied with the result.


    Now came the more interesting challenge. His ascension to a new Class had brought with it a number of surprises, but foremost amongst these was his capacity to engrave spells upon the minds of his minions. It may be possible for him to create skeletons capable of launching death bolts or similar, but for now, he wanted to test this newfound ability on a mind more conducive to spellcasting. He intended to inscribe two spells upon his revenant: Death Bolt, and Death Grasp, along with a much more elaborate enchanting array to gather the power necessary to fuel the magicks.


    What he¡¯d been able to glean from the hazy thoughts and impressions granted by the Unseen had been dutifully recorded and expanded upon in his notebook, and he referred to them now as he began to prepare the ritual. Raise Dead was already a difficult spell, at least comparatively, but by this time, Tyron knew it like the back of his hand. Modifying it, even to this extent, wasn¡¯t difficult for him, and he moved through the casting with confidence.


    Words of power echoed through the chamber as he wove sigils with his hands, forging a new, unique form of undead.


    When it was done, the revenant rose, hate and terror emanating from it in equal measure.


    Tyron pointed to one wall.


    ¡°Cast Death Bolt,¡± he commanded.


    The soul bound within the revenant had certainly known how to form a normal bolt, every mage did to some extent, but a Death Bolt? Absolutely not. Nevertheless, the revenant extended its skeleton hands, forming the arcane sigils with dextrous fingers of bone, and a mass of dark energy shot forth to smash against the stone wall.


    ¡°Wonderful,¡± Tyron breathed.

 B3C36 - Dark Knowledge

    ¡°It took longer than expected to collect these. I hope you weren¡¯t too inconvenienced?¡± Yor asked with an arched smile.


    Tyron sat grimly in his workshop, the darkness only kept at bay by the small globe of light he had conjured.


    ¡°As grateful as I am for the service you¡¯ve done for me, don¡¯t you think it would be more appropriate to send word of your arrival? Rather than wake me in the middle of the night?¡±


    Yor pouted and the Necromancer averted his eyes. Evil things shouldn¡¯t look so appealing. It was wrong on a fundamental level.


    ¡°You can hardly blame me for waking you. I happened to come on the rare occasion you were actually sleeping. A very rare occurrence, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡±


    Tyron still preferred to work at night, even when he was enchanting. The lack of distractions was welcome, and he didn¡¯t struggle to fall asleep during the bustle of the day. The noise from the market was irrelevant when you could drift off to sleep with a spell at a moment''s notice. More people should learn that spell, it was unbelievably convenient.


    ¡°No, I suppose I see your point. Are you going to deliver what you promised, or will I have to jump through hoops and a prolonged conversation I¡¯d rather have no part in?¡±


    If he¡¯d noticed one thing about Yor and her coven, it was their propensity for talk. They could chat in circles around a topic all night without batting so much as an eye. He found it infuriating. What was the point of a conversation that didn¡¯t convey something? Yor insisted he simply wasn¡¯t seeing the nuance or reading the subtle signals, Tyron simply pronounced they were wasting time.


    The vampire frowned before she extracted a familiar wooden case from the shadows around her and passed it to him. As he reached out to take it, he realised she wasn¡¯t letting go, the box held firm in her grip.


    ¡°Of course,¡± he sighed. ¡°Shall we discuss the colour red for five hours while constantly hinting that we are talking about blood but never specifically saying so?¡±


    Despite his sarcastic tone, he didn¡¯t actually expect Yor to be angered by his words, but to his surprise, a bit of heat flashed through her eyes as she gazed down at him.


    ¡°The games we play serve a very specific purpose. The Scarlet Court is a place where an imprecise word, a poorly turned phrase, or a slip from the correct mode of speech will earn an eternity of suffering. My coven practises so that they may be in complete control of their tongues at all times, as it is the only way for a vampire to survive. Do you understand?¡±


    She glared down at him as he remained seated in his chair. Tyron pinched his brow.


    ¡°I apologise. I know too little of your customs and ways to be passing judgement on your activities. Suffice to say, they do not suit me, but that is no excuse for my tone.¡±


    She released the case and he brought it close to his chest, nodding in thanks before he opened it to inspect the contents. Each of the glass spheres was now dyed black, the scent of Death Magick rising thickly from them. If he looked closely, he swore he could almost see the shifting souls wailing in despair locked within. Or perhaps that was just his guilty conscience. He snapped the case shut.


    ¡°Of course, this one isn¡¯t going to be free, or paid in a nebulous favour we demand later,¡± Yor announced. ¡°We have a task, though it will wait until after you return from your¡­ sojourn.¡±


    In the dim light, she was a disturbing sight, her pale features standing out against her raven black hair. What stood out the most was her eyes, blood red, and glowing with purpose. Was there a hint of fang in her smile?


    ¡°What do you need me to do?¡± he asked.


    Whatever it was, it wouldn¡¯t be something he liked. This was a heavy favour he had asked for, they were sure to demand a price equal in weight.


    ¡°I warned you some time ago that other¡­ groups¡­ from within the court may soon seek to establish a presence here in this realm. Relatively stable and filled with blood, it¡¯s a tempting slice of reality for my kind, after all. Such an event has now come to pass, my Mistress has confirmed it. We expect they may come to you, but we no longer wish to take that chance.¡±


    ¡°You want me to go to them?¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    He really didn¡¯t like her smile.


    ¡°But we want you to survive. So we will call on you to perform this task for us after you have returned. I hope you are a little stronger at that point than you are now.¡±


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    ¡°Me too,¡± Tyron muttered.


    ~~~


    ¡°I¡¯m coming with you,¡± Dove declared, hands resting on his bony hips.


    ¡°What? Why?¡± Tyron stared at the skeleton, unsure quite what to make of this request. ¡°Is this a joke of some kind? I don¡¯t really have the brainpower for it right now, Dove.¡±


    The skeleton slapped a hand to his skull. A hollow ¡®tak¡¯ sound reverberated through the study.


    ¡°Not enough brainpower? You?! What happened? You tripped over and lost half of your Intelligence?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a lot on my plate,¡± he snapped as he massaged his temples. ¡°I¡¯m organising the shop, preparing for the trip, managing my undead.¡±


    There was also the many avenues of research he¡¯d been feverishly scribbling out notes for, but he didn¡¯t see any reason to mention those. The more time he spent chasing his thoughts down each and every little avenue, the more Tyron became convinced that Necromancy was an unmasterable pursuit. There were simply so many ways one could specialise. If he spent a hundred years, he still didn¡¯t think he¡¯d have time to ferret out every little secret, optimise each component of his craft.


    The moment he thought he had a solid grasp of one concept, he realised that his new understanding had applications in a dozen other places, and those changes fed back into what he¡¯d been studying in the first place! It was endless, but his mind simply wouldn¡¯t allow him to put any of it to the side. He had to know.


    ¡°It¡¯s interesting the way you say ¡®trip¡¯ like you¡¯re planning a jaunt into the central province for a spa day. I think a better phrasing would be ¡®horrifying journey through nightmarish un-reality¡¯, or ¡®sanity-annihilating trek through a non-dimension filled with soul-devouring worms¡¯. It¡¯s more honest.¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Abyssals are worms?¡±


    He¡¯d never been able to ascribe a defined shape to them. To him, they appeared as an amorphous mass of tentacles and¡­ whatever they were made of.


    ¡°Of course that¡¯s what you latch onto. No, Abyssals aren¡¯t worms. Nobody knows what shape they are, the damn things start to disintegrate the second they arrive on this side of the veil, so it¡¯s not like you have time to take a good look.¡±


    The Necromancer knew that Abyssal creatures couldn¡¯t exist in this reality, or anywhere outside of the abyss, but he didn¡¯t realise they perished that quickly.


    ¡°Why do they want to come through, then? They seem desperate to get to this side.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t fucking know!¡± the skeleton threw his bony arms in the air, exasperated. ¡°I¡¯m not an expert on the Abyss! The only reason I know as much as I do is because I¡¯m Dimension Mage adjacent. Abyssals can¡¯t exist on this side of the veil, but they love to come over, melt themselves and kill everything nearby while they do. You don¡¯t seem to understand how terrifying they are.¡±


    ¡°And yet, here¡¯s you, offering to accompany me on this journey through the Abyss¡­ for what purpose? To go to Cragwhistle? If I remember correctly, you described it as a frozen shithole on the arse of the world.¡±


    ¡°Some of us like a good shithole.¡±


    Tyron stared at him.


    ¡°You¡¯ve changed, Dove.¡±


    ¡°Not like that! Wait, you¡¯re the one making dirty jokes now? The fuck is going on here? The world has gone mad.¡±


    The skeleton paced up and down, and once again, Tyron was disturbed at the sight of a skeleton moving with such human mannerisms. It was¡­ unnatural. Like a sheep discussing the weather, or a bird weaving fabric. Undead famously didn¡¯t have personalities, barring a rare few kinds. Watching Dove idly reach behind himself and scratch at the back of his pelvis like he still had a backside was simply jarring.


    ¡°Look,¡± Dove fronted Tyron again. ¡°The reason I want to go is so I can throw some spells and kill some kin, alright?¡±


    Far from clearing matters up, this only confused Tyron more.


    ¡°What? You want to¡­ kill kin? What for?¡±


    He highly doubted that the reason was so Dove could relive his glory days as a slayer. Although¡­ maybe it was?


    ¡°We need to try and figure out how to connect me to the Unseen,¡± Dove declared, wiggling his skeletal fingers in Tyron¡¯s face. ¡°Neither of us know how to do it, but we both know it¡¯s possible. Yor and her fellow suckers are proof that undead can still level and have classes.¡±


    Of course. Why hadn¡¯t Tyron considered that as a possible motivation?


    ¡°You think if you kill enough rift-kin, eventually the Unseen will recognise your existence? Grant you a Class and Race?¡±


    What would his race even be? Revenant?


    Dove crossed his arms across his ribcage, the purple light flaring in his sockets.


    ¡°Obviously, the odds of this working are low, I know that, you know that, but I have to try. You don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like being cut off from the Unseen, from power and independence. I¡¯ve lived with it my entire life. In fact, I was silver, like you¡¯ve become. Now that I can finally move again¡­ thanks for that, by the way¡­ I want to have a purpose. Apart from fighting the kin alongside my fellow bone boys, what else is there for me?¡±


    If he was honest with himself, and Tyron almost always was, there wasn¡¯t much reason for Dove to continue to exist. As a mentor, he¡¯d been invaluable, but that time had passed. Tyron now equaled the former Summoner in terms of rank, if not quite in level. Were it not for the benefits of his formal mage education, Dove would have nothing to teach him anymore. Even then, at this point, there wasn¡¯t much he knew that Tyron couldn¡¯t figure out on his own.


    ¡°So we take you along and you can fight, kill a few kin, hope that you get a Class¡­ somehow.¡±


    Tyron sighed and shrugged.


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll take you along.¡±


    ¡°YES!¡± the skeleton pumped his fists.


    ¡°But make sure you don¡¯t cause any issues,¡± Tyron warned him. ¡°We both know you aren¡¯t at your most stable right now,¡± he held up a hand to forestall any protest, ¡°and I don¡¯t blame you for that. I just can¡¯t afford any fuckups from you. There will be no skeleton running through Cragwhistle being a dickhead. You stick with the skeletons. Am I understood?¡±


    ¡°Completely,¡± came back a solemn vow.


    Tyron didn¡¯t believe it for a second.

 B3C37 - The Terrible Price He Paid

    Pierce the Veil was one of the first Rituals Tyron had ever learned. Unwieldy and mind-bendingly complex as it had been to him at the time, now he viewed the magick as a blunt instrument. Sometimes he wondered if the Abyss wanted any of those who contacted them with this spell to survive at all. In essence, all it did was manifest the veil, which was rather difficult, then poke a hole in it, which wasn¡¯t.


    After that, the ritual caster was pretty much on their own.


    The ritual circle was some protection, of course, at least physically. In reality, the mind of the caster was almost totally vulnerable to the psychic emanations of the Abyss and almost certain to go mad. If the madness didn¡¯t win, then the opening in the veil almost certainly would. The creatures of the Abyss hungered to be free of that place. Tyron had felt that desperate desire from them and the intensity of it had shaken him to the core. Why, and for what purpose, he didn¡¯t know, but it was certainly real, they wanted out, even if it meant death. Any opening in the veil was like lighting a candle at night next to a swamp. Insects rushed to the flame the same way the Abyssals moved to the ritual site.


    Of course, the opening was small, only one could hope to get through, but what happened when one did? They, of course, would devour everything they could find, the first of which would be the one who had cast the stupid ritual in the first place.


    So Tyron had been forced to find other ways to communicate with the Abyss that didn¡¯t involve offering himself up on a silver platter. Learning the rudiments of their speech had been the first step. Heavily modifying Pierce the Veil had been second. As it turned out, one could conceal the opening in the veil if you knew how, which had been very tricky to figure out. Also, it was possible to communicate with the creatures on the other side without allowing them through. Of course, they would hunt for the opening, which put the conversation on something of a clock, but it was possible.


    Using this method, Tyron had been able to construct a couple of deals. Hopefully, they would stand him in good stead now.


    Night closed around him tightly, but it didn¡¯t bother him. As requested, Mrs Ortan had allowed the construction of a small ritual site disguised as a woodman''s lodge on the outskirts of her property. The Necromancer had spent the better part of five days ensuring it was enchanted to his satisfaction. No whisper of the magick he conducted here could ever be allowed to leak, that had been the conditions placed on him, which he would have adhered to anyway. The less chance of his secrets leaking, the better he felt.


    Instead of drawing his ritual circle in dust, as he had the first time, the young mage had taken more conventional steps, painting the elaborate design on the smooth floor with a magickally charged alchemical paint. When it was done to his satisfaction, he painted over it with a special, clear sealant. These components cost a fortune, but would be well worth it to ensure his defence was as strong as possible and impossible to disrupt. If all went well, he would be able to use this circle over and over again in the future, without having to start from scratch every time.


    Once the floor was completed to his satisfaction, Tyron turned to the walls. Soon, those too were covered in arcane sigils arranged in loops and whorls, arrays into which he embedded cores to power them. Finally, he brought out the ladder and began the difficult task of painting the ceiling. Eventually, that too was completed, a complex enchantment that covered every centimetre of available space.


    Ever since Yor had accompanied him into the Abyss, Tyron had never stepped foot into that place again, but to complete his aims, this time he must, and without her help. Owing favours to the vampires was becoming more and more dangerous. He could no longer afford to lean on them for anything he might conceivably be able to do himself. He could only hope he was as prepared as thought he was.


    ¡°So that¡¯s it then?¡± Dove asked as Tyron stepped out through the heavy oak door and leaned the ladder against the stone wall. ¡°Are we ready to go?¡±


    Outside the small building, under the cover of the thick foliage overhead, stood Tyron¡¯s full army of undead. Silent ranks of skeletal warriors armed with their weapons of bone, each with the glowing purple eyes of the dead.


    ¡°Almost there,¡± he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. ¡°I¡¯ve finished the circles. All I need to do now is affix the ritual focus and we¡¯ll be as prepared as we can be.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be fine, kid,¡± Dove assured him, ¡°I worked on those circles with you, they¡¯re as watertight as any I¡¯ve ever seen. It¡¯ll be a piece of piss, you¡¯ll see.¡±


    As much as he wished he shared the optimism of the skeleton-bound spirit, he simply didn¡¯t. The Abyss was dangerous, deadly dangerous. It¡¯s not as if the Dark Ones or the Scarlett Court were particularly safe, but they were at pains to put a human face to themselves. Human-ish, anyway. Yor was terrifying, but she was like a kitten compared to the real monsters who lurked in that realm of neverending night. The Old Gods worked through their priests most of the time, which was a lot more comfortable than being summoned to stand before them. He could still remember how it had felt, those titanic, alien presences looking down on him from a distance. He shivered.


    With the Abyss, there was none of that, no kind face, no childhood friend, no gentle touch. Instead, there were only ravenous entities from a realm beyond realms, creatures of madness and hunger who were inimical to life.


    ¡°We¡¯ll do it tomorrow,¡± Tyron said over his shoulder as he re-entered the building to retrieve the rest of his tools and paints. ¡°It¡¯ll take a couple of hours to settle the focus, then we can go ahead and cast the ritual. If all goes well, we can secure travel through the Abyss and be out the other side by the end of the day.¡±


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    With great care, he began to store his implements away in the case he had commissioned for them. Each of his implements nestled into their own pocket of shaped velvet, the container itself enchanted against jostling and moisture. These tools would be needed when he got to his destination, desperately needed. Tyron didn¡¯t intend this to be a one way trip, which meant he had to construct another circle on the other side in order to get back.


    ¡°Come on! Surely we can do it tonight. A little more work and bam, it¡¯s done and we can get through.¡±


    Tyron turned to glare at the skeleton.


    ¡°I¡¯m the one casting the Ritual, and I say tomorrow. I want to be fully rested before exposing myself to the Abyss, nothing less is acceptable. Are you trying to get us both killed?¡±


    Dove scratched at the side of his skull.


    ¡°Techincally¡­¡± he began.


    ¡°You can¡¯t be killed, yes, I get it,¡± Tyron ground out.


    The skeleton picked at the robes Tyron had made him wear.


    ¡°Do I really have to keep these on? It seems kind of restrictive and unnecessary. You know what? I never understood people who preferred to go nude before, but now I¡¯m starting to get it. Clothes are a prison. Free your mind, Tyron.¡±


    ¡°Keep them on and shut up,¡± the Necromancer snapped.


    He flung himself into his bedroll.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to sleep. See you in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Be that way.¡±


    When he awoke the next morning, Tyron yawned and stretched, thinking idly of the comforts of his home in the city. The store would be fine in his absence. Plenty of stock had been set aside, instructions had been given to the staff and Flynn could handle the rest without Tyron looking over his shoulder. Hopefully. To the regular folk of the city, Lukas Almsfield was on a sabbatical, taking a rest after working hard to establish his business.


    He rubbed at his eyes before he turned to look at his skeletal army, only to blink when he noticed something out of place.


    ¡°Dove,¡± he groaned as he kicked himself free from his blankets.


    At some point during the night, the former-Summoner had ¡®freed¡¯ himself of his robes and dressed Rufus in them. Now he was probably hiding amongst the ranks, pretending to be a regular minion. This had become his new favourite pastime and Tyron found it exceptionally irritating.


    With a thought, he commanded all of the skeletons to kneel, which they did instantly. One skeleton was a beat too slow. Soon, that skeleton had been seized and dragged to the front by the others.


    ¡°How dare you rise against me, your skeletal brethren?¡± Dove howled. ¡°Are we not bone brothers, initiated in the ways of bone? This is a betrayal of the gravest kind! You¡¯ll all be dead by sundown!¡±


    ¡°Dove, how in the name of all that is holy did you ever manage to get yourself onto a slayer team? Second question, how did you manage to stay on one?¡±


    The skeleton huffed and wrestled himself free of the minions who had deposited him in front of their master.


    ¡°Some people find my antics charming and humorous.¡±


    ¡°No they don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°It was mostly because Summoners are rare and I was good at it.¡±


    ¡°I thought so.¡±


    Dove re-robed himself and promised to behave, so Tyron opted not to tie him to a tree while he finished his work. The focus he had purchased for this ritual was specifically designed to channel dimensional energies, commonly used by Summoners and the like, and by affixing it in place, Tyron could double its effectiveness. He¡¯d no longer be able to use it for anything other than operating this specific ritual circle, but he had arrived at a place such luxuries were well within his means.


    After a couple of hours, he was done. He took some time to refresh himself by washing in a nearby stream, put on clean clothes and eat a hot meal, letting the food settle before he packed up the camp with Dove¡¯s assistance. Finally, all was prepared.


    Despite the dread that tickled at the edges of his mind, Tyron firmed his resolve. He had prepared well for this, it would go well. In one hand, he gripped the case filled with the soul beads before he carefully placed it inside his inner pocket. He would need both hands for the Ritual. With a final nod to Dove, Tyron stepped inside the stone building and closed the door behind him, locking it with an audible click.


    ¡°Light.¡±


    He conjured a small globe and hung it directly overhead before he took a deep breath and stood before the ritual focus. Without delay, he raised his hands and began to speak.


    The first syllable to leave his lips seemed to impact the air before him, as if reality resisted the push of his magick, but Tyron held firm, his hands moving gracefully from sigil to sigil as his words continued to roll from his tongue. Gradually, resistance faded as reality began to bend to his will and the ritual circle slowly began to flare into life. To manifest the veil was still a difficult process, and Tyron applied all his focus to ensure there were no mistakes, no hesitations or slips in this part of the spell.


    Eventually, the grey haze appeared before him, and Tyron moved seamlessly to the next phase of the Ritual. Before the opening could be made, it must be concealed from the creatures of the nightmarish place. Deftly, he wove sigils and spoke the words of power, his every utterance now reverberating like thunder within that small room.


    Magick poured from him in an endless tide as he weaved it with unmatched dexterity and skill. When he had bound this section of the veil with powerful arrays of concealment, he proceeded to form a needle of magick, one so fine as to be almost invisible, crafted to pierce the wall between this realm and the realm that was not. With utmost precision, he perforated the veil ever so slightly, creating an infinitesimal gap.


    Even this was dangerous. He could hear them already, the whispers, tugging at his mind, daring him to come forward, to reveal himself, and in return, they promised such secrets that set his heart aflame. Steadied by his protections, this was not enough to fray his resolve. Carefully, ever so carefully, he extended the ritual through the gap and into the Abyss, seeking.


    Ah¡¯karesh. Theo¡¯razzn. Chironusbolg.


    Barely a breath, he spoke these words into the Abyss, repeating them like a mantra. Over and over again, for hours, he held that gap in the veil, sweat dripping down his face as the abyssals began to swarm, catching scent of his world, until finally, a voice spoke back.


    With a trembling hand, Tyron reached within his robe and took hold of the case. He opened it and extended it before him.


    For a moment, he heard nothing, then he heard it, so soft as to almost be inaudible, so deep it rattled his bones, a sigh, filled with longing, with hunger.


    The tiny gap in the veil expanded in an instant, and for only the second time, Tyron stepped forward and into the Abyss.

 B3C38 - Beyond the Rift

    A haunted expression plastered across his face, Tyron stumbled from the small stone building. Dove tried to read the look in his eye, but the young mage was already collecting himself as he handed out silent orders to the gathered skeleton army.


    In neat ranks, they gathered their weapons and gear that remained in the camp and began to file into the building, disappearing into the darkness within.


    ¡°So you succeeded then?¡± he asked. ¡°You¡¯ve secured passage through the Abyss?¡±


    Tyron nodded sharply.


    ¡°It¡¯s done,¡± he replied, his voice hoarse from the ritual casting, or perhaps from something else?


    ¡°What about the pri-?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to worry about the price,¡± the Necromancer snapped, ¡°are you coming or not?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I wouldn¡¯t miss it for a feel of Selene¡¯s backside.¡±


    The young man could handle himself. Dove pushed his concerns aside and slid into line with the silently marching skeletal minions. It was disconcerting looking at them, knowing that he looked essentially the same as they did. It was hard to think of oneself as a skeleton. In his mind, he was still¡­ still Dove. A scrawny, bearded human mage who summoned creatures of the Astral plane to fight against the kin.


    Yet that wasn¡¯t who he¡¯d been for a long time now.


    He jumped and clicked his heels together. He¡¯d never been so light on his feet as a human. Even his substitute bones weighed an awful lot less than a full human body, which allowed him to move with surprising alacrity. It just felt so good to have a body again. His time as a head, at first semi-voluntary, then very much against his wishes, had been a nightmare he was unable to wake from. Unable to move, to touch, to affect the world in any way. He was quite confident it had driven him mad, in the end.


    Thankfully, Tyron had eventually gotten around to fixing the problem. The problem of not having a body, that is. Dove was fairly sure his mind would never recover. At least, it wouldn¡¯t return to what it had been before.


    As he passed within the small stone building, he swirled his bony fingers, letting the feeling of power, of magick, flow over them ever so briefly. Such a precious, limited supply he had, but there was so much he could do with it, given the chance. All he needed was an opportunity to slip the leash.


    A puncture in reality, the opening to the Abyss yawned before him. On one side, a dimly lit remote building, exquisitely drawn ritual circle sealed into the stone floor, and on the other, nothing.


    A nothing so complete and total, so all encompassing, it had gone all the way around and become something. Even so, it was still nothing.


    To his ghostly sight, it was just black, a void, and as he stepped through, that was all he saw. In his current form, he couldn¡¯t feel, he had no skin or flesh to assess temperature or pressure, but he felt confident that he wouldn¡¯t feel anything regardless. Not here.


    Along with the skeletons, Dove shuffled forward, finding a place amongst the narrow and dense formation. If he stepped too far to the side, he¡¯d probably fall off¡­ whatever it was they were standing on. No matter how he tried to study the area around him, he couldn¡¯t get a read on anything at all, not even the abyssals who doubtlessly swarmed around them at a distance.


    ¡°Stay close to me.¡±


    Tyron appeared at his elbow and began to stride toward the head of the group as Dove leapt to follow in his wake.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on? We have a limited travel area?¡±


    Whatever deal Tyron had negotiated with the denizens of this place, Dove had no doubt it was restrictive in the extreme. Anything that lived in the Abyss wasn¡¯t happy to be here, but he imagined that led them to guard what they had even more zealously.


    ¡°More limited than you imagine,¡± Tyron replied tersely.


    The young man¡¯s eyes glowed as he maintained the ocular magick Dove himself had taught him.


    ¡°Is that even useful in here?¡± he wondered.


    It allowed one to see traces and flows of magick. As far as Dove knew, there was no magick within the Abyss, not as he understood it anyway.


    ¡°It is,¡± Tyron confirmed as he watched their surroundings warily. ¡°I had to modify it first.¡±


    ¡°Of course you did.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no magick here, except for what we bring with us.¡±


    ¡°I knew that.¡±


    ¡°But, if you know what to look for, you can detect changes in the¡­ stuff.¡±


    ¡°S¡­ stuff? Is that the technical term you came up with? Fucking stuff? Try a little harder, holy shit.¡±


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    ¡°Shut up, Dove. What do you call the soup of un-reality that surrounds us? Huh?¡±


    ¡°Unsoup.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    The two walked in silence, Tyron forging ahead, nervously glancing over his shoulder as if to assure himself that his minions were still there. Possibly whatever allowed him to sense them was being interfered with in here. Or perhaps the magick was degrading over time? This wasn¡¯t exactly a healthy place for anything not born here to be, after all. Abyssals melted apart if they came through the veil, perhaps it was similar for the people of his own realm when they trespassed here?


    ¡°The opening is just ahead. At least, it should be,¡± Tyron muttered.


    ¡°Just like that? Cragwhistle, here we come.¡±


    ¡°Not quite,¡± came the grim reply. ¡°Opening rifts in between our realm and the Abyss is dangerous, for everyone. I don¡¯t want to give it¨C,¡± he grimaced, as if remembering something unpleasant, ¡°any greater hold on us than we can manage.¡±


    ¡°So where are we going?¡± Dove was confused.


    ¡°Taking a slight detour,¡± Tyron stated. ¡°We¡¯re going to appear on the other side of a rift, then travel to Cragwhistle.¡±


    ¡°On the other side of a rift?!¡± Dove squawked. ¡°Are you serious? By yourself? Are you trying to get killed?¡±


    ¡°Obviously not,¡± Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Could¡¯ve fooled me. What sort of fuckhead jumps through a rift by himself the second he becomes silver? You¡¯re out of your mind.¡±


    The Necromancer glanced behind him at the hundreds of skeletal minions.


    ¡°You think I¡¯m going by myself?¡±


    ¡°Those don¡¯t count!¡± Dove raged. ¡°I¡¯ve been through the rifts plenty of times, but only with a high level team by my side.¡±


    ¡°Dove, we both know you¡¯re full of shit. Some of the rifts are safer than others, even on the other side. A small, brand new rift like the one at Cragwhistle has an extremely low chance of attracting anything too dangerous. The biggest and baddest monsters can¡¯t fit through, so they don¡¯t bother with it.¡±


    ¡°A low chance isn¡¯t no chance,¡± Dove insisted. ¡°We could pop out and find ourselves squashed by a giant frost monster in seconds.¡±


    ¡°What do you care? If you die beyond the rift, the chance Yor will bother trying to track your soul down is similarly low. I half thought that was the real reason you wanted to come out. Sneak off through a rift and get yourself flattened.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ shit, that might actually work.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t even think of it?¡± Tyron boggled at him.


    Dove waved his bony arms in the air.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been too absorbed in being able to touch myself again!¡±


    ¡°You can touch other things too¡­.¡±


    ¡°But why would I bother?!¡±


    ¡°I hate you, Dove.¡±


    ¡°I hate you too.¡±


    Tyron stiffened, eyes widening as he tracked something move around them.


    ¡°This is it,¡± he said, voice suddenly tense. ¡°Get ready.¡±


    The former summoner looked at him oddly until Tyron glanced back at him, uncomfortable.


    ¡°What?¡± he asked, finally.


    ¡°We could be walking into a combat situation,¡± Dove reminded him.


    ¡°I know that.¡±


    ¡°So why are you at the front?¡±


    Tyron blinked, then took several slow steps back amongst the ranks of his minions. Dove cackled.


    ¡°Not exactly feeling like a brave adventurer now, are you?¡± he hooted.


    ¡°You were a Summoner. I bet you couldn¡¯t throw a rock and hit the frontline your entire career,¡± Tyron grumbled.


    Before either of them could continue to bicker, a rent opened in front of them, showing a desolate, frozen wasteland. Harsh wind blew, snow and ice slashing through the air, yet Dove could hear none of it, nothing came through into the Abyss, not a single snowflake.


    ¡°Here we goooooo! Bony boys, follow hard up my rear!¡±


    So shouting, he leapt through the opening and into the freezing cold. For a moment, he almost braced himself for the cold, long practised survival instincts told him he would freeze to death in weather like this, naked as he was. Yet the ice and snow chilled him not at all. It was liberating, in a way.


    A depressing reminder of his shallow existence in another.


    Behind him, rows of skeletons, followed by Tyron, began to emerge from the inky void. Dove scanned the area keenly, wondering if they¡¯d stepped out of the Abyss and into their own doom, but as far as he could tell, there were no kin nearby.


    Not that he could see very far.


    Whatever realm this was, miserable would be a gentle descriptor of the conditions. Storm clouds boiled overhead, thrashing and rolling as lightning flickered like a snake¡¯s tongue, cutting through the darkness in momentary bursts of blinding light. A constant barrage of ice, borne aloft by the wind, punched into him, forcing the skeleton to raise a hand to protect his skull from the onslaught.


    If the enchantments within were damaged, he¡¯d be back to an immovable head and he would not have it.


    Suddenly, he was overcome with frustration at how helpless he was. No magick sight to see the threats coming, no powerful summons, no enhanced physical body or mind, nothing that had become so integral to who he was and what he did. The anger bubbled up within him so quickly he was almost shocked by its intensity. Here he was, beyond the rift, where he was supposed to be at his strongest, supposed to fight, and win, yet he was almost helpless.


    ¡°There¡¯s so much magick,¡± Tyron called in disbelief.


    The young mage had put on his bone armour, and he looked severely intimidating, wrapped in black bone, rounded plates of the stuff covering his shoulders and even a helmet of sorts on his head.


    ¡°How far do we need to travel?¡± Dove yelled above the din, not wanting to talk about the power he couldn¡¯t touch.


    ¡°Not far¡­ I think,¡± came the reply, as Tyron tried to get his bearings.


    After spinning on the spot for a moment, he grunted and pointed a finger.


    ¡°That way, about three kilometres.¡±


    ¡°Three kilometres? In this?!¡±


    ¡°What, are you cold?¡±


    Tyron himself was clearly shivering, despite pulling his thick cloak over his shoulders.


    ¡°Weak as piss,¡± the Necromancer chattered at his skeletal companion.


    ¡°Do you see any rift-kin?¡± Dove ignored the insult.


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°They¡¯re over there. We¡¯ll be putting my legions to the test shortly.¡±


    Despite himself, a smile crept over his face.


    ¡°I can¡¯t wait to see what happens.¡±

 B3C39 - The Skeletal Legion

    As he watched his minions sort themselves into neat ranks, Tyron felt a surge of pride at what he had accomplished. The skeletons moved smoothly, with balance and strength. Despite having such a large group on the move, he was more than capable of supplying the magick required, proving his efforts in enchantment were paying immense dividends.


    Particularly here.


    As a mage, he was sensitive to arcane energy, and the way it filled this place was¡­ disturbing. Magick swelled and overflowed here, an abundance that felt suffocating, like a thick blanket pressed over his senses. It was warm and comforting, but no less dangerous than a blade to the throat. It was this power that had ruined this realm, destroyed all that had lived here and that power now produced the rift-kin, sending them out to spread the contagion.


    Magick and the Unseen, blessings and curses.


    ¡°How far ahead, kid? I can¡¯t see a fucking thing. I¡¯m as blind as a decapitated cow in a mineshaft.¡±


    ¡°Not far,¡± Tyron replied, directing his troops. ¡°You¡¯ll see them in a second.¡±


    Responding to his mental commands, his archers formed up, notched arrows, drew their bows and fired. In the horrific wind, it was impossible to fire with any accuracy, but sheer numbers counted for something. The shots flashed out into the blizzard, less than half finding their mark.


    A trumpeted bellow of rage resounded, followed by others as more kin answered the call. The ground rumbled beneath their feet as Tyron focused, shifting his troops. Of course, he couldn¡¯t just focus on that alone, he had a role to perform that was greater than simply telling his skeletons where to stand. Words of power began to puncture the air as he formed the magick, hands flashing through the sigils he shaped with consummate skill.


    Death Blades.


    Cast over a much wider area, the spell settled across his army as they braced. The moment he was finished, his hands began to flash once more, the next spell coming hard on the heels of the first.


    Through the storm came a mammoth, just like the one Tyron had faced outside the rift at Cragwhistle. The only difference was, this mammoth wasn¡¯t alone.


    Two more thundered forward behind it as Tyron¡¯s skeletons moved to intercept. Spears thrust forward as the light and nimble undead skated to the sides of the beasts, avoiding their charges even with the sleet and snow making the footing uncertain.


    Ethereal bowstrings thrummed and another wave of arrows was fired, much more effective at such close range. He moved his archers like skirmishes, sending them forward, then scattering them as the rime-coated tusks of the mammoths swept in their direction.


    Show me what you can do.


    He ordered Laurel forward, along with his first mage skeleton. The first snatched an arrow from the quiver strapped to her bony hip and fired it at a speed and power unclassed humans could never hope to match. Even without reaching bronze rank, Laurel had trained her Skills and invested her feats wisely, it seemed. Alongside, the mage began to shift its hands, taking far, far too long to weave the simple magick, but eventually a death bolt was formed, the shadow ball of death magick streaking through the air to smack into a mammoth.


    The beasts bellowed in fury as the continual barrage of stinging arrows and spears began to penetrate their thick coats. They swung their heads, sweeping their tusks across the ground in wide arcs that forced Tyron¡¯s minions to dance back, though they weren¡¯t always fast enough.


    Get in the fight.


    Propelled by his will, Rufus, or what remained of him, stepped forward, two handed sword held tight in his skeletal hands. Alongside him, Tyron committed the rest of his longsword-wielding skeletons.


    As they surged forward, he finished casting his spell, flinging his hands down to point at the ground beneath his feet. Energy poured from him and manifested as a billowing cloud of black energy that spread rapidly. Tyron himself was quickly enveloped within as the cloud expanded.


    Already empowered by Stormwise, his cast of Black Miasma expanded with eerie silence and shocking speed. Soon, the cloud had encompassed the entire battlefield, blinding the living and eating at their flesh while the undead were empowered, drawing in the energy to fuel themselves.


    Thankfully, Tyron himself was immune from the negative effects, otherwise he likely would have killed himself by casting this magick.


    ¡°This is a good spell,¡± Dove observed, looking around himself.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t you want to kill kin?¡± Tyron asked him, then pointed. ¡°There they are, go get them.¡±


    ¡°You want me to kill one of those mammoths? I don¡¯t exactly have a lot of firepower right now.¡±


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    ¡°Give it a shot. Otherwise, you could just stand around scratching your own backside, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a backside, thank you very much,¡± Dove sniffed before he turned and brought up his hands.


    Able to speak the words of power, he expertly wove a Death Bolt, following the patterns Tyron had taught him, firing the bolt of energy into the nearest target. The speed and power of the spell was vastly better than what his revenant had produced, and the Necromancer turned and glared at the undead, who remained next to Laurel, firing the spell over and over again.


    Fueled by the miasma, the longsword skeletons charged forward, Rufus at the front. They descended upon the flank of an unsuspecting and enraged mammoth, leaping forward and sinking their blades up to their hilts in the creature¡¯s side.The beast immediately reared back, pulling several unsuspecting minions from their feet, before it wheeled and stomped down, but the skeletons were already gone.


    Pleased with the sight, Tyron couldn¡¯t repress a savage grin. The clumsy, stumbling skeletons he had started with were nowhere to be seen. His treatment of the remains was better, the weaving of the musculature and ligaments couldn¡¯t be compared, the extra magick the minions could draw on, and the improved Raise Dead ritual all combined to produce a transformative improvement. Now his undead moved with sure feet and rapid steps, their light frames carrying them over the snow and muck with ease.


    Unfortunately, as the minions fought, they drew on the miasma deeply, both to heal any damage and to fuel their movements, depleting the spell much faster than Tyron had anticipated. Briefly, he considered casting it again, but after carefully examining the battlefield, he decided against it.


    The mammoth beset by his longsword skeletons was faltering. With a thought, his archers switched targets, and began to pepper the ailing monster, alongside Dove and his revenant mage. Unable to turn and face any foe without being exposed to another, the beast could do nothing but succumb to the death-infused blades of the skeletons.


    With one of the great creatures down, the skeletons charged at another mammoth, quickly overwhelming it before they turned on the last. Against overwhelming numbers, nimble opponents and the suffocating miasma, the mammoths were dispatched with minimal damage to Tyron¡¯s budding horde.


    ¡°By the blessed buns of the Goddess,¡± Dove exclaimed, ¡°I can¡¯t believe how well that went! Three of those mammoth creatures, and they were slaughtered! I guess it¡¯s true what they say about Necromancers.¡±


    Despite the victory, and the welling pride Tyron felt, he didn¡¯t allow it to distract him.


    ¡°We have to move,¡± he chattered, suddenly reminded of the cold now that the frenetic battle was over. ¡°We still have a little way to travel before we reach the rift.¡±


    Skeletons rushed back to form into ranks while others began to carve through the remains. Tyron certainly wouldn¡¯t turn his back on cores if they were right in front of him.


    Despite the cold, he felt something from his minions and took a moment to hunt it down.


    Unsurprisingly, the source of the disturbance was his new revenants. Resentment and anger swirled in each of them, though it positively stormed inside of Rufus. Unable to direct their rage at the cause, namely himself, they were left screaming within their own souls.


    A dreadful fate.


    Perhaps some were deserving of this existential torture, but how many who were not would he subject to this torment before the end came? That thought would have bothered Tyron once, but not now. Now, the answer was simple: as many as it took.


    When the cores were retrieved, Tyron finished forming his ranks and proceeded to march forward to the rift, eager to be free of the cold. As he expected, the ice-kin he had encountered before swarmed around the opening, trying to push through into the other realm. With his numerous minions, Tyron stormed through them, using the Black Miasma once more to cover the rift and secure the opening.


    He directed his undead to form a protective circle around him as he magickally enhanced his eyes. Momentarily blinded by the surging arcane power all around him, he staggered and clutched at his head.


    ¡°It¡¯s pretty wild, right?¡± Dove said from beside him.


    All the magick Tyron felt in his own world came from rifts such as this one. The amount of energy flooding through even this tiny rift was staggering. A torrent of power screaming through like an ocean forcing itself through a barn door.


    He had travelled through this rift once before, but Yor had handled the journey, fulfilling the agreement she had struck with Magnin and Beory. This time, he would have to manage it himself.


    As he stepped forward, Tyron felt as if he should have been swept from his feet by the raging arcane winds, but of course, they had no effect on the physical realm. His eyes told him the maelstrom existed, but he couldn¡¯t feel it, it didn¡¯t buffet or throw him from his feet. This close, the rift warped reality, bending space and perhaps even time in strange and unpredictable ways. It was a dangerous place to be and he had no intention of staying long.


    Planting both feet in the snow and ice, Tyron thrust forward his hands and began to speak. Immediately, he felt as if he had slammed his mind into a brick wall, but he didn¡¯t allow it to perturb him. The words flowed smoothly from his lips and his hands danced gracefully, shaping the power that poured out of him.


    Manipulating a rift in any way was fraught with dangers, but stabilising it to allow smooth passage was a necessity. As each word was spoken, the air around Tyron resonated like a bell. Every syllable dropped like a hammer blow that he used to shape reality and bend it to his will.


    Bit by bit, a small pocket of stability began to take form around him, then extend, little by little, into the rift.


    All around, his skeletons fought without his direction, pushing back the rift-kin who trickled toward the rift, drawn to it almost mindlessly. He tasked his revenants with fighting on the frontline, hoping to preserve as many of his base soldiers as possible for the grind ahead.


    By the time he allowed himself to lower his hands, frozen sweat clung to Tyron¡¯s face and his mind ached. But he had been successful.


    ¡°You want to go first?¡± he asked Dove.


    Without a word, the onyx-skeleton sprung through, whooping. The Necromancer shook his head before he issued the mental command. His guard of sword and shield wielding skeletons formed around him and Tyron stepped forward, pushing through the rift and back to his home realm.


    According to Beth, Cragwhistle had gone through significant change since he had last seen it. He was a little curious to find out if she was right.

 B3C40 - Earning a Living

    Trenan braced his shield tight against his flank as he drew back his hammer. Unheeding the danger, the rift-kin, a ¡®frost-ghoul¡¯ as the slayers had taken to calling them, lunged forward, claws and teeth of ice coming for him. At the last moment, he stepped in, stuffing the attack with his shield and knocking the monster off balance.


    The claws scratched at him, but without weight and power behind them, all they could do was scratch his armour. As soon as space opened up, he tightened his grip on the hammer and swung it upward, controlling the motion and rotating his body, bringing the weapon up vertically to smash into the kin¡¯s jaw.


    Formed of ice, the head exploded, which forced Trenan to lower his head. The last thing he wanted was shards of ice in his eyes. Someone had already met that fate after enthusiastically smashing a frost ghoul while leaning too far forward. Thankfully, the rim of his helmet protected him from that terrible fate and he kicked the now limp body of the creature away as he turned to assess the field.


    ¡°How are we looking, team?¡± he called.


    ¡°Miserable.¡±


    ¡°Cold.¡±


    ¡°My ass hurts.¡±


    ¡°For fuck¡¯s sake,¡± he muttered before he hardened his tone. ¡°We are in the field, you slack-jawed dickheads. I swear if one of you gets killed mouthing off in the broken lands, not only will I paint ¡®I told you so¡¯ on your casket, I will piss and shit on the grave.¡±


    ¡°All right, Trenan, stop swinging your dick around. We get it,¡± Brigette said wearily. ¡°We are clear of kin as far as I can tell.¡±


    ¡°Clear over here as well, Trenan,¡± Arthur said.


    ¡°I swear my cheeks are about to freeze off. Also clear,¡± Chol called.


    The Hammerman sighed and allowed himself a brief moment to indulge in self pity. Believing promises made upon graduating the academies was a foolish act, and now he¡¯d come to regret it. They¡¯d be professional, they¡¯d said. One hundred percent serious on the job, they¡¯d promised. Absolute horse shit.


    ¡°We aren¡¯t far from the rift here, so stay alert,¡± he warned them. ¡°Only the gods know what might come through at any given moment, so be ready to run.¡±


    Brigette rolled her eyes, then held her hands up when he turned to glare at her.


    ¡°I get it,¡± she said, ¡°it''s just, we haven¡¯t seen anything except boars and frost ghouls come through for weeks. It¡¯s hard to maintain the tension.¡±


    With her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a tight braid and the freckles on her face, one could almost picture Brigette as a smiling village girl, if you managed to overlook the two-handed bastard sword slung across her back and the broad shoulders and thick arms she sported. Talented, no doubt, but too lax.


    ¡°Brigette, we are less than a month into our careers as slayers, and already, you can¡¯t maintain the tension? How eager are you to die?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be so dramatic,¡± she waved him off, still grinning.


    Never team up with your friends, he lamented to himself, not for the hundredth time. It never works out well.


    ¡°Sixty percent of slayer teams lose a member before they reach silver rank. I do not want to be a part of that statistic,¡± he said flatly.


    ¡°We know,¡± Chol said as she walked up to stand beside him. ¡°And that¡¯s why we wanted to join your team in the first place.¡±


    ¡°You want to be on this team? Fuck, could¡¯ve fooled me,¡± he grumbled.


    The dark skinned woman grinned, flashing her flawless teeth at him. ¡°I know myself. Without someone like you kicking my poor, frozen backside, I wouldn¡¯t last, and neither would my Arthur.¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t married yet, Chol. I don¡¯t know if you need to say my Arthur.¡±


    ¡°You said yet. That is enough.¡±


    The mage ran a hand through his curly, dark hair as he gazed at his¡­ apparently fiance.


    ¡°Are all people in the Southern Province so forward?¡± he wondered. ¡°Or is it just you?¡±


    ¡°A bit of both,¡± she said.


    ¡°Would you two stop flirting and focus on the damn job?¡± Trenan spat. The more the others dicked around, the more he felt like a claw was sliding around his throat. ¡°We¡¯ve got another two kilometres to cover before we reach the rift. As the only team on the mountain today, we need to watch our fucking backsides. Clear what we can, observe the rest, don¡¯t die. Got it?¡±


    Brigette snapped out a brisk salute.


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    ¡°Got it!¡± she barked.


    No matter how hard she tried, it was impossible for that woman to look serious.


    ¡°Go fuck yourself, Brigette. Let¡¯s move.¡±


    Trenan took the point position, his shield up and eyes darting as he surveyed the slope ahead. He trusted his team would fall into formation behind him, they usually did. Too many slayers said they¡¯d smarten up and take things more seriously once they reached silver. Those were probably the ones who didn¡¯t survive that long.


    Twice more, they encountered rift-kin on the approach, and with a combination of Brigette¡¯s heavy hitting, Trenan¡¯s defensive work, Chol¡¯s nature magick and Arthur''s battle-mage skills, they made quick work of the kin. The rift at Cragwhistle was only recently formed, not allowing many monsters through, and generally only small ones at that. Some of the teams had encountered bigger monsters, giant hairy beasts with tusks, apparently, but only close to the sight of the rift itself. A perfect training ground for a new team like the Hooligans.


    ¡°Five hundred metres,¡± he called over his shoulder, trying to maintain his focus at its peak. If the team was going to find something they couldn¡¯t handle, it would be here.


    He risked a glance back over his shoulder and was pleased to see the three fucksticks were focused for once, their expressions firm and eyes wary. It was a sight he so rarely got to see that he almost did a double take before he caught himself. If the team was doing their job properly, then he would have to be twice as dedicated. He refused to have them show him up.


    However, the rift was curiously inactive. As they drew closer, the lack of kin activity became increasingly unusual. Where were the packs of ice boars, or frost ghouls? Generally, there was always a decent number of them, either milling around the rift or forming into groups to charge down the mountain.


    Concerned, he signalled to the team to be on high alert. The lack of monster activity only heightened his caution and he didn¡¯t want the others to loosen up.


    When he finally saw something, it was almost a relief, then he realised what he was looking at.


    Was that¡­ undead?


    Sure enough, from behind a rock marched a skeleton, eyes glowing with a dark purple light, bare teeth grinning in the dim light. For a long  moment, he froze in place, unsure how to react, then the creature snapped its head around toward him, regarding the slayer with eerie silence.


    ¡°Uhhh, Trenan. Has anyone mentioned undead coming through the rift?¡± Brigette asked from behind him, her voice unusually hushed.


    ¡°N-no,¡± he said. ¡°Something is very wrong here.¡±


    If it was only a single skeleton¡­


    Before he could even finish framing the thought, another appeared, then another, then another. In a few seconds, the number of undead had leapt to over a dozen as they streamed down the mountain, moving lightly over the terrain towards them.


    ¡°Get the fuck out of here!¡± Trenan bellowed as he turned to run.


    The others were already moving, but before they got more than a few steps, darkness overtook them, a billowing fog that blocked sight and burned their skin. Trenan didn¡¯t allow it to slow him down, he stumbled, tripped, fell, but continued to move as quickly as he could.


    He heard the skeleton coming, its bones clacking against the rock as it raced up behind him. When he was certain he wouldn¡¯t be able to outpace it, the Hammerman firmed his grip, braced his shield and turned, trying to sense his opponent through the fog.


    ¡°Arthur? Chol? Light!¡± he snapped.


    His footing was sure, his posture correct, as good a place to fight as any.


    ¡°I can¡¯t find Arthur!¡± Chol called back, panic in her voice.


    ¡°Try to focus and give us some light, dammit!¡± Trenan barked back.


    A second later, a dull glow sputtered into existence, suppressed by the dark cloud. From the gloom, a skeleton rushed forward and he barely raised his shield in time before the sword of bone struck down. The blow held surprising power, but the Hammerman was skilled with his shield, and much stronger. He slanted the face, allowing the sword to slide off it, and prepared to swing his hammer before the undead could recover, but another one was already there. Another wide swing, caught on the shield, then another, keeping him on the defensive.


    ¡°Brigette? Where the hell are you?!¡±


    He hadn¡¯t heard from the swordswoman and that worried him. She was usually the loudest in a fight, whooping and hollering as she swung her weapon with deadly grace.


    ¡°She¡¯s indisposed,¡± came an unexpected reply. A human¡¯s voice, a man. Who?


    In a blink, the burning fog rushed to the ground and began to dissipate, leaving Trenan blinking and uncertain. He brandished his shield and hammer as he tried to take in the situation, eyes darting wildly.


    He was surrounded. There were dozens and dozens of skeletons now, with more coming down the mountain. There must have been hundreds of them.


    There was also a man. Young, not much older than Trenan and his team, light build, dark hair and burning eyes. There were at least ten skeletons between the two of them. Should he try it?


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t bother,¡± that voice was so cold. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t reach me. Besides, it would be a shame to break up such a new team.¡±


    Brigette and Arthur, both motionless, eyes staring, were carried forward by a group of skeletons each before being stood on either side of this strange mage.


    ¡°What have you done to them?¡± Trenan growled, trying to suppress his rising fear.


    ¡°Temporarily dominated their minds,¡± came the matter of fact reply. Those eyes still stared at Trenan, as if trying to bore a hole through him. ¡°Now put down your weapons. You and the mage.¡±


    Chol allowed her staff to drop from her hands, her gaze locked onto Arthur. Trenan was reluctant, but lowered himself to place his shield and hammer nearby on the ground. He rose, his hands in the air.


    ¡°What you¡¯re doing is illegal,¡± he tried to keep his voice steady, and almost succeeded. ¡°You cannot interfere with slayers in the performance of their duty.¡±


    The man gave him an incredulous look and Trenan realised how ridiculous he sounded. This mage was clearly beyond caring what was legal and illegal, pointing it out was useless.


    ¡°I will tell you what is going to happen. I will take the weapons from the four of you, then we will travel to Cragwhistle together. You will be held outside of the town while I contact a few people inside, then I will release you to them. Understood?¡±


    Trenan was shocked.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to let us go?¡± he said.


    Chol looked hopeful, latching onto the chance she might get her partner back.


    ¡°Of course. There¡¯s a rebellion on, after all. Young slayers like yourselves might just prove yourselves to be useful. Now let¡¯s go.¡±

 B3C41 - Time Changes Everything Except Hatred

    ¡°It feels so damn good to be out of that cold,¡± Tyron huffed as he shrugged his shoulders and wiggled his toes. His extremities tingled as the blood flow returned.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got no idea what you¡¯re complaining about,¡± Dove replied. ¡°I feel¡­ nothing. I¡¯m numb and dead on the inside.¡±


    ¡°And the outside,¡± the Necromancer grunted. ¡°I didn¡¯t remember the other side of that rift being that freezing the last time I went through. Did Yor do something to keep me warm?¡±


    He waited for a few seconds, but Dove remained silent. Tyron turned to stare at him with wide eyes.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to let that go?¡± he asked, incredulous. ¡°No sex joke, no mention of tits, nothing?¡±


    Dove lifted his skeletal head and gazed off to the horizon as he scratched at his jaw.


    ¡°You know, Tyron,¡± he said wistfully, ¡°people can change. It¡¯s wonderful, and terrifying. The human condition, I suppose some call it. We can grow closer together, or further apart with the passage of time. What you knew to be true about me in the past may not be true for me now. I¡¯ve undergone a metamorphosis, a fundamental alteration on a deep, spiritual level.¡±


    ¡°She threatened you, or offered to free you. I refuse to believe anything else.¡±


    ¡°Both, actually,¡± the former Summoner replied, chattering his teeth together for comic effect. It was a new habit he¡¯d picked up, Tyron hated it. ¡°She said if I watched my words for a while, she¡¯d let my spirit go when I decide to shuffle off, and said she would stuff my spirit into a urinal if I didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a little surprised she didn¡¯t go for that in the first place.¡±


    ¡°So was I, after she¡¯d mentioned it. I had to ask, of course. She said it would¡¯ve irritated you too much.¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡±


    The skeletal army, with its four slayer captives, continued its march down the slope toward the burgeoning town of Cragwhistle. Thankfully, no kin had emerged from the rift and overtaken them as of yet, but it was only a matter of time, so the Necromancer was sure to keep himself surrounded with a protective wall of minions.


    ¡°Almost a shame my new armour hasn¡¯t been tested yet,¡± he said, poking at the greaves wrapped around one forearm. ¡°I put a lot of work into this.¡±


    ¡°You want to get hit? That¡¯s an interesting position to take.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t actually want to, I¡¯d just like to see how effective the armour is in combat. Testing it myself isn¡¯t the same as fighting in it.¡±


    ¡°My advice? Put it on someone else and let them take the hits. Not me.¡±


    The last was added when Dove noticed the young mage glancing at him askance.


    ¡°I could make you your own set of armour,¡± Tyron offered. ¡°All you¡¯d have to do is test it out for me.¡±


    ¡°No thanks,¡± Dove rebuffed. ¡°I¡¯ve actually got something to live for at the moment, which is a feeling I¡¯d almost forgotten, so fuck off.¡±


    Tyron grimaced. If Dove was feeling even a little more positive about his situation, that was probably a good thing. However, he couldn¡¯t shake the sense that the man had changed. The heroic slayer who¡¯d died protecting him was long gone, twisted by the torment he¡¯d been put through since the end of his natural life. Of course, that was largely Tyron¡¯s fault, but his former friend and mentor also bore some of that blame.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make you a set anyway. I can probably stash more enchantments for gathering magick on the bone, increase the pool you have to work with.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s generous of you,¡± Dove replied, trying not to sound surprised. ¡°I¡¯d appreciate that.¡±


    The two continued to walk in silence. Two dozen metres ahead of them, the four slayers staggered forward, hands tied behind their backs, fifty undead positioned around them. With time and resources to work with, the Necromancer Class was starting to show its true worth, and he¡¯d overcome the group with relative ease. Granted, he was above level forty and they were all low twenties, but it was four against one after all.


    He¡¯d been lucky there was only this one team on the mountain. Such a small rift didn¡¯t demand a full time presence of slayers like the others, and there was the rather unique position it was situated in, which necessitated the kin take the only available path down the mountain. The monsters could, of course, travel across country and hazard the cliffs, rock falls and avalanches in the barrier mountains, but ninety five out of a hundred were sure to take the obvious trail that led to Cragwhistle.


    To the rookie slayers posted here, it must have been the easiest assignment they could imagine. Weak rift-kin that funnelled themselves down a narrow path? It was like they were being fed a buffet of experience. The only dangerous part of the assignment was having to climb up and check the rift itself every few days.


    ¡°Apparently, there¡¯s only five teams stationed in Cragwhistle,¡± Tyron told Dove, ¡°and all of them are bronze, barely graduated.¡±


    The onyx-skeleton shook his bony head.


    ¡°The slayers are always stretched pretty thin, mainly because the strongest are ¡®encouraged¡¯ to live in that birdcage. If things get any worse, the magisters might be forced to relinquish their grip and let more golds go out to play. In the absence of a move like that, a remote location like this is always going to be a low priority.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d always heard that the slayer keeps closest to Kenmor were better staffed than places like Woodsedge. Undermist, Blackrift and Reynold, for the most part.¡±


    ¡°I spent a summer in Undermist, not long after I was out of the academy. I thought every keep was like that. How naive.¡±


    When Cragwhistle came into view, Tyron had to stop for a second and take it in. Viewed from above, the town was barely recognizable from what it had been before. A stout wall of stone stood barring the mountain path, but it wasn¡¯t large enough to conceal the new buildings behind. The small village had grown to perhaps five times the size it had occupied before, dozens and dozens, perhaps over a hundred chimneys peeking out of houses with lazy trails of smoke rising where there had been perhaps two in the past. It beggared belief that this could happen in just a few years.


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    Elsbeth had tried to tell him, but he hadn¡¯t really believed her.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± he muttered under his breath.


    After he took in the sight, he undid the binding that held his armour to his frame and had his skeletons collect the components before he stepped down the mountain to the four slayers. Clearly, Trenan was the leader, so it was to him Tyron addressed himself.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to hold you here, away from the village¡­ town¡­ until I¡¯ve spoken to a few people. Don¡¯t try anything stupid; just because I¡¯m not here doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m not watching.¡±


    Freed from his control, the swordswoman and battlemage looked up at him sullenly, but they were the least likely to act out. Having one¡¯s mind dominated was not a pleasant feeling, and had he wished, Tyron could have implanted all sorts of suggestions. They did not want to experience that again.


    ¡°You¡¯ll get home safe and sound,¡± he promised them, ¡°so long as you aren¡¯t stupid. If you are¡­¡±


    With a thought, he summoned a revenant, his first, to stand watch over the four.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t be the first slayer who was made to serve after death. Do you understand me?¡±


    ¡°We get it,¡± Trenan said.


    Most of the bluster had gone out of him now. This was a young man doing his best to lead his team, only nineteen or twenty years old. It almost made Tyron feel old.


    When he turned to stride down the mountain, he found a skeleton jauntily walking beside him, bouncing on his bony heels.


    ¡°Dove¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh fuck off! You¡¯re going to keep me out of town?¡±


    ¡°Of course I am. You¡¯re a skeleton. Hell, you aren¡¯t even a skeleton, you¡¯re a ghost clinging to a facsimile of a skeleton!¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°And people will not respond well if I approach the wall with you traipsing along by my side. Sit tight and wait. Perhaps I¡¯ll be able to get you inside the walls at some point, but by my bones and blood, it isn¡¯t now!¡±


    The skeleton threw up his hands and petulantly kicked a stone.


    ¡°Fine! But I¡¯m going to go annoy the shit out of the captives.¡±


    Good. They¡¯ll hate you more than they hate me.


    ¡°Whatever makes you happy.¡±


    So saying, he began his descent down the final few hundred metres. The wall was much better built than he¡¯d initially supposed. Solid blocks of stone, each well-carved and evenly laid, with good, solid mortar in between. Whoever¡¯d done the work clearly had levels and expertise in this sort of thing. Perhaps they were also the individual responsible, or at least one of them, for all the new construction.


    It didn''t take long before Tyron was spotted by people atop the wall. Not slayers, at least, he didn¡¯t think so. Villagers keeping watch, armed with simple bows called out to him when he was still a hundred metres away. Unperturbed, he held his hands above his head and kept walking until he stood before the solid gate, four faces peering down at him.


    ¡°Greetings,¡± he called up to them.


    ¡°How in the name of fuck did you get up the mountain?¡± a bewildered-looking older man called down to him. ¡°I¡¯ve been ¡®ere all day and I aven¡¯t seen hide nor hair of ya.¡±


    ¡°I need to talk to Ortan. He¡¯s expecting me. Can you send him out?¡±


    ¡°Ortan?¡±


    The four consulted each other in hushed tones before the old man stuck his head over the edge of the wall again.


    ¡°What do you need to talk to Ortan for?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a friend of Elsbeth Renner. She sent me with a message for him.¡±


    ¡°The priestess? You know her?¡±


    ¡°For a long time.¡±


    The man squinted.


    ¡°¡®Old tight. We¡¯ll send a runner for ¡®im.¡±


    ¡°Much appreciated.¡±


    ¡°Stay where I can see ya.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll just take a seat on this rock if you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°¡®Aight.¡±


    It took twenty minutes before there was movement atop the wall and Tyron saw a familiar face poke over the edge.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± Ortan half-shouted.


    ¡°Nice to see you too.¡±


    Not long after, Tyron found himself seated in a well-appointed tavern, though not to his uncle¡¯s standards, sipping on a mug of ale as his old acquaintance stared at him from across the table.


    ¡°I told her you were alive, you know,¡± Ortan said at last, the big man looking slightly ridiculous hunched over the table, trying to speak quietly. ¡°I¡¯m not sure she ever really believed me.¡±


    ¡°Elsbeth? She probably knew from the start, given who her sources are.¡±


    The townsman scowled and took a deep pull on the mug, casting a wary glance at the people on the tables around them. Compared to when he was last in Cragwhistle, the mood was almost positive, with cheerful faces and laughter echoing around the room. There was even a bard, or musician, more likely, plucking jaunty tunes on a lyre and singing. It was such a baffling difference it almost felt surreal.


    ¡°I¡¯m not as positive about those ¡®sources¡¯ as a lot of the people in town,¡± Ortan said. ¡°Seems to me almost everyone who¡¯s come in over the last few years is a member of a group I didn¡¯t know existed not that long ago.¡±


    ¡°There doesn¡¯t seem to be much point in fighting it,¡± Tyron said, ¡°considering who you¡¯re up against. What you¡¯re up against. If they want people to come here, then people will come. And they have; I can¡¯t believe what¡¯s happened here since I left.¡±


    ¡°Since you ¡®died¡¯, you mean,¡± the man said sarcastically before he brushed his hair back from his forehead and leaned back in his chair. ¡°It¡¯s been a shitload of work, I can tell you that much. Feels like we¡¯ve been balanced on a wire the whole time, but somehow things have had a way of working out when we needed them to. Enough food to make do, enough materials to get the next house built, enough wood to get us through the winter, the right tradespeople wandering into town at the right moment.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like you have friends in high places,¡± Tyron smirked.


    Ortan slumped forward.


    ¡°That¡¯s what Elsbeth implied, but she would never come out and say it quite so directly.¡±


    The Necromancer shrugged.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have her manners.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going to be able to hide your presence here, you know.¡±


    The huge man leaned forward to whisper again.


    ¡°All these people, they¡¯ve been waiting for a Ne¡ªfor someone like you to come. They¡¯ve been expecting it, said that their friends upstairs told them you would keep them safe.¡±


    It was Tyron¡¯s turn to scowl.


    ¡°It¡¯s not like I can stay here and protect them from the rift forever. Besides, they have slayers for that already.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s the kind of protection they¡¯re talking about.¡±


    He glanced around and Tyron almost rolled his eyes at how obviously conspiratorial the man was being. Someone this large shouldn¡¯t try and act so circumspect. He may as well have hung a side over the table saying ¡®These men have secrets¡¯.


    ¡°There¡¯s a magister in town,¡± Ortan breathed. ¡°Came two months back, after Elsbeth left.¡±


    Hot, burning anger ignited in Tyron¡¯s chest, scorching his throat. He clenched his teeth and found his fists had tightened into knots. Slowly, slowly, he eased the tension, tamped the fire down. It wasn¡¯t yet time. He had to be cautious.


    ¡°Just the one?¡± he confirmed, and Ortan nodded.


    ¡°He¡¯s been communicating by ro¡¯klaw?¡± he asked, and again, the big man nodded.


    Tyron sat back, his chin on his chest, pondering. After a minute, he looked up again, smouldering rage in his eyes.


    ¡°I¡¯ll need to meet this magister,¡± he growled.

 B3C42 - The First to Fall

    No matter what he did, the cold always managed to find Poranus Hean. It crept under his door frame no matter how he covered the gaps. It swirled down his neck, no matter how tightly he wound his scarf. Despite the thick, woollen gloves that he wore, his fingers still shook with it.


    In all his life, from downtown in Havercroft as a youth, living above his mother¡¯s dress shop, to his first post in the north, the magister had never experienced such a persistent and insidious chill. Any attempt to flee or protect oneself against the frost only seemed to invigorate it. He was slowly becoming convinced the climate in this gods-forsaken place was alive, tormenting him for its own amusement. No magister had set foot this far from Kenmor in over a hundred years. Perhaps the land itself had grown to reject his kind.


    Poranus rubbed his arms and scowled. If Cragwhistle didn¡¯t want him, then the damn place would have to get over it. In a fit of pique, he¡¯d committed himself to this posting, so now he was stuck with it for another six months, minimum.


    ¡°Lutin! Get in here, you miserable worm!¡± the magister bellowed.


    There was a timid knock at the door.


    ¡°Did you call for me, magister Poranus?¡±


    ¡°Obviously I did!¡± he roared. ¡°The walls are as thin as a caterpillar''s anus, don¡¯t pretend you didn¡¯t hear me!¡±


    ¡°And h-how may I serve you today?¡± that soft voice stammered from behind the door.


    Poranus felt his eyes might boggle out of his head with rage. He tried to modulate his tone, but sounded as if he were being strangled around the neck.


    ¡°Get. In. Here. Lutin,¡± he gargled.


    ¡°E-excuse me,¡± came the reply as the door slowly creaked open and the thin-faced manservant poked his nose through the gap. When he surmised that the magister was somewhat calm, he relaxed a little and entered fully, standing straight, his hands clasped before his midsection.


    The way he shifted his feet ever so slightly from side to side, with an air that nobody could see him, reminded Poranus of nothing so much as a mouse. It infuriated him.


    ¡°I¡¯m cold,¡± he ground out. ¡°Fetch more wood for the fire, and I want to see that oaf Ortan in here before the hour is done.¡±


    Having dealt with the servant without resorting to threats of maiming or losing his temper, Poranus was quite satisfied and sat behind his desk, intending to see to his papers.


    Cringing in the doorway, Lutin, like an unwelcome fart, remained.


    ¡°I¡¯m ever so sorry, magister,¡± he said, almost whining, ¡°but the villagers insisted they have given you more than double the normal household share of firewood. There is precious little to be had, and it isn¡¯t yet winter, so they are extremely reluctant to let people have too much.¡±


    The mage slammed his hand down on the table, his expression twisted with rage.


    ¡°Those damned peasants,¡± he roared, ¡°have no right to deny me anything. If I want their dead grandmother''s corpse in my bed, they say ¡®thank you, sir¡¯ and clean my sheets the morning after!¡±


    He grit his teeth and tried to calm his breathing. He¡¯d been right to demand a magister be sent out here, these people knew nothing of the proper respect due to his station, nor the authority he wielded. It shouldn¡¯t be surprising, this place hadn¡¯t seen an official of the Baron¡¯s court in gods know how long. As far as he¡¯d been able to determine, no taxes had been levied here in five decades, and they were lucky if the marshals visited more than once a year.


    As isolated as an island surrounded by a permanent storm, Cragwhistle and other villages like it were more disconnected from the rest of the Empire than Poranus had imagined was possible in this day and age. The thought of these tiny pockets of surly, uneducated and illiterate people, unaware of their place within the greater workings of the province, let alone the Empire as a whole, was baffling.


    At least here, all of that was bound to change. With the opening of a rift, slayers would come. When slayers arrived, magisters would come. The wealth extracted from the rift-kin would bring merchants and traders, eager to collect the wares and transport them to richer markets, which meant roads, inns, stables and wagons. Slayers needed weapons, healing, entertainment and food, which would bring restaurants, taverns, hospices, brothels, farmers and more. With the influx of population, civilisation would come knocking also: taxes, law, a permanent slayer keep, with an official residence for a magister.


    Of course, it would be decades before all of that was realised, but Poranus drew some satisfaction looking at the sullen faces of the people here, knowing their attitudes would soon change for the better.


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    ¡°Go out there, and return with wood for the fire, or I will burn you, Lutin,¡± he finally managed to say. ¡°Then I will go into the village personally, I will return with wood even if I have to tear it from someone''s house with my bare hands. Understood?¡±


    The servant nodded jerkily before he turned and rushed out the door, barely remembering to close it behind him in his haste. The magister sat still, his trembling hands laced together under his chin as he struggled to regain his equilibrium.


    It hadn¡¯t been that long ago he¡¯d been in council at the highest levels in Kenmor, representatives of the major houses sat around the table with him. Due to his own temper, he was now here, in this frozen hellscape, trying to bring order and dignity to people who resolutely did not want it.


    Infuriating. Every minute and every day was infuriating. If it went on like this, he didn¡¯t know how much more he could take. After delaying and slowing his travel by as much as he possibly could, his arrival several months ago had felt like the knot finally being loosed on the gallows.


    ¡°Put it out of your mind,¡± he spat, trying to invigorate himself. ¡°No point whining over it like a sewing girl with a pricked thumb.¡±


    The stack of official documents in need of review was depressingly thin. Such and such a team with such and such as members sortied toward the rift, report included. Such and such a team engaged in a defensive action outside the wall, fighting off kin, then collecting such and such cores and sundry resources, which were sold for such and such, with assistance from team who cares and team nobody important.


    With such weak monsters coming through the rift, only a handful of bronze teams were necessary to maintain the equilibrium. For a magister of his calibre to oversee the administration was an extravagant waste of talent.


    With a sigh, he diligently went through each document, noting the dates and intensity of each engagement, along with the resources gathered. Regardless of how demeaning it was, Poranus intended to complete his role flawlessly, as well as engaging with his primary purpose for coming to such a remote location.


    The rebellion. Rumblings of it had been heard even in the capital, completely ignored by his colleagues. If evidence of such an uprising could be collected anywhere, it would surely be here. As of yet, he¡¯d seen no evidence of any kind hinting at an organised rebellion. The slayers here were young, barely out of the academy, and the bulk of the people were stone miners, shepherds and carvers, hardly the sort to attempt to overthrow the baron. They might glare and spit behind Poranus¡¯ back, but that was simply because nobody had whipped them for disrespecting their betters in generations. All of that would change.


    He leaned back in his chair, papers momentarily forgotten as he gazed up at the thatched roof of his abode thoughtfully. The house had been ¡®donated¡¯ for his use as an official residence and office upon his arrival, and despite being one of the best constructed in the village, it was woefully insufficient.


    There had to be evidence somewhere. Before he was done, he had to take something back he could shake under those idiots on the council¡¯s noses, something that would stir them to action. Communications of some kind, proof of weapons being smuggled, or illegals fighting the kin. Perhaps he should go through the villagers and see if anyone unbranded had been involved in the battles. Some of them had achieved a surprising number of levels fighting the kin after the rift had opened, which had been revealed upon his arrival and collection of official status readings. If he were to perform another reading, perhaps he would shake loose a few people who¡¯d gained more levels lately than they strictly should have?


    It was a thought worth pursuing.


    There came a soft knock at the door and Poranus grunted, lowering his gaze back to his paperwork.


    ¡°Come in, Lutin. Throw it straight on the fire and then get out. I¡¯m busy.¡±


    Frequency and intensity of kin attacks on the walls seemed to be almost stable, and the reports from observing the rift itself suggested that it wasn¡¯t growing much anymore. If equilibrium had already been achieved, then that was a good thing. The province was stretched to produce enough slayers as it was. They were running out of grist for the mill, so to speak. For now, Cragwhistle would serve as an ideal training ground for weaker teams before they would be sent to more established rifts.


    He scratched a few notes into his official records as the figure of Lutin entered the chamber and moved toward the fireplace.


    For the most part, the boar-like kin carried only the weakest grade of cores and little in the way of useful components, but the ice-creatures were better. Considering how weak they were, they tended to hold low-eight to low-three cores, which were worth a decent amount for bronze teams. The Empire¡¯s hunger for cores was insatiable, and apparently, a few teams had begun to see signs of crystalised magick in some of the caves higher up the mountain, which could also prove profitable.


    Suddenly, Poranus reeled as something battered into his mind. He fell to the side, papers flying as his hands jerked and twisted against his will.


    He snarled.


    ¡°You think I didn¡¯t know you were there? That worm Lutin always shuffles his feet.¡±


    The magister fought to bring his body upright, pushing back against the weight that sought to smother his thoughts. He glared at the cloaked figure across the room, one hand extended towards the desk.


    At last, someone had acted directly against him.


    With a rictus grin twisting his features, Poranus slowly forced himself to standing, pushing back against the pressure, gaining ground millimetre by millimetre.


    ¡°You and I, are going to have, a long conversation, after this,¡± he ground out, straining with every fibre of his mind.


    The cloaked figure watched him, seemingly unperturbed that he was losing the battle of wills.


    A fool, then. Trying to dominate the mind of a magister? Poranus and his brothers were the masters of that game.


    Something blurred in the doorway, and he barely had time to recognise the flash of steel in the dim light before pain erupted in his hand. With horror, Poranus glanced down to see three fingers had been severed from his right hand, rings still glittering on the lost digits.


    The weight on his mind suddenly doubled, and the magister felt himself begin to buckle under the pressure.


    ¡°A little harder, without the ring, isn¡¯t it?¡± the cloaked figure said quietly. The hand tightened into a fist. ¡°Let¡¯s see how strong that Will really is.¡±

 B3C43 - Dangerous Game

    Tyron watched carefully as the magister struggled to resist the influence of his mind. It was a desperate battle, will against will as they fought for supremacy.


    Over the years, Tyron had become unfortunately skilled at this practice. Yor had called on him numerous times, and Tyron had been forced to manipulate several individuals establishing his identity as Lukas Almsfield. However, this was a form of combat the Magisters were well versed in.


    Grimacing, saliva running down his chin, his opponent glared at him with a frenzied glint in his eye, his hands frozen into claws that hovered in the air.


    ¡°Did you notice what it was that cut you?¡± Tyron said, keeping his voice low. ¡°An undead. You know what that means? You¡¯ve already lost, but it''s better if you¡¯re alive, right?¡±


    Almost against his will, the magister flicked his eyes to where the skeleton stood, bloodied sword still in hand. In that moment, his concentration wavered, and Tyron ruthlessly tightened his grip.


    Desperation crept into the fight as the wounded mage began to frantically thrash and claw at his mind. He knew the only way out was if he won this battle in an overwhelming victory, crushing his opponent before the skeleton could be ordered to injure him.


    Tyron allowed the magisters'' increasingly panicked Will to lash against him as he continued to squeeze. The anger blazed in him now, a roaring bonfire that crackled so loud as to drown out the rest of his thoughts. All he could see was the magister. All he could sense was his mind closing like a vice around his foes.


    First, there was a slight chink, one brick in the wall cracking under the strain, but Tyron was upon it in an instant, driving his Will through like a spike. The magister tried to plug the gap, to rally what remained of his defence against the intrusion, but it was too late. Once the first chink had been opened, more soon followed as Tyron worked ruthlessly to widen them.


    When there was no way left to hold him off, the Necromancer wrapped his Will around his opponent completely, blanketing his mind and suffocating it. He was now in total control.


    When he came back to himself, he found his entire body ached. His fists and jaw were clenched tight, a rictus snarl on his face, every muscle tensed and sore. Emotion had gotten the better of him. It was hard, seeing someone dressed in the robes of a magister standing in front of him, but that didn¡¯t excuse his lack of control.


    ¡°H-have you got him?¡± calm a hesitant voice from outside the door.


    ¡°Yes, I have him.¡±


    The door opened and the broad-shouldered frame of Ortan ducked through. He really was too large for his own good. The Cragwhistle resident looked at the frozen form of the mage in wide-eyed shock, as if not believing the evidence of his own eyes.


    ¡°When you said you wanted to ¡®handle¡¯ the magister, I didn¡¯t really believe you could do it. He¡¯s actually under your control?¡±


    ¡°He is, but he can still hear you,¡± Tyron told him dryly.


    ¡°Shit! You should have warned me before I came in!¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nowhere for you to hide now, so don¡¯t bother. I¡¯m able to manipulate his thoughts and memories to a certain degree, so he won¡¯t remember this has happened. Not exactly, anyway.¡±


    Ortan blanched when he saw the severed digits on the floor.


    ¡°And how are you going to explain those with altered memories? Did he cut himself shaving or something?¡±


    The Necromancer reached down to pick up the fingers and pulled the ring from each in turn before dropping them onto the desk. He held up a black ring between his thumb and forefinger, showing it to Ortan.


    ¡°Nasty piece of work this one. Helps protect them against mental intrusion and manipulation. Has a specially moulded core wound through the centre of it. Without removing it from his body, there¡¯s no way I could have won.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t help you explain how you¡¯ll manage to prevent him from remembering it happening!¡±


    ¡°The best lies have an element of truth mixed into them,¡± Tyron said thoughtfully, tapping his chin as he considered the problem. ¡°Perhaps I¡¯ll suggest that it was a skeleton who cut his hand. A rogue undead from the plains, or someone recently deceased on the mountain. There¡¯s sure to be a few bony boys¡ªskeletons wandering around out there, considering all the death over the last few years.¡±


    He looked over to Rufus, the revenant standing guard over the frozen form of the magister and smirked. He couldn¡¯t help enjoying having him as a minion sometimes. Hopefully, he¡¯d grow out of it.


    ¡°Now, we have a wonderful opportunity on our hands,¡± Tyron said as he found a chair and pulled it over to the desk. With a flex of his Will, he forced the magister to sit, then eased himself down on the opposite side. ¡°We have a docile, controlled magister here to question to our hearts content. There are limits to what we can force out of him, but I think this is going to be very enlightening.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Six months,¡± Tyron muttered, ¡°I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s going to be enough.¡±


    Ortan looked at him sideways as the two settled themselves around the table in the larger man¡¯s home.


    ¡°You want to monopolise a rift for six months and it won¡¯t be enough?¡± he said. ¡°Just how many kin do you need to kill?¡±


    Tyron flicked him a glance, a hint of irritation creeping through.


    ¡°I can¡¯t be here all the time. I have a persona, connections, and businesses to maintain. Not to mention that most of the materials I use to create my minions have been sourced from the capital. Kenmor is home to millions of people, nobody is likely to miss a few skeletons there. Where am I going to find hundreds of remains out here, or the resources necessary to process them?¡±


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    He indicated towards the village with one hand dismissively, but Ortan spoke to him seriously.


    ¡°If it¡¯s bodies you need, there are thousands out here,¡± he said quietly, looking down at the table. ¡°Entire villages were wiped off the map after the break at Woodsedge, and more have died since, to disease and starvation. There¡¯s good reason why so many people have been prepared to up and risk everything to move out here.¡±


    Tyron blinked, then nodded slowly.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, ¡°I didn¡¯t realise it was so bad out here. Elsbeth didn¡¯t mention¡­¡±


    Ortan frowned, then sighed.


    ¡°Well I suppose she wouldn¡¯t. She¡¯s got a good heart, doesn¡¯t want to lay burdens on people they don¡¯t belong to.¡±


    He stood and walked to his humble cupboard, pulling down two mugs and a bottle of red wine that he poured into generously. With one large hand, he pushed one mug across the table to Tyron, then gathered his own and raised it in a salute before taking a long drink.


    ¡°Hits the spot,¡± he rasped. ¡°Bit stronger than I remember. Heck. They bottle this north of Cluffton, near Dustwatch Keep. Thorn and Sons Vinyard. I swear you can clean blood off the streets with this stuff.¡±


    He took another pull while Tyron raised the glance and imbibed a cautious amount. The fluid burned his tongue and throat on the way down, tickling his nose. It was definitely strong.


    ¡°I¡¯m not surprised no one in the capital is talking about it, they don¡¯t care, never have. Help came east, but not much further than Foxbridge. Rebuilding at the rifts up north is sucking up a lot of resources. The Keep is about halfway done, and Woodsedge is starting to spring up around it again. This close to the barrier mountains,¡± the big man shrugged, ¡°nothing. I don¡¯t like to say it, but it really is a miracle we survived, even prospered, as well as we have. Under normal conditions, we¡¯d have starved to death long ago.¡±


    When it was said so plainly, Tyron saw clearly that this had been predictable, knowable, perhaps inevitable. With a little thought, he would have been able to see just how people this far west would have fared in the aftermath of the break. He thought of the farmwives and their children he¡¯d saved from their horrible circumstances, so long ago, perhaps his only significant, heroic deed. Had they all starved to death, along with the children? Or fallen sick and perished for lack of medicine?


    It hadn¡¯t mattered to him. He¡¯d been grieving, and burning for revenge. Even now, he didn¡¯t care, not really. His sympathy for these survivors had piqued, he wouldn¡¯t fool himself and say it hadn¡¯t, but he didn¡¯t live to help people in need, not anymore. He lived to enact vengeance, and he couldn¡¯t afford any distractions from that goal.


    ¡°Where would I find these bodies?¡± he said finally, leaning forward.


    The big man scowled at him, then laughed bitterly.


    ¡°We can help you with that, I suppose. It depends on how open you want to be with your¡­activities. I can have someone hunt down the mass graves for you, but the more¡­ dedicated people could probably be convinced to help you out, sort bones and the like. Of course, if you help us out, the folks here are more likely to chip in¡­ and keep their mouths shut.¡±


    It didn¡¯t really matter if the people were willing to keep his secrets or not. Of course, it would take longer for word to spread if they were disciplined, but in the face of a noble, or a significant member of the clergy¡­ they would be helpless before the Divine Right. They¡¯d sell their newborn baby before the command had finished ringing in their ears.


    Tyron leaned back in his chair as he thought. How greedy did he want to be? How much could he risk exposing himself? This far from Kenmor, it was tempting to simply drop the facade and finally be himself again, no mask. That impulse might be a trap.


    Walking around town with his natural face was one thing, even confronting the magister without a facade was acceptable. After all, the number of people in the world who¡¯d seen Tyron Steelarm at his current age and known who they were looking at could be counted on the fingers of one hand. According to everyone in the province, he was dead, a black mark on the family expunged by the sacrifice of Magnin and Beory, an event that occurred close to five years ago.


    Still. When the magisters inevitably learned of a Necromancer on the loose, would they believe it was someone new who had managed to slip the net, or would they immediately think it was Tyron Steelarm, who had survived unexpectedly?


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you want me to do,¡± Tyron eventually said, ¡°my plan is to stay here and use the rift to gain experience and levels, though the process will likely be slow, now that I¡¯ve reached silver rank.¡±


    ¡°So you have made it to silver. I guess you¡¯d have to be, in order to knock out a magister the way you did.¡±


    ¡°But as I said, I can¡¯t stay here permanently. I have a month before I need to go back to Kenmor, then I¡¯ll make, hopefully, another two or three trips over the following six months.¡±


    ¡°Your minions don¡¯t have to leave, though, right?¡± Ortan points out. ¡°Can¡¯t they stay and fight while you¡¯re not here?¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Of course not. In order for them to move, I have to supply them with magick through a conduit. Moving such a vast amount of arcane energy over such a long distance would be¡­ impossible. I¡­ couldn¡¯t afford to¡­ have¡­ I¡­ think?¡±


    The Necromancer trailed off and Ortan stared at him expectantly, then grew slightly concerned as the mage¡¯s eyes began to glaze over and stare straight through him.


    ¡°Hey¡­ Tyron? Hey!¡± he clapped his hands and the young man startled in his seat, his gaze focusing once more.


    ¡°What? Where?¡± he stuttered, looking around himself in confusion.


    ¡°You spaced out there, are you alright?¡± Ortan asked cautiously.


    ¡°Oh¡­ yes. I had¡­ an idea.¡±


    He shook himself vigorously, trying to focus on the here and now, not allowing his mind to go racing down the thread he had discovered.


    ¡°Our main problem remains the magister, Poranus.¡±


    ¡°How is he an issue? Haven¡¯t you¡­¡± Ortan made an odd, scissoring motion with one hand towards his own head, ¡°fixed him up? So to speak?¡±


    The big man was clearly uncomfortable with the idea.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t ¡®fixed him up¡¯. I¡¯ve suppressed his thoughts and implanted false ideas to replace them. I¡¯ll have to check on him every now and again to ensure it doesn¡¯t break, but if all goes according to plan, he¡¯ll sit in that house for the next half year, filing paperwork and not setting foot outside, which means we can do whatever we like out on the rift. The issue will be when he goes back to Kenmor.¡±


    Tyron folded his arms across his chest and stared Ortan in the eye.


    ¡°Poranus is supposed to be here for six months. When that time is up, he¡¯ll return to the capital and go back to his regular duties, and someone else will be sent.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ you can just bamboozle the next magister as well. Can¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Probably. My main concern is if someone notices that Poranus¡¯ memory has been tampered with. The Magisters are famously practitioners of mental magick. If they figure it out, we may all be in trouble.¡±


    Ortan slapped the table.


    ¡°Then shouldn¡¯t you have just left him alone? You¡¯ve put the entire village at risk!¡±


    ¡°I have,¡± Tyron admitted, glaring across the table. ¡°And I¡¯ll do what I can to protect you and these people, but I won¡¯t risk myself. I needed Poranus settled so I could access the rift, regardless of what that meant for you and yours.¡±


    He leaned forward.


    ¡°I am here to gather the strength I need to enact my vengeance, Ortan. Anything that becomes an obstacle to that will be dealt with. Understood?¡±


    The big man scowled.


    ¡°I get it.¡±

 B3C44 - Master of the Fief

    ¡°You stupid bronze pieces of shit! Kneel before me!¡±


    ¡°We are kneeling, you fucking donkey!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± Dove roared. ¡°I will not tolerate this disrespect. I am your new Master, and you will obey my commands!¡±


    The onyx skeleton pointed a bony finger at the four captives, glaring down at their kneeling figures with contempt burning in his burning, purple eyes.


    ¡°I was almost a gold ranked slayer,¡± he boasted, slapping himself on the ribs with both hands. ¡°You four are just puppies compared to me. If you behave yourselves, I¡¯ll tell my servant to treat you nicely when I¡¯m not around. You¡¯ll get muffins. Maybe.¡±


    He tapped his jaw lightly.


    ¡°What¡¯s the name of your team, anyway?¡±


    Trenan scowled.


    ¡°The Hooligans,¡± he muttered, a little reluctantly.


    Dove stared at him.


    ¡°That¡¯s terrible. I love it.¡±


    ¡°Dove,¡± a cold voice broke into the conversation, followed a moment later by the cloaked figure of the Necromancer.


    The four young slayers tensed as he appeared, and Dove threw his hands up with disgust.


    ¡°This is ridiculous! They¡¯re terrified of you, but look at me like I¡¯m mildly irritating! As if I were indigestion, or old ham, or sour beer¡­ overripe cheese. Damn, I want food all of a sudden.¡±


    ¡°You could shove some in your face, I suppose,¡± Tyron said, voice wry. ¡°Not that you would taste it.¡± He stepped closer and glanced at the captives. ¡°Why are they kneeling?¡± he asked.


    ¡°So that they know their place!¡± the skeleton declared, performing a rude gesture at the team.


    Tyron rubbed his temples and sighed. He¡¯d hoped having a body and some basic magick would help stop Dove¡¯s slide into¡­ disturbing avenues of thought. At best, it had slowed him down¡­ slightly. He had a bad feeling that whatever was going on with his mentor would not end well. For anyone.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about him,¡± Tyron said to the four, who clearly did not expect an apology from their captor.


    Tyron briefly considered how to explain Dove¡¯s behaviour, then gave up and moved on to other things.


    ¡°All of you, stand up, please.¡±


    Brigette, Arthur and Choll all looked to Trenan, who nodded, and the three of them followed his lead in rising to their feet, all eyeing the Necromancer warily. For his part, Tyron was unafraid. Without their weapons and surrounded by skeletons, these four slayers were no threat to him.


    He¡¯d considered for a while what he should say to these slayers to help them understand what was happening here, what he was doing. Perhaps he should make some attempt to bring them into the rebellion, turn them against the magisters? According to Elsbeth, this was where the Three wanted to make their stand, the hub around which the slayer uprising would be founded.


    To this point, he didn¡¯t see it. The villagers were hard people, and no friends of the empire. In fact, in the wake of the break four years ago, the common folk this far from Kenmor were openly hostile to the authorities. For the slayers, it was different. Magnin and Beory, specifically, the way they had been used and killed by the magisters, had been the final straw. After decades, centuries, of being suppressed and controlled, seeing their best and brightest being treated so poorly had exhausted their tolerance.


    But these four? They were fresh out of the academy, barely twenty years old. His parents had died before they had even Awakened. Did they care?


    Unable to come up with answers on what to do, he had simply decided to ignore them.


    ¡°I will be here for a few weeks. In that time, I will monopolise the rift. When I¡¯m done, I¡¯ll leave, and you can return to doing what you did before.¡±


    They watched him silently.


    ¡°Obviously, I¡¯m an illegal,¡± he spread his hands, being open with them, ¡°a Necromancer. You can attempt to report me, if you wish, but you might find it more difficult to achieve than you expect.¡±


    Most likely, they didn¡¯t believe him. It didn¡¯t matter; trying to speak to magister Poranus wasn¡¯t likely to go well for them. Not anymore.


    ¡°Whether you choose to believe me or not, I intend no harm to any of you, or the village. So long as you stay out of my way and keep quiet about my presence, you¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    Trenan glared at him.


    ¡°What assurance do we have that any of this is true?¡± he queried, despite the blonde swordswoman by his side digging a solid elbow into his ribs.


    Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°You¡¯re alive. If I wanted to kill you and raise you as my minions, I would have done so already. In fact...¡±


    He stepped back, into the waiting pack of shield-bearing skeletons. Once he was safely behind a wall of his minions, he had the slayers¡¯ weapons returned to them.


    ¡°You¡¯re free to go,¡± he said. ¡°Remember what I told you. Whether or not you end up like them,¡± he gestured towards the revenant of Rufus standing to one side, ¡°depends entirely on you.¡±


    Somewhat bewildered, the four accepted their gear, then stared as the skeletons stepped aside to allow them through. Hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence, Trenan led his team out of the wolf¡¯s mouth, walking down the slope and back towards town. Behind them, the Necromancer seemed to pay the slayers no more mind, speaking softly to the weird skeleton as the rest of the undead walked toward the rift.


    Was he really going to hold off the rift-kin all by himself? Judging from how many skeletons there were, it was possible.


    ¡°What the hell was that about?¡± Bridgette whispered, ¡°I thought we were dead for sure.¡±


    ¡°Shut up,¡± Trenan said, more harshly than he intended. ¡°We can talk once we get back into town. That Mage is possibly gold, or high silver. We aren¡¯t safe to talk here.¡±


    The others nodded and the group moved with purpose, tension thick in the air until they arrived back outside the wall.


    ¡°Hooligans, returning from the rift,¡± he said stiffly to the men and women above the gate.


    ¡°Welcome back, slayers. Got someone inside who wants a word with you.¡±


    They exchanged glances, but there was a palpable sense of relief when they saw Ortan Larigold waiting on the other side as the thick wooden gate swung open.


    ¡°We need to speak, urgently,¡± Trenan said as he strode up to the enormous villager.


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    ¡°Not here,¡± Ortan replied, ¡°let¡¯s move to your barracks.¡±


    ¡°Good idea,¡± Trenan nodded, ¡°the other teams should hear this as well.¡±


    The man nodded slowly.


    ¡°That too.¡±


    When they¡¯d arrived in Cragwhistle, the slayers had been put up in a house, all that was available at the time. Since then, something had been built, far from a proper slayer keep, but it was spacious enough to house the three teams in what comfort a remote place such as this could afford. It was to this building, long and low-roofed, formed of grey stone, that the five of them walked.


    Thankfully, the barracks was close to the gate, otherwise Bridgette may have exploded from the strain of holding in her words long before she arrived.


    ¡°There¡¯s a fucking Necromancer up the mountain, Ortan! There¡¯s hundreds of skeletons, way too many for us to kill!¡±


    The big villager blinked.


    ¡°That many? Damn.¡±


    His reaction was extremely off-putting for Trenan.


    ¡°You know about this guy? What the fuck is going on here, Mr Larigold?¡±


    ¡°Can you keep it down, please?¡± someone called in a piteous voice. ¡°I¡¯ve been drinking and would much rather be asleep than listening to you quarrel in the corridor.¡±


    Trenan turned and thumped on his door.


    ¡°Well you¡¯re shit out of luck, Gramble. Get your pudgy ass out of bed and get your team together. Some real shit is going down.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t it wait until morning?¡±


    ¡°No, you dumb fuck! Hurry up!¡±


    Trenan glanced around.


    ¡°Where¡¯s team Starfire?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get them,¡± Chol offered, dragging Arthur with her. ¡°If they aren¡¯t in their rooms, I know their favourite place to be.¡±


    ¡°Make sure you get everyone,¡± Trenan told her. ¡°We need to work out what we¡¯re going to do.¡±


    Ortan simply sighed. Slayers often had their blood up, wanting to act decisively and be in control, he¡¯d come to notice. It was probably a result of them fighting day in, day out for so long. Being indecisive was how you got killed.


    In short order, the slayers of Cragwhistle had assembled. The four members of the Hooligans held court in the small common room inside the barracks, while the other teams found places to sit. Gramble had, with Trenan¡¯s assistance, dragged the other two members of his group, the Blue Dogs, out of bed, complaining loudly the entire time. The five women of team Starfire had returned at Chol¡¯s urging, though unhappy that they¡¯d been forced to abandon their meal. Their leader, Samantha, wore a perpetual scowl at the best of times. Right now, she appeared even more fierce.


    ¡°Did you call us all here, Mr Larigold?¡± she demanded when she saw Ortan standing in one corner. ¡°I have all due respect to your position in the village, but wasting my team¡¯s time is something I won¡¯t tolerate.¡±


    The big man held up his hands, palms out.


    ¡°Slow down there, please. It¡¯s true I wanted to speak to you all, but I¡¯m not the one who dragged you all here.¡±


    He stared pointedly at Trenan, who folded his arms across his chest and glared back at him.


    ¡°We have an urgent situation that needs to be remedied, so all of you can shut the fuck up with your petty grievances. There¡¯s a Necromancer on the mountain, right now, as we speak.¡±


    He spat out the sentence and paused a beat to allow it to sink in.


    ¡°A powerful one, too. He captured my team, disarmed us and held us captive before he let us go, told us to keep our mouths shut.¡±


    ¡°Is this some sort of joke?¡± Gramble wondered, pushing his glasses up his nose. ¡°A Necromancer? Here?¡±


    ¡°Do I look like I¡¯m joking to you, Gramble?¡±


    ¡°If I¡¯m being honest, you look like you¡¯ve never told a joke in your entire life.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    Samantha shared a worried glance with her team.


    ¡°And he just let you go? I don¡¯t know much about Necromancers except that they¡¯re illegal, but I understand that turning powerful fighters into undead slaves is basically their go-to move.¡±


    Trenan grunted.


    ¡°Said he would leave us alone, leave the village alone too, as long as we didn''t bother him. He wants the rift to himself for a few weeks. I¡¯m not sure I believe it.¡±


    ¡°Of course you don¡¯t believe it!¡± Gramble laughed incredulously. ¡°He¡¯s probably trying to get stronger by taking on the rift before he wipes out the village entirely! Killing all of us in the process! I, for one, am not going to sit around while this mage polishes a knife for my throat. Let¡¯s rally together and kill the prick!¡±


    Most of the slayers in the room nodded at this, but Ortan spoke up, cutting through the rising aggression.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that,¡± he said clearly, causing all the slayers to turn and stare at him.


    ¡°Why not?¡± Gramble demanded. ¡°We would be doing the people of Cragwhistle a great service, removing a clear and imminent danger! Besides, I¡¯m not sure what say you have in our decision, with respect.¡±


    Ortan dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, trying to work out how to phrase this diplomatically. Slayers had such sensitive egos at the best of times.


    ¡°For one, I think you would fail and die. There are hundreds of skeletons up on that mountain, so I¡¯m told, and in total, there are twelve of you.¡±


    ¡°I like those odds!¡± Bridgette announced.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t seem quite so confident on the mountain,¡± Arthur muttered.


    ¡°For two,¡± Ortan pressed on, ¡°the villagers here would likely turn on you if you did. Which you would not survive.¡±


    The big man grimaced as the faces staring at him grew decidedly more heated.


    ¡°Are you threatening us?¡± Samantha asked coldly.


    ¡°No. And I don¡¯t want to speak on this much.Suffice to say that the Necromancer is known to the people here, and they will not take kindly to him being hurt. The main reason I wanted to keep this conversation quiet was because I don¡¯t know how they¡¯ll react once they find out he¡¯s here. But if you try to go up the mountain and fight him, I will tell them.¡±


    ¡°We can prevent that,¡± Samantha growled.


    Something close to pity flickered across Ortan¡¯s face.


    ¡°No, you can¡¯t,¡± he said quietly.


    Upon graduating the academy, each and every one of them had been given the brand. In that moment, Trenan could feel it, searing like the day the cursed thing had been carved into his flesh.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing stopping us telling the magister,¡± Trenan said. ¡°He can send a message by ro¡¯klaw, have a team of silver slayers here to rip the bastard¡¯s head off before the week is out.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome to try,¡± Ortan said, ¡°but I warn you, it won¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°Are we really going to sit here and listen to this villager tell us what we can and can¡¯t do?¡± Gramble said, staring around the room. ¡°Fine. If that¡¯s what you all want, then fine. Me and my team will not remain while some madman we are permitted to kill sits on the mountain. We¡¯ll pack our things and be on our way in an hour.¡±


    He made to stand up, but again, Ortan spoke before he could.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid you can¡¯t do that either,¡± he said, reluctantly.


    Gramble turned to glare at him directly.


    ¡°Why not?¡± he said slowly.


    ¡°Because the magister would write you up for dereliction of duty, ruining your career. Your three teams have been posted here directly, you aren¡¯t free to leave.¡±


    Trenan didn¡¯t like what he was hearing.


    ¡°Why would Magister Poranus do that, Mr Larigold?¡± he asked. ¡°You seem awfully confident he¡¯ll do whatever is convenient to that Necromancer.¡±


    ¡°Suffice to say, those two have had a confrontation, which the magister lost,¡± Ortan said, shifting uncomfortably. ¡°Any attempt to turn Poranus against the Necromancer will¡­ not work out.¡±


    ¡°Mind magick?¡± Gramble gasped, horrified. ¡°That¡¯s monstrous!¡±


    ¡°And what they did to us isn¡¯t?¡± a voice grated out harshly.


    Shocked, many of the slayers, including members of her own team, turned to stare at Samantha, who scowled back at them, fire in her eyes.


    ¡°Anyone who doesn¡¯t resent the brand, put your hand up,¡± she spat.


    Seconds ticked past in total silence. Nobody raised a hand.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought. I¡¯m not happy about this situation, but I¡¯ll jump through a rift naked before I feel sorry for one of those bastards.¡±


    A hush descended over the group as they each considered what they should do, until Gramble, the pudgy mage, had had enough.


    ¡°This is ridiculous,¡± he declared, pushing himself to his feet. ¡°I refuse to believe the people of Cragwhistle are behind you on this, Mr Larigold. It¡¯s absurd, and I¡¯m going to prove it.¡±


    He began to march toward the exit as Ortan stretched out a hand.


    ¡°Don¡¯t do that. Please!¡± He called after him, but without physically restraining him, there was nothing he could do.


    The others looked at each other before they too rose from their seats and began to file out of the barracks, wondering what Gramble was going to do.


    Full of ire, the mage boldly stepped out into the middle of the street, threw up his hands as if he were a circus performer and loudly declared.


    ¡°Good people of Cragwhistle. I must inform you of a real and present danger!¡±


    This obviously garnered attention, people turning from what they were doing, poking their noses out of shops.


    ¡°There is a vile Necromancer on the mountain!¡± Gramble shouted.


    The slayers watched in shock as the people heard what he said, then turned to the mountain.


    A great cheer rose in the chill air.

 B3C45 - Ossuary Rises

    There was something refreshing about being on his own again. The city was filled with distractions, noises, and concerns. He had to wear many faces, be many things to many different people. Until he had stepped away from it all to make this trip, Tyron hadn¡¯t truly realised how exhausted of it all he was.


    Pulling so many strings at once was a difficult feat, and he found himself glad to be able to put them all down, untangle the knots in his mind.


    ¡°Are you going to stand around staring at the trees, or are you going to kill some shit?¡± Dove said, prodding him in the side with a pointed, bone finger.


    It was almost peaceful out here.


    ¡°That¡¯s it, I¡¯m putting the armour back on,¡± Tyron brushed the skeleton away before he found the armour he¡¯d constructed. A brief ritual later and he was once again covered in the moulded bone plates, protected from the kin and irritating undead slayers.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Dove urged him. ¡°The sooner you get to fighting, the sooner I can death bolt some kin in the head and see if I can start earning levels again.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s unlikely tha¡ª¡± Tyron began, for the umpteenth time.


    ¡°Yes, yes, yes, yes,¡± Dove waved him off, ¡°we all know that it probably won¡¯t work. No need to bring down the mood, you fucking killjoy. A slim chance is better than no chance, right? Let me have this.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± he conceded.


    There was no real reason to continually squash Dove¡¯s dreams of regaining his power, but he really didn¡¯t believe it would work. As far as he knew, the power of the Unseen was tied to blood. How, he didn¡¯t know, but the status ritual itself was proof enough. If more evidence was needed, then the blood capsules he¡¯d received from Yor being able to change his status was sufficient.


    Although¡­ he paused for a moment. Although the capsules changed the way his status was read, it didn¡¯t actually change his capabilities in any way. None of his Unseen-granted strength or knowledge was removed, nor the aid of his mysteries. Perhaps the status was read from the blood, but existed somewhere else? It was an interesting line of thought.


    But not why Tyron was here.


    ¡°You can have a few here and there,¡± he warned the skeleton, ¡°but I need the bulk of the experience for myself.¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course. I¡¯m not some greedy little rat, begging for more scraps than they deserve,¡± Dove said indignantly. ¡°I¡¯ll behave, you¡¯ll see.¡±


    Tyron grunted, unconvinced, but didn¡¯t waste more time with the former Summoner. He was finally here, with a chance to fight, experiment and gain experience, an opportunity that had taken years for him to create. He refused to waste it.


    ¡°Hopefully, the kin have started filtering through again after we cleared them from the other side,¡± Tyron mused.


    ¡°Of course they will,¡± Dove assured him, ¡°rifts will always draw in kin, especially if there are not many hanging around it. All they want in life is to jump through and kill shit.¡±


    ¡°Why is it that everything not living in this realm wants to take a chunk out of it?¡± Tyron said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous. The realms that have fallen to the rifts attack others without rhyme or reason, but the fact that they exist at all speaks to the existence of worlds beyond this one. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s gajillions of worlds out there, probably in the same boat as us, fighting off the kin and trying to preserve what¡¯s left for their people.¡±


    ¡°Then why haven¡¯t we ever found any? You¡¯d think after thousands of years of fighting the rifts, we would have found a way to contact another world, cooperate with them against a common enemy.¡±


    Dove shrugged his bony shoulders.


    ¡°Fucked if I know. Dimensional magick has found ways to contact all sorts of places, such as the Astral Sea, or the Abyss, and a bunch more nobody gives a fuck about, but not other realms such as our own.¡±


    ¡°I have,¡± Tyron mused.


    ¡°You what?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve contacted another realm like ours¡­ sort of.¡±


    The skeleton stared at him.


    ¡°You¡¯re talking about the Scarlet Court, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°From what we¡¯ve been told by Yor, it¡¯s a realm that was taken over by the vampires and turned into a¡­ blood and darkness paradise for their kind. Who¡¯s to say that it wasn¡¯t once a world like ours?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ actually really interesting,¡± Dove stroked his bony chin. ¡°Something to think about another time. For now, let¡¯s go kill shit! That¡¯s what we came here for.¡±


    ¡°Right you are.¡±


    There were too many interesting thoughts bubbling away in Tyron¡¯s mind. He¡¯d need time to sort through them, but for now, he directed his minions forward. After six hours of fighting, he would retreat back to a familiar cave for the night.


    ~~~


    Against the frost boars and ice-walkers that Tyron had first battled against four years ago, his minions proved more than up to the task. Watching his massed ranks of skeletons tear the kin apart filled Tyron with satisfaction. This was the potential his Class had held from the beginning. A Necromancer was a powerful weapon against the rifts and he was now the proof. His shield minions formed a solid wall, absorbing the force of the boar charge, stabbing back with icy-calm while his archers fired and longsword skeletons flanked.


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    With the overwhelming numbers he brought to the fight, very little damage was suffered by his undead during the fighting. The roaming packs of boars, even when supported by the stronger ice-kin, were simply not enough to match his minions, even with minimal spell support.


    As night fell, he arrayed his minions around the cave that had been his resting place once, four years before. Better prepared this time, Tyron laid out his supplies, creating a cosy and secure environment. A padded bedroll lay on the flattest ground, which he covered in leaves. A crackling fire was quickly lit in his enchanted firepit, with added temperature control. In a move that left Dove speechless, he even revealed a foldable table and chair, which he quickly arranged, unfolded his notes and began to scribble away in.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t exactly roughing it, are you?¡± the skeleton said, incredulous.


    Tyron continued to make notes.


    ¡°I don¡¯t see any reason why I should. I have the ability to purchase, or make, better equipment, so I did.¡±


    ¡°Did Magnin and Beory travel with all this luxury? I always assumed they enjoyed slumming it like the rest of us.¡±


    The young mage hesitated, his memories causing the pain to spike in his chest.


    ¡°They travelled pretty light,¡± he said roughly, then coughed to clear his throat. ¡°Ahem. At their level¡­ there wasn¡¯t much they couldn¡¯t do for themselves. Magnin was so physically durable he could sleep on the point of a spear, and Beory could heat or cool a tent, start the fire, conjure water, whatever was needed.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought. Shame to see their child living in such frivolous comfort.¡±


    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t have cared. They¡¯d be more likely to praise me for planning ahead, something they always struggled to do.¡±


    ¡°Well, enough of this pointless sentimental garbage. I killed three kin today, let me have some paper so I can perform the status ritual!¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes, but handed over a sheet of paper nonetheless. He didn¡¯t bother telling the skeleton he was unlikely to have success without being able to bleed, but he also didn¡¯t tell him about his suspicion about the power of the Unseen. He had too much on his plate to worry about without the skeleton pestering him for more favours.


    ¡°Come to Dove, you wordy prick!¡± the mage cackled, holding the paper in his hand as he danced his odd skeletal dance.


    Trying to ignore him, Tyron turned his attention to his own matters. On the page in front of him he had a short list of things he needed to resolve regarding his own build, sooner rather than later.


    They were:


    <ul>


    <li>Sub-class</li>


    <li>General Feats and Skills</li>


    <li>Necromancer progression</li>


    </ul>


    Despite thinking on it for some time, he was no closer to selecting a sub-class to pursue. As a human, he had access to a third, and he didn¡¯t want to waste it, especially since Anathema had taken a precious slot. Alchemy was a viable path, another source of income that may unlock more ways to strengthen his skeletons, but Tyron had reached a point where he could simply pay an alchemist to perform that service, or at least, provide the materials.


    Some sort of general or leadership Class? Would such a thing even work on the undead? And how would he go about receiving it? Unlikely Lukas Almsfield would be able to sign up for a military or militia.


    There were many different mage classes that tempted him. Summoner, Elementalist, Dimension mage, Curse mage, all of them seemed viable.


    Irritated, he turned his attention to the next line item. He had general feats and skills that he needed to select. Not as powerful as those stemming from Classes, they were still extremely useful and deserved careful thought before selection. Tyron had so little time to devote to such matters recently, but he was determined to make his choices before leaving the mountain.


    Third and finally, he needed to map out his progression as a Necromancer as best he could. Synthesising what he knew about the Class, he wanted to try and visualise a path for him to reach his goals. Thinking about what he wanted from the Class had helped him select Lord of the Ossuary when he¡¯d ascended, and Tyron had come to see the clarity that focusing on his purpose gave him as an asset.


    Speaking of which, it was about time he performed the status ritual once more.


    After raising so many undead and fighting through the rift, he was sure to have earned some levels. Probably not as many as he hoped. Progress slowed to a crawl once reaching silver, it was famous for it. There was a good reason so many slayers, the majority of them, were stuck between level forty and sixty. Either they died, stopped pushing themselves to break through to gold, or retired.


    Not something his parents had ever worried about. The two of them had breezed through silver, or so he¡¯d heard. They¡¯d done it long before he was born.


    Grasping a sheet of paper, Tyron enacted the ritual, looking forward eagerly as his blood took shape on the page before him.


    Numerous messages relating to his Skills, and a good number of improvements to his core abilities appeared, which was of course very welcome.


    Bone animus, forging and the Raise Dead ritual had all increased, which was gratifying. His hard work raising his minions had been rewarded by the Unseen.


    Anathema, oddly enough, hadn¡¯t moved, though the message he received from the dark patrons was generally positive. Tyron¡¯s eyes glided over the text relating to the Abyss. He wasn¡¯t ready to think about that yet.


    Then came the notification about his primary Class. Three levels. Three very welcome levels. It was honestly more than he¡¯d expected. Many slayers grinded hard in difficult rifts for years in order to reach gold. Tyron wasn¡¯t so naive as to think he would be able to breeze through in a matter of weeks or months.


    But, three levels was enough to earn him a new ability, the first from his new Class. His eyes quickly scanned down the page, eager to see what his new Class was going to offer him. The first selection for a Class was often a powerful one, key to how it would grow over the twenty levels.


    When his eyes landed on the text, he hesitated, surprised.


    Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 42, select from the following Spells:


    Summon the Ossuary.


    Aaaaaand¡­ nothing.


    Tyron leaned forward, confused. He picked up the page and turned it over, wondering if the words continued on the other side for some reason. They didn¡¯t.


    ¡°Select from what?¡± he muttered. ¡°There¡¯s only one.¡±


    As far as he knew, he should have been offered a second ability. There was always a second ability. Perhaps this was something different that only started happening at silver and higher. A little disappointed, Tyron leaned forward and placed his mark.


    ¡°At least I can¡¯t make the wrong choice,¡± he said to himself, and ended the ritual.


    Immediately, his eyes rolled back in his head as a flood of information was rammed into his brain. In five seconds, it was over, and Tyron lurched forwards, catching himself on his table at the last second.


    ¡°Holy¡­ holy shit,¡± he gasped.


    Mind still a jumble, he steadied himself, wondering what the Unseen had just done to him. He took deep breaths, steadying himself until the dizzy feeling went away.


    When his head was no longer swimming, he began to prod at his own mind, trying to tease out details of what he had just learned. So soon after the ritual, all he could get were hints, but what he learned was enough to make his eyes widen with shock.


    ¡°This¡­ this is¡­¡± he stammered.


    A pause.


    ¡°Holy shit.¡±

 B3C46 - Ritual Magick

    ¡°Fucking¡­ shit!¡±


    No matter what he tried, Dove was unable to get the Unseen to acknowledge him. He performed the status ritual over and over again, but nothing happened.


    He pressed his hand, his skeletal hand, to the paper and enacted the ritual, but where once he would have felt the blood flow from his finger and onto the page, now he felt nothing. He didn''t have blood, that much was understood. He was as dry as a slayer''s balls two hours back from a rift.


    Strictly speaking, not a single part of his current body was, or had been at any time, organic. He was a statue carved in the likeness of a skeleton, not actual bones, so even the potential for blood had never existed in him.


    It was difficult to explain, having something that had been an intrinsic part of him just¡­ not work, was maddening. It hadn¡¯t bothered him as much when he was just a skull, but now that he could move, could cast magick, he wanted it back.


    He wanted it back so badly it was like a dog gnawing on what was left of his abused soul.


    The onyx skeleton gripped the paper tight, ripping it along the edges.


    ¡°Haven¡¯t I done enough for you, fucking son of a bitch!¡± he growled. ¡°I fought the kin, isn¡¯t that what you want? Isn¡¯t that why you came to this fucking world? HELP ME!¡±


    Of course, it didn¡¯t answer him. The people of the empire hadn¡¯t called it ¡®the Unseen¡¯ for thousands of years because it had a habit of making itself known.


    Filled with disgust, he threw the sheet down to the forest floor. An all too familiar despair welled up in him, like an old friend come to smother him once again. Dove chuckled bitterly. Feeling sorry for himself had become a favourite pastime of his over the last few years, it was almost his natural state of being. Unlike the past, he refused to let it take hold of him anymore. Wallowing in pity wasn¡¯t his style. Wallowing in other things¡­ definitely. Just not pity. If he was forced to exist in this gods-riddled world, then he would find a way to fucking thrive. Dove was not some vampire¡¯s plaything.


    There had to be a way. There had to be.


    But what was it? The status ritual had existed in its current form for¡­ who knew how fucking long? Kids learned it at the age of three, all that was needed was some words and a smidge of finger dexterity. The most basic piece of magick, so trivial it didn¡¯t even appear on the status sheet it created.


    That ritual wouldn¡¯t work for him, he knew that now. Communicating the information of the Unseen through blood couldn¡¯t work, he had no blood, so he needed a new medium.


    In the distance, he could hear skeletons fighting in the dark and briefly considered going to help. The small container of magick he contained was refilled now, and his undead vision was equally as mediocre during the night as the day, but he didn¡¯t bother.


    If he couldn¡¯t summon the Unseen, get a Class and levels, then there wasn¡¯t much point in killing the kin.


    ¡°How am I supposed to come up with a new status ritual out of the blue. How? With what?¡± he spat into the frozen night air.


    Tyron could probably do it. The fucking kid was a once-in-a-generation genius, the likes of which Dove had never seen. He piled up mysteries like other people piled up hangovers. No matter how much magick he managed to pull out of his backside, there always seemed to be more in there.


    If anyone could figure out how to recreate literally the oldest ritual known to man, it was that smug prick, but Dove didn¡¯t want to ask him. He was done going begging, cap in hand, to Tyron and hoping the Necromancer could fix his problems for him.


    Except¡­ no matter how hard he tried, he couldn¡¯t come with even a way to begin trying to construct a status ritual. Dove was a good mage, possibly even an excellent one, but there was an enormous difference between proficient rule-following and creating new rules from nothing. Give him a complete set of sigils, and Dove could perform the spell, break down the meaning of the individual components, even suggest improvements or modifications, but creating something from scratch?


    It was an entirely different matter.


    ¡°FUCK!¡±


    Frustrated, he kicked a loose rock, sending the stone flying out into the darkness, then growled in frustration when he noticed he¡¯d cracked his own toe. Just¡­ perfect.


    Irritated, angry, frustrated and gloomy, Dove turned his back on the night and trudged towards Tyron¡¯s cosy little cave, wishing he had some pockets he could shove his hands into. One couldn¡¯t satisfactorily trudge while swinging their hands like a farmer in a fucking field at festival time.


    He brushed aside the heavy blanket covering the opening, light and presumably warmth washing over him as he did so.


    ¡°Hey, kid,¡± he began a little awkwardly, then stilled.


    Tyron looked¡­ utterly insane. Hunched over that ridiculous table, eyes half bulging out his head, he was scribbling away in his book at a furious pace, whispering and muttering to himself, eyes glazed over and almost drooling.


    ¡°Fucking hell!¡± Dove exclaimed, wondering what had possessed him, but it didn¡¯t take long to realise what was going on. Inspiration had struck once again and the Necromancer was lost in his own mind.


    Despite the outburst, Tyron didn¡¯t flinch, if anything, he only grew more feverish as the moments ticked by.


    Dove sighed. Without physically tackling him to the ground, it was unlikely he¡¯d get any help from his erstwhile protege for the time being. Instead of forcing the issue, he decided to fold his bony legs, pull out his own notes, and try to work on a resolution to his status problem.


    With a little luck, some of the genius aura sparkling around the fucking kid would trickle his way.


    ~~~


    By the time he realised time had passed, it was already morning. Tyron blinked wearily, his entire body aching as he stretched and groaned. Being hunched over the table for ten hours straight hadn¡¯t been kind to his muscles. Thank the Abyss he was as durable as he was, or it would have been far, far worse.


    Hands trembling slightly, he reached out to the pages in front of him, flicking through them as his eyes quickly scanned the sigils and patterns scrawled on each. The longer he looked, the more confident he became. It could work. It would work.


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    A broad grin split his face as he stood, the pages still clutched in his hands. A ritual on this scale¡­ it was mind boggling, far beyond anything he¡¯d attempted before. He couldn¡¯t wait to make the attempt.


    ¡°Slow your roll, dickhead,¡± a dry voice echoed through the small cave.


    Tyron turned to see Dove curled up into a little ball of bones leaning against a rock wall, his own book open across his knees, pen in hand.


    ¡°Blood and Bone! I didn¡¯t see you there.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sneaky. But aside from that, you¡¯d better hold your horses for a second and take a few breaths.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Tyron frowned.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Dove mocked him. ¡°I can see it plain as day, it''s written all over your face. You¡¯ve worked out some stupid bullshit, and now you want to run out and try it immediately.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not stupid¡ªand I got it from levelling up, I didn¡¯t figure it out myself.¡±


    The skeleton leaned to the side and cupped its cheek on one hand, again, a disturbingly human gesture.


    ¡°Interesting¡­ So it must be some kind of spell or ritual. A big one.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s eyes brightened.


    ¡°It¡¯s a ritual,¡± he enthused, ¡°and it¡¯s insane. Have a look at these sigil patterns and tell me if you¡¯ve ever seen anything like it.¡±


    As he rushed forward with the book extended, the skeleton held up a hand to stop him in his tracks.


    ¡°No. Go wash. Eat something. Drink some water and put on some clean fucking clothes. What would your mother say if you tried to cast a complex ritual for the first time in this kind of state?¡±


    She¡¯d be appalled. Tyron took a deep breath then nodded begrudgingly.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he muttered, then turned to leave.


    ¡°Put the book down,¡± Dove called.


    The young mage looked down to see the book of notes still clutched tightly to his chest. With extreme reluctance, he placed it down on the table, each finger lingering on the cover as if bound there with glue.


    With a final, monumental effort of will, he dragged himself away, almost throwing himself outside of the cave as he brushed aside the blanket covering.


    He blinked.


    What were all these people doing here? Not many, perhaps a dozen. They looked up at him, gathered in a small cluster, about twenty metres down the hill. He looked down at them, suddenly wondering if he still had drool on his chin.


    ¡°H-hello?¡± he said, hesitantly.


    The villagers, which is what he presumed they were, clapped their hands together and bowed at the waist towards him. Were they followers of the Old Gods? That made the most sense. Suddenly wary, Tyron watched them, cautious of what they may do or say. Would they demand protection of him, as their gods had promised?


    Apparently not. Rather than say anything at all, the group turned on their heels and left, filing back down the mountain towards Cragwhistle in silence, leaving Tyron wondering just what had happened. He shook himself.


    He didn¡¯t have time for this! There was magick to be about! As quickly as he could, he washed himself using the soap and water enchanted core he¡¯d purchased for the trip, before putting on fresh clothes, ripping into a breakfast of bread, cheese and a little fruit, before he staggered back into the cave, still choking down the last of the loaf.


    ¡°Gruvv!¡± he exclaimed through a mouthful of food.


    ¡°You fucking idiot.¡±


    ¡°Dove!¡± he tried again, after swallowing. ¡°Come on, look at this, you won¡¯t believe it!¡±


    Almost against his will, the skeleton allowed himself to be pulled to the table where Tyron began to flick through the pages, excitedly explaining the sigils and patterns within. Despite himself, Dove felt himself being drawn in. It was interesting.


    ¡°This is dimensional magick,¡± he muttered, reaching out a finger to trace across the page. ¡°This section here¡­ this is forging a connection with another realm.¡±


    ¡°Not just creating a connection,¡± Tyron enthused, ¡°look here. What do you make of this?¡±


    If Dove was capable of frowning, he would.


    ¡°This¡­¡± he trailed off.


    This was something different.


    He himself was quite capable at dimension magick, considering his former Class had involved bringing sentient beings from the Astral Sea to this realm, it was to be expected. But these sigils¡­ this was a type of magick he hadn¡¯t seen before.


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe these sigils are forming connections¡­ I know how to identify a destination and reach for it. This is¡­ more like¡­ creation?¡±


    Tyron slapped a hand down on the table exuberantly.


    ¡°That¡¯s right! If I¡¯m not mistaken, and I don¡¯t think I am, this ritual creates and connects to a location.¡±


    The amount of magick required to do something like that would be¡­ absurd.


    ¡°Making a¡­ a what? Out of what? Where would you be making it?¡± Dove asked some very reasonable questions.


    ¡°An Ossuary, out of magick, somewhere,¡± came the replies.


    ¡°A¡­ a what?! What in the name of fuck is an Ossuary?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a resting place of human remains, usually a building. We don¡¯t see them much these days, but I¡¯m told worshippers of Rot used to store their dead in Ossuaries, letting the flesh, well, rot, until only the bones remained. Supposedly, there are thousands and thousands of skeletons stored in them,¡± the Necromancer sighed, wistful. ¡°Sadly, nobody knows where they are.¡±


    Dove poked him in the arm.


    ¡°How are you an expert of these places all of a sudden?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the name of my new Class. Didn¡¯t I tell you? Lord of the Ossuary.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you did, I¡¯m not sure. Must be a hell of a Class to start with a ritual like this,¡± he tapped his finger on the page. ¡°I¡¯m assuming this was level forty-two?¡±


    Tyron nodded confirmation and Dove tried to whistle before remembering he couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°Fuck. Well, if you¡¯re going to do this thing, close to the rift like we are here is a good spot. Plenty of ambient magick to soak up, but I¡¯d make sure your ritual site is carefully prepared and your mediums are well in place before you utter a single word.¡±


    Tyron struggled not to roll his eyes, but he couldn¡¯t argue with any of the advice. With a slight smile, he turned to his packs and began to rummage through them, emerging with a long staff that he held gently in both hands.


    ¡°What in the name of shit?!¡± Dove exclaimed. ¡°That¡¯s beautiful! Where did you get that from?¡±


    Tyron ran his hands along the intricately carved wood.


    ¡°It was a gift from my mother. She planned to give it to me after my Awakening. My father got me a sword as well. He was always an optimist.¡±


    Dove approached and cooed over the fine construction of the mage staff.


    ¡°Hole¨Cee¨Cshit. That¡¯s nice, that is. Look at the enchanting work done on it! What did they put into this thing? It practically shines with magick¡­ I can see it even with my ass-backwards skeleton eyes.¡±


    Mages would often mock the martial Classes for their obsession with weapons. Swordsmen and women never shut up about their blades, would sleep with the damn things if they had half a chance. But, truth was, mages were just as bad when it came to two things: ritual foci, and staves.


    A good staff was a magick amplifier, a ritual focus and a handy stick to whack things with all at the same time. Everything the aspiring mage needed. However, getting a good one was¡­ more expensive than most practitioners of the craft could justify.


    What Tyron held in his hands was top-shelf. In fact, it was more than that. This wasn¡¯t something you could buy off the shelf. A staff like this would only be made on commission, and only if you supplied the materials yourself, because you couldn¡¯t buy what wasn¡¯t on the market.


    ¡°They bought you this¡­ for your Awakening?¡± Dove choked out. ¡°That¡¯s absurd! If Beory herself had a staff any better than this, I¡¯ll eat my own femur.¡±


    Tyron shrugged and didn¡¯t reply. That was what they were like. Grand gestures weren¡¯t uncommon from his parents, but they typically weren¡¯t this grand.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been looking for an excuse to use it, this seems like a great time.¡±


    He grasped hold of the staff firmly, a bright light sparking in his eyes.


    ¡°Time to do some magick.¡±

 B3C47 - Lord of the Ossuary

    Tyron didn¡¯t need Dove¡¯s prodding to ensure he was fully prepared to cast this absurdly complex ritual, but that didn¡¯t seem to stop the skeleton-trapped soul. He nitpicked about everything, questioning the young mage three times about every little detail. Was the circle correct? Was it actually correct? How stable were the components used to draw it? Did he realise that drawing the circle with your finger in dust is a fucking stupid idea? Had he double checked his notes and ironed out all the wrinkles? What focus was he using? Was it suitable? Had he checked it was suitable?


    And on, and on, and on.


    It was incredibly frustrating. Tyron didn¡¯t particularly want to say it, but he knew he was a better mage than Dove, yet he allowed himself to be drawn into arguments over and over again, defending his choices, proving his work and covering each little detail to his mentor¡¯s satisfaction.


    Dove managed to drag the process out so long, it was two days after their first conversation in the cave when he was finally prepared to cast the ritual. Which was entirely the point. The former Summoner had delayed as much as he could, forced Tyron to rethink each aspect of the ritual, until the version he was about to cast was vastly superior to what he¡¯d held in his hands two days ago.


    In all that time, Tyron¡¯s undead had continued to intercept and destroy the rift-kin descending the mountain, collecting their cores and depositing them just outside the cave. They also kept away the villagers who, for some reason, continued to emerge from Cragwhistle to catch a glimpse of the Necromancer, bowing to him if they happened to see him, bowing to the skeletons if they didn¡¯t.


    Which, thanks to minion sight, Tyron also frequently saw.


    Standing over the wide, flat rock Tyron had engraved his circle on, he sighed with satisfaction. It was perfect. Each line, loop and whorl, every symbol of arcane power, was without flaw. Which they needed to be if he didn¡¯t want to have the entire thing blow up and kill him. This ritual demanded so much magick, so much power, even the slightest mistake would cause it to backfire with spectacular results.


    ¡°Dove,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯ve wanted to kill you so many times over the last few days, but, as much as it pains me to say it, thanks. You¡¯ve helped a lot.¡±


    The skeleton shrugged his onyx shoulder bones and chattered his teeth, an annoying habit he¡¯d picked up.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got one major flaw when it comes to magick, kid. You¡¯re too damn good. Sometimes, you don¡¯t seem to believe it''s even possible for you to make a mistake.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t,¡± Tyron pointed out defensively. ¡°All of my work was correct.¡±


    ¡°But it wasn¡¯t complete. You were rushing and you know it. Casting Raise Dead the day after you learned it is fucking crazy enough. A ritual of this size? That¡¯s straight up insane asylum material, and I would know.¡±


    ¡°Why are you making me argue with you? I was in the process of thanking you.¡±


    ¡°I have an argumentative personality.¡±


    ¡°Well shut the fuck up. I¡¯m ready to begin.¡±


    ¡°As you say.¡±


    ¡°And when I¡¯m done, I¡¯ll work on developing a status ritual for you.¡±


    The skeleton stood still, dumbstruck, for once.


    ¡°Y-you will? Do you have a lead on one?¡±


    Tyron nodded, a sly grin crossing his face.


    ¡°What? You don¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°Eat a sack of dicks.¡±


    ¡°Ah, if you keep talking, I might change my mind.¡±


    Dove mimed locking up his jaw, then dropping the key into his imaginary trousers.


    ¡°If you can help keep the villagers away, though, that would be great. I have skeletons positioned along the path, but not that many.¡±


    The vast bulk of his forces were on the mountain, with the rest positioned around the ritual site for protection. At all times, at least twenty skeletons and two of his revenants remained with him, but he was much more comfortable when that number was close to fifty. If the slayers in town teamed up to attack, he had to have at least that many. Thanks to Ortan, he knew that, at this moment in time, such an attack wasn¡¯t very likely.


    Unable to talk, thanks to the locking mechanism he¡¯d put in place, Dove gave him a double thumbs up before he turned on his heel and bounced his way down the mountain path, almost skipping.


    Tyron shook his head and turned back to his circle, steadying his breathing. For the final time, he checked to ensure he had everything he needed. In his right hand, he gripped the staff his mother had prepared for him. It was still too powerful for him to handle in battle, but as a ritual focus, it would serve him well. On his left hip rested a pouch, the string pulled to reveal the five shards of mage candy contained inside.


    At his current constitution and tolerance, five was pushing his limits, and hopefully he wouldn¡¯t need them all. There were several charged cores sewn into his robes, power arrays that he could draw magick from, but each one contained less than a fifth of the energy in a single piece of candy. Satisfied that everything was as ready as it could be, Tyron planted the staff in the groove he had prepared in front of him, raised his hands, and began to speak.


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    Mage tongue, the words of power, slammed into the air, each syllable a hammerblow that Tyron used to shape reality itself. At his current level of mastery, with the backing of his mysteries, his ability to draw out the full strength of each word was at its peak. Magick flowed out of him, through the staff, which began to resonate with power, then out and into the circle.


    Tyron¡¯s hands wove through graceful and deliberate motions, unhurried, forming one sigil, then the next, as he moved through the opening phase of the ritual.


    It wasn¡¯t complicated, this part, all he had to do was gather power, but he needed so much. The circle drank in every drop of magick he could give it, the lines slowly emitting a soft glow that grew stronger with each passing moment, but it still wasn¡¯t enough. More. With his words, Tyron continued to pull in more magick, then force it out into the circle. He drained the reserves in his cloak within the first five minutes, choosing to take them early while he still had the attention to spare. Shortly after, he popped the first of his mage candy under his tongue, letting the arcane energy flow into him and fuel his magick.


    After fifteen minutes, the circle blazed with power. Ominous, dark purple light, the colour of Death magick, blinded him, but Tyron didn¡¯t need to see to continue the ritual. To him, nothing existed outside of the circle. Not the world, not the rifts, not his vengeance, nothing. There was only the ritual.


    Arms spread wide, Tyron brought them down, then up again as he moved to the next phase.


    Five syllables, five cracks in the dimensional weave. He heard them, even if there was nothing to see, as the fabric that held the realm together began to break in the air above the ritual circle. Now came the difficult part.


    Sweat began to drip from his forehead as Tyron used all his power and control to take hold of those cracks, to mould and shape them. For what came next, they needed to be stable, needed to be mended, without being closed.


    To an experienced Dimension Mage, this was their bread and butter, though perhaps not on the same scale, but to Tyron, this was close to uncharted territory. His throat already began to feel raw, his voice strained under the pressure, but he didn¡¯t falter, he had to continue.


    The second piece of mage candy went under his tongue as he let the crumbling remains of the first drop to his feet. His forehead was creased in concentration, his words and hands never ceasing their movement. This was a test of his control. If he took too long to stabilise the breaks, he would lose momentum and power, wasting the precious magick he had gathered before the real work had even begun.


    Twenty minutes later, he was finally satisfied. Darkness had crept in at the edges of his vision, but he wasn¡¯t sure if that was the fault of his eyes, or if the ritual itself were blurring the edges of reality. In this space, above the circle, the boundary between this realm and others was now not only weakened, but punctured. The cracks had been reformed, shaped into something that vaguely resembled an arch, or perhaps a door.


    Here we go.


    The power had been gathered, the way had been opened, now it was time to move to the most important and most demanding step. Now it was time to create.


    ¡°Los,¡± Tyron said, his hands pushing outward from his chest.


    The ritual circle ignited, sending a shaft of purple light blazing into the sky. Like a dam breaking, a torrent of arcane power roared into the sky, the strength of it enough to vibrate the air. Tyron nearly staggered, almost driven to his knees by the strength of it, but steadied himself at the last moment. Sweat flowed freely now, running in rivulets down his face and into his eyes. To prevent distraction, he shut them. He had to focus.


    Once again, he began to speak, rapidly now, words and sigils flashing from one to the next as he sought to dig out a channel to guide the raging waters just a few steps in front of the frothing, crashing waves. All of that power, all of that energy, was gathered, directed and led straight into the arch, and then pushed, forced beyond.


    The staff, standing before him, glowed bright with arcane light as it acted to enforce his will. An amplifier and defender all at once, it shielded him from the ravages of the gathered magick even as it aided him to enforce his will upon it.


    From down the mountain, Dove looked back over his shoulder as his soul quivered in response to the eruption of power. Through the trees, he could see it, a column of purple light that extended hundreds of metres into the air.


    ¡°By the melons!¡± he gasped.


    He¡¯d known the ritual demanded a great deal of power, but he¡¯d never expected the kid to try and pull in this much. Was he trying to get himself killed?!


    For a moment, he hesitated, then growled and continued his journey down the path with increased haste. There was no point going back now. What could he do? The ritual had begun and Tyron would either see it through or die in the attempt.


    Sure as shit there would be a heck of a lot of attention from Cragwhistle, though. He had to make sure some idiot kid didn¡¯t run up and throw a rock at the Necromancer¡¯s stupid head.


    In town, Ortan gaped at the light which had erupted up the mountain. Even during the day, the light seemed to darken around the edges, as if being pushed away from that column of light.


    ¡°Orthriss defend me,¡± he muttered absently, eyes still wide with shock.


    Around him, people rushed into the streets, pointing, murmuring, whispering.


    What had Tyron done? What was he doing? Wasn¡¯t he trying to lay low?


    From the corner of his eye, he saw the slayers gathering outside the barracks, faces grim as they talked amongst themselves. He couldn¡¯t read their body language. Were they fearful? Angry? What would they make of this? No matter what, Ortan feared it wouldn¡¯t be good.


    Within the ritual circle, Tyron danced on the edge of oblivion, funnelling the power through the rapidly forming arch and into the space beyond. As he did so, he formed it, shaped it, building even though he didn¡¯t truly understand what he was making. In this, he was guided by the ritual, directed by the Unseen. The pace continued to be high, words and sigils forming rapidly, words tripping from his tongue as his hands flickered from one precise gesture to the next.


    Was he on his third shard of candy? Or the fourth? He couldn¡¯t remember. The ritual demanded more power, so more power he gave.


    This was the final phase, and Tyron raced to complete it, not wanting to waste a single drop of the magick he had gathered. From within the ritual circle, energy continued to thunder out and into the arch, taking shape on the other side as Tyron managed multiple processes at once.


    On and on it went, until his throat was red and raw, his entire body ached and his spirit was gasping, almost squeezed dry of the last of its magick. Even Tyron, with all of his endurance and fortitude, felt himself begin to waver as the ritual went on, well past an hour, and into the second.


    When finally it was done, he spoke the last word, formed the last sigil, and collapsed to his knees, hands shaking as he at last relinquished his iron control.


    Exhaustion crushed him as the light faded from the circle, yet still, a small, satisfied smile creased his lips.


    Before him stood a doorway, wedged in a frame of bones.

 B3C48 - The World Beyond

    In the aftermath of the ritual, Tyron focused on recovering his breath as he massaged his aching hands. His throat felt raw, and his reserves of magick almost completely drained. The bitter tang of arcane crystal would linger on his tongue for a day or two, he¡¯d definitely taken too much. He leaned to the side and spat the last of the mage candy onto the ground. There¡¯d be a lot of pain later, but Tyron was confident he¡¯d erred on the right side of his limitations.


    Before him, the crack in reality persisted, an arch of bone framing a black door. An Ossuary. He was excited to learn what it was, but¡­ he didn¡¯t think he could get off his knees just yet. A few more minutes and he¡¯d have recovered a little magick and perhaps gathered the strength to fetch some water from his pack.


    ¡°By the divine teats! What the fuck was that, kid?¡± Dove yelled as he ran up the slope. ¡°I was expecting a big ritual, but that was fucking ridiculous, I could see it all the way down the slope. You bet your ballsack they could see it in the village as well. If they weren¡¯t too intimidated, then I expect someone is going to come poking their nose into your business.¡±


    The onyx skeleton stood looking at the arch that stood in the centre of the ritual circle.


    ¡°Oh nice. You made a door.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ an Ossuary,¡± he huffed, between breaths.


    ¡°So you said, but you and I both know you haven¡¯t the foggiest idea what it does. The Unseen is notoriously stingy with details, and you don¡¯t have a Class manual. It could be completely useless!¡±


    Tyron grimaced as he forced himself to his feet. Despite a little waver, he managed not to fall and began to stagger to his nearby pack.


    ¡°Even if it¡¯s useless now, this is the first ability I gained with my Class. I don¡¯t doubt there are feats and other spells, possibly even more rituals, that I can learn to develop it further.¡±


    ¡°Then shouldn¡¯t you have waited before rushing ahead to cast this?¡± Dove pointed out.


    The Necromancer allowed himself a slight smile.


    ¡°I probably should have,¡± he admitted after taking a cautious sip from his waterskin.


    Blood and bone, his throat was sore.


    ¡°I just couldn¡¯t bring myself to resist.¡±


    The lure of new magick was too strong for him, he could admit that, especially such an intricate and interesting ritual as this one. Perhaps he¡¯d cut off his own toe, rushing into it so quickly, without fully understanding how the Class was going to develop, but Tyron was satisfied after everything he¡¯d put into it. His ritual would be useful down the line, no matter what.


    ¡°How long is it going to stay there?¡± Dove wondered, staring at the door. ¡°Is it permanent?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Tyron scoffed. ¡°It¡¯ll vanish once the circle is disrupted or runs out of power. It¡¯s barely pulling in enough to keep the entrance manifested.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m assuming you can also dismiss it?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    The skeleton circled around the arch, humming in appreciation as he went.


    ¡°I saw a gate into the Astral Sea once, you know,¡± he called as he reached the far side. ¡°It looked a shitload more impressive than this. Bigger, and much more colourful. This thing is depressing.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t the Astral Sea impossible to traverse?¡± Tyron asked. ¡°Why would anyone want a gate that goes there?¡±


    ¡°It might be impossible to traverse for weak pieces of shit like you and me, but that doesn¡¯t mean that¡¯s the case for everyone.¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡±


    After another minute of rest, Tyron finally felt well enough to approach the entrance, nerves beginning to stir now that the rush of completing the spell had faded. He hoped Dove wasn¡¯t right. It would feel like such a waste if he¡¯d gone to all this effort and created something he couldn¡¯t even use.


    Directly above the door, dead centre of the arch, a human skull sat, looking down on him as he approached. An interesting detail, he didn¡¯t think he saw any other skulls as part of the myriad bones that made up the arch. After considering it for a moment, Tyron stepped forward and pushed open the door.


    There was a hint of resistance, and then the black wood swung soundlessly, cold, still air wafting through the opening.


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s creepy as shit.¡±


    ¡°Dove. Can you shut up for a minute?¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    It was dark on the other side, but Tyron could make out a stone floor, grooves carved into the surface trailing away into the shadows.


    With a gesture, he conjured a globe of light and held it in his palm, wincing as even this insignificant draw of magick taxed his body. With the softly glowing sphere in hand, he stepped through the door and into the other side.


    Dove shouted a warning which cut off suddenly, causing Tyron to spin and see the door close soundlessly behind him. Just like that, the mountain was gone, and he was here on his own.


    ¡°I can open it again. Probably,¡± he reassured himself.


    The arch was present on this side as well, but instead of appearing from thin air, it was set into the stone wall. Tyron raised his gaze, holding the globe up over his head until he caught sight of the vaulted ceiling overhead.


    To think that his magick had created all this¡­.


    Did Tyron know how to turn arcane energy into stone? No, he didn¡¯t, but the ritual itself contained the pattern of this space¡¯s creation. He¡¯d been required to gather the power, supply it and follow the intended design, but even so, the act of creation left him speechless.


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    There were a few things he could tell about the Ossuary already. The air inside was thick with death magick. Drenched in it. Yet there didn¡¯t appear to be any source for it. With his left hand on the wall, he began to walk around the edge of the room until he came to the corner. The wall in front of him was different from that to his left. Instead of flat stone, it was filled with recesses, longer than they were high.


    A depressingly short amount of time passed before he realised they were for holding remains. Perhaps a normal person would have taken longer, but he could judge the length of a skeleton by eye quite easily at this point.


    Tracing along this new wall, he counted how many of these recessed areas there were. They were organised in columns of four, the lowest to the ground starting around ankle height, the highest starting at eye level. The room was long, surprisingly long, and he counted twenty five columns before he reached the back wall.


    There was room for a hundred skeletons on that wall. He quickly strode over and confirmed the wall on the other side was the same. Only the front and back walls were flat and unadorned.


    So there was room for two hundred skeletons within the Ossuary, but what did that mean? Did these spaces provide some sort of benefit to the remains placed within? Could they empower the Raise Dead ritual in some way?


    Instinctually, Tyron could tell they did something. The air was too thick with magick for it to be otherwise. Given a little time, remains placed in here would get up and start wandering about on their own. Inspection of the side walls completed, Tyron began to wander down the middle, or as close to it as he could tell, his light didn¡¯t quite reach both sides.


    The room was ten¡­ maybe fifteen metres wide, and more than double that in length. Certainly a large area to have conjured out of thin air. Another question that came to mind was, where was this place? Neither Tyron nor Dove were competent enough Dimension mages to precisely identify the target of the ritual, but Tyron had a suspicion he knew roughly where it was.


    The clues he¡¯d been given by the Abyss hinted as much, though he tried not to think of it. That was a price he had yet to pay.


    Distracted, he almost walked into the altar before he stopped at the last second, one hand extended forward to catch himself against the stone edge. Waist high, flat and undecorated, it was similar in dimensions to the recesses on the walls. Large enough to lay a body atop its surface, with room to spare.


    The altar itself wasn¡¯t what caught his attention, though; what was beneath the altar was far more interesting.


    Tyron crouched down and brought the light close to the stone base. There was a gap, just wide enough to poke a finger into, between the base of the altar and the floor of the Ossuary. Too narrow and too deep to see into, Tyron circled around, tracing the gap with one hand until he completed a full circle of the altar. It went all the way around. Was the altar itself even connected to the rest of the room?


    Hard to tell. What was more concerning, was that now he had identified the source of the Death magick. Dense and rich, it rose up through that little gap like a miasma before dissipating around the room. Tyron¡¯s head thudded in his chest and licked his dry lips as he gazed down at the floor.


    The death aligned energy was rising into this room from somewhere below. What was down there? What could possibly be the source of such thick Death magick? Did he really want to find out?


    The whispers of the Abyss echoed in his mind once more, and Tyron wasn¡¯t sure if he hoped they were wrong, or they were right.


    ~~~


    Trenan clenched his jaw and stared Brigette straight in the eye while she stared back at him, defiant.


    ¡°You know damn well we don¡¯t stand a chance if we go up against that Necromancer,¡± he tried to reason with her. ¡°Last time, you didn¡¯t even get to swing your damn sword. Now is not the time to go haring up the mountain.¡±


    Reasoning with Brigette never went well. She was stubborn as a mule once an idea popped into her head. He thought it might be because her head was usually empty that, when it did finally have any thoughts, it held onto them come hell or high water.


    ¡°The villagers are terrified. Someone should go and make sure that the mountain is safe. For all we know, the Necromancer just died in¡­ whatever that was, and the rift is undefended. If the kin come rampaging down here in an hour, hacking and killing, do you really want that on your conscience?¡±


    Trenan¡¯s instinct was to retort, but he had to bite his tongue as he considered what she said. Fucking idiot actually had a point.


    ¡°I swear by the gods, Brigette, the only time you say anything smart, it¡¯s to get yourself into danger, not out of it.¡±


    She grinned at him.


    ¡°So we¡¯re going then?¡±


    In one bound, she leapt to the side table where she kept her gear and began to buckle on her scabbard and leather armour.


    ¡°You want me to get the others?¡± she said over her shoulder as she wrestled with the straps.


    ¡°No,¡± he replied shortly. ¡°It¡¯ll just be you and me. If it¡¯s just kin up there, the two of us can make it back safe. If we piss off the Necromancer, at least you and I will be the only ones serving an eternity in death.¡±


    The very thought of it chilled his heart, but Trenan took his duty seriously. He was on this mountain to kill kin and keep people safe.


    ¡°Good point,¡± the swordswoman replied. ¡°Are you going to get ready?¡±


    Her team leader pulled his coat open to reveal he was wearing his armour underneath.


    ¡°I¡¯m always ready.¡±


    They were spotted on the way out, because of course they were, Brigette made enough noise for a parade when she wanted to. Turns out it didn¡¯t matter much, none of the other teams were all that keen to join them. Gramble had apparently gone running to see the Magister once the magick had lit up the sky. If he¡¯d been there, Trenan would have told him not to bother. He¡¯d tried talking to the man the day before. It hadn¡¯t gone well.


    Don¡¯t think about it, idiot. If you start to think your own mind is going to get messed with, you¡¯ll never make it up the slope.


    For her part, Brigette seemed unusually determined. Once they were out of the gate, she strode up the mountain, her expression and shoulders set. Whatever the reason, Trenan was glad to see a rare glimpse of her taking the job seriously. She coasted on her talent far too much for his liking.


    ¡°Stay sharp,¡± he reminded her. ¡°There could be kin anywhere. If we run into a big group, we run back to the village, not fight a stupid battle. Got it?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± she said.


    After they continued to trek up the slope, they eventually came to a group of skeletons standing astride the path. Silent and still, they watched the two slayers approach with purple flame burning in their eyes. Only six of them, an unusually small number, though he supposed it made sense. The mage wasn¡¯t worried about being attacked from this direction.


    He heard Brigette''s knuckles crack as she tightened her grip around the hilt of her sword. In one bound, he was by her side, hand pressing firmly down on the pommel.


    ¡°Brigette,¡± he murmured softly. ¡°Are you trying to get yourself fucking killed? Because if you are, you didn¡¯t need to convince me to come along to die alongside you, right?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s only six of them,¡± she hissed back, glaring at the undead.


    ¡°There are hundreds more and you fucking know that. Get your hands off your damn weapon.¡±


    The last was forced through gritted teeth as he tried to force some sense into his teammate. To his relief, she finally relaxed and withdrew her hand.


    ¡°Now stand behind me and don¡¯t do anything stupid,¡± he warned her, then stepped forward, hands raised towards the skeletons.


    The undead hadn¡¯t moved during their exchange and remained as they had been, watching.


    ¡°I¡¯d¡­ uh¡­ like to talk to the Necromancer? Presuming he¡¯s still alive.¡±


    He must be, if the undead were still fine, he supposed. Why was he talking to the damn bones anyway? Could they even speak back? One of them had, but Trenan felt that particular skeleton was¡­ unique.


    Silently, the skeletons parted, seemingly giving permission for the two slayers to pass through. Nervous, Trenan led the way, glaring back at Brigette every few steps just to make sure she wasn¡¯t being stupid.


    When they came to a relatively flat clearing, they saw him. Trenan caught a glimpse of something, a doorway of some kind, fading to nothing, before the mage turned to face them, eyes narrowed.


    ¡°My first guests in a while,¡± the mage rasped, then coughed. ¡°I presume you have questions?¡±

 B3C49 - Talking Death

    Trenan tried not to feel intimidated in the presence of the Necromancer. Without his armour, he didn¡¯t look nearly as large, but with so many undead, watching silently, it was unnerving being in his presence.


    ¡°W¡ªwe wanted to see what was happening after the¡­ the spell.¡±


    Fucking hell. Don¡¯t stumble over your words like a damned weakling.


    If the mage noticed, he didn¡¯t say anything, rather, he nodded his head in understanding.


    ¡°I was told the ritual was visible for quite a ways. It¡¯s not surprising people would want to know what was going on.¡±


    As he spoke, the mage rubbed at his throat, clearly uncomfortable. There was a rough quality to his voice, as if he¡¯d been shouting.


    ¡°Come and sit,¡± he said and walked a little unsteadily toward a nearby rock.


    Trenan tensed. Was he weak? Perhaps the spell had taken a lot out of him, leaving him worn and drained. Without looking, he reached behind and grabbed hold of Brigette¡¯s wrist before she could do something stupid.


    ¡°You two sit over there,¡± the Necromancer indicated, ¡°no need to let you get too close now, is there?¡±


    ¡°I suppose not,¡± Trenan said evenly, nudging his swordswoman unsubtly toward a stone.


    For some reason, the mage found this amusing, a slight smile creasing his lips.


    ¡°I am weakened,¡± he admitted openly, watching the pair of bronze slayers with dark eyes. ¡°The ritual drained almost all of my magick, and will leave me sickened for several days. But each moment that passes, I gain a little more strength.¡±


    Thel leaders of the Hooligans tried not to react, though he heard Brigette grunt.


    ¡°Why would you admit that to us?¡± she snapped, unable to contain the outburst. ¡°It¡¯s like you¡¯re trying to bait us into attacking you.¡±


    The Necromancer grinned, but there was little humour in it.


    ¡°That might well be the case. I have created a new toy, but to properly play with it, I need the correct materials. I was wondering if you two were going to volunteer.¡±


    Trenan firmly crossed his arms over his chest, making no move to reach for his weapons.


    ¡°If she wants to be turned into a fucking skeleton, she¡¯s more than welcome to it. I¡¯ll be fine right here.¡±


    Those cold eyes turned towards Brigette.


    ¡°Well?¡± he asked.


    She grit her teeth and sat down next to her team leader, hands clenched into fists by her side.


    For his part, the mage simply shrugged, then accepted a wrapped parcel handed to him by a skeleton. After opening it, he reached in and picked out some dried fruit which he popped into his mouth.


    ¡°Rehydrating after a long ritual is key, I¡¯ve found,¡± he said around the mouthful. ¡°Keeping your energy up and preventing damage to the throat. Even as tough as I am, it can still get caught out by it.¡±


    ¡°Sounds rough,¡± Trennan spoke evenly, wondering to himself why this man would be speaking to them at all. What was he getting out of it?


    ¡°We wanted to confirm you were still in a right state to hold off the kin,¡± he asked directly. ¡°If you need help holding off the rift, my team, and the others, can cover for a few days.¡±


    ¡°Already craving a little more experience?¡±


    ¡°I was focused on the safety of the people in the village.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you seem like you actually mean that,¡± the Necromancer sounded surprised. ¡°An old-school slayer. Keep the peace, protect the realm, defend the people. There aren¡¯t many around like that anymore.¡±


    ¡°What would you know about slayers?¡± Brigette ground out, still glaring up at the mage. ¡°You aren¡¯t anything like us.¡±


    ¡°Not that I ever really had a chance to be,¡± the Necromancer returned mildly, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. He watched the swordswoman for a long moment, noting the anger on her face, the tension in her posture, her clenched fists.


    ¡°You really don¡¯t like me,¡± he said, finally, ¡°which is understandable, to a point. I defeated you in our first encounter, which can create a grudge, I¡¯m sure. My Class is illegal, which is another thing you can hold against me, but I feel like that would piss off someone like him,¡± he indicated Trenan with a thumb, ¡°more than it would you. I¡¯m monopolising the rift, which is irritating, sure, but only temporarily. I¡¯m no threat to the village, as I¡¯m certain you¡¯ve gathered by now.¡±


    He paused and chewed thoughtfully.


    ¡°No. I don¡¯t think any of those are the issue, not on their own. Why are you so angry with me? Is it the grave robbing?¡±


    Brigette didn¡¯t reply, only sat in stony silence, quivering with suppressed emotion. Trenan couldn¡¯t help but ask a question.


    ¡°You actually rob graves?¡± he asked distastefully.


    ¡°Not if I can help it. The vast majority of my minions were not sourced from cemeteries. I can say that much at least.¡±


    ¡°So you object to desecrating graveyards?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± the mage scowled. ¡°Who gives a shit what happens to your body after you¡¯ve died? Ridiculous notion. No, I avoid it because disturbed graves will make any villager with half an Intelligence point scream ¡®Necromancer¡¯ at the top of their lungs.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ interesting.¡±


    He¡¯d wanted to say ¡®disgusting¡¯, but managed to hold it in. The Necromancer smiled, indicating he knew full well how Trenan felt about him.


    ¡°You should be in a position, more than most, to understand the value of my Class,¡± he said, pointing a finger in Trenan¡¯s direction. ¡°Look around you. A single person is holding off all the kin from this rift, easily. How many of you are there in town? Ten? The only thing that needs to be sacrificed is the remains of the dead. Isn¡¯t that a worthy trade?¡±


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    ¡°It¡¯s difficult to argue that it¡¯s not,¡± Trenan shrugged, ¡°but I don¡¯t think Necromancers are illegal because of how ineffective they are. The opposite, more like.¡±


    ¡°A single person able to control an army of undead.¡±


    The mage nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°You might have a point there. Certainly, there have been several examples throughout history of Necromancers who¡¯ve gotten out of control. Murdering innocent villages, raising the bodies and marching on the next.¡±


    He shrugged.


    ¡°You know as well as I do that any slayer could do the same.¡±


    ¡°But we don¡¯t get stronger for doing it,¡± Trennan growled. ¡°We have to fight the kin.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t get experience for killing non-kin? First I¡¯ve heard of it. There¡¯s another reason why the slayers don¡¯t harm innocent people, and we both know what it is.¡±


    Trenan shifted uncomfortably, Brigette maintained her glare.


    ¡°You know about the brand?¡± he asked hesitantly.


    ¡°I knew about it from a young age, more than most, to be honest. My family was in the business.¡± He shook his head as he chewed on another piece of fruit. ¡°Terrible thing, what it can do. Even the strongest slayers can be brought down to their knees by that thing. The pain is unimaginable, as I understand it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll never have to find out,¡± Trenan said evenly. ¡°There¡¯s no reason for me to raise my weapon against an innocent.¡±


    ¡°Not yet,¡± the mage said. ¡°What do you think would happen if you tried to attack me?¡±


    Both Trenan and Brigette stiffened.


    Fuck! I hadn¡¯t thought of that, he cursed himself, suddenly unsure.


    What would happen if he tried to cut down the man in front of him?


    The Necromancer laughed.


    ¡°You hadn¡¯t even thought about it. I can tell you haven¡¯t been branded long. You think because I¡¯m a ¡®bad guy¡¯, or evil in your eyes, that the brand can tell the difference? It¡¯s not as complex a tool as that. If you cut a single hair on my head, you¡¯d be on the ground screaming without me having to lift a finger. Same thing goes if you wanted to attack a thief, or a bandit, a murderer or rapist. You¡¯re only allowed to be a deadly weapon because you can¡¯t direct it against anyone who isn¡¯t rift-kin. Not even to defend yourself¡­ with a few exceptions.¡±


    He chewed thoughtfully as the two young slayers sat in silence.


    ¡°You ever wonder why the slayers live so separate from most people? They stay in the keeps, for the most part, when they aren¡¯t on expeditions. When they get too powerful and the magisters want to keep them close, they get shepherded into the golden quarter, a gilded cage. Why is that?¡±


    Those cold eyes watched them carefully as he spoke.


    ¡°It¡¯s for protection. Most people think the people are being protected from the slayers, but the brand does that. No, it¡¯s to protect the slayers from the people. There are sick people out there. Crazy fucking people, who¡¯ll do unspeakable things to someone who can¡¯t fight back, someone powerful.¡±


    He gave a short, harsh laugh.


    ¡°And then they wonder why slayers keep going rogue. Blowing up and murdering people, cutting down their own teammates in their sleep, carving through the populace until they can¡¯t push through the brand any longer or they get cut down. Did they talk about that in your academy? The number of slayers who lose their minds?¡±


    Trenan felt his mouth was suddenly dry. He¡¯d never heard anything like this.


    ¡°That¡¯s not true,¡± he managed to force out, though he wished he sounded more convincing.


    The Necromancer nodded sympathetically, which only pissed Trenan off.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got no reason to take my word for it. Ask a silver ranked slayer some time. They¡¯ve had their brand upgraded and seen a few things around the traps. Once you¡¯ve been at this for five or more years, if you¡¯re still alive, you¡¯ll be in that boat.¡±


    So saying, the mage pushed himself to his feet with a sigh.


    ¡°Well, thank you for coming, I appreciate your concern for the people of the village. As you can see, things are under control. My skeletons are up the mountain as we speak, dealing with the kin. There shouldn¡¯t be any need for me to rely on your services.¡±


    He paused.


    ¡°Though I¡¯ll keep you in mind should something dire arise.¡±


    That was as clear a dismissal as Trenan had ever heard. Glad it was over without his soul being ripped out of his body, he stood, and was pleased when Brigette stood up beside him.


    He was less pleased when she opened her mouth.


    ¡°I should apologise,¡± she said. ¡°My hero died because of a Necromancer. But that wasn¡¯t you, so I shouldn¡¯t be showing up with this attitude.¡±


    Trenan turned to stare at his old friend, wide-eyed. Brigette apologised? What was this character growth? Some sort of breakthrough? And did it have to happen right fucking now, in front of this mage?


    If that was shocking, the Necromancer throwing back his head and laughing was the icing on the cake. For the first time, Trenan thought there was genuine mirth in the man.


    ¡°Ah, shit. That took me by surprise,¡± the Necromancer sighed. ¡°It¡¯s been so long since I laughed like that.¡±


    Brigette was staring at him, murder written all over her face, and he quickly raised his hands.


    ¡°I don¡¯t mean any offence. Of course not. It¡¯s just the circumstances are a little unique. You''re a swordswoman, correct?¡±


    ¡°I am,¡± Brigette confirmed, face still tight with anger.


    ¡°So I¡¯m guessing your hero was Magnin Steelarm? Platinum ranked slayer, strongest of the eastern province?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    The Necromancer grinned.


    ¡°In which case, there is no need for you to apologise. My father did indeed die because of me. You have the right man.¡±


    He gave a short, polite bow.


    ¡°Allow me to introduce myself. Tyron Steelarm, at your service.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Was that really a good idea, kid?¡± Dove asked after the two slayers had left. ¡°According to the magisters, you¡¯re good and dead. Why give someone your name?¡±


    Tyron snorted as he walked back towards the cave, still a little ginger.


    ¡°They¡¯re stuck up this mountain for years. Who are they going to tell? Even if they spread it around, who is going to believe them? The people in the damn village will deny everything if I ask them to, and once I¡¯m done up here, what sign of me is going to remain?¡±


    He really was weak. That ritual had taken more out of him than he¡¯d thought, or perhaps the side effects of the mage candy were kicking in early. Had he really taken so much just after he¡¯d Awakened? It was a miracle he¡¯d survived. The next few days were going to be awful.


    ¡°But why take the risk at all? You could have just said, ¡®yeah, it sucks what that Tyron dickhead did. He¡¯s a stupid bitch who walks around with his head deep within his own arsehole. An incredible piece of shit. If I ever met him, I would spit on his face for a good half hour¡¯, and then gotten on with your day.¡±


    Tyron looked sideways at the onyx skeleton.


    ¡°I could have said all that, huh?¡±


    ¡°I can give you more.¡±


    ¡°No thanks.¡±


    Dove was right, he didn¡¯t have to reveal himself at all, could have given them any fake name he wanted. Even now it wasn¡¯t too late. He could erase their memory of this meeting, overwrite it with something different, but he knew he wouldn¡¯t.


    ¡°Ultimately, I think it¡¯s because I want the slayers on my side,¡± Tyron sighed. ¡°People like Trenan are the only thing that holds this place together, the only thing holding back the rifts from swallowing it all up. Magnin and Beory would have liked him. Someone like that, I want them on my side.¡±


    ¡°Well, they arent. If anything, you were deliberately making that girl angrier. Did you see the look on her face when she left? If looks could kill, I would be¡­ still dead.¡±


    ¡°But she¡¯ll be back. They both will. Eventually, they are going to want the full story, and if I give it to them, there¡¯s a chance they might be on my side. For that chance, I¡¯m willing to risk a lot.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°For revenge,¡± Tyron said simply. ¡°Why else? No matter how powerful I get, having help, people on the inside, who can work against the magisters, will be invaluable.¡±


    He brushed aside the blanket and held it so Dove could follow him into the cave.


    ¡°Now there¡¯s so much I need to think about. Developments with my Class, advancing my abilities, everything I learned from Poranus. There¡¯s so much. Good thing I¡¯m stuck here for a few more weeks.¡±

 B3C50 - Slayer Talk

    There were many things that Gramble didn¡¯t understand in life. His mother, for one. The woman was a contradiction in terms. Low born, but with the confidence and arrogance of a thrice-blessed noble. Perhaps it was that attitude that enabled her to snag his father, a retired silver slayer looking to settle down and churn out potions for the rest of his days.


    After yelling, kicking, screaming and begging, he had finally been able to speak to the magister, granted a mere five minutes in his presence, and the change that had overcome the man beggared belief. From the moment Poranus arrived in Cragwhistle, he¡¯d been a nightmare. For everyone. He ran Gramble and every other slayer ragged, filling in paperwork, counting, checking, double-checking, triple-checking. Interrogations were an almost weekly occurrence, where the grizzled mage would corner members of every team, hounding them with vague, cryptic threats and asking leading questions.


    Instead of that demon, the man behind the desk had been¡­ passive?


    Not that Poranus was inactive, far from it. For the entire duration of the meeting, the magister had been furiously filling out paperwork, his hands never stilling, blotches of ink on his face and sleeves evidence of the furious pace he worked at. It was as if he was filing reports for the entire mountain, by himself, without any input from anyone else. With a chill, he¡¯d eventually realised that was exactly what was happening. The Necromancer had ensured that there would be no gap in the ceaseless reports that Poranus had sent back to the capital. The ro-klaw, vicious, beaked bastards that they were, continued to fly back and forth in a steady stream.


    As he¡¯d tried to bring up the Necromancer, tried to get a word in edgewise about him, Poranus had nearly exploded with rage, screaming, ranting and bellowing, his eyes bulging out of his head. He slammed his fist on the table and demanded Gramble stop wasting his time, threatening to throw him bodily from the room if he ¡°didn¡¯t get his fat ass out the door in four seconds¡±.


    The whole meeting was incredibly unnerving, leaving the mage wide-eyed and trembling, fearing what that cursed Necromancer would do if he ever decided to mess with his mind. If the magister couldn¡¯t resist, what chance did he have? None at all! Miserable and afraid, he¡¯d slumped his way back to the barracks, only to find Brigette and Trenan returning at the same time.


    A good man, and a good leader, Trenan would have been a natural representative for every team if he wasn¡¯t as rigid as a rigour-mortis ridden rat with a pole wedged up its arse. If the phrase ¡®by the book¡¯ became sentient, lifted itself from the page and began walking around in human flesh, it would be Trenan¡¯s father.


    Thankfully, Brigette didn¡¯t take slaying that seriously. Problem was, she didn¡¯t take anything seriously. Not even Gramble¡¯s marriage proposal. He¡¯d mostly been joking. Mostly.


    He eyed her tight fitting armour and curves, before he remembered himself and flicked his eyes up to her face. Only then did he realise she was furious.


    ¡°Uh, hey there, Hooligans. What¡¯s going on? Trenan?¡±


    The two didn¡¯t acknowledge his presence, throwing open the door and stomping into the barracks without a glance in his direction. Gramble set his jaw. They might be angry, but that was no excuse to be rude.


    He followed after them, irritated, and found his own team members waiting for him inside the door.


    ¡°How did it go?¡± Petri asked, anxiety written all over his face. ¡°Did the magister listen to you?¡±


    ¡°Are we going to be able to kill this fucker?¡± Christoff growled.


    Gramble blinked, then scowled.


    ¡°No,¡± he said shortly. ¡°I was able to speak to him, but the magister has either gone mad, or it¡¯s exactly as we were told. He didn¡¯t listen to a word I had to say and damn near ripped my head off when I tried to tell him about the Necromancer.¡±


    His fellow members of team Weaver were just as pleased as he was at this turn of events. Christoff seemed mightily peeved while Petri despaired. Gramble rubbed at his right temple and exhaled explosively.


    ¡°I need a drink,¡± he muttered to himself.


    He walked forward and turned toward his room, hoping to sink into the bottle he had sitting on his shelf. Locally brewed, the stuff tasted like pickled toes, but hit like a hammerman on festival day. Perfect for a low ranked slayer. His hand was extended, reaching for his door handle, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.


    Brigette and Trenan, still looking like they¡¯d been chewing on gallstones, had rounded up Chol and Arthur, the other two members of their team, and were now engaged in a furious, whispered conversation. Brigette in particular seemed extremely animated, shoving fingers in peoples faces and generally appeared ready to bite someone¡¯s nose off.


    ¡°What in the empire are they doing?¡± Gramble wondered aloud.


    In fact, where had they come from? He¡¯d walked to the barracks from the city, and those two had come from the opposite direction, which meant they¡¯d come from the gate. He frowned, suspicious.


    Did they know something he didn¡¯t? Something to do with the rifts?


    Ever since he¡¯d arrived, there had been the expected jockeying for position between the slayer teams, friendly competition for resources, cores, experience, the usual stuff. If those bastards were keeping secrets now, when their lives were on the line¡­ Gramble wasn¡¯t having it.


    Anger bubbling up in his chest, he walked over to the table the Hooligans were sat around, pulled over a chair for himself, and sat down heavily.


    Trenan shot him an irritated glance.


    ¡°Do you mind?¡± he growled. ¡°We¡¯re having a team meeting.¡±


    ¡°Under normal circumstances, I wouldn¡¯t dare intrude,¡± Gramble said, placing a hand on his chest, ¡°but these are far from normal circumstances. It¡¯s in our best interest to share information, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡±


    Stony silence met him and he smiled into the void.


    ¡°For example, I just returned from my meeting with magister Poranus. I don¡¯t mind telling you it was a disaster. If the man hasn¡¯t been affected by mind-magick, then he¡¯s surely gone insane.¡±


    Trenan grunted.


    ¡°I told you that was the case two days ago.¡±


    ¡°You told me I¡¯d be wasting my time, but you didn¡¯t tell me why.¡±


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    That earned him a glare from the normally stoic team leader.


    ¡°Gramble, I want you off this fucking table, now.¡±


    ¡°Tell me where you and Brigette went.¡±


    Trenan stood, a murderous gleam in his eye.


    ¡°I¡¯m not in the mood for your bullshit, Gramble. This isn¡¯t the time to be playing stupid fucking games.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m the one playing games?¡± he retorted hotly. ¡°I¡¯m not the one keeping secrets during a crisis. Where did you go? I¡¯m sure team Starfire would like to know what¡¯s been going on up the mountain. In fact, why don¡¯t I get them? Won¡¯t take a second.¡±


    He leapt from his chair and began knocking on doors down the corridor as Trenan continued to glare at his back, slowly grinding his teeth. It didn¡¯t take long for faces to start poking out of rooms, including that of Samantha, the third team leader in Cragwhistle.


    When she saw who was causing the disturbance, she wasn¡¯t pleased.


    ¡°Gramble,¡± she said in a flat tone of voice, ¡°why in the name of the divines are you bashing on my door? This had better be good.¡±


    The mage smiled confidently and gestured toward the common room where Trenan and the others sat.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you ask the Hooligans? They¡¯re the ones who¡¯ve been calling meetings.¡±


    Unimpressed, Samantha glared at the pudgy magick-flinger, arms folded across her chest.


    ¡°What is he on about, Trenan?¡±


    ¡°Beats me.¡±


    ¡°They know something,¡± Gramble said through a forced smile, ¡°and they aren¡¯t sharing. Trenan and Brigette went up the mountain.¡±


    Despite being no fan of the man in front of her, this was enough to pique Samantha¡¯s interest. She leaned forward.


    ¡°Is that right?¡± she said, emerging from her room at last. ¡°Did you learn anything about that freaky light we saw?¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re curious, you can always go up and ask the Necromancer yourself,¡± Trenan ground out. ¡°Door¡¯s that way, Sam, Gramble.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯ve already gone and spoken to him, it would be redundant for me to do the same,¡± Gramble said, ¡°and I¡¯m sure you would never keep important information from your fellow slayers.¡±


    Through all of this, Brigette sat in stony silence, visibly fuming, her hands clenched into fists on the tabletop. Something had seriously upset her, which was unusual. Gramble felt more confident than ever there was something here. Something important.


    ¡°Throw us a bone, Trenan,¡± Samantha said, at last. ¡°I don¡¯t want to go up there and risk my team¡¯s lives on a fact finding expedition, but if you did go up and speak to that¡­ man¡­ you must have learned something.¡±


    Trenan grunted.


    ¡°Do you really believe I¡¯d hold back critical information? If I had something useful, I¡¯d tell you, even that prick,¡± he said, gesturing toward Gramble who grinned and sat back in his chair.


    ¡°Any little thing could be critical at the moment,¡± Samantha reasoned, ¡°even the tiniest detail. I¡¯ve been having nightmares of being turned undead these past nights, and I know I¡¯m not the only one. If something doesn¡¯t change soon, I¡¯m worried one of us is going to snap and do something they¡¯ll regret.¡±


    Trenan and Brigette shared a quick glance.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he sighed. ¡°I can say a little.¡±


    By this time, the common room was almost full, as every slayer still in the barracks had squeezed in, wanting to know just what was going on.


    ¡°Brigette and I went up the mountain to see what had happened after that light we¡¯d seen went out. If the Necromancer was dead, we needed to know so we could prepare to fight off the kin.¡±


    ¡°Praiseworthy dedication to your duty.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you, Gramble.¡±


    ¡°Really. I was simply¨C¡±


    ¡°Shut the fuck up, Gramble,¡± Samantha cut him off. ¡°Go on.¡±


    Trenan sighed.


    ¡°We went up there and spoke to the man. Had a nice chat.¡±


    ¡°You spoke to him?¡± Samantha asked, brow raised.


    ¡°Yes. Didn¡¯t have much choice once the skeletons had spotted us, did we? To summarise, he¡¯d cast some sort of big fucking ritual, he wasn¡¯t dead, but weakened, the rift was fine, his skeletons were fine, end of story.¡±


    ¡°He was weakened?¡± Gramble shouted. ¡°How weak? We could sortie up the mountain and attack him right now!¡±


    The Hooligan team leader stared at him evenly.


    ¡°You go for it. I wish you and team Weave the best of luck, my team will sit tight right here.¡±


    ¡°Coward,¡± Gramble spat, only to slide back in his chair as Trenan leapt to his feet, glowering.


    ¡°Say that again, you fucking hog. Say it again.¡±


    ¡°Trenan, cool it,¡± Samantha snapped, standing and putting a hand on his chest. ¡°We don¡¯t want a fight amongst ourselves. Not now.¡±


    For a tense few moments, nobody spoke, until Trenan finally sat, still breathing heavily, his face tight with anger.


    ¡°If you want to die, go up the mountain and fight,¡± he said with finality. ¡°I won¡¯t push my team members to their own deaths. Weakened or not, that¡­ man¡­ is more than we can handle.¡±


    He sighed.


    ¡°At least he seems amenable. Villagers have been going up to see him every day, apparently. I don¡¯t fucking know why, but the guards at the gate told me, and I believe them. He doesn¡¯t kill them, doesn¡¯t even talk to them. For whatever reason, he spoke to us, and I think he would again if we went up.¡±


    The hammerman shrugged.


    ¡°If you want to learn more about him, go and speak to him. I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll get yourself killed, but I could be wrong and it¡¯s all some elaborate game he¡¯s playing.¡±


    Silence fell once more as each slayer considered what he¡¯d said. None were particularly eager to speak to a Necromancer. They weren¡¯t afraid of death, certainly feared it less than most people, but dying was the least of their concerns on this mountain.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going to tell them?¡± Brigette said finally, a bubbling heat in her voice.


    Trenan set his jaw.


    ¡°No. I¡¯m not going to tell them.¡±


    Gramble leapt on this opportunity.


    ¡°You were keeping something from us after all!¡± he crowed. ¡°Never would have expected it from honest Trenan. What is it? What did you learn?¡±


    Brigette flicked a glance at her team leader, whose mouth remained resolutely shut. She sucked in a breath and looked up at the rest of them.


    ¡°He told us his name. Tyron Steelarm.¡±


    This pronouncement was met with dead silence. Then a babble of mixed voices broke out at once.


    ¡°Bullshit,¡± Samantha breathed.


    ¡°Worthless nonsense,¡± Gramble slumped. He¡¯d hoped for something better than the lies of a madman.


    Slayers discussed animatedly around the room, one talking over the other as they expressed a mix of disbelief, shock, derision and fear.


    ¡°He said he killed Magnin and Beory!¡± Brigette shouted, pounding a fist on the table. ¡°He confessed right in front of us!¡±


    ¡°Brigette!¡± Trenan roared, and she flinched. ¡°He did no such thing,¡± he clarified to the suddenly quiet audience. ¡°He said, and I fucking quote, ¡®my parents died because of me¡¯. Isn¡¯t that right?¡±


    The swordswoman set her jaw, but nodded.


    ¡°Make of that what you will, I don¡¯t fucking care. If you think he¡¯s legitimate, or insane, or just joking, I don¡¯t fucking care. Go and talk to him yourselves. I¡¯m getting a damn drink.¡±


    So saying, he turned and stormed toward the exit, only stopping to plant a foot in Gramble¡¯s chest, causing the mage to yelp as his chair tipped backwards and he thudded hard into the floor.


    Brigette sat with her hands still clenched on the table in front of her.


    ¡°You alright, Bridge?¡± Chol asked quietly, putting a hand on her friend''s shoulder.


    ¡°No,¡± the swordswoman scowled. ¡°I¡¯m not alright. But I will be.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t do anything stupid, Bridge,¡± Arthur advised her as Gramble was helped up from the ground by his teammates, cursing.


    She laughed bitterly.


    ¡°I know I don¡¯t stand a chance against that prick. I¡¯m not that eager to die. I was mainly talking about getting pissed. I¡¯m going to find whatever hole Trenan is crawling into and join him. You want to come?¡±


    Arthur and Chol shared a glance. The former shrugged, the latter smiled.


    ¡°Why not? We¡¯ll make it a team session.¡±

 B3C51 - The Cold of Winter

    Huddled in his cave, Tyron continued to scribble away in his book of notes, face a mask of concentration. There were so many things for him to work on, it was difficult for him to focus on a single thing at a time.


    He¡¯d promised Dove he would work on a new Status ritual, and he would, but when was he going to find the time? The depths of his new space, the Ossuary, beckoned him constantly and required study, but he was reluctant to explore it too soon. Until he better understood what it was he had created, he wanted to tread lightly, lest he make a terrible mistake.


    Another thought had bubbled up in his head, the idea that his minions could remain behind on the mountain after he left and continue to fight against the kin. As far as he knew, such a thing was impossible. No matter how skillfully, how perfectly he formed the conduit between himself and his minions, it would never stretch far enough to move his magick from one side of the province to the other.


    Even if it did, gaps and holes would appear along the way, meaning not a single drop of energy, no matter how much he fed into it, would reach the other side. Was there a solution? Maybe. A construct, formed of bone, to soak up the ambient magick spewing out of the rift and feed it into his minions would theoretically be able to feed them the power they needed, but he had a feeling it wouldn¡¯t be that easy.


    For starters, the minions would still be connected to him via a conduit, which would attempt to pull magick from him the second this new source wasn¡¯t sufficient. If enough minions tried to draw from him at once, and if his body could actually attempt to supply it from such a range, it was possible he would die. All the magick would be ripped out of him in a second, and he¡¯d hit the floor before he¡¯d even realised what had happened. Possibly.


    Then there was the issue of control. The skeletons were semi-autonomous, able to make simple, routine decisions for themselves, minor things that helped them complete the tasks he gave them, but anything more complex was completely out of their reach. Since instructions were transmitted through the conduit¡­ there was no way he could communicate with the skeletons over such a distance.


    Despite all the issues, none of which he had a solution for, he still felt there was something there¡­ a possibility that might enable him to continue reaping experience via combatting the rift, while living in Kenmor.


    On the page in front of him, a rudimentary design for a large, bull-sized construct formed of human bones was taking shape. Scribbled notes, some crossed out, some circled, spirals of runes in various configurations, and dot points elaborating on the questions overhanging the design surrounded the image.


    There was a rustling at the cave entrance and Tyron scowled at his broken concentration.


    ¡°Are they back again?¡±


    ¡°Hey, don¡¯t get pissed at me. You¡¯re the one who asked me to tell you.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Tyron sighed. ¡°I appreciate it. How¡¯s it been going with your kin-killing?¡±


    As he spoke, he pushed himself to his feet and stepped out of the cave to find Dove waiting for him by the exit.


    ¡°Is it having the effect I would have liked to see? No.¡± The skeleton shrugged his bony shoulders. ¡°But I must say, it¡¯s been nice to be killing the kin again. Cathartic.¡±


    Tyron raised his brows. Anything that was good for the former-Summoner¡¯s state of mind was ultimately a good thing. For too long, he¡¯d feared Dove was dangling over a cliff¡¯s edge. Or had already jumped off.


    ¡°That¡¯s good. I haven¡¯t forgotten about what I promised you either. I¡¯ll have your armour ready in the next few days, and I¡¯m still thinking on the ritual. Don¡¯t worry.¡±


    Dove made a disgusted noise.


    ¡°Imagine being able to fight the kin while sitting on your backside inside a cave studying magick. Holy fucking shit, that is the dream.¡±


    The Necromancer winked at him.


    ¡°Still confident Summoner is the better Class?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    His mentor tried to sound firm in his answer, but Tyron could sense him wavering. He chuckled as he began to make his way down the mountain.


    ¡°Usual place?¡±


    ¡°The usual place.¡±


    ¡°If you want to, feel free to take a look at my notes. I¡¯m trying to design a bone-construct and could use your feedback.¡±


    The onyx-skeleton froze in place.


    ¡°Is that?!¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not a dick!¡±


    ¡°You really know how to kick a man when he¡¯s down,¡± Dove groaned, his shoulders slumping.


    Tyron turned his back in disgust and continued walking, muttering under his breath as he went. Of all the things he could be devoting time to, creating an artificial manhood for a dead person seemed by far the most ludicrous. The further down the slope he got, the more his ire began to shift to the people he knew were waiting for him.


    Why in the name of the dark gods did they keep coming? He was no saviour to them, no matter what the three said. Yet, no matter how he tried to communicate that, delegations from the village continued to climb the mountain. In fact, they were getting worse.


    Now they were bringing tribute, and they wouldn¡¯t leave until he accepted it.


    ¡°It was a mistake to take it the first time,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°It only encouraged them.¡±


    He thought they were just being polite, and uncomfortable about it as he was, he¡¯d thought it would be rude not to take it. Now he had to trudge several hundred metres down the mountain every day to collect what they offered him. It¡¯s not like he needed it! These people were dirt poor! Refugees who¡¯d left everything they had behind, what little they still possessed should be going into helping them build their new lives.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    He¡¯d tried to say as much, but they wouldn¡¯t listen.


    Skeleton body guards in place around him, Tyron came into the relatively flat ground of the clearing to find nearly a dozen people in attendance. He sighed.


    Ragged clothing, faces lined with years of struggle, grim expressions, these were worshippers of the three alright. Like they were carved out of old tree roots, these people were tough, he gave them that much.


    At the head of the group, an old woman stood, leaning heavily on the cane she held in her right hand.


    Would she sit down if I asked her to? Tyron wondered to himself, then grimaced. Not a chance.


    ¡°I told the last group, and I¡¯ll tell you the same. I don¡¯t require tribute or donations,¡± he said shortly as he approached the group, stopping five metres away. ¡°What possessions and currency you possess is far better spent on yourselves than it is on me.¡±


    Wordlessly, the old woman at the front nodded, then bowed and held out a sack in front, her arms trembling with the weight of it. He knew she¡¯d hold it until she collapsed if he didn¡¯t take it, these people were stubborn, so he instructed a skeleton to collect it.


    The minion took the roughly sewn leather sack and brought it back, opening it close to Tyron so he could inspect what was inside. If it was money, he¡¯d have to find a way to slip it to Ortan again.


    Instead, his eyes widened slightly, and the old woman smiled to see it. Inside the sack, he found a jumble of assorted bones, possibly enough for a full skeleton.


    ¡°Did these come from one set of remains?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    With a voice as rough as bark and eyes as cold as winter, the old woman answered him for the group. Tyron made a snap decision.


    ¡°If you insist on giving me things, though again I ask you not to... I am no servant¡­¡± he trailed off. ¡°I am technically no servant of your gods, and I do not believe I am anyone¡¯s salvation. However, if you insist on ignoring me, then this is the only thing I will accept from now on,¡± he took the bag from the skeleton and held it up.


    ¡°Bones,¡± he said. ¡°Human bones. Or horse. Full skeletons are much preferred.¡±


    He tried to keep the hunger from his voice, though it was difficult. The supply of remains he¡¯d brought with him had dwindled almost to nothing. Repairing the skeletons as they fought, various experiments, materials for moulding armour, all took a little bone here and there.


    ¡°Be careful. Any place with too many bodies and thick death magick will result in wild undead, which can be extremely dangerous. If you intend to do this for me, then I¡¯d prefer you didn¡¯t come to harm.¡±


    He paused, then narrowed his eyes.


    ¡°And please don¡¯t kill anyone for their bones¡­.¡±


    Hopefully, he didn¡¯t have to specify that. The old woman narrowed her eyes and looked a little offended, so they probably wouldn¡¯t.


    Finally, he said, ¡°If you find a good source of remains but need help securing them, let me know. I will send skeletons, or assist myself.¡±


    The old woman bowed, turned and began to leave, the others trailing in her wake. When he thought the audience was over, Tyron considered what had transpired for a moment, before he shrugged and made to leave, only to find one young woman had remained behind. He regarded her as she took several steps forward, arms folded across her chest. This was a slayer.


    At a mental command, the skeletons around him drew closer and he cursed himself for not wearing his armour.


    Too incautious. Just because the villagers haven¡¯t wanted to harm me, doesn¡¯t mean someone else won¡¯t try.


    He strove to keep his anger from his face as the slayer approached. Dark haired, with a long sleeved coat and her hair bound back, she looked mature for a bronze ranked slayer, certainly for one fresh out of the academy.


    ¡°That¡¯s close enough,¡± he said, ensuring there were two ranks of shielded minions between them. Just to be safe, he began to form the mind domination spell, his hands flickering out the sigils discreetly, hidden from view. ¡°If you have something to say, please speak your mind.¡±


    Calculating brown eyes watched him, with no sign of fear in them, though he may have detected the slightest trembling in her fingers.


    ¡°My name is Samantha Ingthorn,¡± she said. ¡°Leader of team Starlight.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Tyron nodded. ¡°The all female team? I¡¯ve heard of you.¡±


    ¡°Is there an issue with an all female team?¡± she asked, her voice hardening a fraction.


    ¡°No. It¡¯s simply unusual.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s response was flat and direct, and the slayer seemed to be satisfied.


    ¡°I apologise if I seem defensive. Some people don¡¯t approve.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no matter. Though I assume you didn¡¯t come here, at the potential risk of your soul, to discuss prejudice. I have many things that occupy my time, and would be grateful if you would come to the point.¡±


    Samantha nodded, seeming to have expected as much. She continued to watch him, assessing.


    ¡°I wanted to meet you,¡± she said finally. ¡°Trenan and Brigette spoke to you and returned alive, along with so many townsfolk. It seemed to me that if I was going to place my trust, and the lives of my team, in your hands, I should at the very least meet you.¡±


    ¡°People are still worried I¡¯m going to murder everyone in town?¡± Tyron asked, a hint of amusement creeping through.


    ¡°You told those villagers yourself that you needed bones.¡±


    ¡°I do,¡± he said, ¡°desperately.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s an obvious and easy way for you to get them,¡± she shrugged.


    ¡°If you think committing mass murder is obvious and easy, then perhaps you are more dangerous than I am,¡± Tyron chuckled. ¡°To date, there are very few among my minions that I have killed myself.¡±


    ¡°So there are some?¡±


    ¡°Of course. Slayers included.¡±


    ¡°Is there a reason I shouldn¡¯t fear becoming one of them? What makes us so different than those you¡¯ve already killed?¡±


    The question was asked in a casual manner, though he could see how intent she was on getting an answer. She was a leader, wanting to ascertain just how safe her people were. He respected that.


    ¡°They tried to kill me, instead they were killed, and now they serve in death,¡± he said simply. ¡°If you choose to attack me, then that will also be your fate.¡±


    Samantha absorbed that, then Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°Of course, you have no way to determine if what I have said is the truth. I¡¯m fully aware I have put you and your team in a no-win situation, but that is the fate of the weak in this realm, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    ¡°Even your parents?¡±


    A surge of anger erupted in his chest at the question, his eyes turned blisteringly cold.


    ¡°Especially my parents,¡± he replied. ¡°The difference is that Magnin and Beory did everything they could to scratch and claw their way to power. They burned themselves trying to break free. They failed at the final hurdle. I will not.¡±


    Those dark eyes continued to regard him.


    ¡°Can you tell me how they died?¡± she asked.


    Tyron glared.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    She wilted a fraction under the weight of that stare, but she didn¡¯t retreat.


    ¡°I wanted to hear it. If the magisters lied to us, then I want to know the truth.¡±


    For a full minute, Tyron considered in silence, until at last he answered.


    ¡°Very well. Let me tell you of two slayers who defied the gods.¡±

 B3C52 - Born To Rule

    The ceiling of the Grand Cathedral was a remarkable piece of magick engineering, and Lady Recillia Erryn couldn¡¯t help but feel a stir in her heart every time she saw it.


    Held up by massive pillars, each weighing thousands of tons, the peak of the arches reached over a hundred metres from the ground. That vast empty space was filled with enchanted illusions of clouds, streaks of sunlight, angels, and, perhaps, a glimpse of the gods themselves. There was a shimmer to enchanted marble that no other substance could quite replicate; it seemed to glow in the sunlight, reflecting a radiant glory that seemed holy to all who beheld it.


    Perhaps that was why the material was restricted to the temples.


    Seated in her alcove beneath a breathtaking painting of the first martyr, Dimitri, who had given his life in the service of the newborn gods in the first crusade, she heard the priest approaching well before he reached her. No matter how they muffled the floor with thick rugs, or covered the walls with elaborate tapestries, even the softest footstep seemed to echo within the hall.


    When Father Chirn stepped into the alcove, he found the Lady Erryn already staring at him, her piercing ice-blue eyes seeming to look straight through him.


    A formidable woman, she hadn¡¯t made it to her current position through luck. It was always worth watching those who rose so quickly. They would either be snuffed out after a blaze of glory, or sustain their rise all the way to the top. The trick was trying to work out which was which.


    ¡°The Bishop is ready to receive you now, Lady Erryn.¡±


    ¡°My thanks, Lord Chirn.¡±


    He smiled thinly.


    ¡°Please refer to me as Father Chirn. All claims I had to my noble house were relinquished when I donned the cloth.¡±


    ¡°That is the tradition, yes.¡±


    Unhurried, the diminutive noble brushed down her immaculate skirt before she rose, posture perfect, eyes steady. Father Chirn mastered himself enough to keep the sneer from his face. There was no arena in which the noble houses wouldn¡¯t squabble with each other, even within the church. As she had subtly pointed out, it was tradition for those of high birth who joined the church to sever ties with their families, but in practice, they seldom did.


    From the main hall, down a broad, spacious hallway, the pair arrived outside a large, polished oak door. The Priest knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a response, then stepped aside to allow Lady Erryn to step through. She walked past him without a glance and entered an office that put her own within the Magisters¡¯ tower to shame. Opulence dripped from every wall, every inch of floor. Statues, carvings, paintings, even the ceremonial robes displayed in the centre of the room gleamed with enchanted gems, cores and gold thread.


    The Bishop stood as she entered, a reserved smile on his face. Hands clasped behind his back, he walked out from behind his desk and approached the entrance.


    ¡°Thank you, Father Chirn, that will be all.¡±


    ¡°As you will, Bishop.¡±


    The priest closed the heavy door behind him, leaving the two alone in the room. If the Bishop¡¯s expression softened in front of his daughter, she couldn¡¯t detect it. She imagined, briefly, what more common families would do at times like this. Embrace? Exchange pleasantries? She couldn¡¯t imagine it. There wasn¡¯t time for such things, not when the game was on and the stakes were so high.


    And the game was always on.


    ¡°Daughter,¡± The Bishop Erryn greeted her, rings gleaming on his fingers as he folded his hands atop each other. ¡°What news do you bring?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps a drink and a seat, Father? If I must make my way through the city to the cathedral to satisfy your curiosity, you should offer refreshment at the very least.¡±


    He grunted, half amused, half irritated before he invited her to sit and made his way to the decanter at the side of the room, filled with ruby-red wine.


    ¡°How do you keep all the names straight,¡± she asked as he poured glasses for the two of them, ¡°considering more than two thirds of the clergy come from the same five families?¡±


    He was ¡®Bishop Erryn¡¯, but was hardly the only member of the family serving within this one cathedral, let alone in the church as a whole across the province. There may have been dozens of ¡®Father Chirns¡¯. Probably were, considering how useless they were. Promotion was unlikely for the rabble of that house.


    ¡°Here, drink,¡± the Bishop said, a touch ungraciously, offering the glass to his daughter. She accepted it with magnanimity.


    ¡°You are acting a touch impatient recently,¡± Lady Erryn observed. ¡°Perhaps there is movement amongst the clergy?¡±


    ¡°When is there not?¡± her father grunted as he sat opposite her.


    The chairs were luxurious, and as she always did, the Lady surreptitiously slid a hand along the fur. She would have to get some, if not for her office, then her residence. Which kin did it come from?


    ¡°The arch-bishops have been jumpy lately. Or, perhaps more accurately, they are still jumpy. The break at Woodsedge seemed to set them off, which is to be expected, but they haven¡¯t calmed down since.¡±


    The Lady took a sip of her wine. Delicious. Her father refused to drink anything that hadn¡¯t been aged at least five decades. The depth of flavour, the perfect sour notes. She swirled her glass. Truly an excellent wine.


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    ¡°Do we still have no leads as to the source of their¡­ unease?¡± she asked, and her father scowled.


    He was off balance, normally he wouldn¡¯t show this much emotion. Tensions within the clergy must be running high.


    ¡°Am I reporting to you, or you to me?¡± he asked evenly.


    She raised a brow.


    ¡°This is a mutual and fair exchange of information, Father. We must support those with the closest blood ties within the family, after all.¡±


    Left unsaid, was the difference in their positions. She was second in line to be head of the house, behind her cousin, whereas her uncle, the current head, had shipped his brother to the church upon his ascension. Lady Erryn was in a position of strength within the house, her father was not.


    ¡°I have given you information. What do you have for me?¡±


    She pursed her lips as she eyed him steadily. He¡¯d given her nothing they hadn¡¯t discussed a hundred times before. Nevertheless, she yielded.


    ¡°There is something amiss with the Magisters,¡± she said, trying to keep her distaste from her voice. Her role was an important one, granted by the Baron himself, yet she couldn¡¯t bring herself to like it. Where she had expected polished professionalism and clear-eyed stewards of the province¡¯s slayers, she had instead found bickering children, comfortable and lazy.


    ¡°What is it this time?¡±


    ¡°The reports. Every keep, every rift, every kin, all activity regarding them is documented and collected in the tower for examination. I review as much of it as I possibly can personally, to ensure the mages are doing their jobs.¡±


    ¡°And? Have reports been going missing?¡±


    She shook her head.


    ¡°The opposite.¡±


    Her father blinked.


    ¡°The reports are¡­ arriving more frequently?¡±


    ¡°Precisely.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure if I share your concern over this¡­ promptly filed paperwork.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s significant,¡± she insisted. ¡°A change in behaviour, a shift in the normal patterns always signifies something underlying. The Magisters have been lax for decades. Slayers hate filing their documents and the mages are getting less and less inclined to make them. If the reports are coming in more regularly, then¡­¡± she trailed off allowing her father to fill in the blanks.


    ¡°Either the Magisters have developed a work ethic¡­¡± his tone left no doubt how unlikely he thought that might be. ¡°... Or the slayers have discovered a taste for documentation.¡±


    Equally unlikely.


    ¡°That is interesting,¡± he father noted. ¡°Any idea as to what may be the cause?¡±


    ¡°Not yet, but I am investigating.¡±


    ¡°How have the Magisters responded?¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t seem to have noticed the difference.¡±


    ¡°Have they really become so lax at their duties?¡±


    Her father showed a hint, a bare whisper, of true dismay as he said this, and Lady Erryn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Some nobles, her father among them, apparently, seemed very reluctant to acknowledge that others may be as mired in intrigue and idleness as they themselves. Those blessed with the Divine Right were different, determined, touched by the gods themselves, but others?


    Her lip curled despite her best efforts.


    Unable to see the wood for the trees, they seemed to believe that their own corruption and incompetence were somehow an isolated occurrence, as opposed to a more universal malaise. The gods saw all, and a reckoning was past due.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t that they are lazy, as such,¡± she answered the Bishop¡¯s question, ¡°but rather they focus on some parts of their duties above others. Rigorous record keeping has fallen by the wayside, it¡¯s true, but they are¡­ zealous, when it comes to meeting out punishment upon the slayers.¡±


    ¡°As well they should,¡± her father mused, ¡°another slayer uprising is the last thing we need.¡±


    As if brutalising them would lead to anything else.


    ¡°Quite so,¡± she demurred. ¡°Now, I have shared something of value, it is time for you to do the same.¡±


    Again, that hint of a frown, the tightening around the eyes. The old man was slipping.


    ¡°I am somewhat reluctant to share this,¡± he said slowly, ¡°because it is difficult to verify.¡±


    ¡°Rumour, or hearsay?¡±


    ¡°Neither. Rather¡­ rumblings.¡±


    ¡°An interesting choice of phrase.¡±


    The Bishop leaned forward and clasped his hands together, watching her over his intertwined fingers.


    ¡°You know of the oracles?¡±


    Lady Erryn nodded, eyes calculating.


    ¡°Everyone knows of the oracles.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true, but most of what they know is nonsense. Most of us never so much as see them, I¡¯ve never seen them.¡±


    Anything that touched on them was a closely guarded secret. Only the Archbishops were able to come into contact with them.


    ¡°There are rumours that space is being made within their compound. Furniture is being brought in. Carpenters and the like have been hired. I¡¯ve seen the accounting books myself.¡±


    The noble lady¡¯s mind raced. Why would they be making space? Increasing the number of residents within the compound? Why would they need to increase the number of residents? As far as she was aware, the number of oracles kept in the province was more or less constant, they were only replaced when they died. In which case, there would be no need to make more room.


    ¡°They¡¯re bringing in oracles from outside?¡± she murmured.


    The Bishop nodded gravely.


    ¡°So I suspect.¡±


    If they were doing that¡­ then where would they come from? It wouldn¡¯t make sense for them to come from the North or South, which meant¡­.


    ¡°They¡¯re coming from the central province? From the capital?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s difficult to say. I can¡¯t prove any of this,¡± her father cautioned, but Recillia¡¯s mind was already leaps ahead.


    If they were bringing in oracles from the central province, that meant there was an issue, a serious issue. The Archbishops were unsettled, acting erratically. Was there an issue with the oracles themselves? Something they couldn¡¯t see? In which case, the call had been made to summon the high oracles from the central province, perhaps to divine what had been hidden?


    The oracles communed directly with the gods themselves¡­. What could possibly escape their sight?


    Suddenly uneasy, Lady Erryn rose from her seat.


    ¡°Thank you, Father. I believe this will prove to be useful information.¡±


    He rose along with her.


    ¡°Thank you for the visit, Daughter. If you learn anything more, be sure to let me know. Any advantage we can gain within the clergy is worth it.¡±


    If she was right, then manoeuvring for the next Archbishop¡¯s seat was the least of his concerns. After making her goodbyes, she left her father¡¯s office, then made her way out of the temple, mind abuzz. Repeatedly, she had to caution herself not to jump to conclusions. If she made the wrong decisions at this early stage, it could prove devastating.


    When the oracles moved, it was a sign the divines themselves were moving. And they were coming here, to the western province. Something momentous was on the horizon. Distant still, but it was coming.


    She had to find out what.

 B3C53 - Change Is In The Air

    Tyron stepped through the rift, back onto the mountain, still shivering as he shook the rime from his cloak. No matter how many layers he put on, the realm these kin belonged to was beyond freezing.


    Around him, his skeletons emerged, as well as Dove, who jauntily swaggered onto the trail.


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem? Flesh getting you down?¡± he asked, mockingly.


    ¡°Yes, yes. You don¡¯t feel the cold. Very funny.¡±


    Despite being halfway up a mountain, surrounded by frost-covered trees and plants, with a chilling wind trying to creep inside his cloak, he relaxed. Compared to the never ending storm of ice and snow on the other side, the climate around Cragwhistle was luxurious. If he didn¡¯t have the skeletons to wade through the snow drifts and make a path for him, getting anywhere over there would be a gigantic pain in the backside.


    ¡°Well, at least it was a successful trip. You got what you needed, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    Tyron clutched at the bag tied to his belt, feeling the large cores scrape against each other within.


    ¡°Hopefully, yes. If it isn¡¯t enough, we¡¯ll just have to go back again in a few days.¡±


    ¡°Maybe by then the blood flow will have returned to your extremities,¡± the skeleton said, chattering his onyx jaw in a somehow suggestive manner.


    Ignoring the genital related idiocy, the Necromancer began to trudge his way down the slope, arranging his undead in a wide protective ring around him. They moved so lightly, the skeletons, due to their low weight. With all the improvements he¡¯d made, they were well balanced, and seemed able to traverse the rocky terrain with ease. He himself was not nearly so graceful.


    ¡°With everything we gathered, I should have enough cores to make some armour for you as well. There¡¯s only so much I can do with chips, no matter how well I can arrange them. To give you a more significant pool of magick to work with, something larger is required.¡±


    Dove seemed pleased with the news.


    ¡°There¡¯s not much I can do with it at this point, but I¡¯ll never say no to a bit more magick. A shame those damn mammoths don¡¯t have fourth grade cores. From the size of them, you¡¯d think they would.¡±


    ¡°If they were strong enough to hold cores of that quality, we¡¯d be getting flattened by them,¡± Tyron remarked dryly. ¡°I didn¡¯t get a good look, but I think we collected at least one third-grade, which I¡¯ll use for your armour. If I combine the rest, that should be enough to power my construct.¡±


    So far, they hadn¡¯t encountered any monsters stronger than the mammoths, even on the other side of the rift. That wasn¡¯t to say they didn¡¯t exist, but perhaps the rift was still too small to attract more dangerous creatures, unable to fit themselves through. Or perhaps the frozen wasteland was a recently fallen realm, without enough time to be fully corrupted by wild magick.


    Either way, he was grateful. Even with his army of skeletons, he wouldn¡¯t be willing to fight on the other side of nearly any other rift in the province, certainly not alone.


    When they arrived down the mountain, Tyron found a crowd of villagers waiting beneath his cave and sighed. At least in the rift, he hadn¡¯t needed to cater to these visitors. Then he spied a familiar-looking old woman at the fore of the group. It had been a week since he¡¯d tasked a group with finding him more skeletons, and she was certainly the person he¡¯d spoken to at that time.


    If they had bones, this was a different matter entirely. With a spring in his step, Tyron made his way down the trail, eyes alight with anticipation.


    ¡°Welcome back,¡± he greeted them. ¡°I¡¯m hoping you have something for me?¡±


    He tried to keep the eagerness from his voice, but struggled.


    A woman of few words, the apparent leader of the group nodded and indicated for some of the others to step forward, which they did. Bulging sacks on their shoulders, six young men approached, straining against the apparent weight before they gently eased their burdens onto the ground. At his direction, the undead stepped forward and inspected each, reaching inside and withdrawing what were clearly bones that had been dug up recently.


    ¡°There¡¯s thirty full skeletons there,¡± the old woman finally spoke, her voice thin, but with a hint of iron in it. ¡°At least, as near as we can tell.¡±


    ¡°Where did you get them?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°Mass graves,¡± she replied, simply. ¡°Some places had too many dead, so they dropped ¡®em all in a hole. They were barely covered in dirt. These came from near Underhill, if you¡¯ve heard of it.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t. There were hundreds, if not thousands of villages and farming communities who¡¯d been overrun by the kin following the break. Tyron could name maybe five of those.


    ¡°If so many dead were piled in a heap, some of them should have risen on their own. Did you see any wild undead there?¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t,¡± came the reply, ¡°though we was sure to check.¡±


    That was¡­ odd. He doubted the people who¡¯d buried the bodies had been sensitive enough to find areas with low ambient magick, or devoid of death magick. In fact, given so many had been buried so carelessly, there should be roving packs of zombies and skeletons popping up all over the place. Something didn¡¯t make sense.


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    ¡°You¡¯ve done extremely well,¡± he said. ¡°Wait a moment.¡±


    He ducked into the cave and rummaged for a bit before emerging with a small pouch of coin.


    ¡°Here¡¯s some payment for your efforts, I know you went to great lengths to get these for me. There¡¯s a gold worth of silver in there.¡±


    He tossed the pouch to the old lady, who snatched it out of the air with a hand like a starved python. At the mention of how much he was paying them, wide eyed looks and muttering broke out amongst the small crowd.


    ¡°If you make another trip, I¡¯ll pay the same again. As many times as you¡¯re willing to do it. Although I might have to start paying you in cores,¡± he finished, realising he hadn¡¯t brought that much coin with him.


    No matter, he had agents in Foxbridge who purchased cores for his shop. He could fill the villagers¡¯ pockets with chips and low-grade cores, then they could sell them to his supplier, who would then on-sell back to him.


    His skeletons brought the bags full of remains toward him and he gleefully reached inside, examining what they¡¯d brought him. Immediately, he began to tut.


    ¡°If you are going to make another trip, come and see me before you leave,¡± he said to the group who were beginning to leave. ¡°I¡¯ll show you how to treat these a little better.¡±


    Most of the remains were in poor condition, and there were several children¡¯s skeletons mixed in, which he separated and buried as best he could. When all was said and done, there were twenty-two sets of remains he could work with, with miscellaneous bones left to the side.


    ¡°You look way too happy for a man playing with human remains,¡± Dove observed from the side. ¡°This Class is not healthy for your social life. Anyone who sees you grinning like a fool over a dead person''s ribs is not going to be your friend.¡±


    Such useless chatter wasn¡¯t worth dignifying with a response. Instead, Tyron held up one of said ribs.


    ¡°These are exactly what I need for crafting my bone construct. Of course I¡¯m excited.¡±


    He¡¯d hoped that the villagers might come through with some bones, but he really hadn¡¯t expected it to actually happen. Now that he had materials to work with, there were so many things he could test and try he was almost dizzy with the possibilities. Runes and spellforms swam through his head as he instructed his undead to gather all the bones and separate them into piles.


    Of course, the first thing he wanted to do was summon the door to the Ossuary and see what would happen if he installed some of these skeletons into the sconces along the walls, but he hesitated to do so. He simply didn¡¯t know enough about that space and would rather investigate it a little more on his own before using it with his undead. Despite knowing it was sure to be useful, he kept putting off exploring it in more detail. For some reason, it unnerved him, and he had several suspicions that not all was as it seemed within that space.


    Perhaps a few more levels in his new Class would help elaborate on what was possible within the Ossuary, and surely this latest trip would be enough to tip him over to level forty-four. If not, he would just have to keep grinding.


    In the meantime, he had something else he wanted to work on.


    Despite having just returned from a difficult expedition beyond the rift, Tyron barely took the time to eat, drink and change his clothes before he threw himself back into his work.


    He¡¯d carefully designed the arrays he would need, now it was simply time to take out his tools and put them to work, as well as create a vessel in which to hold them.


    Despite his confidence, he took his time working with his tools, hunched over the table inside the cave, a makeshift glass held in front of his face by a skeleton. These weren¡¯t ideal working conditions, but they were good enough. After two hours, the first of the mammoth cores was ready, and he smiled to himself as he carefully examined it.


    The theory was simple, the issue was doing it as efficiently as possible. He already knew how to use a core to absorb ambient magick, that was simple, the basics of the basics. He also knew how to convert that non-attributed energy into Death magick. This was a lot more complicated, but nothing too difficult. He also knew how to take that energy and feed it into the communal pool that linked his minion squads.


    In effect, he wasn¡¯t producing anything new, his ¡®feeder¡¯ skeletons already did this. The difference was the scale. Just because something worked on a small or even medium scale didn¡¯t mean it would function the same when the volume of energy was much larger. In fact, it wouldn¡¯t. If his calculations were correct, this construct would be pulling in almost twenty times the amount of energy a single feeder skeleton drew in.


    If it proved successful, then he could use the design as the basis for creating even larger constructs. The single largest limiting factor of the Necromancer Class remained the magick requirements. He intended to leverage all of his enchanting expertise to overcome that burden.


    If he soon learned how to create ever more powerful undead, then his need for more magick would only grow more acute.


    When the four mammoth cores were done, he turned his attention to creating a housing for them. He did this by taking two complete rib cages, fusing them together and moulding them until they were roughly spherical with a flattened base. Taking the skulls from both of the skeletons he¡¯d already leveraged, he fused these together back to back, then mounted them atop the sphere.


    Flipping it over, he opened a hole in the bottom and got to work mounting his cores, then inscribing sigils and runes around them, binding them together. When this was done, he reached into his growing supply of chips and began to form them into arrays, which he mounted around the major cores, taking care to perfectly form and space every part of his work.


    When he was finally satisfied, he was surprised to realise he¡¯d been hunched over his table for over a day. Blinking the dryness from his eyes, he sat back with an exhausted sigh, letting his tools fall to the table.


    ¡°Finally done, huh?¡± Dove asked from the cave entrance.


    Tyron turned to regard the onyx skeleton before he nodded.


    ¡°I think so. Hopefully it works as intended. The more magick I can provide to my minions through external means, the more undead I can support.¡±


    Of course, there was more to it than just that. More magick available to his skeletons also made them stronger. They could move faster and hit harder with more energy being supplied to them.


    With some difficulty, the Necromancer gathered up his ghoulish creation and took it outside, where he performed the final tuning. To feed energy into the pool his minions made use of, he bound it to four different feeder skeletons, by placing a new enchantment array within each that would form the conduit from their end.


    If it all worked as intended, these skeletons would be pulling vastly more energy than they did before, then supplying it to the twenty undead they were linked with.


    ¡°Let¡¯s see how it goes,¡± he said, rubbing his hands together.


    With a touch, he activated the runes, and watched carefully as his construct came to life. Almost immediately, it began to draw on the ambient magick, the cores dragging it in. With his spell-enhanced eyes, he could see the flow of power, and was delighted to see Death magick being produced in the heart of the construct, energy that then began to feed out to the skeletons through newly formed conduits.


    Tyron clapped his hands together. Now he had to test it in combat! He scurried back into the cave to fetch his notes and a pen. Exhaustive trials would be necessary to see how effective his latest innovation could be!

 B3C54 - Explore Beyond

    ¡°I have to admit, the look is growing on me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not really meant for aesthetics. It¡¯s for protection, and to increase your magick supply.¡±


    Dove struck a pose, flaring his skeletal arms wide as his hollow sockets gazed meaningfully into the distance.


    ¡°No matter how hard you try to eliminate the drama, when you¡¯re working with bones and black magick, things are just going to look badass, no matter what.¡±


    Unlike Tyron¡¯s armour, which was largely formed of smoothed, condensed bone plating, Dove had insisted on¡­ a few modifications to his own. Spikes here and there, a cape, for some reason, pauldrons far wider than they needed to be.


    All these changes did was reduce the utility of the armour, but the former slayer didn¡¯t care. In order to add all of the absurd components, Tyron had been forced to hollow out almost all of the armour, thinning the bone to the point it was hardly more resistant to damage than normal bones. He had to keep the weight down, though. Heavy armour would only drain his limited magick all the faster, since he needed it to move.


    In truth, the only part of Dove¡¯s body that actually needed to be protected was his skull. Within there lay the engravings that bound his soul to this realm, and only if they were destroyed would he be freed from his onyx body.


    ¡°Are you fluttering that cape yourself?¡±


    ¡°It adds to the effect.¡±


    The cape in question was made from a spare blanket, so it perhaps lacked the dignity a normal, ceremonial cape of office may hold. Tyron sighed. Ultimately, he didn¡¯t care how ridiculous the skeleton appeared, so long as he was happy with the work.


    ¡°So you¡¯re satisfied with it? No more complaints? No more modifications?¡±


    ¡°I am extremely pleased. You¡¯ve outdone yourself.¡±


    Another dynamic pose.


    ¡°I feel so powerful! Haiyah!¡±


    With a loud exclamation, Dove thrust forward a bony palm and unleashed a sizzling bolt of dark magick that shot through the air and impacted a tree with a sharp crack.


    ¡°Do you mind?¡± Tyron frowned. ¡°There¡¯s no need to pollute the mountain with stray Death Magick.¡±


    Dove turned to him, ire blazing in his undead eyes.


    ¡°Are you fucking kidding me? You¡¯ve got hundreds of minions running around, and you¡¯ve been casting rituals, shaping bones and doing all sorts of shady shit! I¡¯ve been pissing drops of Death magick while you¡¯ve been firing off like a fucking hose!¡±


    ¡°But I clean up after myself,¡± Tyron insisted, ¡°and removing traces of death energy from living things, like trees, is a lot harder than scrubbing it from the ambient magick. You know that!¡±


    The Necromancer had gone to great lengths to try and keep the signs of his temporary inhabitance on the mountain to a minimum. On the same day he¡¯d arrived, he''d placed arrays to passively filter out the arcane energy that radiated from his undead, rituals and spells. Of course, when he did something like create the Ossuary, those hadn¡¯t been enough, and he¡¯d had to step in himself.


    Dove flipped him a rude gesture.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he harrumphed. ¡°I do have a lot more energy than I did before, I can feel the flow.¡±


    ¡°You can?¡±


    That was interesting. Tyron himself contained hundreds of times more than Dove could contain, but it was always difficult to perceive just how much he held, or how quickly it was coming in. Human senses weren¡¯t designed to work with magick, not even when it was inside the body.


    ¡°Of course I can. Can¡¯t feel much else, really. Pretty much every sense has been lost, but for whatever reason, undead seem to be more sensitive to magick. I swear I can see it sometimes.¡±


    Another intriguing lead. There were so many piling up in Tyron¡¯s head he was sure he was going to go mad if he didn¡¯t get them down onto a page in time. With great effort, he pushed away this curious thought so he could turn back to his current project. With Dove¡¯s armour out of the way, hopefully he¡¯d stop interrupting his work.


    ¡°So. Any luck on that ritual?¡± Dove asked before Tyron had taken a second step away.


    The Necromancer ground his teeth and turned back to his friend and mentor.


    ¡°Obviously not. When would I have had time to do that? You do realise that if I were to actually manage to concoct a new status ritual that interfaced the Unseen directly with a soul, I would almost certainly be rewarded with a mystery, right? This isn¡¯t going to happen overnight!¡±


    ¡°Hey, I was just asking,¡± Dove shrugged. ¡°Of course its going to be fucking hard, but you¡¯re the only genius I can rely on. I need that ritual, kid. Not having the touch of the Unseen, my Class and Skills. It¡¯s eating me up, and the more magick I get, the worse I feel.¡±


    For a moment, there was real, genuine pain in his voice, and Tyron couldn¡¯t help but sympathise.


    ¡°I know, and I haven¡¯t forgotten. Unlocking this secret will be immensely useful for me as well, but at this point, everything is theoretical. I¡¯ll need weeks, maybe months of work to break through on this. In the meantime, I have a million things I need to work on.¡±


    ¡°Like your skull ball.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a skull ball. It¡¯s a Necromantic construct.¡±


    Dove stepped closer and placed a hand sympathetically on Tyron¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Kid, it¡¯s two skulls fused at the ass and glued to a ball. It looks fucking creepy, and quite ridiculous.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t help it if spheres are the most common shape for enchantment work. They have good, even surface area.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s also a reason that after designs get nailed down, they change away from that shape as soon as possible. It looks dumb.¡±


    ¡°Well, at least it works. That¡¯s all I care about.¡±


    ¡°Sure, it¡¯s effective, but unless you want your enemies questioning your taste, you¡¯re going to have to come up with a better design.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove.¡±


    The construct had worked, very well. In fact, it¡¯d worked so well that now Tyron was running into a brand new problem. The conduits between his minions weren¡¯t sufficient to contain the amount of power he was feeding into them. A good problem to have, all things considered, but it meant he needed to go back to the drawing board and restructure the conduit network between his undead from the ground up.


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    It was frustrating, but he had never expected he would be pushing anything like this volume of arcane energy to his undead, so bolstering the magickal connections between them would have been a waste of time and resources.


    ¡°So you¡¯re going to try and fatten up the conduits? Make ¡®em thick and powerful?¡± Dove observed, peering at the construct.


    ¡°Not sure I¡¯d phrase it that way, but yes. With more magick, the skeletons are stronger, faster, so if I can supply more energy, I need them to be able to handle more. It¡¯s going to take a long time, so it¡¯ll have to wait until we get back.¡±


    Before he could work on the skeletons, he would need to finalise a new design. That meant drafting, testing and experimenting to find the exact ratios he wanted.


    ¡°Ah. Time to move onto another project then? I can suggest one, if you need any ideas,¡± Dove leered suggestively.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯ll need to move on. Luckily, I have a long list of things that are demanding my attention. Next on my list: the Ossuary.¡±


    The skeleton slumped.


    ¡°Prick,¡± he muttered.


    Tyron rolled his eyes, not taking the bait. The Ossuary was the key to his new Class and he fully intended to draw out all of its secrets, but he needed to be cautious. Making use of the new space without understanding it could leave him vulnerable to calamity.


    The first order of business was to once again summon the door. Thankfully, this wouldn¡¯t require nearly as much effort as creating the Ossuary had. After all, the space had already been created, all he needed to do was manifest it.


    A little food, some water, and a quick splash of cold water on his face was all Tyron needed to feel rejuvenated. The more he grew, the more his Constitution improved, the more absurd his physical endurance became. He may not be strong, he may not be dextrous, but he could walk up and down this mountain for days on end without suffering much fatigue. The mental burden of working, calculating, casting magick and directing his minions was far more draining to him than his physical exertions at this point, but thankfully he had always felt strong within his own mind.


    Before he could cast the ritual, he felt his minions engage in battle and took a moment to direct them from where he stood. Repeated casts of Minion Sight allowed him to follow the fighting from different angles and coordinate his undead appropriately. Thankfully, his army of skeletons still heavily outnumbered the packs of kin that flooded from the rift and were able to leverage their numbers for relatively easy victories.


    Releasing a breath, he came back to himself and smiled. Killing rift-kin this easily still felt ridiculous to him. He was barely approaching a fraction of the power his parents had held, what had it felt like for them, battling against monsters all this time? Oftentimes, they¡¯d been sent into dangerous situations, into breaks, into rifts through which new, more powerful monsters had been seen. However, a lot of the time they were sent to kill ordinary kin when the local slayers had been overwhelmed. Already, Tyron could kill hundreds of low-levelled kin with only a small exertion of effort. For Magnin and Beory? They could hold a rift like the one at Cragwhistle, quite literally in their sleep.


    He shook off the thought. Disturbing his mind with emotional thoughts before casting a ritual was a foolish mistake he refused to make. Spending any amount of time dwelling on Magnin and Beory was like asking for the rage inside him to boil up and consume him. To work with magick, he needed to be in control.


    Once he was certain he had centred himself, Tyron made his way to the ritual circle, raised his hands, and began to cast. As the words of power thundered into the air, he concentrated. Dimensional magick was extremely difficult, and he was far from an expert, but all he had to do was follow the guidelines the Unseen had given him. The door to the Ossuary had already been made, it existed half within his own realm, and half within whatever place that room had been created.


    Reaching it was relatively easy.


    After ten minutes, he was done. The door once again rested upon the circle as it exuded an unearthly purple light from within its arch of bones. Tyron lowered his hands and rolled his neck before he took a deep breath, then another. When he was ready, he strode forward, opened the door, and stepped inside.


    Or at least, he tried to.


    ¡°Move over, I want to take a look,¡± Dove said, pushing in front of him.


    ¡°Dove¡­ what the heck?¡±


    But it was too late. The former slayer had pranced through the entrance and into the Ossuary, vanishing into the darkness within. Tyron followed close behind.


    ¡°Light,¡± he growled, placing several globes around the room and flooding it with magickal radiance.


    The first time he¡¯d been inside, he hadn¡¯t had the power to spend illuminating it, but now he could finally take a good look at it.


    If anything, it looked like a crypt, or mausoleum. Except, inside the Ossuary, there was no dust, or cobwebs, or any of the detritus one might expect to see in such a place. It was spotless, the unfurnished stone clean-cut and without blemish. Some blank and sterile, the only defining features of the space were the recesses along the walls, and the altar in the middle.


    The altar from which a constant and steady flow of almost absurdly dense and pure death energy continued to flow.


    ¡°Holy mammaries. This place positively reeks of Death Magick!¡± Dove exclaimed, peering about with his ghostly vision. ¡°It¡¯s insane. I can feel it trickling into me. I feel¡­ stronger.¡±


    ¡°Which is why I didn¡¯t want you in here,¡± Tyron said flatly, and the skeleton whirled on him.


    ¡°So I wouldn¡¯t get stronger?¡± he exclaimed, filled with outrage.


    ¡°Because I don¡¯t know what it will do to you,¡± the Necromancer rebutted. ¡°Am I the only one who remembers a particular Summoner who insisted on caution and proper testing before playing around with hitherto unknown or unexplored magick?¡±


    ¡°What the fuck? I am that guy!¡±


    ¡°The fuck you are!¡± Tyron glared. ¡°That Dove wouldn¡¯t be striding into this room without having the faintest idea what would happen to him. You don¡¯t even know where this is!¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡± Dove challenged him, stalking forward to poke Tyron in the chest with one bony finger.


    Tyron brushed his hand aside.


    ¡°No, I fucking don¡¯t. That¡¯s why I¡¯m being cautious. Now are you going to leave on your own or am I going to kick you out?¡±


    ¡°You want me to leave? This place is amazing, something is happening here, Tyron. There¡¯s no way in hell I¡¯m leaving!¡±


    The Necromancer narrowed his eyes.


    ¡°You had a choice.¡±


    In his weakened state, there was no chance for Dove to resist him in a battle of wills, and Tyron quickly Suppressed him before he picked the skeleton up and threw him out the door.


    He released his hold just as Dove started to come back to himself, scrambling around to glare as Tyron was shutting the door on him.


    ¡°Oh you mother fuc¡ª¡±


    Thud!


    Unbelievable. To think that the man had lost this much of his sense of self preservation. Soaking in all this death magick might empower his soul, it would certainly flood the cores Tyron had placed on him, but it may also be destructive. Was it possible for a spirit to take in more energy than it contained? Could it hold a corrupting influence? More importantly, where was it coming from?


    Limitless, free magick was not a thing, and yet here he had a seemingly inexhaustible supply streaming into this cross-dimensional space. It was coming from somewhere. Only extensive research and testing would help him learn what that was. Shaking his head, he forgot about Dove. That idiot would have to cool his heel-bones outside for a while.


    Once again, Tyron inspected every inch of the space, only this time he was in a better state of mind. Leaving no stone unturned, he went slowly and carefully through each recess, each segment of floor, then carefully examined every line and curve of the altar itself. Sadly, this didn¡¯t reveal anything new. As it stood, the Ossuary was a fairly straightforward place. The only way to gain new information would be to put it to use.


    He opened the door and stepped outside to find Dove standing with arms folded across his ribs, tapping his foot impatiently.


    ¡°¡ªker!¡± he yelled triumphantly, then sighed in relief. ¡°I hate leaving a curse half-spoken.¡±


    Ignoring him, Tyron went and collected some bones, as well as ordering a skeleton to accompany him while Dove walked alongside, heckling him with questions.


    ¡°Hey, are you going to apologise for that shit? You can¡¯t just knock me out! Are you going to let me back in there?¡±


    By the time he¡¯d made it back to the door, Tyron had run out of patience.


    ¡°Shut up, Dove! No, I won¡¯t apologise. No, I won¡¯t let you back in. And NO! I am never making you a dick! Go away and let me work so I can try and understand this space!¡±


    So saying, he yanked open the door, shoved his chosen skeleton through the entrance, then slammed it shut. Once he was alone on the other side, he slumped and sighed. He¡¯d probably been too hard on Dove, but the former-Summoner¡¯s increasing lack of care for his own existence was a worrying trend that Tyron wouldn¡¯t allow to endanger his work. Vengeance was a project of far greater importance than the feelings of an undead-slayer, even if it was his friend and mentor.


    He ordered the skeleton to wait by the door, as far from the altar as it could get, before he took the collection of bones he had gathered and began to place them inside the recess.


    What would happen when they were all in place? He was excited to find out.

 B3C55 - A Place of my Own

    As it turned out, nothing happened. Tyron haphazardly piled the bones into the recess and nothing at all occurred. He even utilised the magick-eye spell to see if there were any change in the energy, but there was nothing. Curiously, the bones didn¡¯t appear to be taking in the ambient Death Magick either, which they definitely should have been.


    Curious, Tyron took the time to purge the bones of any built up magick using a mat he had designed for this purpose. Even when the bones were totally free from arcane energy, they still refused to take anything in. Curious.


    Interested to see the difference, he turned to his existing minion waiting by the door and carefully examined it. It turned out this undead was taking in energy; a steady flow of Death Magick infused its bones, joining the already abundant energy contained within. The conduit placed within its ribcage seemed to act as a doorway or opening, allowing even more of the magick to seep inside, infusing the enchantments woven into the minion, then infusing into the bones and weaving that made up the creature¡¯s body.


    Was it helping or hurting the minion? Perhaps neither? As far as he understood, there was a saturation limit for undead flesh and bone, a point beyond which they wouldn¡¯t take in any more energy. Each of his minions should have reached that point, especially now, after such a long time connected to the conduit network, drawing in a steady flow of death energy.


    Perhaps something different was happening here? Or was it a consequence of the purity and density of this arcane energy? Again, as far as he understood, energy was just energy. The richness¡­ or abundance¡­ or quality, shouldn¡¯t matter. Quality wasn¡¯t even a property of magickal energy! Yet¡­ his skeleton was absorbing energy.


    For three hours, he watched and documented the changes as more and more energy accumulated inside the bones of the skeleton, beyond the point he had previously considered ¡®fully saturated¡¯. Eventually, after about two and half hours, the skeleton no longer took in more Death Magick. It stood, as it would on the outside, not consuming energy, or taking any in. Its cores were full, its bones were full.


    Once he was sure nothing more was coming in, and that the skeleton appeared to be stable, he ordered it to run laps around the chamber. It seemed faintly ridiculous, watching a skeleton run in circles. The relatively faint tak tak tak of the bones against the stone resonated against the walls as the undead mindlessly and repetitively ran.


    He was attempting to drain the creature of its energy, but as time wore on, he realised he couldn¡¯t. The array, combined with what was flowing into the bones, was simply too much energy. His minion was drawing in more than it was using.


    Tyron frowned.


    Interested to see what would happen, he took the minion outside of the Ossuary and back to the mountain. Standing still, the undead began to lose energy, leaking it out into the air as the bones began to seek a new equilibrium.


    This was a stunning development. Several things had now occurred in succession that the young Necromancer had no explanation for. Far from being discouraged, he was elated. Whenever he encountered something for which his current understanding couldn¡¯t explain, it was a sign that something fundamental in his model was broken. He had to shatter it, and build it up again from the ground up.


    Moments like this were what he lived for. Fully unaware of the slight smile that creased his lips or the faintly glazed expression that blossomed in his eyes, Tyron turned back into the Ossuary, mind already abuzz.


    Already, so many questions. An energy tolerance level of bones. The capacity to retain the energy absorbed. The behaviour of the energy within the Ossuary. Even if he could solve each of those mysteries, the greatest question of all remained: when those solutions were applied, was there a way to make his undead more powerful?


    All his knowledge needed to be bent to that end.


    Eager to explore more of the Ossuary¡¯s capacities, he turned his attention back to the inert bones he had left within a recess on the wall.


    They remained as he had left them, devoid of any magick at all, resting in a loose pile. Obviously, the Ossuary itself was interfering somehow, since it made no sense that the bones wouldn¡¯t absorb energy. Even in the wild, bones would begin to take in ambient magick, slowly turning it into death energy and sharing it with other remains. Here, in this preposterously rich environment, the bones wouldn¡¯t take in any energy? It was absurd.


    The recesses were clearly intended to house a full human skeleton laid out, so that is what he did. Starting with the feet, he carefully sorted the bones and began to put them in their place, moving up the skeleton until at last he put down the skull. The bones were now laid out in the manner he would place them before beginning to work on the threading.


    As soon as the skull was in position, Tyron noted a change. Carefully, he stepped back from the recess and cast the magick-eye spell, watching the flow of energy like a hawk. The influx of death magick was immediate. In abundance, it flowed from the altar in the centre of the room, or more accurately, the gap around the base of it, and into the bones.


    Now this was another interesting development. If things continued at this pace, the bones would become fully saturated in a matter of hours. That wasn¡¯t necessarily a good thing, since it would mean the remains would then begin to form into a wild undead. He frowned. Surely the Ossuary was more than just a place he could efficiently infuse remains with energy. He was already doing that a long time ago. All of his current minions had been infused with death magick and gone as close to full saturation as was possible before they were raised. If this was all these recesses did, then it was a slight time saver, at best.


    Determined to learn what the end result would be, he took out his notebook and began to scribble away, trying to get some of the ideas in his head down and onto the page. All the while, he closely monitored the energy flowing into the bones held within the recess.


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    Hours passed and Tyron lost himself to the flow of ideas. Pages became filled with notes, theories, tests, possible solutions and many collections of sigils as he sought to use what he was sure of to plumb the unknown he was grasping for.


    Ultimately, it took much longer for the remains to saturate than he¡¯d expected, over four hours, but like the minion he¡¯d brought in before, they continued to absorb energy well beyond what he had thought possible. When at last he detected that no more energy was being absorbed by the bones, he tensed. Any second now. Or perhaps now? Or perhaps¡­ not?


    Tilting his head to the side, Tyron beheld something that should not be. The bones had absorbed more death energy than they should have reasonably held. Even by the standards of this place, they were full, they weren¡¯t taking in any more. Yet¡­ the process of forming a wild undead did not take place.


    The strands of magick that formed the sinew and muscle didn¡¯t form. No light began to glow within the hollow sockets of the skull. Each individual bone remained as it was, not even twitching.


    Fascinated, Tyron crept closer, still believing that something should happen. Yet, no matter how long he waited, it did not.


    For a time, he paced back and forth. He examined the recess again. There were no enchantments, cores or anything that might explain what was happening. For whatever reason, a wild undead¡­ refused to form.


    Tyron ran outside, collected his blanket, threw the bones into them and waited.


    Still nothing.


    He took the bones outside the Ossuary and lay the blanket out on the ground. Immediately, two things began to happen. The bones began to leak energy, and they began to pull themselves into position, tendrils of magickal thread beginning to form between them.


    ¡°How?¡± he said, dumbfounded.


    Regardless of how, he had his answer. Within the Ossuary, wild undead would not form. Before the bones could be wasted, he gathered up the blanket and ran back into his new, confusing dimensional space. Once they were inside, the remains once again became inert.


    Brow furrowed, Tyron tried to make sense of it. As far as he understood it, the recesses within the Ossuary were able to hold remains in a state of perpetual saturation, without the risk of going wild. That was helpful, significantly helpful.


    However, that only led him to the next mystery. Within the Ossuary, the bones were reaching a point where they held more energy than they could sustain on the outside. Something in here was allowing them to take in more than they normally could. If he were able to somehow increase the tolerance level of the remains he worked with¡­ then perhaps they would be able to retain this energy? More death aligned energy was, from what he¡¯d learned so far, always a good thing.


    There was an interesting wrinkle, though. When he infused bones to use with his bone-forging, they took in a huge amount of energy without leaking it. What was the difference? Was there a qualitative change that occurred when he was forging? If he was required to invest that much energy into each and every minion¡­ the process would become far too inefficient. There was no guarantee the supply he had access to here would be bottomless.


    Frustrated, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and began to pace back and forth once more, hands folded behind his back. There were so many questions. Each step forward only opened more possibilities, each of which would need to be explored if he was going to be thorough. He needed to test how robust the supply of death magick within the Ossuary was. That was, perhaps, simple enough. He already had tools that gathered death magick and purified it. All he needed to do was alter them to store it, so that none went to waste. For that, he would need cores. Many, many cores. Thankfully, the supply of kin through the rift was functionally endless. In enough time, he would have the cores he needed.


    Next, he needed to determine the difference between forged bone and regular bone, especially pertaining to their saturation levels. What would happen if he brought forged bone into the Ossuary? Another test for him to conduct¡­.


    Of course, he had to try and raise minions within the space as well. There may be a difference between those raised within and those raised without. There was only one way to find out.


    If only the Unseen were a little more verbose in its descriptions. It wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯d had this thought, and he was sure it wouldn¡¯t be the last. Although¡­ he might be able to learn more when he reached level forty five. With access to another ability selection and the full list of feats, he may be able to shed some light on the capabilities of the Ossuary. He wouldn¡¯t get much, he knew that, but something was better than nothing.


    Filled with ideas, he left the bones where they lay on the floor and stepped out of the door. Placed above the ritual circle, a constant drain of power was required to keep the entrance in place, but he  made sure to keep it topped up, he had no fear of it vanishing before he was ready.


    Dove intercepted him by the cave.


    ¡°Worked out what¡¯s going on in there?¡± he said shortly.


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°Not even remotely. You aren¡¯t the only undead who can absorb more energy in there, but it starts to leak out of my skeletons the moment they leave. For whatever reason, they can¡¯t retain the power.¡±


    Dove placed his hands on his bony hips.


    ¡°The same thing happened to me. Whatever extra juice I pulled in was lost when I came out.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ interesting. The additional energy my skeletons took in was stored in their bones, which are a natural repository of that energy, but you don¡¯t have any bones. The only part of you which is undead, is your soul. Which would mean¡­¡±


    ¡°What? That my soul can act as a container for magick?¡± Dove asked.


    The skeleton grew still.


    ¡°My soul can be a container for magick,¡± he said slowly.


    Tyron nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted. There was only so much inspiration a mage could take.


    Excited, Dove grabbed hold of his shoulders and shook him.


    ¡°Do you know what this means?! You get it, right? You fucking get it?!¡±


    The Necromancer endured this exuberant treatment.


    ¡°Yes. Yes, I get it.¡±


    ¡°If there¡¯s magick mixing with the soul¡­ then¡­ then¡­!¡±


    ¡°Then a status ritual should be possible. Stop shaking me please.¡±


    Filled with energy, Dove leapt away, dancing an absurd little dance as he flung his bony limbs about, cackling like a madman.


    Tyron only sighed, then grinned. An irrepressible urgency was building in the back of his mind and he¡¯d felt it enough times now to recognise it for what it was. It wouldn¡¯t be long now until he lost all sense of time as he threw himself into the work, reaching that obsessive state which had led to his best and greatest breakthroughs. With so many paths in front of him, who knew what he would come up with by the time he was done?

 B3C56 - Disturbance

    Gramble Tillis was running out of patience.


    ¡°You okay, boss?¡± his teammate Christoff asked him. ¡°You¡¯re looking¡­ tense.¡±


    The two were sat in the Split Granite, the newer of the two pubs in Cragwhistle. The tables were cleaner, the beer was¡­ essentially the same watered down piss and the spirits were hard enough to scrape coal off a miner.


    ¡°What day is it, Christoff?¡± Gramble said, blinking into his cup.


    ¡°Hamarsday.¡±


    ¡°A drink to the God of Games!¡± Petri, the third team member slurred before he tossed back his drink and winced as it burned down his throat.


    For a moment, Gramble looked as if he had something to say, then he shrugged and also emptied his cup. Christoff decided to join them.


    ¡°Anish! Another round for the table,¡± Gramble called, waving a hand vaguely over his head.


    Soon after, a tan-skinned woman wandered over, a hand on her hip and a bottle gripped firmly in the other. She was smiling, yet her eyes were cautious as she approached.


    ¡°Have you boys not had enough yet? As my father, Dinesh, used to say, ¡®a man must hold their water, not project it on their friend¡¯.¡±


    She pantomimed a sickly customer, staggering and leaning, hands flapping widely before vomiting hugely over the table. It was a skillful performance, the expression of revulsion on her face as she pretended to spit out the last of the sick was enough to turn Gramble¡¯s stomach.


    ¡°Maybe just the one more round,¡± he muttered, a hand resting on his belly as if to discern its current level of integrity.


    ¡°Of course. You are here to drink, no?¡± Anish said as she leaned over and poured each of them a half-cup. ¡°Although I am reluctant to speak of it, my mother, Shiswa, would curse me from the heavens if I left the table without asking you to settle your bill. An unbelievable miser, my mother. She would have shaved rats to weave our clothes if she hadn¡¯t feared disease.¡±


    After a moment of owlish blinking, Gramble figured out what she was saying and fumbled in his pocket until he felt some coins clinking together. He withdrew his fist, squinted at the currency until he figured out which coin was which, and passed a few over.


    ¡°I believe that will cover the tab,¡± he said, with some dignity.


    ¡°It will,¡± Anish replied, whisking away from the table so quickly Gramble looked back to his palm, wondering if he¡¯d confused copper with gold.


    Not that he had much gold. Not at the moment.


    ¡°Stupid Necromancer,¡± he grumbled and his two teammates whipped around and shushed him.


    ¡°Not in town,¡± Christoff hissed. ¡°These people are crazy. They¡¯ll beat us over the head with clubs if we disparage that prick.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, sorry,¡± Gramble groaned as he leaned back in his chair, eyes wandering up to the wooden slats in the ceiling above. ¡°Stupid Necromantic prick,¡± he said.


    ¡°I think we should get out of here,¡± Christoff said rising from his seat.


    Gramble stared at him vacantly for a second, then the light of understanding dawned in his eyes.


    ¡°Oh! Sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine, let¡¯s just get back to the barracks. I¡¯ve got some wine from home left over in my room. If we want to keep drinking, we can finish that off.¡±


    ¡°Wine? You¡¯ve still got some wine? That¡¯s a hell of a lot better than this swill,¡± Gramble declared, perhaps a little too loudly.


    Christoff managed to ignore the flinty stares he was getting from the other patrons of the pub long enough to gather up his two teammates and get them swaying back toward the barracks.


    The next morning, as Gramble emerged from his room, his tongue as dry as the southern sands and head pounding like an anvil at harvest time, he found Samantha, of all people, reading in the common area. Under normal circumstances he felt like he got along fairly well with his fellow team leader. Better than he and Trenan did, anyway. However, he¡¯d soured on all of the slayers on this gods forsaken mountain since that Necromancer had arrived. If any of them had courage, they¡¯d have worked together to kill the bastard the day he¡¯d arrived.


    Doing his best to preserve his image, he straightened and walked straight for the water cask. With great focus, he gathered a cup, turned the spigot and watched as it filled. A moment before he could raise it to his lips and take a sip, a voice spoke out from behind him.


    ¡°A little worse for wear this morning?¡± Samantha asked with wry humour.


    Gramble¡¯s hands tremoured at the interruption, but he felt a surge of triumph that he didn¡¯t spill. He savoured the victory, he took a long slow mouthful of water before he turned around and opened his mouth to speak.


    ¡°Holy shit, your eyes are red. How much did you drink last night?¡±


    If he was honest, far too much.


    ¡°A bit,¡± he admitted, voice a touch on the raw side.


    ¡°Right,¡± she said, as she closed her book with a snap.


    Samantha was older than the other slayers on the mountain. The only one who wasn¡¯t fresh out of academy. A higher level, though not yet a silver, she was most definitely the strongest of them also. He suspected she¡¯d been in a team before becoming the leader of Starfire. What happened to that previous group, he couldn¡¯t guess.


    ¡°The walls here aren¡¯t all that thin, Gramble.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± the sentence didn¡¯t seem to make sense to his still underpowered mind.


    ¡°The walls. They¡¯re thin.¡±


    He looked at the exterior wall, which was formed out of thick cut stone. A moment later, it dawned on him. The walls between rooms were a lot thinner.


    He groaned.


    ¡°What did I say?¡± he said, walking slowly forward and sinking into a chair.


    ¡°You spent almost the entire night pissing and moaning about Tyron.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°The Necromancer,¡± she rolled her eyes.


    No way was Gramble going to accept that¡­ person was the son of Battle Mage Beory. Even the mention of it was enough to stoke his irritation.


    ¡°So? I can complain all I want here in the barracks, since the townsfolk have all decided to go insane,¡± he grumped, folding his arms across his chest. ¡°Or have you gone off the deep end with them? You actually believe that¡¯s his real name?¡±


    She hesitated, and in that moment, he knew she was lost.


    ¡°I might,¡± she finally hedged. ¡°He had a lot to say that was very convincing. Certainly, it doesn¡¯t seem to benefit him to lie.¡±


    Anger bubbled up in the mage¡¯s chest.


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    ¡°And you believe him about the Steelarms as well? That Magnin and Beory just killed themselves so their child could live? That they were tortured by the Magisters for refusing to kill their own kid?¡±


    Samantha held his gaze coolly.


    ¡°It appears you don¡¯t,¡± she said.


    ¡°Of course I don¡¯t! I¡¯m not an idiot!¡±


    Rather than be offended, she simply raised a brow.


    ¡°You really believe the magisters wouldn¡¯t do something like that?¡± she said, slightly incredulous.


    ¡°Absolutely they would. Just not to them.¡±


    ¡°You think the magisters cared about the Steelarms? Really?¡±


    ¡°Magnin and Beory were heroes, and probably far too strong for the brand to have any effect on them anyway. We¡¯re talking about the two strongest slayers in the entire western province. They were above gold rank, for goodness¡¯ sake. The last line of defence on the frontier, they prevented disaster how many times? We¡¯re meant to believe they were thrown away like that?¡± he scoffed, then flinched at a spike of pain in his head.


    She listened to his rant with an expression almost like pity coming over her face.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said simply. ¡°They absolutely would do that. There¡¯s nothing they won¡¯t throw away to maintain control, and you¡¯re lucky to have not been put in a position where you¡¯ve been made to understand that.¡±


    Suddenly angry, she stood, glaring down at him.


    ¡°You¡¯re the only team leader who hasn¡¯t gone up there and spoken to him. Do that, at least, if you can muster the courage. Rather than stewing in ignorance, you may as well go and see for yourself.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to meet a madman to know he¡¯s mad,¡± Gramble sneered, waving her away. ¡°Everything he¡¯s said is all the proof I¡¯ll ever need.¡±


    Samantha leaned forward and flicked him, right between the eyes, and the mage¡¯s headache exploded as if a fireball had gone off inside his skull. He lunged back in his chair, clutching at his head.


    ¡°Oh, you¡­ bitch,¡± he groaned.


    ¡°Go up there, coward.¡±


    He heard her leave, each step in rhythm with the pounding pain behind his eyes. When it finally began to subside, he opened his eyes and found himself alone inside the common area.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a coward,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°I¡¯m just the only sensible person on this preposterous mountain.¡±


    Six hours later, he found himself climbing the steep path toward the rift.


    How dare she call me a coward. I¡¯ve been battling kin on this mountain just as much as she has. More even. I was here first!


    Wrapped in his warmest robe, with a tight woollen hat pulled over his head and a scarf coiled around his neck, Gramble was as warm as he could be. A cold breeze blew down the slope, carrying the promise of ice and frostbite. He shivered and tucked his hands further up his sleeves.


    It was difficult to cast magick with gloves on. In fact, Gramble found it impossible to cast magick with gloves on. The weight and range of movement felt completely off whenever he tried it. When even a miniscule shift in angle or position could throw a sigil off, wearing gloves was the same as strapping an anvil to each digit. They simply wouldn¡¯t move properly.


    Which meant, if he wanted to be able to cast magick, he had to keep his hands nimble. That meant, no gloves when trekking up the frigid mountain.


    He hated this place.


    Not for the first time, he wondered why he was even here. His pride wasn¡¯t so tender that being called a coward was enough for him to foolishly stick his neck out. So why? Perhaps it was the ridiculous persistence of Samantha and others on believing that this madman was who he said he was. Gramble wasn¡¯t sure how he was supposed to disprove it. The Necromancer could say he was the ghost of Tel¡¯anan if he felt like it, what sort of proof could anyone offer to the contrary?


    Picking a fight with the Necromancer certainly wasn¡¯t on the agenda. There were some battles that simply weren¡¯t worth losing. No, if there was to be a fight, then Gramble would much rather have the advantage of numbers on his side.


    Perhaps he simply needed to prove it to himself. He would meet this imposter, go back down the mountain, and tell Samantha to her face she was wrong. That was all there was to it.


    The fact that so many slayers and villagers had come up and made it back down alive certainly didn¡¯t hurt his confidence either.


    Step by step, he continued to climb the slope, making sure he didn¡¯t slip on the rocks or frosted ground. Every now and again, he reached out to grasp a tree or take hold of a branch, using the ice-tinged timber to pull himself forward. Thunder rumbled in the distance, indicating a brewing storm higher up. He cursed. If he was caught in the rain, it would be hell getting back down the mountain.


    Perhaps it would have been a better idea to wait until he was in better condition before charging up the mountain. Now that he was already here, he felt he was committed.


    At the minimum, he should have brought the rest of his team along with him¡­.


    Feeling somewhat exposed, Gramble grit his teeth and powered onward, shivering inside his cloak. Eventually, he came across what he had been expecting to see. A line of five skeletons stood astride the path, unmoving and indifferent to the wind. Seeing the bones standing upright, weapons gripped tight in their skeletal fingers, sent a shiver running down his spine, totally independent of the temperature.


    Eyes glowing with an unnatural purple light, the undead beheld him as Gramble nervously pulled himself up.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to speak to your master,¡± he said, somewhat pompously.


    They didn¡¯t react. In fact, they didn¡¯t move, not even a twitch. Unsure what to do, Gramble waited for some sort of response. He glanced between the skeletons, huddled with his arms wrapped around himself, growing increasingly impatient.


    Supposedly, the Necromancer was able to see through the eyes of his minions, so what was the hold up? Was he being ignored? Before his ire could rise too high, he considered that there may be other possibilities. Perhaps the Necromancer was otherwise occupied. Or¡­ weakened?


    For a moment, Gramble considered his options, before he walked sidewise off the path. When he¡¯d picked his way across the slope around ten metres, he turned back and saw there had been no reaction from the skeletons. They stood as before, staring straight down the path, unmoving.


    Clearly, their creator was distracted. Moving cautiously, he began to ascend up the mountain, joining back up to the path once he passed the skeletal watchers. With renewed vigour, he began to ascend once more, eager to see what was happening further up. He wondered what might be happening to keep this illegal mage so occupied.


    Once he felt he was close to where the Necromancer¡¯s camp must be, he began to move quietly. If he was able to arrive unnoticed, he¡¯d have a chance to assess what he saw before taking a course of action. After all, who knew what he might find? If the mage was engaged in a ritual, distracted, unable to utilise his magick in his own defence¡­


    For a brief moment, Gramble allowed himself to imagine it. A moment of triumph, returning to the town a conquering hero, laughing in the faces of the people who¡¯d spurned him after slaying their hero. Of course, it wouldn¡¯t be that easy. He hadn¡¯t graduated and fought as a slayer without gaining a healthy sense of self preservation. The fact he was even here, alone, on the mountain, was out of character.


    If he hadn¡¯t been provoked¡­


    Not for the first time, he cursed Samantha in his mind. Still ranting about the cold-faced slayer in his mind, he stumbled past a tree and into a clearing.


    The Necromancer stood in the centre of his ritual circle side-on to Gramble¡¯s position, power blazing around him. Gramble¡¯s eyes boggled as he saw the mage snapping out sigils with unbelievable speed and precision. When he opened his mouth and spoke, each syllable was like thunder, cracking into the air with incredible force.


    This was the storm he¡¯d heard? It wasn¡¯t lightning, it was this man casting magick!


    By the side of the Necromancer, a pitch black skeleton stood, looking on. Gramble had heard of this one, a freakish, foul-mouthed undead. Whoever¡¯s soul was stuck inside it, it sounded like he¡¯d earned his fate.


    Almost against his will, Gramble felt his eyes drawn back to the Necromancer as he continued to enact his ritual. The movement, the flow of power, the flawless pronunciation. Everything was textbook, an extreme display of precision that put even his own instructors to shame.


    It was¡­ beautiful.


    He shook his head. The Necromancer was vulnerable, just as he had hoped! No matter how excellent a mage he was, there was nothing he could do to defend himself in the middle of casting a ritual!


    Gramble raised his hands and began to form his magick, a fireball, with as much power as he could pack into it. The moment it was prepared, a burning, roiling sphere of power in his hand, he flung it forward with a roar of triumph.


    So what if he was silver rank? No mage could survive a direct hit from a spell like this!


    What happened next, defied belief. No matter how many times he replayed the sequence of events in the future, he refused to accept it was real.


    Without pausing the flow of words from his mouth, the Necromancer separated his hands and began to cast independently. The right hand picked up the slack, flicking out abbreviated ¡®half¡¯ sigils at double speed, while the other flicked out a series in less than a second.


    Gramble¡¯s fireball hadn¡¯t covered half the ground between them before it was pierced through the middle by a bolt of pure darkness, unbalancing the magick and causing it to detonate early. Gramble fell back as a wave of heat washed over him, mind frozen in shock. It wasn¡¯t¡­ it wasn¡¯t possible!


    That simply¡­ it wasn¡¯t human.


    ¡°You piece of fucking shiiiiiit!¡±


    It was the black skeleton, screeching at the top of its voice as it sprinted towards him. It pulled back a fist, then struck down, and Gramble knew no more.


    Outside the gates of Cragwhistle, Trenan could only sigh as he looked down at what the skeletons had left behind. When the villagers had called, he hadn¡¯t wanted to believe it, but here he was.


    In front of him, staring up with tears in his eyes, Gramble lay, tied up with a series of elaborate knots, including one through his mouth, preventing him from speaking.


    ¡°Errrnph!!¡± he grunted.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I¡¯ll get you out.¡±


    Attached to the chest of the slayer, held in place with one strand of rope, was a bit of paper. Leaning down, Trenan pulled it loose, and read it, feeling a little confused. He looked down at Gramble.


    ¡°You are a fucking lucky idiot,¡± he said, turning the note around and showing it to the trussed up slayer.


    I¡¯m busy, was all it said.

 B3C57 - It Takes a Little Madness

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe it. I can¡¯t fucking believe it,¡± Dove breathed.


    Tyron swayed on his feet and blinked owlishly. Now that the goal was close, the frenetic energy that had possessed him for the past week was beginning to fade. Already, he could feel a headache blooming in his temples, and the dryness of his mouth and eyes was gradually becoming a major issue.


    ¡°Souls are¡­ weird,¡± he said slowly, before he turned and began to rummage through his pack. He needed food, water and roughly eighteen hours of sleep.


    Dove laughed, an uncomfortable, frenetic edge to the sound.


    ¡°You just outdid yourself in terms of genius bullshit, and that¡¯s your offering? Souls are weird?!¡±


    ¡°Well they are,¡± Tyron muttered before shoving a wedge of cheese into his mouth.


    Quickly, he spat it out. It was going rancid. He rinsed out his mouth, then took a long drink from his waterskin. The fluid was brackish, and far from fresh, but to his parched throat it was like the tears of the goddess.


    Spirits, souls and ghosts were his weakest subjects, as it were, when it came to Necromancy. He¡¯d spent almost all of his time studying bones, artificial mental constructs, death magick, he¡¯d had almost no reason or interest to investigate the souls of the living. Outside of his revenants, he didn¡¯t even have any ghosts in his entourage currently. Yet, when it came to this particular problem, an intricate and detailed knowledge of the soul had been necessary to succeed.


    So the majority of the week had been spent finding and then examining ghosts. Even possessed by the spirit of inspiration as he had been, Tyron had found that the rules governing the souls of the dead were¡­ weird.


    Dove was dancing, wiggling his bony hips in obscene motions and giggling like a young maid.


    ¡°Of all the stupid bullshit you¡¯ve pulled off, this is by far the stupidest, and most bullshit laden of them all. Where the fuck do you get off figuring this stuff out? It¡¯s nonsense! I was here to watch you do it and I still don¡¯t know how you did it.¡±


    The Necromancer waved a hand carelessly as he continued to drink and eat. The negative effects of such a long stint of ceaseless work continued to build, but he hoped to ward them off before they grew too severe.


    ¡°We aren¡¯t even sure if it¡¯s going to work,¡± he stated, his throat still raw.


    Seated in the cave in the dead of night, the wind rustling in the trees was their only companion. A small fire crackled near the entrance, providing some warmth, and several globes of magickal light gave all the illumination they required.


    Tyron¡¯s small table was covered in loose sheets of paper, each filled with a dense, almost illegible scrawl. With a groan, he picked himself up and felt every muscle in his body protest at the motion. Damn it all, it wasn¡¯t easy for his muscles to get stiff and sore like this. Even at his level of endurance, an entire week of casting spells and sitting hunched over his notes was enough.


    In moments like this, being a Lich didn¡¯t seem like all that bad of an idea. No need to sleep, eat or drink. He could work for months on end without any need for a break. Efficiency-wise, it would be a real time saver. Certainly better than being a vampire, at least. For starters, sleeping half the time was an enormous waste, secondly, every vampire he¡¯d seen was often¡­ diverted, with other concerns, rather than focused on their goals.


    If the Dark Ones got their way, he certainly wouldn¡¯t remain a human for long, judging by the feats they¡¯d offered him. Something to worry about another time. There was no way he was going to get any sleep until Dove had attempted the new ritual, so he may as well let him have his fun.


    ¡°Let me talk you through it one more time, then we can make an attempt, alright?¡± he croaked before taking another swig of water.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that complicated, kid. I could do this with one hand up my ass.¡±


    For good measure, the skeleton reached around and inserted his hand into his pelvis from the back, wiggling his fingers.


    ¡°If something goes wrong and you rip your soul apart, at least you can¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn you of the risks,¡± he insisted, ignoring Dove¡¯s antics. ¡°Sit your bony backside down and I¡¯ll walk you through it.¡±


    So saying, he pulled out the chair and indicated for Dove to sit, then began to rifle through the sheets of paper, trying to create some semblance of order so he could present it.


    ¡°Starting from the beginning,¡± he coughed.


    ¡°Oh shit, really?¡±


    ¡°Shut up. Starting from the beginning. So the status ritual, we know essentially what it does. It takes the Unseen¡¯s¡­ assessment of you, then codifies it. The information is contained within the blood, so it isn¡¯t even extracted. We use the medium of blood to manifest the information contained inside it. So all the ritual has to do is ask the Unseen to reveal itself, which it willingly does.¡±


    He paused for a minute to take a drink and work up some more moisture in his mouth while Dove bounced in his seat impatiently.


    ¡°In many respects, the current ritual we use is performing the task in the simplest possible way. Which is why any idiot can cast it. Your situation¡­ is a little different.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I¡¯m dead. Therefore, no blood. I think I got that part, is it really necessary to explain it?¡±


    ¡°If you talk less and listen more, this goes faster. Do you want it to go faster?¡±


    If Dove could roll his eyes, he certainly would at this moment.


    ¡°Yes, professor Steelarm.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re insufferable.¡±


    ¡°Now, at this point, you¡¯re going to say that?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve always been insufferable. Now shut up. Without blood to work as a universal medium for the Unseen to encode information into, we were pretty stuck. We determined there was magick inside your soul, which was a breakthrough, but that didn¡¯t mean there was information contained inside. So we had to find a way to examine the magickal¡­ contents of the soul, so to speak.¡±


    This process had been a great deal more difficult than Tyron made it seem. He had limited ways to examine souls. Eventually, he¡¯d been able to cobble something together using cannibalised parts of the Commune with Spirits spell and the Repository ritual. Effectively, he¡¯d substantiated a soul and then selected a medium to deposit the magickal information from the soul into. Most of the time, he¡¯d used his own blood.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Luckily, the Unseen is thorough in its work,¡± Dove remarked, somewhat sarcastically. ¡°It infects everything equally.¡±


    Tyron hesitated, but didn¡¯t say anything. Was the Unseen a saviour or a curse? That question would haunt the people of this realm long after he was dead, just as it had for millennia before he was born. Wherever there was magick, the Unseen was present, and after thousands of years of the realm being saturated with arcane power from the rifts, magick was in everything.


    Including, apparently, souls.


    ¡°So this section of the ritual is there to¡­ provide a shell through which the ritual can access your soul, I guess.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s kind of clumsy phrasing.¡±


    ¡°I agree, but I don¡¯t have better terminology I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    ¡°It opens a Soul Hole.¡±


    ¡°I hate you. Never say that in my presence again. This construct acts as a receptacle through which we can access the magick within the soul, then this section mimics that magick, effectively creating a copy, then we encode that information into our medium of choice.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve lost a lot of blood this week. Have you even got any juice left?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. At that point, my own information should be overwritten and the final part of the ritual will work much the same as the traditional one.¡±


    ¡°Great.¡±


    ¡°The risk is, your soul actually ruptures when we try to open it, or the magick contained within won¡¯t resonate with the copy we¡¯ve made, so any choices you make during the status ritual won¡¯t take effect.¡±


    ¡°Nobody¡¯s ever worked out how that shit works, the Unseen pretty much does all of that itself.¡±


    ¡°Which is why I have no idea if this ritual will actually work or not.¡±


    ¡°Whatever! I¡¯m still willing to give it a try. It¡¯s not like I have a lot to live for, so is this even really a risk?¡±


    ¡°Well, if your soul explodes, you won¡¯t get to go to¡­ wherever souls go when a person dies.¡±


    ¡°I reserved a spot on Selene¡¯s left tit.¡±


    ¡°Sure you did. There, you have the method, you know the risks.¡±


    Tyron pulled a knife from his belt and pricked the tip of finger. The blood was slow to come, so he pushed and squeezed until a healthy number of drops had fallen and stained the clean sheet of paper on the table.


    ¡°When you¡¯re ready,¡± he said, withdrawing his hand.


    Dove, as a spirit inhabiting what was effectively a cunningly carved statue, did not need to breathe in any way, yet, in this moment, he made the sound of a long slow inhalation as he readied himself. Perhaps it was simply a habit he wasn¡¯t rid of. Taking a steadying breath was something people did all the time. Or perhaps Dove was simply trying to settle himself as a rare flutter of emotion perturbed his cold spirit.


    Regardless, a beat later, he began to speak, his hands flicking out the familiar gestures with practised ease. Throughout the process, Tyron held his breath, gripped by a heady mix of fatigue and anticipation. Had he failed Dove at the final hurdle? Had he made magickal history by inventing brand new magick?


    With the added components, this was a much longer and more complex ritual than the standard one, but Dove breezed through it, completing the process in under five minutes. The instant he completed the ritual, several things happened at once.


    Dove leaned forward eagerly, his hollow, glowing eyes staring down at the page in front of him.


    The blood, ever so slowly, began to move.


    Tyron¡¯s eyes rolled up in his head as he became gripped by a sudden vision.


    ~~~


    As soon as he began to awaken, the details of what he saw began to fade. He¡¯d been¡­ somewhere¡­ somewhere else. Intangible presences, like ribbons of mist had twined themselves around him¡­ whispering¡­ begging. What they¡¯d said¡­ was important. Very important. But he just¡­ couldn¡¯t¡­ remember. The harder he tried to reach out and grasp the memories, the faster they slipped away from him, until he was left grasping nothing, and his eyes opened.


    ¡°Hrrrr,¡± he slurred, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth.


    His head was pounding. His vision was blurry. How long had he been out? A vision. He¡¯d experienced a vision. That must mean he¡¯d unlocked a new mystery, which meant¡­ he must have been successful¡­ hadn¡¯t he? What had happened when the ritual ended?


    ¡°Finally awake? Welcome back, kid.¡±


    Tyron swivelled his head and saw Dove in front of him, his eyes finally deciding to focus. Then, he realised a few other things.


    ¡°Dove,¡± he rasped, ¡°why am I tied to the chair?¡±


    The skeleton stood tall, wearing his armour, hands resting on his bony hips.


    ¡°I¡¯m not going back, kid,¡± he said seriously. ¡°I know you have to leave soon, and there is no fucking way I¡¯m going back to Yor. Not now that I finally have a reason to¡­ continue existing, I guess.¡±


    It took a few moments for what was being said to sink in, but Tyron seized on the key point.


    ¡°It worked?¡± he breathed, a grin blossoming on his face. ¡°I was right?¡±


    Dove leaned forward, his head tilted to one side.


    ¡°You just got a fucking mystery didn¡¯t you? Another mystery, I should say, you fucking prick.¡±


    Tyron shrugged defensively, which was difficult with his arms tied behind his back.


    ¡°I could have made a breakthrough that was sufficient to be granted a vision, but not enough for the ritual to work as intended. I didn¡¯t see what happened, how was I supposed to know?¡±


    He tested his bonds. Dove had done a suspiciously expert job tying him up.


    ¡°I know what you¡¯re thinking. I¡¯ve got rope-tying at level ten.¡±


    And now he had access to those Skills again?


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you when you¡¯re older,¡± Dove said, and it appeared as though he attempted to wink. He wasn¡¯t successful.


    ¡°Was it really necessary to tie me up?¡± Tyron grumbled. ¡°You could have just run away when I went to sleep.¡±


    ¡°This is way more fun. That¡­ and I wasn¡¯t sure if you would let me go?¡±


    Tyron raised a brow at him questioningly and Dove flapped his arms in a defensive motion.


    ¡°I know you made a deal with Yor to bring me out here. I don¡¯t know what the terms are, but you¡¯ll get kicked in the balls if I don¡¯t come back, I¡¯m sure of that. Generally, you¡¯ve tried to do the right thing by me, but¡­.¡± he trailed off.


    ¡°But you were worried I wouldn¡¯t be willing to pay that price and that I¡¯d drag you back against your will,¡± the Necromancer finished for him.


    Maybe he would have. Maybe he still would.


    After wrestling with the idea for a few moments, he slumped in his seat.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he muttered. ¡°You can go. This is the last time I¡¯m going to do you a favour like this, alright? As unfortunate as your situation is, I¡¯ve got a few things I need to deal with as a matter of urgency.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I fucking get it. I hate the magisters to death, and they didn¡¯t torture-murder my fucking family. I support the mission, one-hundred percent. I just don¡¯t want to spend another second as some vampire-addicted idiot¡¯s ball-bag. If Yor was pissed at what I said? Fine. I¡¯ve done my time. Now I can level again. Now I have access to everything that I¡¯d lost. I refuse to lose this opportunity.¡±


    There was an intensity to his voice, a manic, possessed energy that perhaps only someone who¡¯d gone through life and death the way that Dove had could truly understand. Tyron didn¡¯t grasp it, but he felt the power of it.


    ¡°What¡¯s your plan, then? Are you going to hang around the mountain? Hunting kin here in order to get levels?¡±


    ¡°I think¡­¡± Dove mused, as he tapped a finger to his chin, ¡°that I¡¯m better off not saying, just in case Yor demands the truth out of you. I¡¯ll be somewhere, doing something. How about that?¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Fine. Leave a message in Cragwhistle if you want to get in touch with me. Just don¡¯t be doing any massacres or zombie uprisings. If you ruin my revenge, don¡¯t think you¡¯ll get away lightly.¡±


    The last was said with complete sincerity and Dove hastened to reassure him.


    ¡°Not a problem, I get it.¡±


    ¡°What Class did you get, anyway?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s on the table if you want to look, you pervert.¡±


    ¡°Says the guy with rope-tying ten. Will you let me out of here now?¡±


    ¡°No. So long, kid, until the next time I see your brooding mug.¡±


    ¡°Take care of yourself, Dove. If you want to stay alive¡­ I suppose.¡±


    ¡°I wonder.¡±


    Finally, the skeleton turned to leave. Then turned back.


    ¡°I used to think you were a once in a century genius, you know? Then I thought you were a once in a millennium genius. Now¡­ I¡¯m not certain this realm has ever seen anything like you before. Don¡¯t fuck up, Tyron, you could tip this entire realm over if you play your cards right.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the general idea,¡± Tyron smiled fiercely.


    Then Dove turned, and he was gone.

 B3C58 - A Temporary Reprieve

    It wasn¡¯t too difficult for Tyron to extricate himself. Although, technically speaking, he didn¡¯t. His closest minions weren¡¯t far away and were more than capable of severing the rope for him. Perhaps that did count as doing it himself¡­ a consideration for another time.


    Experiencing a vision from the Unseen was not the same thing as resting, so Tyron remained utterly exhausted. Once he was free, he decided to wash himself, drink water and eat before he retired for an extended nap. For security, he pulled the majority of his minions closer to the cave, ensuring his revenants were on the frontlines to hold off the worst of the kin while he slept.


    There was still so much that remained for him to do. He wanted to see Dove¡¯s status sheet, he wanted to perform the ritual himself and see what he¡¯d gained, but for now, he allowed himself to put it all from his mind, and rest.


    Well, he used a spell to force it from his mind so he could rest.


    Tyron awoke feeling sore and as dry as a bone. A week of effort and deprivation wouldn¡¯t be so easy to overcome, even for him. Thankfully, his head felt clearer. After splashing his face with icy water and tending to his hunger, he felt¡­ somewhat better. By the end of the day, he¡¯d be back to normal, but for now, he was able to function just fine.


    With a sigh, Tyron released the iron grip he¡¯d placed on his curiosity and raced back to the cave where he snatched up the sheet of paper on the table, still smeared in his dried blood.


    Dahved Levan. Through death, you have returned to continue the struggle. Duty is the chain that binds you, anger is the fuel that drives you. Power over the Arcane has always been your goal, and through it, you will exert your will once more.


    You have gained the Class: Spectral Summoner.


    Conjure forth others to fight on your behalf. The creatures of the Astral Sea will reject a being such as yourself, but those who dwell in the Realm of the Dead will answer your call. To increase your proficiency, contract with the denizens of that dread place and summon them to battle on your behalf.


    Class Attributes per level:


    Intelligence +1;


    Wisdom +1;


    Manipulation +3


    Skills granted level 1:


    Dead Sight


    Spells granted level 1:


    Spirit Contract


    Appeal to the Dead


    ¡°I knew Dove wasn¡¯t his real name, the prick,¡± Tyron muttered.


    It appeared Dove had been reset to Level 1 with his rather dramatic change in lifestyle. His general Skills still applied, and they were quite varied, as well as being well-trained. It seemed the former Summoner had expended some Feats to raise the cap on some of his general Skills, though there were some questionable choices.


    Although those remained, nothing else did. All the stats he would have gained from his Summoner and sub-class levels were gone. Even his race levels as a human were gone, as his species had changed to Spirit Construct.


    Goodness knows what the advantages of that were. Hopefully, Dove would figure it out before long.


    He was still in a weakened position, stripped of almost all of his power, but at least now he could do something about it. It was unfortunate, but none of the kin he¡¯d managed to defeat had counted as experience, since he hadn¡¯t possessed a Class at the time. At least from this point forward, he could progress. Although¡­ he¡¯d need to find another source of blood¡­.


    That wasn¡¯t Tyron¡¯s problem. Dove had struck out on his own and frankly, it was a load off his mind. Now he had more time and attention to spend on the things he needed to focus on. Namely, getting more powerful.


    The past week of distraction hadn¡¯t been kind to Tyron¡¯s minions. He burned Dove¡¯s status sheet and brushed the blanket protecting the entrance to the cave aside as he went to assess the damage. With his focus elsewhere, he hadn¡¯t paid as much attention to the rift-kin assaults, which meant his skeletons had been more or less left to fend for themselves. This was, obviously, sub-optimal. He¡¯d lost two dozen minions, and many others were heavily damaged.


    As he ordered his skeletons and tsked over the losses, inspecting each squad in turn, he realised it would be necessary to conduct rather extensive repairs on at least fifty skeletons before they could leave. If he took such weakened minions into the rift on the journey back to Kenmor, the risk they wouldn¡¯t survive the journey would rise precipitously. Tyron wasn¡¯t so enamoured with the process of creating undead he would risk fifty minions. If he worked without pause, it would take him ten hours of gruelling work to repair all the damage.


    With a growl, he set his revenants, who had thankfully been protected by their now-battered armour, and his healthiest squads to guard the mountain trail while he set up a work area and set to his task.


    ~~~


    Trennan was not having a good day. Slayers were not the most disciplined of people when they weren¡¯t in the field. He knew that. Everyone knew that.


    But it turns out that when they weren¡¯t able to massacre rift-kin to blow off steam, they became positively unruly.


    ¡°Arthur, Chol,¡± he said, infinite weariness audible in his voice. ¡°I¡¯m sorry you got bored of fucking. For the love of the divines, I don¡¯t know why you told me this information, and I do not want to know. I¡¯m having a hard enough time stopping Brigette from chopping down someone in the street, if I have to worry about you two as well, I might just lose my fucking mind.¡±


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    ¡°We are bored,¡± Chol said, her arms folded across her chest. ¡°There is nothing to do, and I am even starting to grow tired of my precious Arthur¡¯s company. I never thought I would say that.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s hurtful, but accurate,¡± Arthur concurred. The man had a slightly glazed expression, as if he were staring into the world he would rather inhabit. ¡°We¡¯re crammed into these barracks and people are getting fractious. The Weavers are so pissy they¡¯ll screech at you if you drop a pin.¡±


    ¡°What do you want me to do about it?¡± Trenan growled. ¡°You think you¡¯ve got it rough? Imagine being one of the people responsible for keeping this ship afloat. Rent hotel rooms on the opposite side of town and take up a hobby. Knit or something, I don¡¯t fucking care.¡±


    He stood, looming over the two mages.


    ¡°The Necromancer should be leaving soon, and then we can get back to doing what we do best: killing kin. Until then, the only thing I ask is that you stay out of fucking trouble. It¡¯s not that hard.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been good,¡± Arthur snapped. ¡°It¡¯s been a month, Trennan. A month.¡±


    As much as it annoyed him, Arthur made a point. He and Chol had, much as they¡¯d said, spent most of their time shacked up drinking and shagging. Pretty much all the slayers had, but even that wasn¡¯t able to hold their interest indefinitely. Slayers were people who literally grew stronger from killing monsters. If they weren¡¯t progressing toward their next milestone, or grinding their Skills and Abilities, then they tended to get antsy.


    Especially low-ranked slayers like the ones on this mountain. The whole barracks was a powder keg on the verge of exploding. He only hoped nobody did anything stupid and got all of them killed.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± he said to Arthur, ¡°I just don¡¯t have a lot of patience right now. Samantha and I have been taking turns keeping watch over the gate at night to make sure nobody tries to attack the Necromancer again. I¡¯m a little sleep deprived.¡±


    The two mages appeared surprised to learn this.


    ¡°Has anyone¡­ had a go?¡± Chol asked.


    ¡°Not since Gramble, thank fuck.¡±


    It was only a matter of time, though. Just as he was contemplating how much he hated his life right now, he felt a tap at his shoulder. Shoving his irritation down, Trennan turned and saw a nervous-looking townsman, a regular who served on the wall.


    ¡°Phillip, what can I do for you?¡± he said, somewhat politely.


    ¡°Uh, someone is at the gate, to see you.¡±


    Trennan immediately focused.


    ¡°When you say ''someone''¡­?¡± he trailed off.


    The clearly frightened man managed a shaky nod. That was all he needed to hear. Trennan set off at a run and found Ortan already waiting for him. Extending a hand, he shook the man''s hand briefly before the two of them stepped through the narrow opening in the gate.


    On the other side, they found the Necromancer, accompanied by what appeared to be his entire cohort of skeletons. Lined up in neat ranks, they were like an army, each wielding their dread weapons of bone and headed by the terrifying revenants.


    Covered in his dark robe and skeletal armour, the mage was an intimidating sight. He stepped forward, moving to the front of his undead, but not leaving their protective ring entirely.


    ¡°Trennan, Ortan, nice to see the two of you again.¡±


    ¡°Tyron,¡± Ortan said, which caused one of Trennan¡¯s brows to twitch. ¡°I¡¯m going to assume you called us here for a reason?¡±


    There was obvious fear in his tone, and it took a second for the slayer leader to realise why.


    He thought the Necromancer was about to wipe out the town.


    With a chill, Trennan realised he could do it¡­ easily, if he wanted to. Against this many skeletons, not to mention the powerful mage who controlled them, they wouldn¡¯t stand a chance.


    As if sensing their fear, the man held up his hands, palm outwards.


    ¡°I come in peace,¡± he chided the large townsman. ¡°Ortan, you really think I¡¯m going to murder everyone at this point? Come on.¡±


    ¡°I was a little worried when I saw all the skeletons,¡± Ortan forced a chuckle.


    ¡°I figured if I came unprotected I¡¯d likely be jumped by a dozen pissed off slayers,¡± the mage replied, casting a glance at Trennan, who shrugged.


    ¡°Tempers are getting short,¡± he stated.


    ¡°And fair enough too. I just wanted to let you know that I¡¯m leaving. I¡¯ll be traversing the rift, which should put a damper on the number of kin leaking through for about half a day, but you¡¯ll be back in business after that.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ good news,¡± Trenna said, a little surprised. Deep down, he wasn¡¯t sure if he¡¯d really believed they would all get out of this alive.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back, of course,¡± the Necromancer grinned, immediately dampening his spirits again, ¡°but you¡¯ll have a couple of months to yourselves before I return.¡±


    Well, that was something at least.


    ¡°If anyone advises you to set up a trap for me, maybe try and persuade them to abandon the idea,¡± the mage suggested. ¡°Things worked out amicably this time, I¡¯d like to keep it that way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not in control,¡± Trennan told him honestly. ¡°I¡¯m not able to prevent anything.¡±


    ¡°Well, give it a go. You should also think about the things I said. Carefully.¡±


    ¡°About rebellion, or about your origins?¡±


    ¡°The rebellion, mostly,¡± the Necromancer said. ¡°It¡¯s only going to grow over the next year, and you¡¯ll be caught up in it by the time I get back. If you want some advice, start training up a few promising villagers; Ortan can recommend some people. They aren¡¯t restricted by the brand, and so long as Poranus is in charge, you¡¯ll be covered by false paperwork.¡±


    Trennan felt distinctly uncomfortable.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have any love for the magisters,¡± he said, which was true, ¡°but I¡¯m not sure if a rebellion is really a good idea.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what you think, it¡¯s happening.¡±


    ¡°So you say.¡±


    The man nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°That¡¯s true. You don¡¯t really have much evidence other than my word for it. I can only tell you that is going to change, and soon. People are going to come, slayers, volunteers, that sort of thing. Cragwhistle is as far from the empire''s control as it is possible to get, and it has a shiny new rift to train unbranded soldiers with. It won¡¯t be long until you have to pick a side, Trennan, and I hope you pick correctly. It¡¯d be a shame for you to die so young.¡±


    With a wave, the mage turned to leave, but Trennan called out before he got far.


    ¡°Show me your status sheet,¡± he said. ¡°Show me that, and I¡¯ll believe you.¡±


    The Necromancer turned back, a frown on his face. He appeared to consider for a time before he responded.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he said, ¡°when I get back, I¡¯ll show you.¡±


    ¡°Why not now?¡± Trennan challenged.


    ¡°Because I¡¯ll have choices to consider, and I want to make sure I hit my next threshold before I conduct the ritual,¡± came the irritated reply.


    That was fair. Nobody wanted others looking over their shoulder, or worse, potentially sabotaging the ritual and costing them precious Class selections.


    ¡°See you in a bit.¡±


    The skeletons silently turned on their heels and began to march away, the mage in their midst. Soon, they were lost amongst the trees, no longer able to be seen.


    Trennan and Ortan shared a glance before both released a long breath.


    ¡°I don¡¯t really want to do this again,¡± Ortan groaned.


    Trennan turned to head back to the barracks; he had good news to share.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem like we get a choice.¡±

 B3C59 - Return

    The journey through the rift was as brutal as Tyron recalled. Freezing cold temperatures, a seemingly permanent hail of ice and snow, along with the endless roaming packs of kin, savaging the remnants of their fallen world.


    It was difficult not to consider what that place might have been, before the rifts had overcome it. A thought that naturally led to another: what would his own world be like, when naught but monsters were left to inhabit it? Such a day appeared closer than ever, given how little the administration that held up the empire seemed to care about preventing it.


    A rift break was a permanent increase in the amount of magick flowing into the realm, yet the magisters had allowed one to occur with such callous ease. The lives lost in the tragedy were one thing, but the permanent risk to the stability of their world was another.


    Tyron was forced to consider the possibility that he had less time than he might have assumed to enact his revenge. A part of him had wondered if he might focus his attention on becoming a lich, freeing himself from a human lifespan and spending a hundred years quietly mustering his strength. Now, he dismissed the idea. Given how incompetent they were, a real chance existed that the Western Province would fall to ruin within that span of time.


    Through the ice, he travelled, until he came upon the point he had originally emerged from the Abyss. With enormous difficulty, he conducted the ritual once more, piercing the veil and creating a bridge into that void realm.


    Whispers teased and taunted him, prying at the edges of his sanity every second he remained in that place, and Tyron was visibly shaking when he finally emerged. The remote building remained just as he had left it, and the hundreds of skeletons filed through the opening suspended across his ritual circle without incident. When every minion and all supplies had been accounted for, he allowed himself, at last, to relax. The journey was done, he had succeeded in his aims.


    It was night on the Ortan estate, something he was grateful for. Under cover of darkness he marched along with his horde of undead back to the main building, before he was forced to leave them by the fence, which he had to climb, to knock on the door and ask for someone to open the cellar. He was received with all the grace he might have expected.


    ¡°Back again, are you?¡± Rita Ortan sniffed, looking him up and down.


    Tyron stared back flatly.


    ¡°You¡¯d rather I¡¯d died?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t say that, did I?¡± the old woman muttered, though she certainly didn¡¯t deny it.


    ¡°You seem to blame me for your gods¡¯ interest in my fate,¡± he observed, ¡°though I suppose you can¡¯t really blame them, even if you should.¡±


    She scowled at him.


    ¡°That disrespect is exactly why I don¡¯t like you,¡± she snapped. ¡°Some things are sacred.¡±


    ¡°Not to me. I need to open the cellar.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    Filled with ire, she turned to fetch the key before throwing it at him through the open door. He caught it, barely, before nodding his thanks.


    ¡°If you¡¯re hungry you can have whatever is left in the pot,¡± she called after him. ¡°I won¡¯t be bothering the staff this late.¡±


    It took a little time to store his skeletons and revenants away, they needed to be packed fairly tight in order to fit. Only after he¡¯d closed and locked the door did he stop to wonder how Rufus, Laurel and the others must feel, being shut away in the darkness, unable to control their own limbs without his permission. Perhaps he was growing callous, to not even think of it.


    He wouldn¡¯t go so far as to say they deserved their fate, perhaps nobody deserved to live as an undead, but he did not waste time lamenting it either.


    The stew was still warm, wonder of wonders, and he gladly drank it down before finding a cot in a spare room. After he woke, feeling refreshed for the first time in what felt like weeks, he stepped out of his room, still half asleep, trying to head outside to relieve his bladder.


    Once he¡¯d found his relief and woken up a little, he realised what the strange looks he¡¯d been given on the way out meant. He hadn¡¯t been disguising his face. The realisation struck so hard he stopped dead in his tracks, a hand rising to obscure his features. After just a month without it, he¡¯d grown so lax? A disturbing thought. He¡¯d worn it more or less constantly, for years, and now he walked around showing his features openly, so close to Kenmor?


    Cursing himself as foolish, he immediately formed it again, the false mask bringing with it a sense of comfort and control. When he found Rita Ortan in her office, she blinked, taking a moment to process who he was now his face had changed.


    ¡°And here I thought you may have made a permanent switch,¡± she said, pushing her paperwork to one side.


    ¡°I¡¯m half-surprised you recognised me last night. How long has it been since you saw my real face?¡±


    ¡°I do my best to remember the people I¡¯ve met. It¡¯s a courtesy,¡± she emphasised the latter part more than was necessary. ¡°Perhaps you could seek to emulate this sort of behaviour.¡±


    Tyron didn¡¯t care to argue with her.


    ¡°I need a carriage back to the city. The sooner the better.¡±


    ¡°The Venerable wishes to speak with you.¡±


    The Necromancer¡¯s brow twitched with irritation.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I ask that same question.¡±


    Why did that old man want to waste his time now? There were better things to be doing than conversing with a fossil. Hadn¡¯t he done enough to please those gods lately? Were they punishing him somehow?


    ¡°Where is he?¡± Tyron growled. ¡°I don¡¯t have time to waste.¡±


    ¡°Speaking with the Venerable is never a waste of your time,¡± Mrs Ortan said, eyes blazing. ¡°He is holy, and I¡¯ve no idea why he deigns to speak to you at all, but he does. Show him some respect.¡±


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    With effort, Tyron took hold of his irritation. There was no benefit in going out of his way to be obstinate. His parents were buried on this family¡¯s lands.


    He offered a short bow.


    ¡°I will show due deference,¡± he promised. ¡°Where may I speak with the Venerable?¡±


    Though she looked entirely sceptical of his change in attitude, Mrs Ortan, mistress of the estate, directed him to a gazebo near the hill, the east facing side of which housed the vineyard. There he found the Venerable, impossibly ancient looking man that he was, wrapped in a blanket, warming himself with the rising sun.


    ¡°Heard your trip went well,¡± he wheezed in his thin voice.


    ¡°A divine messenger then? I only just got back,¡± Tyron replied, sitting opposite across from a low, round table.


    ¡°Oh, the gods rarely speak to anyone directly,¡± the old man chuckled. ¡°I wonder what it¡¯s like to be them, sometimes. Are they like us, looking down on ants? Are they even able to tell us apart, from that great height?¡±


    ¡°I think they can, but are unlikely to be bothered,¡± Tyron replied after considering for a moment.


    In his experience, the Dark Gods could achieve many things, but seldom exerted the effort. It was almost their defining feature.


    ¡°You may be right,¡± the Venerable mused, rubbing at his chin with one gnarled hand. ¡°How often do you spend time trying to name the ants you see? You either step on them, or step over them, as you go about your day. Imagine how strange it must have been, when five of these ants get big, bigger than any ant has ever been before, and they crawl up to these three humans and demand they be human too.¡±


    He shook his head.


    ¡°The Three must have laughed like they never had before.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not certain they¡¯re laughing now,¡± Tyron said. ¡°Considering the effort they¡¯re having to exert marshalling their ¡®ants¡¯ to oust the gods they created.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve no doubt this is another game to them, a diversion, but that doesn¡¯t mean it isn¡¯t to our benefit.¡±


    The Venerable leaned forward, staring into Tyron¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Do you ever wonder why, when the entire empire is gripped in the hands of the divines, why things are still so shit? The realm is shrinking, not growing, incursions of magick get stronger every year. It¡¯s been five millennia since the divines were raised to their post. The empire they forged is holding together, barely, and their descendants still rule the roost, but our world is dying.¡±


    After speaking with such intensity, the old man ran out of breath and slumped back in his cheer, wheezing. Tyron gave him a minute to collect himself.


    ¡°Our world had a name, once. Do you know it? I almost never hear it spoken anymore,¡± the Venerable sighed.


    Tyron blinked.


    ¡°No,¡± he said, ¡°no, I don¡¯t believe I do.¡±


    How could that be? All the time he¡¯d spent reading, learning history. History of the empire, he realised, the empire and its neighbours. To Tyron, there had never been any world beyond that.


    ¡°They try very hard to make sure people don¡¯t realise what they¡¯ve lost,¡± the Venerable nodded shrewdly. ¡°The circle grows smaller every year. Granin fell and now the west is blocked by the ¡®Barrier mountains¡¯, as if we never used to cross them. As if there wasn¡¯t trade and exchange for centuries, millennia! To the south is an ocean we haven¡¯t crossed in a thousand years. To the north? Two thousand since we ventured beyond the barren wilds. We don¡¯t have a world anymore, we have an empire. One by one, the outer provinces will fall, until only the centre remains.¡±


    Brow furrowed, the Venerable glared out across the fields as if they personally had offended him.


    ¡°I believe the Old Gods are taking steps for one simple reason. The fate of this world was always supposed to be in the hands of those who live here, but that power has been stolen from us. The divines have crippled us and set us on a path of slow decline. When they are overthrown, the people will be able to fight, to really fight. Then we might be able to save something after all.¡±


    It was possible. The Old Gods were consistent in their belief that people help themselves, after all. It was supposed to be within each individual''s power to fix their circumstances. Of course, that wasn¡¯t always true, sometimes it wasn¡¯t within a person¡¯s power, and the Old Gods loved to tip that balance back the other way. In this case, they themselves had tipped the scales, against every living thing in the realm, though perhaps they hadn¡¯t realised it at the time.


    Now, perhaps they were finally moved to correct their mistake.


    ¡°I heard there was quite the gathering of followers over in Cragwhistle,¡± the Venerable said. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll have to head over there and show my face.¡±


    He grinned, his leathery skin pulling back into a thousand wrinkles.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell Mrs Ortan it was my idea, she¡¯ll murder me in my sleep.¡±


    ¡°Would I do a thing like that?¡± the old man chuckled, a twinkle in his eye.


    ~~~


    Two days by carriage and truthfully, Tyron slept most of the way. Should he have been theorising, writing and scheming? Probably, yes. But there would be plenty of time for that once he returned to his shop. If anything, a little rest would fortify him for the time to come, and so, he allowed himself to eat, drink and doze the days away until he was startled from his rest one day and found the great walls of Kenmor rising in the distance.


    After settling accounts with the coach driver, he made his way into Shadetown, and soon enough, he walked through the door of Almsfield Enchantments. For a moment, he felt a strong sense of cognitive dissonance, as if the store he stood in belonged to a stranger, as well as himself.


    Tyron recognised the sensation for what it was. After finally throwing off the identity of Lukas Almsfield, it was slower to come back than he¡¯d expected. How much had he secretly yearned to be Tyron Steelarm again? To be open and honest about the rage and hate that bubbled away in the core of him?


    When Cerry jumped around the counter and bounced up to him, a broad smile on her face, the feeling began to fade, and the persona of Lukas slipped around him like a cloak.


    ¡°Master Almsfield! Welcome back!¡± she cheered, loud enough to draw Flynn from the backroom.


    The apprentice poked his nose around the corner, looking equal parts relieved and nervous as he saw his employer had returned.


    ¡°It¡¯s nice to be back,¡± he said, and somehow, he honestly meant it. This was a good place. Flynn and Cerry were good people. Somehow, it almost didn¡¯t feel real. In the store, things like rifts, rebellions, slayers and monsters seemed so far away.


    ¡°Master Almsfield. I h-hope you¡¯ll find everything has been done to your satisfaction while you were away,¡± Flynn stammered, twisting his hands together.


    Tyron wiped the scowl off his face before the young man could realise it was there.


    ¡°Relax, Flynn. I only just got back. I¡¯ll take a day or two to inspect the books and go through the inventory. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve done an excellent job.¡±


    He could practically feel magick leaking from less than flawless conduits in the enchanted goods around him.


    Don¡¯t let it bother you. He did the best he could.


    For a few hours, he busied himself with the matters of the shop. He and Cerry went through the accounts line by line, and there were pleasingly few errors in the calculations. Business had continued to be strong, the appetite for his cheap but effective enchantments had grown, if anything.


    ¡°Well done, Cerry,¡± he congratulated her, and she grinned.


    Following that, he and a still-nervous Flynn went through the inventory, item by item, as he inspected the engraving on each and every one. All in all, his apprentice had done better than he¡¯d expected. Clearly, there had been a breakthrough in his Skills for such an improvement to be evident. It was a cause for celebration.


    ¡°You¡¯ve come a long way, Flynn,¡± Tyron didn¡¯t hesitate to praise the young man. ¡°You¡¯ll be receiving a bonus for your work this past month.¡±


    ¡°Master Almsfield, that¡¯s¡­ not necessary.¡±


    Practically glowing with pride, Flynn tried to refuse but Tyron insisted. Good work deserved reward. By the end of the day, everything was in order and he retired to his chambers, throwing himself, finally, into his own, comfortable bed. He didn¡¯t even need to cast the spell; sleep rose to take him of its own volition for once, the incessant buzzing of his mind not strong enough to resist its pull.


    In the morning, it would start again. The study in the cellar needed his attention. He had learned so much, tested his ideas, gained a great deal of knowledge and uncovered new avenues of enquiry. It was also time for the status ritual to be performed once more. Time to tally up the full account of what he had gained.

 B3C60 - What Was Gained Other Than Questions?

    It wouldn¡¯t do to disappear into the cellar for an extended period immediately after he arrived, so Tyron forced himself to postpone. Instead, he got to work ensuring the store was well stocked and supplied.


    Which meant he had to take the time needed to go through Flynn¡¯s work and correct his mistakes.


    ¡°You haven¡¯t properly accounted for the shape of the core,¡± he said, indicating the malformed rune. ¡°As a consequence, the matrix isn¡¯t functioning properly; there¡¯s leakage.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Master Almsfield.¡±


    His apprentice wore a hangdog expression, as if he were being scolded.


    ¡°I am not criticising, this is instruction. This is the only store in the province which makes such extensive use of low grade cores, and I¡¯m perfectly aware just how difficult it is.¡±


    Engraving sigils onto the uneven surface of only partially formed cores added a layer of difficulty to an already complex process. It was a skill Tyron had cultivated over thousands of hours of practice, but not one most high-end Arcanists would ever make use of. If a core wasn¡¯t a well-formed sphere, they would reject them out of hand.


    ¡°If you can do this well, you can purchase cores rejected by other enchanting workshops at a massive discount, even though they¡¯re only a few percent less effective.¡±


    ¡°You always think about the bottom line, Master Almsfield.¡±


    That made him sound like he was some sort of penny pincher.


    ¡°It¡¯s about being efficient,¡± he frowned. ¡°There is no reason to use a core any larger than is necessary for the work.¡±


    This was something Master Willhem lectured his students on frequently. Although the Master was a penny pincher who hated wasting good cores on bad students, Tyron had taken the lesson to heart. His personal focus had been achieving close to lossless conduits to squeeze every drop of power he could out of himself and the cores he used to fuel more and better minions, so there was overlap.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Flynn hastened to agree.


    ¡°Even with higher grade cores, Arcanists will reject any that are too uneven. Cores naturally form a spherical shape, but you¡¯ll pay ten times the price for a perfectly smooth one.¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°You¡¯ll never see one of those cores in this shop, I assure you. Working around uneven surfaces is a necessary skill.¡±


    He took apart much of the merchandise on the shop floor, reworking the cores and correcting the flaws, or throwing them out and enchanting new ones from scratch. By the time it was done, Flynn looked as though he¡¯d been dragged over hot coals, but Tyron didn¡¯t really understand why. As far as he was concerned, he¡¯d delivered a thorough and detail-rich lesson that his apprentice sorely needed. After all, the time to consolidate the basics was after every qualitative leap in Skill.


    Basics, basics, basics. It was the mantra of Master Willhem and Tyron saw no reason to disagree with the man. It resonated heavily with how Magnin and Beory had approached their professions.


    When all was said and done, it was late afternoon and he sent his apprentice home early, asked Cerry to handle the store closing with Wansa, who remained on duty by the door, then slipped into the spare room. He undid his enchantments, went through the hidden passage and down the stairs before he found himself safely ensconced once again within his study.


    He took a deep breath of the stagnant air before a soft smile settled on his lips as he began to unpack his things. Ordering his books, sorting through his notes, making neater copies of the mad scrawl he¡¯d generated, all of it would take days and nights to complete. For now, he created several neat stacks for himself to look over later before he found a clean, blank sheet of paper and placed it carefully in the centre of the table.


    ¡°I¡¯d better be level forty-five at least,¡± he murmured.


    He knew that levelling speed dove off a cliff once a slayer reached silver rank, and somehow found another cliff to dive off at gold, but after all that he¡¯d done, surely he had enough. The real limiting factor was the weak kin which emerged from the Cragwhistle rift. It was common knowledge that stronger kin meant greater reward, not just financially in the form of cores, but from the Unseen. This was the reason Magnin and Beory had been able to continue fighting despite being banned from growing any further. Without passing through the most dangerous rifts and battling the terrors only found on the other side, there was nothing they could fight which would allow them to progress.


    It must have been so galling for them¡­.


    ¡°Enough stalling, Tyron. It is what it is.¡±


    Pushing all the distractions from his mind, he sliced a small cut in the meat of his thumb and pressed it to the page. He spoke the ritual and watched as the red letters formed, staining the white paper with a record of his achievements.


    His proficiency had increased in a long list of Skills, Spells and Rituals, but he only glossed over those. The real meat came with the Class notifications.


    You have raised skeletons and they have fought on your behalf. Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 45. You have received +6 Strength, +9 Constitution, +9 Intelligence, +6 Wisdom, +6 Willpower, +6 Manipulation and +9 Poise.


    You grow close to the point your patrons will be able to call in their debts. Soon, you will be useful to them. Make ready, and await the call. Forbidden One has reached Level 27. You have received +2 Manipulation, +4 Constitution, +4 Intelligence, +4 Willpower and +2 Poise.


    Name: Tyron Steelarm.


    Age: 23


    Race: Human (Level 20)


    Class:


    Lord of the Ossuary (Level 45)


    Sub-Classes:


    <ul>


    <li>Forbidden One (Level 27) </li>


    <li>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</li>


    <li>None </li>


    </ul>


    Racial Feats:


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    Feat Selections Available: 2


    Attributes:


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Strength:


    </td>


    <td>


    72


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Dexterity:


    </td>


    <td>


    129


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Constitution:


    </td>


    <td>


    171


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Intelligence:


    </td>


    <td>


    293


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Wisdom:


    </td>


    <td>


    196


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Willpower:


    </td>


    <td>


    150


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Charisma:


    </td>


    <td>


    66


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Manipulation:


    </td>


    <td>


    96


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Poise:


    </td>


    <td>


    105


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    General Skills:


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


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    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 4)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Engraving (Level 5)(Max)


    Skill Selections Available: 5


    Necromancer Skills:


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 20)(Max)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Death Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    Enhanced Minion Commander (Level 11)


    Undead Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Minion Modification (Level 9)


    Bone-Soul Melding (Level 10)


    Death Infusion (Level 4)


    Bone Forging (Level 12)


    Anathema Skills:


    Abyss Tongue (Level 4)


    Spell Concealment (Level 10)(Max)


    Arcanist Skills:


    Expert Magick Scripting (Level 30)(Max)


    Channelling (Level 10)(Max)


    Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 16)


    Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 16)


    Expert Network Formation (Level 27)


    Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Core Sense (Level 16)


    Expert Power Control (Level 26)


    General Spells:


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)


    Necromancer Spells:


    Raise Dead (Level 33)


    Bone Animus (Level 25)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 10)(Max)


    Shivering Curse (Level 8)


    Death Blades (Level 8)


    Empowered Bone Armour (Level 6)


    Minion Sight (Level 10)(Max)


    Spirit Binding (Level 10)(Max)


    Death¡¯s Grasp (Level 5)


    Anoint Dead (Level 5)


    Black Miasma (Level 3)


    Death Bolt (Level 6)


    Summon the Ossuary (Level 2)


    Anathema Spells:


    Pierce the Veil (Level 8)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 4)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    Advanced Suppress Mind (Level 19)


    Repository (Level 8)


    Fear (Level 3)


    Glamour (Level 10)(Max)


    Invasive Persuasion (Level 10)(Max)


    Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 5)


    Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)


    Necromancer Feats:


    Skeleton Focus III


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery


    Spirit Mastery


    Undead Specialist


    Anathema Feats:


    Repository


    Wall of Thought II


    Drain Life


    Stormwise


    Arcanist Feats


    Magick Thread Control II


    Compact Sigils II


    Conduit Seal II


    Core Networking II


    Mysteries:


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Advanced): WIS +20 CHA +20


    Essence of Death (Initial): INT +3 WILL +3


    Soul Magick (Initial): WIS+3 CHA +3


    Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 45. Choose an Additional Feat:


    Ossuary Extraction I - Increase the amount of Death Magick available to the Ossuary.


    Ossuary Expansion I - Increase the size of the Ossuary.


    Ossuary Infusion I - Increase the efficacy of the bone receptacles.


    Awaken the Altar - Allow the Altar to be utilised in the creation of undead.


    Class Focus I - Choose two Class Skills or Spells and raise their cap by 10.


    Skeleton Focus IV - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.


    Bone Mastery II - Empower all Bone related Skills, Spells and Minions.


    Half-Dead - Allow your own bones to be infused with Death Magick.


    Bone Sculptor - Improve your ability to mould and shape bone.


    Bone Animator - Empower your constructs.


    Lord of the Ossuary has reached Level 44. Choose one additional Skill or Spell:


    Spells:


    Bone Lance - Extend a spear of hardened bone.


    Skeletal Sacrifice - Detonante a skeleton to shower your foe in shards of bone.


    Forbidden One has reached level 26. Choose an additional Skill or Spell:


    Skills:


    Corrupting Presence - Subvert the Will to resist from those around you.


    Spells:


    Advanced Invasive Persuasion - Replace Invasive Persuasion and Increase the maximum level by 10.


    Advanced Bewitch - Replace Bewitch and increase the maximum level by 10.


    Blood Shield - Draw essence from your opponents to form a protective barrier.


    You have qualified for a new sub-class:


    Death Mage.


    Do you accept?


    There was much that pleased Tyron about his updated status. His control over his minions had substantially improved after a month of remotely directing battles on the mountain. He continued to make gains in his fundamental Skills, which was always a priority.


    He¡¯d even improved a few of his enchanting Skills, which was a nice surprise. Sometimes, working on something new was worth a hundred times the progression that grinding away on the same old patterns would provide.


    Other things, he was a little disappointed over. Despite everything, he¡¯d hoped to get more than just three levels after all the fighting he¡¯d done. It seemed, if he really wanted to progress using the Cragwhistle rift, he would need to spend more time through the rift hunting for powerful kin.


    At least he¡¯d reached his goal and gotten a look at the Feat list for Lord of the Ossuary. A few things caught his eye immediately. Three separate, multi-level feats that empowered the space itself, rather than him. This was¡­ unusual, but not unheard of. Even his father had possessed some abilities that strengthened whatever blade he had in his hand. If he thought of the Ossuary as a tool, then it made a little more sense.


    A second level in Bone Mastery was beyond tempting. He used bones for everything at this point, and this feat caught all of that, giving another boost from the Unseen. The next level of skeleton focus had appeared, as he¡¯d suspected it might. Currently, he had Skeleton Focus III, and that number, odd, was displeasing in the extreme.


    Class Focus was not to be looked down on either. He could pick any of his Class abilities and raise the maximum level of two of them by ten. That was enormous, and could be a considerable boost if he were to make the right choices.


    Then there was the Altar¡­ that intrigued him greatly. The lack of information provided was extremely grating, as usual, but he was almost overcome with curiosity. He¡¯d inspected that altar minutely, using every trick at his disposal to determine if there was something he could do with it, and he¡¯d come up with nothing.


    This feat would enable¡­ something. It would be a risk to choose it¡­ but could he afford to pass it up?


    Other feats relating to Bone Constructs were also intriguing, though one of them sparked a thought. Bone Sculptor? Tyron had experienced difficulty when shaping bone from the very beginning, and though he¡¯d gotten better, it was still hard. If sculpting would improve it¡­


    He had selections to burn anyway, so Tyron decided to use a general Skill slot and wrote ¡®Sculpting¡¯ in his own blood on the sheet. With any luck, proficiency with the general Skill would help him shape bone as well.


    The Spell and Skill selections were a little more straightforward; at least he¡¯d been offered two this time. Bone Spear was the clear favourite in Tyron¡¯s mind. Sure, there would doubtless be times when shattering one of his own minions would be the correct, tactical decision, but Tyron hated the thought of wasting his time and effort. His skeletons were to be masterworks, not cannon fodder!


    Masterwork cannon fodder, at the very least.


    After contemplating, Tyron shook his head and committed, placing a bloody thumbprint next to Awaken the Altar and Bone Lance.


    Turning his attention to the next set of abilities his sub-class provided, Tyron could only grimace. Anathema and Forbidden One only seemed to offer him things that he found distasteful, even if they later proved to be useful.


    Advanced Invasive Persuasion was the clear standout, in his opinion. He¡¯d never wanted to use the ability in the first place, but now he was turning it against the Magisters themselves. He would need all the proficiency he could get.


    Then he came to the last, puzzling notification. He had qualified for a new sub-class, seemingly by training himself. This was¡­ unusual, though not unheard of. Normally, one gained proficiency by working with an expert, or someone who already possessed the Class. With that guidance, it was much easier to reach a level of skill or ability that the Unseen was prepared to acknowledge.


    It had taken Tyron a few weeks working under Master Willhem before he¡¯d been able to accept the Enchanter sub-class. Though that had been more than a month faster than any of the other apprentices who¡¯d joined at the same time.


    Apparently, he¡¯d now worked enough Death Magick spells that the Unseen considered him qualified to take up the mantle of Death Mage, and Tyron wasn¡¯t sure how he felt about it. He¡¯d never made a firm decision as to what his final sub-class would be, and now one had been thrown at him out of the blue.


    In reality, there wasn¡¯t really any reason to refuse it, he could abandon the Class at any time if he wanted to take up another, so he marked his acceptance with a trace of reluctance.


    The status ritual was complete, and the moment Tyron ended it, his eyes rolled back as a wave of information pounded into his brain.


    You have received the Sub-Class: Death Mage.


    Just as there is energy and power in life, the same exists within Death. You have taken steps along this path and shall now reap the benefit. Use your abilities to spread death, and reap your harvest.


    Class Attributes per level:


    Constitution +1;


    Willpower +1;


    Poise +1


    Skills granted level one:


    None.


    Spells granted level one:


    None.

 B3C61 - Pay

    A new sub-class¡­ this was an interesting and unexpected development. Tyron had agonised over what he should choose for himself for months, considering one option after another. Something to help in battle? Another crafting Skill that might improve his undead even further? Perhaps he should just choose something which would provide attributes that covered his weaknesses?


    Gaining a sub-class was not an easy undertaking. To increase your chance of earning the Class, and accelerate your learning, it was normal to contract a teacher, and the good ones were not cheap. The good teachers, who both possessed and were willing to teach rare Classes, were very not cheap.


    Yet now one had fallen into his lap. It obviously wasn¡¯t one he¡¯d considered, since it was likely just as illegal as Necromancer itself, and it wasn¡¯t one he could have acquired via training either, for the same reason. Now that he had it, there was no reason not to try and level it to see what it would provide.


    The Class message was¡­ ominous, to say the least. To advance, he needed to ¡®spread death¡¯? Did that literally mean ¡®kill people¡¯, or did it mean spread death energy? Tyron was manufacturing bucket loads of the second every hour, or at least he was when his minions were active. They sucked in ambient energy and converted it constantly.


    If he completed his design for the constructs he was planning to build, then that process would be accelerated even further. If that counted to progress his new sub-class, then he would rise very quickly indeed.


    Interestingly, the stats given were exceptionally defensive.


    ¡°Even more constitution,¡± he muttered to himself, ¡°I¡¯ll be hardier than a Shieldsworn if this keeps up.¡±


    As curious as he was about this new Class, he was more interested in what he¡¯d gained in his main one. More than anything, he yearned to tear open the doorway to the Ossuary and inspect the altar, but he forced himself to be patient. Summoning the entrance in itself would destabilise the dimensional weave in this area, something the many, many, powerful mages within the city would be certain to notice.


    Opening the door would also unleash a thick miasma of death aligned energy into his study. Although he¡¯d worked hard to suppress any hint of the magick from leaking out, his countermeasures weren¡¯t designed to handle such¡­ rich energy.


    As much as he wanted to rush forward, no risks could be taken. If he were revealed now, he would lose much of what he had spent years wearing a false face to obtain.


    With a sigh, Tyron pushed himself up from his desk, gathering the bloodstained page of writing from the surface and running his eyes across it once more. Then he burned it, ensuring not a trace of his blood was spared from the fire.


    Turning to inspect the damp, stone walls of his study, Tyron grimaced. The time he¡¯d spent away had allowed the room to degrade, traces of sewer air sneaking in and contaminating his sanctuary. Mould and mildew had begun to build up, along with dust, cobwebs and other unwelcome critters. The war was on again. Just as it had been in his uncle¡¯s attic, so it would remain.


    Death to the enemy.


    It took a couple of hours for Tyron to finish his work. Weary, but satisfied, he took in the newly spotless study, his hands still dripping with soapy water. All trace of the hated spider-foe had been banished, along with the grime and mildew. He¡¯d even managed to mostly get rid of the bloodstains on the stone slabs.


    With a clean workspace once more, he turned his attention to the next task he needed to complete.


    His gaze was automatically drawn to the arcane script engraved on the walls, particularly in the corners. Sigils he¡¯d carved himself, organised into neat arrays, drew in and dispersed the Death Magick he generated here, aiming to prevent the slightest trace from getting outside. Others were designed to prevent scrying, blocking those types of magick used to peek into other people¡¯s business. Master Willhem himself had taught Tyron those scripts, the very same ones he employed at his own store. The war waged between crafters was as fierce as the one fought by the slayers and the kin. More than once, Master Willhem had been forced to act in order to prevent competitors from thieving his intellectual property.


    Tyron ran a hand over those sigils with a slight smile on his face. The upstairs workshop was protected by the very same array, something his Master had insisted on.


    ¡°They¡¯ll do anything to steal my methods, even spy on my students. You need to be careful, boy!¡±


    The gruff voice of his teacher rang in his mind. Was it likely that the competitors of the greatest Arcanist in the province would attempt to spy on one of his breakaway students? Perhaps there was a remote chance. In his opinion, the old man had simply been showing his care the best way he knew how.


    However, a new set of sigils would need to be carved now. Tyron was far from an expert in the dimensional weave, a dabbler at best. To get the knowledge he needed, another visit to his Master¡¯s library would be necessary, then further time and resources spent on research until he came up with a suitable design. Only then could he start working on the array itself, which would be further time invested. All in all, it would likely take a week before he was ready to enter his Ossuary again.


    With a groan, Tyron leaned forward and scrubbed at his forehead with the back of one hand. It was hard to be patient, much harder than usual. After fighting freely, wearing his own face, not caring about who knew what he was, it was difficult to put the mask back on, difficult to return to his creeping, safe pace.


    But he would.


    Once again, he shoved down his impatience. There was no time like the present to begin, he would visit his Master, difficult though such a meeting would be, then return and begin his work. Other concerns crowded his mind. He had Yor to think about, a meeting would need to be arranged, and soon. She wouldn¡¯t be pleased that Dove was gone, but he would pay her price. A final act of kindness for his friend.


    Filleta would want to speak to him also. He was eager to resume their business, he wanted to double the number of skeletons he had at his command as soon as possible. Only with fresh materials could he begin to research and work on improving his abilities, and there was so much he needed to study.


    ~~~


    As it turned out, he didn¡¯t need to go and find Yor, she came to him. The meeting with Master Willhem had been as awkward as he¡¯d expected it to be, tension still hung thick in the air between them. However, they had been courteous, and the old man had been willing to guide him, giving advice and directing his attention to the best texts on which to base his research. All without asking why his former apprentice was looking into dimension enchanting at all.


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    After returning to his workshop, Tyron had engrossed himself in the three volumes he had borrowed, taking copious notes as he began to piece together the knowledge that he needed to complete his work. For two days straight, he worked on it, only pausing when a timid knock resounded from his door.


    Irritated, the Necromancer glanced up from the page in front of him, his face spattered in ink.


    ¡°Yes?¡± he called, trying to restrain his tetchy tone, and failing.


    ¡°Someone here to see you, Master Almsfield,¡± Cerry called from the other side. ¡°A friend of yours.¡±


    With a long, weary sigh, he slammed shut the massive, leather bound book in front of him. He hated getting distracted when he was working, especially to exchange niceties with people. Who would it be? Victor perhaps, come to invite him to another pointless gathering of the rich and powerful?


    ¡°Are they waiting downstairs?¡± he said as he pushed back his chair.


    ¡°Um¡­¡±


    ¡°They are not.¡±


    That voice, warm and sultry, hinting at everything, promising nothing, was specifically designed to send a shiver running down the spine of everyone who heard it. Or perhaps to get the blood pumping in their veins. She was here already. The time to pay the piper had arrived sooner than expected.


    He straightened his clothes a little, brushed his hair back, which only smudged the ink further across his face, then walked to the door and opened it.


    His store clerk looked quite embarrassed, not turning her head to look at the statuesque woman standing behind her, bedecked in a gown fit for a ball, silky black hair rolling down her shoulders like waves.


    Not a woman.


    ¡°Thanks, Cerry,¡± he said. ¡°You head downstairs and I¡¯ll see our guest in my sitting room.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Master Almsfield,¡± she squeaked, before turning on her heels and rushing down the stairs.


    Yor watched her go, a half-smirk on her face.


    ¡°You won¡¯t be able to use her much longer. She¡¯s almost eighteen.¡±


    ¡°Cerry may Awaken a Class that doesn¡¯t impact her ability to work in the store.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a way she can stay seventeen. Unaging. From tonight until the end of this realm.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes, then froze.


    ¡°Wait. If you create a vampire before someone gets their Class Awakening¡­ do they never get one?¡±


    The normal case for gaining a Class was for it to happen at eighteen. It was the same all across the Empire. Put your hand on the crystal after your eighteenth birthday and bam, Class. Touching it before that date didn¡¯t do anything.


    That didn¡¯t mean kids didn¡¯t try. They all did.


    Yor laughed at his curiosity.


    ¡°We did test it, and yes, they don¡¯t qualify, even after a full year has passed. Fortunately, there are other methods.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s take this conversation into my room,¡± he said, ushering the Vampire down the corridor toward his quarters.


    She smiled wickedly and allowed herself to be herded, lowering herself into a chair with familiar grace.


    ¡°Tea? I think I have some cake that Cerry picked up yesterday.¡±


    ¡°I must decline.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t mind if I¡­?¡±


    ¡°By all means.¡±


    As usual, he¡¯d allowed his diet to go to pot while focused on his work, so Tyron seized this opportunity to refresh himself. The heating array had the kettle singing merrily in no time and he poured a fresh cup and served himself a generous slice of cake while he was at it. Yor watched him place his largesse on the table with a bemused expression.


    ¡°Do you miss it at all? Regular food?¡± he asked.


    She curled her lip in disgust.


    ¡°Not at all. The taste of mortal lifeblood¡­¡± she trailed off and shivered, ¡°it cannot be compared to anything you have experienced.¡±


    In his opinion, the cake was pretty damn good. Carrot cake. Not his usual favourite, but the cream had a hint of vanilla. Delicious.


    ¡°What do you want, Yor?¡± he asked after washing down a mouthful with tea. ¡°I don¡¯t like you visiting me here at the store, you know that.¡±


    She frowned, lines creasing her flawless forehead.


    ¡°Who knows how long it would have taken you to reach out to us? I grew impatient.¡±


    ¡°You have one of your¡­ creatures¡­ standing at my front door every day. I find it hard to believe you weren¡¯t able to send a message.¡±


    ¡°Poor Wansa. She has had her intake reduced while you were away. The girl was most desperate for your return.¡±


    ¡°I bet.¡±


    Tyron took another mouthful and took his time chewing, watching Yor across the table from him with lidded eyes. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair.


    ¡°Dove didn¡¯t come back with me. What do you want?¡±


    The Vampire smiled joylessly.


    ¡°So crass. Getting directly to the point has some merit, but I find it lacks a certain tension.¡±


    ¡°Why do you keep doing that?¡± the Necromancer asked, irritated.


    She blinked, for once somewhat taken aback.


    ¡°Doing what?¡± she replied.


    ¡°That,¡± Tyron gestured at her, and the Vampire looked down at herself.


    She had posed herself provocatively, leaning forward to emphasise her ample chest, one finger trailing across her lips. After taking in herself, she looked back at him, smiling.


    ¡°Do you find it distracting?¡± she asked, playing coy.


    ¡°I find it annoying. It looks exhausting. All of these motions are designed to play on emotions I know you don¡¯t have. Drop the act for five minutes so we can have a conversation.¡±


    Yor appeared almost thoughtful for a moment, before she too leaned back in her seat. As if a mask had dropped off her face, all the playful teasing was gone, the smouldering heat in her gaze vanished. In its place sat the cold, calculating monster that she truly was.


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you agreed,¡± Tyron said openly. ¡°I rarely get to see your real face.¡±


    ¡°They are all my real face,¡± she replied. ¡°My kind are undead, yet we continue to possess great appetite. What you consider to be a facade is my hunting self, how I act around the food.¡±


    ¡°Am I food?¡± Tyron asked, surprised.


    ¡°In a sense.¡±


    Tyron stirred his tea, thoughtfully. It was always difficult to know where one stood with the Vampires. Monsters in so many ways, they were still very human in others. Lies and intrigue were like bread and wine to them. Yor and her coven, at least, were still such social creatures.


    ¡°You wanted this all along, didn¡¯t you,¡± Tyron mused. ¡°A sin you could hang around my neck. Is this why you brought him back in the first place?¡±


    If it were true, she gave no sign. Not a muscle in her entire, undead frame shifted so much as a millimetre.


    ¡°I figured out how to give him access to the Unseen. Designed a new status ritual for him. He¡¯s off exploring, trying to level himself again. You won¡¯t go after him.¡±


    The last was not a request.


    ¡°There is a price,¡± she said.


    ¡°There¡¯s always a price. What is it?¡±


    ¡°A meeting,¡± Yor said simply. ¡°That isn¡¯t so much to ask, is it?¡±


    ¡°Depends on who I¡¯m meeting. And where.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid, under the circumstances, I must insist.¡±


    It was like a vice closing around him, one he¡¯d put himself in.


    ¡°Who am I to have the pleasure of meeting?¡± he asked, trying to mask the sinking feeling in his chest.


    At this point, she smiled, revealing the twin fangs extending from her teeth.


    ¡°My mistress has longed for your company. Unfortunately, she is not able to travel to this realm.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡±


    ¡°It is.¡±


    ¡°Unfortunate.¡±


    ¡°I like to think of it as a cloud with a silver lining. After all, now you have a reason to visit my home. The Scarlet Court awaits.¡±

 B3C62 - The Red World

    The issue with accepting help from ¡®patrons¡¯, was that they expected something back from him in turn. The Abyss had offered Tyron an incredible wealth of knowledge, secrets that would push his magick beyond his current capabilities, if only he were willing to pay a terrible price. What he had extracted from that blighted place had been paid in literal human souls, a cost which haunted him.


    The Old Gods were more mysterious, more fickle. What exactly they did for him, Tyron wasn¡¯t sure. There was support in the form of Elsbeth and help from their mortal followers, but the gods themselves had not moved to assist him, that he was aware. However, he was still expected to perform certain duties. They wanted his assistance to throw down the empire of their enemies, a goal that aligned with his own.


    The Scarlet Court were the most transactional of the three. He had done favours for Yor and her coven and received assistance in turn. So far, nothing too onerous had been placed on his shoulders, but now Tyron was in a position he was being asked to do something he really didn¡¯t want to do.


    Could he say no? Was that even an option? If he refused, then the Vampires would threaten to withdraw their support, or ask for compensation even more painful than this. He did, in the end, owe them. Dove had been allowed to travel with him on the understanding that he would return the lost soul to Yor upon their return. He had broken the agreement, he had incurred a debt.


    No matter how he twisted the matter in his mind, he didn¡¯t see a way to refuse the request that wouldn¡¯t cost him even more. To achieve his goals, to satisfy his vengeance, he needed the support of his patrons, all of them. They were too powerful to throw them aside, and certainly too powerful to have them act against him.


    Despite his growing strength, Tyron was careful not to fool himself. Yor could turn him against his will at any time. It wasn¡¯t fear of him that held her in check.


    Which is why Tyron found himself outside the golden district once again, his cloak pulled tight against the rain, raucous laughter drifting from the light of Veil Street.


    ¡°Papers,¡± the guard said with a bone deep sense of boredom. The kind of boredom born from repeating this one, simple routine a thousand times a night over a period of years.


    ¡°Lucas Almsfield, Arcanist,¡± Tyron said, sliding his identification over.


    ¡°Oh yeah? My uncle¡¯s an Arcanist, got all the brains in the family. Who¡¯d you train under?¡±


    ¡°Willhem.¡±


    ¡°Oh shit.¡±


    Tyron shrugged uncomfortably.


    ¡°Can I¡­ get through?¡±


    ¡°Right. Everything seems fine. Have a good evening.¡±


    He accepted his paperwork back and moved through the checkpoint, only to repeat the process at the next. At least nobody at the second had a family member in the trade.


    ¡°Make sure you don¡¯t step on any toes. The gold ranks will rip your feet off and beat you to death with them,¡± said the guard before he left.


    Tyron blinked.


    ¡°Is that something that really happens?¡± he couldn¡¯t help asking.


    The guard, a middle aged, weary-looking man, stared back at him levelly.


    ¡°I¡¯m not creative enough to make this stuff up, sir. That happened yesterday. Guy was dead by the time the brand overwhelmed the slayer. The golds seem jumpy lately.¡±


    As if being ¡®jumpy¡¯ were enough to kill a person and submit yourself to excruciating torture. Eyes widening, Tyron nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be careful.¡±


    ¡°Good idea.¡±


    Veil Street, adjacent to the Golden District without being part of it, nevertheless contained the only place it was possible for the normal citizens of Kenmor to interact with these high-level slayers. A place of indulgence for the powerful and the wealthy.


    The Red Pavillion was around halfway down the street, and it wasn¡¯t short, so Tyron started walking. Making sure he stayed out of everyone¡¯s way was easier said than done. Between the stumbling drunks, the oblivious, drugged-out customers and the beguiling workers, he had to be alert at all times, keeping his hands to himself and his steps firm. Everytime he stopped for more than a few seconds, someone would descend on him, male or female, and try to lure him into a nearby establishment.


    He issued so many polite apologies he was thoroughly tired of it by the time the red building loomed in the distance.


    Trepidation gripped him, but it wasn¡¯t as if he could turn back now. The two armoured guards by the door let him in without a word and he was immediately plunged into a smoky, dim world of hedonism and indulgence.


    Thankfully, he wasn¡¯t forced to explore the labyrinthine corridors, inhaling the intoxicating smoke with every breath until he found Yor. A familiar face greeted him just inside the door.


    ¡°The mistress is waiting for you below,¡± the young man said, a trace of nervousness in his demeanour.


    Tyron looked at him with narrowed eyes, then realised who this was. He reached up and drew a finger down his own cheek, which caused the shirtless man to flinch.


    ¡°They healed you up nicely,¡± Tyron remarked neutrally.


    His guide swallowed.


    ¡°I am most fortunate for the mistress''s favour. If you¡¯ll follow me?¡±


    Perhaps a little more rushed than was strictly appropriate, the young man turned and strode away, guiding Tyron to a hitherto unexplored part of the Red Pavillion. On his previous visits, Tyron had met with Yor upstairs, but this time he was led to the back of the ground floor, and then down.


    The smoke was even thicker here, hanging dense in the air as masked revellers and attendants moved between curtained rooms in various stages of undress.


    These were the higher ranked among the clientele, Tyron realised. Stronger smoke, more potent alcohol, all were required to overcome the higher resistance of such customers.


    Perhaps there was a minimum constitution score required to descend those stairs. If there was, Tyron was confident he cleared it. The lights grew ever more dim and smoke ever more thick as they moved deeper and deeper. Down another flight of steps, and the light was almost perfectly dark.


    Tyron¡¯s guide began to feel his way, a hand trailing along the wall. Unwilling to do the same, he conjured a ball of light with a simple gesture, driving back the shadows.


    ¡°Put it out,¡± a male voice hissed from a nearby room.


    The Necromancer ignored him, gesturing for the guide to keep moving. The man nodded nervously and began to walk again, only to freeze in place when the voice spoke out again.


    ¡°I said, put out the fucking light,¡± a figure growled, stepping out into the corridor.


    Tyron frowned and turned, which caused the man to hiss as his eyes were exposed directly to the glare. A vampire, one of Yor¡¯s coven. She was very protective of these creatures, like a mother hen clucking over her chicks. Perhaps they were especially sensitive to light at an early stage of their¡­ condition? He was unsympathetic.


    ¡°Close your eyes, I¡¯ll be gone in a minute.¡±


    ¡°You sure will be.¡±


    Whoever he was, this nascent vampire was fast, but he simply wasn¡¯t fast enough. Tyron slammed his mind against his and crushed his will in an instant. For an undead, he was strangely pliant, with a weak and undeveloped will.


    ¡°Go to bed,¡± Tyron told him, enforcing his commands with a flex of his mind.


    Like a puppet, the man turned and stumbled back behind the curtain, confused voices murmuring from the other side.


    ¡°Let¡¯s keep going,¡± Tyron told his guide, and the man jerkily began to walk once more.


    Before long, they reached a thick, black door, painted in sigils written in blood. The Necromancer curled his lip despite himself; it was all a bit overdramatic.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    ¡°The mistress awaits you on the other side,¡± the young man stammered, offering a short bow before he fled.


    With a rising sense of trepidation and anger, Tyron rapped his knuckles on the door.


    ¡°Come in,¡± Yor called.


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to find a pool of blood in there, am I?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s one way to find out,¡± replied the muffled voice.


    There was nowhere to go now¡­. He grasped the iron handle and turned it, revealing the contents of this inner sanctum.


    ¡°I knew it,¡± Tyron said.


    Yor stood behind a depression in the floor which was, true to form, filled with red liquid, dressed all in black.


    ¡°We are blood magick experts,¡± she said frostily, ¡°you can¡¯t be surprised when we use it as a medium.¡±


    ¡°Even for dimension magick?¡±


    ¡°Some realms are more sympathetic to blood than others.¡±


    That¡­ actually made sense. The realm occupied by the Scarlet Court was absolutely dripping with the stuff, if even half of what Yor had told him about the place was true. Perhaps using blood as a medium for the ritual would make it easier to form a gate.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get started then,¡± he said.


    Yor didn¡¯t bother to reply, but raised her hands and began to cast. The moment she began to speak, the blood contained within the depression began to bubble and writhe, responding to her words and gestures.


    It was fascinating for Tyron to watch the process. Blood magick, as far as he was aware, was not something the people of the empire practised. An entirely different form of arcane manipulation, using blood as a receptacle to channel power.


    As time passed, the room dimmed, until it was difficult for Tyron to see his hand in front of his face. The blood however, began to glow, emanating a crimson light that could be seen even through the unnatural darkness.


    As Yor continued to speak, her eyes matched that light, turning red as the vampiric words of power rolled from her tongue.


    The blood continued to shift and dance, tendrils rising up and binding around each other as the gateway between realms slowly took form.


    The room must have been enchanted heavily. There was no chance that the vampires could risk letting even the slightest trace of this energy leak. Considering just one floor above were gold ranked slayers, some of them mages, it was a breathtaking show of confidence that Yor would conduct this ritual here at all.


    The blood twined up and around itself, hardening into a glowing crystal, like multi-faceted glass, as the final shape of the gate continued to take form. Of course, the gate would have to take an artful shape. He wondered if that was built into the ritual or if Yor had added these touches herself.


    When it was finally done, the blood contained in the floor had been consumed, and in its place stood an arched doorway, from beyond which a cold wind blew. Yor lowered her hands and gazed on her creation with a critical eye.


    ¡°Not satisfied with the aesthetic?¡± he asked.


    ¡°It is¡­ somewhat lacking.¡±


    Stepping closer, Tyron inspected it. If it weren¡¯t for the colour and texture, the gate would almost look organic. The twisted ropes of blood were similar to vines, and in fact, small crystalline flowers peeked out from amongst the tendrils, adding to the effect.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s fine,¡± he said.


    To be honest, such wasteful flourishes seemed ridiculous to him, but he certainly wasn¡¯t going to say so, considering where he was going and how much he would rely on Yor when he got there.


    As if reading his mind, she smiled, the slow, eager smile of a predator.


    ¡°Let¡¯s step through together, shall we?¡± she said, striding around the gate and taking hold of his arm.


    ¡°Am I escorting you, or are you worried I¡¯ll run away?¡± he said, uncomfortable at the contact.


    She didn¡¯t reply, only stepping forward and pulling him along with her. He stepped down into the depression on the floor, then through the gate. There was a moment of disorientation as he stepped from one realm to another, but it quickly passed.


    On the other side, he found himself in a relatively small room. The gate had formed on a raised platform of stone, with two steps leading down to a red carpeted floor. Around the room glowed the telltale lights of enchantments, blood-red cores sunk into the stone at the centre of the arrays. Statues were spaced evenly around the room, each an example of the human form, but horribly distorted, twisted into horrific visages. Agonised, screaming faces with pleading eyes emerged from those nightmare shapes.


    ¡°Interesting taste in decoration,¡± Tyron said, face twisted in disgust.


    ¡°We are in the rooms beneath my Mistress¡¯ palace. She likes to make an impression on her guests. It also serves as a warning.¡±


    Tyron frowned at her words, then turned back to examine the statues once more. It took a moment, but he saw one blink, then he swiftly shifted his gaze, stomach heaving.


    ¡°Interesting,¡± he muttered.


    Yor paid his discomfort no mind, maintaining her grip on his arm.


    ¡°The Mistress awaits.¡±


    She began to walk again, pulling him forward, though he didn¡¯t resist. From the gate-room, they entered a long, dim corridor with gaps carved into the stone at set intervals.


    He passed three before he succumbed to his curiosity. When he reached the fourth, he paused for a moment to look out, only to freeze at what he saw.


    He thought he would be in a basement, and in a sense, he was. Where he stood was below ground, but the space below was open, to the point he was suspended dozens of metres above the ground below.


    That space was filled with people. They sat in cages, silent, staring, weeping, as figures cloaked and armoured in black moved between them. In the distance, at the edge of the cavern, he saw figures bound and chained to spiked tables, blood flowing freely and being collected in vessels that glowed with power.


    There were thousands of them. If he looked out the matching window on the other side, would he see more of the same? It was cruelty on a staggering scale.


    With difficulty, he mastered himself and resumed his walk.


    ¡°Another warning, I take it.¡±


    Yor patted his arm and he struggled not to shake off her touch.


    ¡°My Mistress is fond of warnings. One of the many things you must keep in mind when you meet her.¡±


    Yor began to lecture him on the seemingly endless rules that must be minded while standing before the ancient monster. Don¡¯t look her in the eyes. Don¡¯t speak unless spoken to. Make sure you don¡¯t bleed in her presence. Keep your language formal and courteous. Hands by your sides at all times. If there are cattle present, do not acknowledge them. If there are undead present, do not acknowledge them either.


    On and on it went. They reached the end of the corridor and entered a twisting maze of hallways. They passed other figures, but never stopped to interact with them. Yor continued to drag him, navigating the way unerringly until they stood before a large, wooden door.


    ¡°This is the Mistress¡¯ lower chambers. Normally, I would present you in the throne room, but circumstances don¡¯t allow it, unfortunately. Remember what I said.¡±


    ¡°Which things you said?¡±


    ¡°All the things I said.¡±


    She knocked with one, elegant hand, and immediately the door swung open soundlessly. The room beyond was lavish, to say the least. If he hadn¡¯t been told otherwise, Tyron would have assumed that this was the throne room. The ceiling was absurdly high, large, intricate banners hung between columns formed of blood-coloured marble.


    There were so many more details. The rich furnishings. The tapestries. Paintings and sculptures along the walls. The kneeling figures, hands crossed across their chests and faces pressed into the floor. The huge figures in full-plate armour, swords and shields resonating with incredible power.


    All of it faded in the presence of the woman on the throne.


    It was almost impossible to look at her. It was almost impossible to look away.


    She was majestic in appearance, her expression both regal and cruel. Hastily, Tyron tried to avert his gaze, lest he look into her eyes, but somehow, as if drawn by a magnet, he could never fully direct his attention elsewhere.


    Seated on her golden throne, her posture perfect and dressed like an empress, she radiated power. The very air around her was tinged red, as if the blood within her were so strong it affected everything around it. Yor dragged him forward as he struggled to remember to breathe. The closer he got to that throne, the more his heart pounded painfully in his chest. He felt as if his blood were slowing to a crawl within his veins.


    When they were still twenty metres away, Yor pulled him down to the ground and he knelt, trying to master himself as she knelt beside him.


    ¡°Mistress,¡± Yor intoned, her voice cold and formal, ¡°it brings me endless joy to kneel in your presence once more.¡±


    So saying, she leaned forward and pressed her head to the floor, glaring at Tyron from the corner of her eye until he did the same.


    ¡°Rise, child.¡±


    The voice was¡­ indescribable. As the sound entered his ears, Tyron felt his veins tremble. More and more, he began to realise that this was not a place, not a person whom a mortal should ever draw near.


    ¡°You have brought him as I asked. Well done.¡±


    Tyron rose as Yor did, eyes squeezed shut as he attempted to control himself. What would it be like for someone with a weaker body to be here? Would they already be dead?


    ¡°He is a promising specimen. So much growth in one so young.¡±


    ¡°As you say, Mistress. It has been difficult to remove him from the influence of the others.¡±


    ¡°Yet now he is here.¡±


    There was silence for a moment and Tyron finally felt as if he had steadied the trembling of his limbs. He opened his eyes again, only to find the ancient vampire regarding him directly.


    ¡°What is your name, mortal?¡±


    The way she pronounced ¡®mortal¡¯ was as if she spoke a profane or filthy word.


    ¡°Tyron Steelarm, Mistress.¡±


    Another pause.


    ¡°You have done well, to reach this point. Yet there is still so much you do not comprehend. You¡¯ve never truly understood the nature of our alliance. The Dark Ones. The Abyss. Myself. For instance, you do not know that those Old Gods shield you from the sight of those who replaced them.¡±


    Though he was kneeling, he still twitched. He hadn¡¯t known that. Why hadn¡¯t Elsbeth told him?


    ¡°They also protect you from manipulation. Yet here, in this realm, you have been stripped of such protections.¡±


    Her mind overwhelmed his in less than an instant. Like a blade of grass before a hurricane, all he could do was bend. His eyes rolled up his head as she seized his will without any discernible effort.


    ¡°What¡­ are¡­ you¡­ doing?¡± he forced out.


    It was Yor who answered.


    ¡°A slight modification. Your desires do not always align with ours. That will change.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ will¡­ remember¡­ this!¡±


    It took all his effort to speak those words while the monster on the throne rifled through his mind like a lion playing a mouse. He glared at Yor, who only looked amused.


    ¡°No,¡± she said, ¡°you won¡¯t.¡±

 B3C63 - Debt Upon Debt

    Elsbeth couldn¡¯t help but feel anxious as the old man hobbled across the street toward her. Truth be told, ¡®old¡¯ didn¡¯t nearly capture the sheer weight of time that seemed to hang on those reed-thin shoulders. Stooped over, limbs visibly trembling and skin as weathered as a salt-washed rock, the Venerable supported his weight on a walking stick of dark brown wood as he slowly made his way toward her.


    Would it be disrespectful of her to go and help him? He looked so fragile! There was a burly-looking man by his side, watching the crowd, eyes flicking from one person to the next, but he made no move to support the ancient human. Ultimately, her instincts overwhelmed the debate in her head and she rushed forward to support him, holding onto his elbow and walking alongside.


    ¡°I apologise if I¡¯m being rude,¡± she said, ¡°I mean no disrespect.¡±


    The old man chuckled as he let her take some of his weight.


    ¡°I left my useless pride behind over a hundred years ago,¡± he said, wrinkled skin folding in on itself as he smiled wide, revealing the few teeth he retained. ¡°A little help on the walk won¡¯t do me any harm.¡±


    Somewhat relieved, Elsbeth returned the smile as she fell into step, slowly making their way through Shadetown.


    ¡°Thank you for coming on such short notice. I hope the journey wasn¡¯t too difficult for you.¡±


    The Venerable flapped his free hand vaguely as if to wave away her concerns.


    ¡°Bah! I¡¯m not as old as that¡­¡± he trailed off. ¡°On reflection, I probably am as old as that,¡± he admitted, ¡°but I was planning to move anyway. This was a necessary stop on the journey. Helping a fool child out of the mess he put himself in shouldn¡¯t be too taxing.¡±


    She wished she shared his confidence.


    From the market, they moved down one of the alleys until they stood before Almsfield Enchantments. This late in the afternoon, there weren¡¯t many people about, most of the day¡¯s commerce having been done. Still, there were a few inside, visible through the large windows, browsing the many wares Tyron had on offer.


    She felt a spike of pride at how well her friend had done. Despite not even being his focus, Tyron had turned his enchanting business into a real success, earning praise from almost everyone she spoke to in the community. With an effort, she forced that appreciation down. She was still furious at him! Just bringing to mind the letter he¡¯d send her was enough to make her grind her teeth.


    Greetings Elsbeth,


    I¡¯ll be travelling to visit the Scarlet Court within their domain. I¡¯d appreciate it if you could contact the Venerable, or perhaps another high-ranking cleric amongst your organisation to undo whatever suggestions they plant in my head.


    Regards.


    Not even signed with a name, not that he had to, who else would be mad enough to do such a thing? Doing it knowing what was going to happen to him, no less!


    Even now, part of her wanted to let him stew in his own juices. This was his mess after all, but it was a petty impulse that she knew she would never indulge.


    ¡°Do you need help with the steps, Venerable?¡± she asked, leaning down toward the old man.


    ¡°If you¡¯d be so kind,¡± he replied, eyes crinkling.


    Dressed in a light cloak, shirt and pants, there hardly seemed to be anything of the man left, they hung so loosely on him. Shaking step by shaking step, the Venerable managed to mount the three stairs with some difficulty before he released a triumphant sigh at the top. Elsbeth let go of his arm just long enough to swing open the door and let him through, for which she received a grateful nod.


    Seemingly without communicating, the burly, leather-armoured guard took up post outside the door, standing in a spot where he could watch the traffic and keep an eye on the store interior at the same time.


    Once inside, Tyron¡¯s bubbly young store attendant approached, professional smile on her face and curiosity burning in her eyes. From the corner of the room, a martial figure began to stride forward. This was Wansa, Elsbeth recalled, but before the formidable woman had taken two steps, she froze mid-stride and remained there, eyes wide, a rictus snarl on her face. Confused, Elsbeth looked down to the Venerable, only to see the old man smiling gently with his eyes shut. A moment later, Cerry had reached them.


    ¡°Ms Elsbeth, it¡¯s nice to see you again. Is this your grandfather? Or¡­ great-grandfather? Or¡­.¡±


    Was she really going to go to ¡®great-great¡¯?!


    ¡°Lovely to see you as well, Cerry,¡± she interrupted before the young woman offended the ancient priest. ¡°We¡¯re here to see Master Lukas. He¡¯s expecting us.¡±


    Cerry took it all in stride, shaking her head slightly.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but Master Almsfield has specifically requested not to be disturbed today. I believe he¡¯s working upstairs in the workshop, but goodness knows on what, poor Flynn hasn¡¯t seen him in days.¡±


    Which would mean he¡¯d been isolating himself since he returned from his¡­ visit.


    ¡°As I said, he¡¯s expecting us,¡± Elsbeth began to say, only for the Venerable to speak over her.


    ¡°Help me up the stairs, young lady,¡± he said to Cerry, but every quality of his voice had changed.


    Gone was the thin, quavering tone, replaced by something deep and powerful. Cerry¡¯s smile didn¡¯t waver an inch as she smoothly stepped forward to take Elsbeth¡¯s place on his elbow.


    ¡°And how long have you been working here?¡± the Venerable asked, every inch the doddering old man once more.


    Soon he and Cerry were engaged in conversation as she helped him to the second floor as if he were her own grandfather. Confused, and a little disturbed, Elsbeth trailed along in their wake, ascending only to find the door locked before them.


    ¡°Yes¡­ Master Almsfield did say he didn¡¯t want to be disturbed,¡± Cerry muttered to herself, confused.


    ¡°Nonsense. Look, the door is open,¡± the Venerable said as he tapped it with his cane.


    Cerry put a hand against it and tentatively pushed. The door swung open silently, the sounds of muttering and the scrape of metal tools now able to be heard from within.


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± Cerry stated. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll leave you to your business then, I need to get ready to close the store.¡±


    Elsbeth waited a few moments for the attendant to head down the steps before she whispered to the Venerable.


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    ¡°Was that strictly necessary?¡±


    He huffed.


    ¡°It¡¯s not as intrusive as most methods and saves us a lot of time and energy. I doubt Tyron would be grateful if we caused a scene within his store, and I¡¯m much too old to be fighting my way up the stairs.¡±


    ¡°And what about Wansa?¡± she asked.


    The old man¡¯s lip curled.


    ¡°Thrall,¡± he almost spat. ¡°Little better than slaves who put the collar on themselves. She¡¯s lucky I didn¡¯t do more. She¡¯ll be free to move in a few minutes. Probably.¡±


    Surprised by his vehemence, Elsbeth kept her silence and aided the Venerable as he took slow steps into Tyron¡¯s private chambers. The workshop was through an open door to the left, and from within she could hear him, working, muttering, almost growling to himself. The more she listened, the more disturbing it sounded. Half the sounds didn¡¯t even form words, just¡­ noise, as if it were an animal inside rather than a human.


    ¡°What is going on in there?¡± she whispered.


    The Venerable cocked his ear and listened for a moment before he frowned. For a moment, his eyes, normally clouded and watery, sharpened. With two quick strides, the old man placed himself in the doorway to the workshop as Elsbeth hurried to keep up with him.


    Inside, she saw Tyron, or at least his back, as he sat hunched over his bench. Even from this angle, she could see how bedraggled he was, his clothes were creased and stained, hair matted to his head with sweat.


    ¡°Ty¨C¡± she began, only for him to whip around in his seat, causing her to break off with a startled cry.


    Pale, sunken flesh on his face. Eyes bloodshot and bulging in their sockets. Fingers twisted and knotted, clutching at his hair, his clothes, the air. There was blood on his teeth, and she saw with shock he had been gnawing on his own arm, had chewed straight through the cloth.


    ¡°Old gods,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°Raven, behold your servant,¡± the Venerable intoned.


    Tyron lunged from his seat, seemingly not caring that he stumbled and crashed into the floor, rising again to fling himself forward once more.


    The Venerable clasped his hands together and bowed his head.


    From a great distance, Elsbeth heard the rush of wind beneath colossal wings, the snap of a titanic beak in anger.


    Tyron froze. Even locked in place, his muscles spasmed as he tried to break the hold, strained to move forward.


    Extending a finger in front, the old man tapped him once between the eyes and all the life drained from that tortured frame. No longer conscious, Tyron dropped to the floor in a heap at the priest¡¯s feet.


    ¡°Can you help roll him over please, Elsbeth?¡± the Venerable sighed thinly. ¡°This is going to be difficult.¡±


    Still horrified, she hesitated before she stepped around him to tend to the figure lying prone on the floor.


    ¡°What happened to him?¡± she asked, aghast, as she tried to arrange Tyron with some dignity.


    The more she handled him, the more she became aware of just how damaged he was. He¡¯d done this to himself in only a few days?


    ¡°Bloodsuckers did something to him, a compulsion, memory modification¡­ perhaps something worse.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s worse?¡±


    ¡°Oh, girl. You are too young. I can do worse, and have, in the service of our gods.¡±


    He peered at her with his open eye.


    ¡°Pray to Crone enough, and you will be able to do it too.¡±


    She didn¡¯t want to contemplate that, not even for a moment.


    ¡°But what¡¯s happened to Tyron? If they did something to his mind, what has happened to his body?¡±


    The old man wheezed lightly as he nudged the Necromancer¡¯s foot with his own.


    ¡°The boy has been fighting, trying to defeat something so much greater than himself. I don¡¯t know how he fortified his mind, or to what lengths he went to achieve that protection, but it seems like he went to great lengths. Great lengths indeed.¡±


    He sighed.


    ¡°There¡¯s a storm in his head. Painful one at that. All he could do was isolate himself up here and try to weather it the best he could. In the end, he would win and the intrusive measures would be defeated¡­¡±


    The Venerables tone left her in no doubt he found that outcome unlikely.


    ¡°... Or he would lose and whatever they did to him would take hold. Or¡­ the fight would continue beyond his body¡¯s ability to sustain it, and he would die.¡±


    Elsbeth looked down on him, stricken. She¡¯d arranged him as best she could, lying flat on his back with his hands folded over his chest. Even so, he didn¡¯t appear at peace. His eyelids fluttered, as if his eyes were still rolling behind them, and his hands twitched, trying to clasp onto something invisible before they fell to rest again.


    ¡°Are you able to help?¡±


    Instead of answering, the old man simply bowed his head and clasped his hands together once more. For several long moments he stood in that position, consulting with faraway gods, yet Elsbeth sensed nothing of their conversation. Finally, he opened his eyes, a trace of confusion on his face.


    ¡°A lot of effort for one boy,¡± he muttered, prodding at Tyron¡¯s leg with his cane. ¡°I can¡¯t possibly see how he could be worth it.¡±


    He saw the expression on Elsbeth¡¯s face and hastened to reassure her.


    ¡°I¡¯ll help him child, don¡¯t worry. The gods favour him yet, though they won¡¯t reveal to me why. There is some grand design at work, or perhaps they are simply being whimsical. I need to stand at his head, can you help me step over him? Thank you, girl. Now just let me catch my breath a moment. I¡¯m not quite the same vessel as I used to be, so this will be¡­ unpleasant.¡±


    Grimacing, the Venerable straightened himself as best he could and spread his arms wide, raising his face to look upwards, though there was nothing but a wooden ceiling over his head. For a time, nothing happened, and Elsbeth was about to ask what he was doing, but then, she felt it. Whisper quiet, a thin tendril of divinity extended from¡­ somewhere else¡­ and connected to the Venerable.


    In that moment, the old man ceased to be, his presence erased, and in his place stood a woman, wizened beyond conception, her face both wise and cruel. Confronted with a god, Elsbeth felt her heart still in her chest and breath freeze in her lungs. For a second, their eyes met, and the Crone winked at her, before she closed her eyes and the Venerable returned, now infused with a sliver of the goddess¡¯ divine power.


    The old man groaned in pain, almost falling to the side, but managed to catch himself at the last second. With shaking limbs, he lifted his cane and placed it on Tyron¡¯s forehead. Something surged between them, and though she couldn¡¯t see it, Elsbeth was still cognizant of the invisible struggle taking place within the mind of her childhood friend.


    It went on for what felt like hours, days. Each second that passed, the Venerable grew visibly more weary. His trembling increased as his face grew more and more haggard, until finally, he fell forward with a cry, breaking the connection and landing directly on top of the prone Necromancer.


    Elsbeth rushed to assist him, helping him sit, his back propped against the wall as the impossibly ancient man drew deep, shuddering breaths.


    ¡°I¡¯m at least two hundred years too old for this,¡± the old man wheezed, glaring up at the ceiling. ¡°You still want to test me?¡±


    A few more long, slow inhalations.


    ¡°They always want to test us,¡± he murmured to Elsbeth. ¡°It¡¯s how they think. I¡¯m like a toy to them, I believe.¡±


    He tapped himself on the chest.


    ¡°Because I¡¯ve never been found wanting.¡±


    He grinned, exposing his gums, and Elsbeth couldn¡¯t help but admire the man, however, she had more pressing concerns.


    ¡°About Tyron¡­ is he?¡±


    The Venerable harrumphed, but there was no energy behind it, only weary resignation.


    ¡°What they did to him ran deep. Very deep. Powerful¡­ and subtle¡­ beyond anything I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±


    He saw Elsbeth¡¯s look and shook his head.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s pretty much gone. Anything left, the boy will have to deal with on his own. To be more thorough, I would have had to scour parts of his mind blank, and they asked me specifically not to do so.¡±


    Relief washed over her, and Elsbeth felt her eyes tear up as a great weight lifted from her shoulders. The old man reached over with one gnarled hand and patted her on the head.


    ¡°Don¡¯t waste your tears, child. This one throws himself willingly into the fire, don¡¯t cry when he gets burned.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t help it,¡± she replied, ¡°I can¡¯t help but care.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s dangerous to care so much. But it can also be a strength. Now. Is there any chance you can help an old man? I need to get down those stairs, and hopefully we can find a place to eat with a nice broth on the menu.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Venerable. Thank you, for what you¡¯ve done.¡±


    The old man eyed her wearily.


    ¡°I serve at the gods¡¯ whim, child. As do you.¡±

 B3C64 - Upon the Altar

    Tyron woke in great pain.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± he groaned. ¡°I think I¡¯m going to be sick.¡±


    His stomach burned with acid, his head pounded, and every inch of his skin felt as if it had been scraped raw. What had happened to him? Trying to remember was too difficult. Trying to think was too difficult. He grit his teeth and forced himself to sit up.


    Sheets fell away and he realised he was in his bed, upstairs in the shop, yet he had no idea how he got there. The moment he straightened, his vision swam and he felt bile burning in the back of his throat. Had he not managed to catch hold of the bed head with one flailing arm, he would have fallen.


    In all of his days, he didn¡¯t think he¡¯d ever felt so weak.


    Light stabbed into his eyes so he clamped them shut, trying to create a moment in which he could think. Instead, a door opened and he heard soft footfalls as someone entered the roam. There was a gasp, then they approached quicker.


    ¡°You¡¯re awake,¡± Elsbeth said softly. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t try to sit up so soon. The Venerable thought it would take you several days to recover.¡±


    The Venerable? Recover from what? Nothing seemed to settle into place, but images rose unbidden in his mind. Hundreds of people, chained in cages. Blood draining into golden vessels. Statues of flesh and bone. Red, red eyes.


    ¡°Argh!¡±


    An explosion of pain and light in his head caused him to cry out in pain and he slumped to the side. Elsbeth rushed forward and caught him, steadying his head as she held something to his lips.


    ¡°Drink this. It won¡¯t taste good, but it should help settle your head. A little, at least.¡±


    As it was, Tyron felt like he¡¯d eat dung from a stable floor if it would relieve some of his pain. Blindly, he sipped at the tea, and it was indeed truly revolting. Bitter and pungent to an extreme he hadn¡¯t thought possible, his guts nearly rose in revolt as he forced himself to choke it down. After a few minutes, the storm in his head eased slightly, and he opened his eyes to see Elsbeth looking down at him, concern etched on her features.


    ¡°Elsbeth?¡± he groaned. ¡°What happened to me?¡±


    She didn¡¯t answer immediately, instead brushing his hair back from his forehead. He was sticky with sweat, and individual strands clung to his skin. With a frown, she reached down beside her and he could hear small splashes. A moment later, a cool cloth was pressed to his temples and he almost gasped in relief. Patiently, she wiped him down, and began to answer his question as she worked.


    ¡°You happened to you,¡± she sniffed. ¡°Well, I would say that if I were being uncharitable.You incurred a debt to the Scarlet Court. They demanded you visit their realm as payment.¡±


    Flashes of blood. So much blood.


    ¡°You sent me a letter before you left explaining that you were going and expected them to do something to you while they had the chance. You wanted me to summon the Venerable to help cure you, which I did.¡±


    Tyron frowned. Everything seemed fuzzy when he tried to recall what had happened. It was disconcerting, to say the least. He felt as if he had lost control of himself, like someone else had been piloting his body for an undetermined amount of time.


    ¡°According to the Venerable, you had done your best to fortify your mind, but it hadn¡¯t been enough. Your protections and their manipulations went to war in your head. You nearly died.¡±


    That would explain why he felt so weak. A twinge of pain on his left forearm drew his attention and he squinted down at it, then double checked when he realised what he was looking at.


    ¡°Are there bite marks on my arm?¡± he whispered.


    ¡°Yes. Yes, there are.¡±


    ¡°... Why?¡±


    ¡°Because you bit yourself.¡±


    He blinked once, then twice, then three times as he tried to process that. He¡¯d been gnawing on his own arm? Why?!


    ¡°It was Dove, wasn¡¯t it? I didn¡¯t bring him back like I¡¯d promised, so they demanded payment.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, but that sounds possible.¡± She hesitated. ¡°We aren¡¯t sure the Venerable was able to completely undo whatever it was that they¡¯d done to you. To ensure it was removed, he would have had to¡­ scour parts of your mind away.¡±


    Each passing moment, Tyron gained a tiny bit of ground against the pain and his own mind. With difficulty, he pushed himself further back in the bed until he could prop himself up against the bedhead more firmly. Once stable, he leaned back and closed his eyes with a sigh.


    He couldn¡¯t remember much, but what Elsbeth said sounded true to him. He recalled returning to the city, sans Dove, and the conversation he¡¯d had with Yor. From the moment he¡¯d met with her at the Red Pavilion, things started to get hazy. The more he tried to recall those events, the more the pain returned, so he left them alone for the time being.


    ¡°Doubtless, that was as they intended,¡± he said. ¡°I doubt the vampires expected their manipulations to go unchallenged, but as long as something remains, they¡¯ll be able to make use of it.¡±


    By his bedside, his friend fell silent as she continued to tend to him. After wiping down his back and chest, she rinsed the cloth once more and rose to fetch him some water to drink. Each sip was like rain in the desert, soothing his parched throat and bringing relief to a thirst he hadn¡¯t been aware he¡¯d had.


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    ¡°Are¡­ are you still going to work with them?¡± she eventually asked. ¡°After what they¡¯ve done to you?¡±


    ¡°I doubt they¡¯ll give me a choice,¡± he forced a chuckle, which came out more like a cough. ¡°If it¡¯s any consolation, I expect they¡¯ll be very generous for the next little while. After a stunt like this, it¡¯ll take a lot of work to get back into my good graces.¡±


    ¡°Will they? Get back in your good graces, I mean?¡±


    Tyron stared at her flatly.


    ¡°Of course not. I¡¯ll make them pay, one way or another, for what they did. Gods know how I¡¯ll pull that off, but I¡¯ll find a way, eventually.¡±


    Elsbeth smiled at him, a touch sadly.


    ¡°One impossible revenge quest at a time, Tyron. Try to pace yourself.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ~~~


    Apparently, having one¡¯s own mind go to war on itself was bad for one¡¯s health. Who would have known? It took Tyron three days of bed rest before he was able to be up and about, and he was a terrible patient the entire time. Waspish, bored and frustrated, he snapped at everyone who came in to help take care of him, though Elsbeth took it with remarkable good grace. After the first day, she brought him some tools, his pliance and a few cores so he could at least work to pass the time, which helped.


    When he had finally recovered enough to care for himself, he¡¯d awkwardly thanked his childhood friend before she¡¯d left, unable to properly convey the depth of his gratitude. Something in her eyes told him she was aware of how he felt, but still he resolved to make it up to her as soon as he could. Without her intervention with the Old Gods, who knew how terrible of a state he¡¯d be in, with Vampiric nonsense running rampant in his brain.


    It had been an extraordinary effort, even by his standards, to recreate the mental fortification enchantments from the ring he¡¯d taken from Magister Poranus. Unable to raid his master¡¯s library for such sensitive sigils, it had been extremely difficult to learn the techniques in the short time he had available, but he¡¯d managed it, somehow. Combined with some¡­ less than legal fortifications he¡¯d been able to procure through Filetta and her associates, he¡¯d done everything he could to improve his mental defences, but it hadn¡¯t been enough.


    Once he was able, he threw himself into his work, churning through the backlog of enchanting tasks needed for the store in one, forty-eight hour burst of activity. Flynn had staggered out of the store looking like a zombie when it was done, and Cerry had been less than pleased with Mr Almsfield. Tyron hadn¡¯t insisted his apprentice remain in the store as he worked, but the man had done it anyway. At least his endurance was improving. A good sign, in Tyron¡¯s eyes.


    Following that marathon, he retreated to his room to rest again, making sure he got all the sleep, water and food he needed, before he could no longer contain his impatience. Stepping into his study once again was a soothing balm for his soul, the light dust that covered the stone surfaces the first task that required his attention in this sanctuary.


    Once it had returned to its austere, spotless self, Tyron sat at his desk, hands flat on the table as he pondered. Placing enchantments and arrays around the room to prevent magickal scrying was essentially done, but he still needed to beef up the measures he had in place to prevent Death Magick from leaking out of the room. One whiff of that energy detected by the Magisters would have this area under investigation before he could blink. If there was one thing they didn¡¯t want in a city of millions, it was the dead beginning to rise on their own.


    Getting that finished took several further days, after which he had to do more work for the store. By the time he was finally free to resume his studies, Tyron was practically shaking from having to maintain his patience.


    Summoning the gate within his study for the first time wasn¡¯t difficult, but it was nerve-wracking. He¡¯d taken all the necessary precautions and created a permanent ritual circle on the stone floor, as well as used a high quality ritual focus to contain the energy of the spell. Even so, he was nervous.


    Fortunately, nothing went wrong, and Tyron stepped within the Ossuary for the first time since he levelled. Immediately, he could tell there was a difference. The Altar, inert and unmoving the last time he was here, now thrummed with energy, sigils glowing softly across its surface.


    Excited, Tyron rushed forward to study them, but was ultimately left disappointed. Much like the vampiric text that Yor had given him, these sigils were written in a form he didn¡¯t recognise. It would be possible to translate them, but only after a great deal of time and effort had been invested. Just another thing on his impossibly long list of tasks to investigate.


    Turning his attention to the surface of the Altar, it seemed as if whatever the arrays did, they would act upon whatever was placed on top of it. He still had several sets of bones within the Ossuary, which remained as they had before, perfectly saturated with death energy, yet inert, tucked away in their individual repositories.


    He grabbed one set of remains and laid it out carefully on the altar, every bone in its proper place, then stepped back to see if anything happened.


    Nothing did.


    Tapping his chin thoughtfully with a single finger, Tyron considered. It was likely that whatever the altar did would affect the undead created atop it. He¡¯d need to go through the process of preparing these bones to be raised before he could see what would happen.


    Given they were already saturated, however, he wasn¡¯t willing to remove them from the Ossuary via the still-open door back into his study. If he did so, they would likely begin to form a wild undead the moment the bones were free of whatever influence was preventing them from doing so inside.


    It didn¡¯t sit well with Tyron to create an Undead that was anything less than as perfect as he could possibly make it, but he was dying to learn what the altar did, so he shrugged his reservations aside, raised his hands, and conjured the ghostly strings of magick he would use to form the flesh and sinews of his latest minion.


    The moment he began to work, he felt the altar come to life. Power thrummed through it, and Tyron stared eagerly, keen to see what would happen, only for it to fall silent the moment he stopped moving his hands.


    Slowly, he resumed his movements, weaving with the expert skill he had cultivated over hundreds of iterations, and the altar sprang to life once more. However¡­ something curious was happening. The power contained within didn¡¯t reach out to the bones sitting atop the altar, but toward the recesses in which those saturated sets of bones still remained.


    With a frown, Tyron continued to weave, unable to see what the altar was doing while he was concentrating on his hands. Once he¡¯d completed one leg, he tied off the weave and stepped away, watching as the altar fell inert once again. Shaking his hands lightly, he stepped over to the closest recess that contained a skeleton and leaned down to study it.


    The bones themselves appeared¡­ unchanged. He ran his eyes over it carefully, trying to sense any change in the condition of the remains. As far he could tell, nothing had changed. The weaving on the leg appeared to be intact, no different from the skeleton on the altar¡­.


    In one motion, he whipped his head to the altar, then back to the bones before him. There was no mistake, the weave on the right leg was identical, exactly identical to what he¡¯d just done to the skeleton on the altar.


    Eyes wide, he looked around the Ossuary, examining all of the recesses embedded into the walls.


    This¡­ this was going to save a lot of time.

 B3C65 - New Process

    ¡°You want¡­ how many?¡±


    Filetta raised her brows, looking mildly shocked, though he never knew if any show of emotion was genuine with her.


    ¡°Speaking honestly¡­¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t recommend it,¡± she flashed him a grin.


    ¡°... I¡¯ll take as many as you are willing to give me, but I believe double our prior arrangement will be sufficient for my needs.¡±


    That would be twenty full sets of remains every two weeks.


    ¡°And the additional loose bones as well,¡± he added.


    Those were necessary for him to create the weapons and armour needed to outfit his minions.


    ¡°Just how many people do you think die in this city every week?¡± she asked him, a hint of exasperation creeping through her facade.


    ¡°That¡¯s the wrong question. It doesn¡¯t matter how many die, it only matters how many die, and leave accessible remains.¡±


    No matter how many wealthy store owners, high-level traders or slayers died, none of their bones would wind up on a stone slab in Tyron¡¯s study. They would be privately buried or cremated, without the opportunity for Filetta¡¯s organisation to get their hands on them.


    ¡°Luckily for you, poor people die at a much faster rate than the rich. Even so, you¡¯re asking us to vanish hundreds of corpses a year. Doing so is one thing, doing so without arousing suspicion is another.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m only interested in whether you will do it, or if you won¡¯t. If the answer is yes, then we can discuss the price.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re willing to renegotiate?¡±


    It was Tyron¡¯s turn to frown.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that what you¡¯ve been angling for this entire conversation? Let us be direct with each other. I will increase the price by twenty percent per delivery. Is that satisfactory?¡±


    Filetta chewed her lip as she watched him carefully.


    ¡°That¡¯s acceptable to us. However, there are¡­ other concerns, which need to be addressed.¡±


    This was news to Tyron. After their initial agreement had been reached, her side of the arrangement had been quiet, to say the least. After bringing him hundreds of dead bodies, now they had concerns?


    ¡°It seems somewhat late to be raising any issues,¡± he said.


    ¡°Better late than never. We don¡¯t care what you do with the merchandise, only that they are disposed of in a manner that can¡¯t be traced back to us.¡±


    ¡°The only way I can guarantee that, would be to show you what I do with them, which is completely unacceptable.¡±


    Filetta appeared troubled.


    ¡°We are getting to the point where we have moved so many bodies that it''s straining credulity to think that you are able to dispose of them as thoroughly as we would like.¡±


    ¡°There is risk, to you and to me, that is why I pay you so much. If the risk is unacceptable, then cancel the deal and I will make other arrangements.¡±


    The Necromancer had no patience for this, he couldn¡¯t even understand what they wanted from him. Guarantees? In an illegal trade?


    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine most of your clients are required to demonstrate this level of compliance with most of the ¡®goods¡¯ you move.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be surprised at what we demand of them, but you are correct, usually not this much. If it were just me, Elten, it would be fine, but the higher ups are getting a little nervous. There are some crimes that are more difficult to slip away from than others. If the marshals got word of what was happening here, they would hunt us to the end of the empire.¡±


    ¡°What do you think they would do to me?¡± Tyron asked, not expecting an answer.


    Eventually, he had to raise the price another twenty percent per delivery, an absurdly high fee, though who was to say what the going rate for anonymous corpses was? The entire meeting, conducted in the sewers in the depths of night, was a warning that he couldn¡¯t rely on Filetta or her criminal syndicate indefinitely. They were getting cold feet, and it was only a matter of time before they withdrew from the trade. With a little luck, they¡¯d be happy to drop it there and wouldn¡¯t attempt to find more permanent ways to ensure his silence.


    Filetta had invited him to another tryst, but he had politely declined. There was too much to do and he couldn¡¯t afford the time or the distractions. He¡¯d like to flatter himself that she was genuinely disappointed at his refusal, but it was pointless to try and separate the truth from the facade with as practised a dissembler as her. Neither of them had seen the other''s true face, and likely never would.


    Still, the delivery had been made and now Tyron had twenty brand new sets of remains to work with.


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    From the depths of the sewer waters around him, undead rose. Caked in filth, they looked like a terrible cross between a skeleton and a zombie. With their help, he was able to move each of the corpses back to his study before he set his minions back to waiting within the sludge. Then he got to work.


    The rats were getting bigger, he was sure of it. Shovelling bucket loads of human offal into the tunnels wasn¡¯t exactly Tyron¡¯s idea of a good time, but it was a necessary part of the job. He had no use for the flesh he cut from the corpses that came into his possession, but apparently the local rodents had been making good use of the material he discarded.


    If fat rats were the only thing that came from dumping so much flesh into the sewers, then that was a good thing as far as he was concerned. He wondered how they¡¯d managed while he was away¡ªwell enough, from what he could see.


    ¡°Don¡¯t overeat,¡± he warned them, then shook his head. ¡°Don¡¯t talk to the rats, you weirdo.¡±


    Back in the study, things had changed slightly from how they¡¯d been before. At present, the arch of bone with the heavy wooden door wedged in its centre was still there. In fact, Tyron hadn¡¯t dismissed it at all after the first summoning. Careful and meticulous checks had revealed that not a drop of mana was leaking through his protections, so he felt safe maintaining the doorway.


    Also, he no longer needed to create his undead in this space, only prepare them, which meant he had more room to work with.


    Once prepared, the bones were cleansed, purged of wild mana, hardened, then brought within the Ossuary and stored safely within their own recess.


    He was eager to experiment with the altar; the chance to speed up his process, creating as many as twenty undead at a time, was an exceptional boon. However, he needed to understand it in order to maximise its potential.


    So, a long process of trial and error began. First, he confirmed how many skeletons the altar would replicate his work on at a time. The answer: all of them. So long as a complete and saturated set of bones sat within a recess, the altar would mimic his work upon it. Which meant he could work on twenty-one skeletons at a time, including the one on the altar.


    However, he was also able to confirm some limitations. The altar did not contain unlimited power, able to mimic his magick endlessly. Instead, it drew power from his own reserves. When he attempted to work on ten skeletons at once, even just weaving, the draw on his arcane power was significant. Were he to engage in more demanding practices, he would need to be thoughtful about how many sets of remains he worked on at a time.


    The other main issue with the altar was a little more fundamental to the bones themselves. Not all people are alike, and thus, their skeletons can differ. One thing Tyron had been shocked to learn after becoming a Necromancer was just how common it was for a person to have legs of different lengths. Usually, they didn¡¯t differ by much, and he wondered if the people themselves had even realised that one leg was longer than the other.


    Considering that he would never find skeletons exactly the same, the work he did to the bones on the altar would be perfectly adjusted to that set of remains, but be flawed on the others. Perhaps another practitioner of the dark arts would accept this compromise of less well-crafted minions, but made so much faster. Tyron, however, would not.


    After trying several methods of approach, he eventually settled on a multi-stage process. First, a general pass would do the bulk of the basic stitching required, sorting out the muscles and sinews, which he could then go to each skeleton individually and adjust. Then, he would perform the more complex work around the joints, which required significantly more adjustment. The trick was in not trying to do a perfect job the first time. If he used the altar to lay down a solid basis from which he could then perfect, it went much faster than if he tried to complete the job, then went to each skeleton and unpicked half of what he¡¯d done in order to fix it.


    Then came time to attempt to raise the skeletons. With one lying on the altar, and one stored away in a recess, Tyron attempted to cast Raise Dead.


    The moment he began, the first words dropping from his lips like thunder, he knew something was different. As anticipated, the altar took the magick he was applying to the bones in front of him, and then extended that same magick toward the skeleton he had stored in the recess. And, as expected, the altar drew on his power to fuel it. Raise Dead was a demanding and expensive ritual, particularly after the modifications he¡¯d made to it, but Tyron was nothing if he wasn¡¯t a magick battery.


    The reservoir of power he had at his command continued to swell every time he progressed with the aid of the Unseen, and now it had become vast. A double cast of Raise Dead was not an issue. Twenty simultaneous casts would wring him dry in an instant.


    In this instance, he was able to raise two skeletons flawlessly. Both minions climbed to their feet, one from the altar and one from a recess, ready and waiting to accept his commands. Tyron was satisfied. With this, he had managed to learn two of the ways in which the Ossuary could be useful to him. The altar would be a powerful force multiplier. If he were to work on ten skeletons at a time, it wouldn¡¯t reduce the work to a tenth, more like a quarter, or a fifth, but that was plenty.


    All he needed now was all the bones he could possibly get his hands on. Advances in his techniques and methods would come, he had ideas, avenues to explore, but most of all, he wasn¡¯t close to hitting his capacity for minions. All the enchanting work he¡¯d done had paid off, along with his own growing reserve of energy. He estimated he could manage as many as three hundred skeletons, along with his small coterie of revenants, and perhaps a few ghosts in the mix.


    If he took such a force back to Cragwhistle, he¡¯d be able to totally dominate the rift, even crush the kin on the other side of the gate, provided nothing scarier showed up.


    With more time to develop his bone constructs, perhaps he could push that number even further. Although, he would need to balance the growth of his skeletal horde by mixing in more powerful minions. He was able to create crude skeletal mages now, as well as raise horses to create undead cavalry. Who knows how expensive it would prove to maintain such minions? Only more experimentation would provide an answer.


    His questions answered, for the time being, at least, Tyron exited the Ossuary and moved to his desk. His book of notes now contained another dozen pages filled with scribbled sigilsand results regarding the altar. He sat down and flicked through the pages before he picked up his pen, dabbed it in ink and began to make a few corrections. This single volume contained the bulk of his writings since the moment he had purchased it in Woodsedge. From the first pages to the last, he had come on quite a journey. If he ever had time, it may be a good idea to create a more uncluttered collection of his lessons, but really, for whose benefit? He was unlikely to ever have an opportunity to pass his knowledge on, and his memory for magick was almost flawless.


    Dismissing the thought, he closed the book and leaned back in his seat.


    The next period of time would be difficult. He needed so many bones, had so much to work on, and he needed to achieve all of it while remaining hidden right beneath the magisters¡¯ noses. His next trip to Cragwhistle almost couldn¡¯t come soon enough. His need to improve his power had never felt more desperate than it was right now. The patrons who gave him aid had proven to be just as dangerous as he had always believed they were.


    The thought of the vampires manipulation sunk deep inside his head sparked anger in his chest and his hands tightened into fists. What could he do against ancient, god-like, immortal blood mages? Right now, nothing, but his time would come. He would make sure of it.

 B3C66 - Birthright

    In the year 5420, 31 years go.


    ¡°Mind your bearing, young mistress.¡±


    Head servant Indis bore his customary stern expression, further emphasised by the long grey moustache he wore. The old man fussed over the girl, inspecting every inch of her dress, a blue-sapphire gown her father had commissioned, threaded with magick-infused stitching that caused the fabric to ripple and glow as she moved.


    ¡°Of course I will,¡± she replied, trying not to sound snippy.


    A servant he may be, but Indis had served the Erryn¡¯s loyally and faithfully for over forty years, and had earned the family¡¯s trust over that time. She couldn¡¯t simply dismiss him as she would another of the staff.


    Nearby, her own maids waited, expressionless, but some signs of their anxiety peaked through the cracks, such as Fillis¡¯ incessant clutching at her skirts. The woman had no self control.


    Eventually, Indis nodded his approval.


    ¡°It will do,¡± he said. ¡°Your uncle awaits in his study.¡±


    ¡°He hasn¡¯t joined the celebration?¡± she asked, concealing her surprise.


    ¡°My Lord has already been to the ballroom and recently returned to await your arrival. He wished to speak with you before you were presented to the nobles.¡±


    A lump of apprehension rose in Recillia¡¯s throat, but she mastered herself quickly. There was no room to be nervous. She was born for this moment.


    The mantra was helpful, but insufficient to fight off all the anxiety she felt. Eighteen years she had waited for this day. From the moment she was born, to this hour, this minute, this second, she had been preparing as if her life was on the line. Because it was.


    ¡°I am ready,¡± she stated coolly. ¡°Take me to him.¡±


    Her uncle¡¯s study was closer to a library. Vast bookshelves each over ten metres tall lined the walls, and his desk was larger than her own bed. Made from an impressive, gleaming wood found only beyond the rifts, in Jundil¡¯carr, the desk itself had been commissioned by her grandfather. Despite the size and opulence of the room, the man behind the desk commanded her attention, indeed, all attention. With the weight of his authority, Lord Erryn was impossible to dismiss. No matter how one tried to look away, they would always find their eyes drawn back to him.


    The approval of the Divines sat upon his shoulders like a mantle.


    He looked up as she entered and smiled slightly though it never touched his eyes. Ice blue, she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she¡¯d seen any hint of warmth in that gaze. She drew closer until she stood on the opposite of the desk from him, then dropped into a deep curtsy. As she rose, she examined her father closely.


    Alastor Erryn was brown of eye, dark hair now peppered with grey as he advanced in years, and possessed of an athletic frame. Having come into power as an Awakened Lord of a great house decades before, he was at the zenith of his power, and that confidence and Authority radiated from him like heat.


    For this grand event, he had chosen to dress simply, in the colours of the house, red and white. Lord Erryn needed no finery to impress, no impeccably tailored and enchanted clothing to attract attention. He alone was enough.


    It was a statement that only the truly powerful among the noble-born were able to make. He interrupted her musing, his voice, deep and commanding, rang in the air as he spoke.


    ¡°Your father has already arrived,¡± he stated.


    Immediate anger flared in Recillia, quickly smothered before it could express itself on her face.


    ¡°I am sure he will be eager to oversee the ritual,¡± she stated. ¡°He has few children, as a man of the cloth.¡±


    Indeed, she had two siblings, both older, having Awakened two, and five years earlier. Neither had earned the Noble Class, deemed unworthy by the gods, just as her father had been. No, the glory and power had fallen instead to Alastor. Alastor, who had eight children, from his various wives and concubines. Five of them had already Awakened, but none of them could succeed.


    Thinking of her cousins awakened a storm in Recillia¡¯s mind that she controlled with difficulty. Today would be the day where all the cards were laid on the table. Either she would rise above them, or be banished from this house. Either way, she would be free of them at last.


    Lord Erryn did not react, though her words could be construed as a slight against his children. The fact that the lord was displeased with his progeny was hardly a secret, it was open knowledge amongst the family. Now yet again, a niece or nephew would step to the stone, a chance for the inheritance to be ripped away from his direct line.


    She would take it.


    You should have smothered me in the crib, she thought, looking calmly at the brother of her father, it was the only way you could have prevented me from reaching this moment.


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    ¡°I suppose we have kept our guests waiting long enough,¡± he said, striding around the desk and offering her his elbow. ¡°Your adoring crowd awaits.¡±


    Who cares about the crowd, let me touch the stone.


    However, she knew it wasn¡¯t that easy. From the study, she was escorted to the ballroom, announced at the entrance, and strode inside under the burning gaze of hundreds of nobles. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and those unrelated to her, each concealing their own blend of emotion. Some were envious, wishing they once again had the chance that lay in front of her. Others were fearful, wary of losing their positions, of a shift in the balance of power with the family. Anger, sadness, wariness, calculation, she saw all of it and more flickering across expressions and hidden behind the eyes of all who beheld her.


    The band played, performers danced, light mages conjured, and Recillia was taken around the ballroom on her Uncle¡¯s arm. After eighteen years of waiting, these final hours were the most torturous of her existence. Allied noble families, genuine well-wishers, distant relative after distant relative, she was required to shake their hand, listen to their prattle and smile endlessly through all of it, no matter how much she wanted to scream. Despite her iron will, she couldn¡¯t prevent her gaze from wandering to the chapel door at one end of the grand ballroom.


    It was in there, she was so close.


    She would be patient, she had no other choice.


    Alastor Erryn was in his element. These were his people, and none in the room could boast the same level of Authority as he possessed. Everyone wanted to please him, and he played them against each other expertly, dropping hidden clues to one branch family, hinting at favour towards another. It was a masterful performance, and were she not so distracted, Recillia would have been eager to unpack his methods.


    In a quiet moment, her uncle turned to her, and she braced herself against the weight of that gaze.


    ¡°As the Lord of the Erryn family, I have many responsibilities,¡± he said softly, for her ears only, ¡°but do you know what the most important is?¡±


    Was this a test? Recillia schooled her features as she thought rapidly. Every Lord and Lady of the noble houses had innumerable responsibilities. Finances, the maintenance of the household, lands, the security of the empire against the Rifts, management of the magisters, taxes, laws, upholding the will of the Emperor, heeding the words of the Oracles.


    That last thought led her to another.


    ¡°To represent Divinity,¡± she replied, eyes levelled at his own.


    If he approved, or did not, his face revealed nothing.


    ¡°Every noble house can trace their lineage back to the five divines. We are more than their representatives on this plane, we are their flesh and blood,¡± Alastor said gravely. ¡°My Authority comes directly from their hands, and I must use it as they would have it used. I must act as they would have me act. More than any priest, any Bishop, I am an instrument of Divinity. This is our first and most important task.¡±


    Lessons such as this one had been drilled into Recillia since she was child. Divine blood flowed through her veins.


    ¡°And the Oracles? Are you closer to the gods than they?¡± she asked.


    Lord Erryn¡¯s eyes flickered.


    ¡°The Oracles are the mouths of the gods. I am one of their hands.¡±


    As her coming of age celebration continued, Recillia pondered those words until the fateful moment arrived at last. The vast door set in the centre of the wall swung open, revealing the chapel within, her father in full robes, and a gleaming, bright Awakening stone.


    At the sight of it, the breath caught in her throat, and it filled her gaze. She was barely cognizant of anything else in the room.


    Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd and her uncle led her to the doors, followed by everyone else in attendance. They gathered in a broad arc as her father stepped forward.


    She was certain he spoke words of importance, declaring the solemnity of the occasion, but she didn¡¯t hear them, her eyes were on the stone. Finally, he placed a hand on her shoulder and walked her forward until they both stood within the holy place, the great doors swinging shut behind them.


    Then he flicked her ear.


    ¡°Ow!¡± she said, snapping back to awareness. "What was that for?¡±


    ¡°There you are,¡± he smiled humourlessly at her. ¡°I don¡¯t blame you, I was exactly the same when my time came.¡±


    He turned to gaze at the Awakening stone with a complicated expression on his face. This was where his life in the clergy had begun, and where the door to real power had been slammed in his face.


    ¡°I¡¯m supposed to do a shitload of ceremonial stuff,¡± he said flatly, ¡°but you know how it all goes already.¡±


    He gestured to the dazzling stone before them. It gleamed like a diamond, but was a perfect sphere, sitting atop a crystal cushion, mounted on a pillar in the centre of the room.


    ¡°We Erryns are descendants of the Goddess, Selene, and this Awakening stone was granted to our family over two thousand years ago, directly from her hands. When you place your hands upon it, you will be judged by her.¡±


    His hand tightened upon her shoulder.


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to tell you what it will mean if you succeed, daughter.¡±


    Or if I fail.


    He gave her a light push, and Recillia stumbled forward. Now that the moment had finally arrived, she was almost unsure what to do. Almost.


    Hesitation washed away as steely determination entered her gaze. Two steps forward, her skirts swishing around her ankles, then she reached out with two hands, closed her eyes, and planted them on the stone.


    Awareness fled. The Chapel was gone, the Erryn estate was gone. The realm was gone.


    Recillia floated in a space of pure, white light. From a vast distance, a voice spoke to her, incomprehensibly beautiful, and utterly Divine.


    Recillia Erryn. I see you, and judge you worthy. You will bear my mantle, and receive a portion of my divine Authority. Serve me well, as I know you will.


    You have received the Class: Noble.


    Children of the Gods and bearers of their blessings, Nobles are the administrators of the realm and the hands of the Divines. To increase in proficiency, you must tend your Authority and wield it in the service of the Five.


    The moment she came back to herself, she turned, eyes wide, to see her father watching her closely.


    A grim smile spread across his face.


    ¡°Well. This makes things interesting,¡± he said.


    Soon after, she emerged from the chapel, and the crowd took an involuntary step back. Because they felt the change in her. Although it was weak, barely formed, and could not be wielded intentionally, Authority blossomed from her, brushing against them.


    Her gaze met her uncle¡¯s. His mouth was set in a thin, hard line.


    ¡°Congratulations,¡± he said.

 B3C67 - Bindings

    Present day


    Recillia kept herself still and regal. Back straight, eyes steady, she projected confidence, her Authority restrained but ever present, held against her skin like armour. Over her left shoulder, her father was struggling to match her composure, muttering under his breath and shifting his weight.


    Without a change in expression, she lifted one leg and trod on his foot, driving the heel in painfully. He grunted and opened his mouth, but she turned her head ever so slightly and he wisely shut it again.


    This is why you were deemed unworthy. Even in the face of the greatest beasts of the rift, you must not flinch.


    Not that anything had ever come from the rifts that were remotely as dangerous as the people in this room. Hopefully, her father¡¯s signs of weakness had gone largely unseen.


    It was a foolish hope, and she tossed it away the moment she recognised it. The gathered Lords and Ladies of the great houses were masters of the game; they would be circling like sharks were it not for the protocol that kept them locked in place.


    Movement to her left drew her attention, yet she did not shift her gaze, keeping it locked dead ahead. Five metres across the lavish path, Nostas Jorlin, heir apparent of the house of Jorlin, met her eyes levelly. Did she detect a slight curve to his lip? Smiling? Here? He wouldn¡¯t dare. That coward had never taken a risk in his entire life. He¡¯d never had to.


    With steely determination, she firmed her gaze until it was sharp enough to bore a hole in an enchanted diamond, daring him to match her will.


    You¡¯ll never win. You lack hunger. Break, or I will break you.


    Predictably, the Jorlin heir could not hold. A small surge of triumph was quickly suppressed as the lordling turned his eyes ever so slightly. A meaningless victory, there were more important things to fight for here.


    To her left and right, heads of houses were lined up along with their heirs, bishops behind each one, deep within the grand cathedral. Divine power lay thick in the air, with so many of those chosen by the gods stood in one place, but there were those for whom even they had to show respect.


    The great doors swung open soundlessly to reveal the Deacon, dressed in his full finery and holding the staff of his office. With great solemnity, he raised his staff and brought it down, sending a resounding boom echoing throughout the chamber. One, two, three, four five times the sound resonated, so deep Recillia could feel it in her belly.


    As the last vibrations ceased, each and every noble bowed deeply at the waist, lowering their eyes to the floor, where they froze. Slowly, the Deacon began to walk, his staff held before him with two hands, Divine light radiating from the holy symbol set at the tip. Behind him came those who were the true subject of this ceremony. There were five of them, all but one robed from head to toe, only their mouths uncovered. The other was dressed for mourning, in black robes that covered them entirely.


    In single file they walked, shuffling along the path, the highest nobles of the western province bowing at their passage. As they approached, Recillia felt a pressure weighing down upon her and she firmed her resolve. When the Deacon became level with her, she was fighting to keep sweat from forming on her brow. Her Authority, powerful, irresistible under normal circumstances, now quaked under the light of an even greater power.


    When the robed figures themselves drew close, that feeling intensified, to the point of becoming suffocating. With intense focus, she drew air in through her nose. Shallow breaths, gently, it was only the way to get air into her body.


    Thankfully, they didn¡¯t pause and continued their stately march. Once they¡¯d passed, the pressure eased and she was able to breathe easily again. Nevertheless, Recillia found herself shaken by the experience. Never before had she felt so hopelessly outmatched in Divine Favour, not since her Ascension.


    It was one thing to know who these people were, a very different thing to experience it for herself.


    When he reached the end of the path, the Deacon raised his staff and repeated the ritual, bringing it down five times once again. As the reverberations faded, he lowered himself to his knees, placed the staff flat before him, then pressed his face to the floor.


    Upon that dais, was a place not even he, the most senior church official in the province, was allowed to set foot.


    The five figures approached, then ascended the steps, only pausing when they had taken their place upon the dais.


    Now a new figure stepped into the light.


    The Baron strode down the path, ornate robes glittering with perhaps too much finery to be considered good taste.


    Ten steps before he would draw level, he paused, then knelt, crossing his hands across his chest.


    ¡°Kneel and receive the words of the Gods,¡± he intoned.


    At his words, Recillia smoothly bent her knees and pressed her forehead to the floor. As unaccustomed as they were to being placed in such a position, not a single member of the nobility hesitated. Disobedience in a place such as this was simply unthinkable. Who would defy the gods themselves?


    Thick silence descended upon the chamber as every individual, no matter how great or how lowly in the hierarchy, could scarcely bring themselves to breath.


    The Oracles were about to speak.


    She saw nothing except the woven carpet before her eyes, but Recillia listened intently, unwilling to let a syllable go unheard.


    ¡°There is a corruption within the Western Province, burrowed into the heart of this great city, like a worm coring an apple.¡±


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    She didn¡¯t know which of them spoke, she didn¡¯t want to know. Those words rippled through the air and drilled into her ears with an unnatural pressure. She clenched her teeth against the pain. To make a sound would shame her house for a generation. She would sooner bite off her tongue.


    Another spoke this time, a female speaker, yet the inexplicable weight of the words was the same.


    ¡°Unholy practices have spread like wildfire across the empire. Long-dormant forces are stirring to disrupt our great works.¡±


    Her heart thudded in her chest and she thought she tasted blood, but Recillia would not break.


    ¡°Our sight is clouded. The cause must be rooted out.¡±


    Recillia¡¯s eyes bulged. A shocking admission from the Oracles. Their divine sight was clouded? How? Why?! She could feel the shock ripple through the gathered nobles, but none disturbed the ceremony.


    ¡°As our hands, it is your place to act. This province must be purified.¡±


    As the last words were spoken the pressure eased at last. She heard some crumpling sounds, as though several people had collapsed to the ground. Who could it have been? Everyone was kneeling. Everyone except the Oracles themselves.


    ¡°Rise,¡± the Baron said, his voice tense.


    As she stood, Recillia chanced a look toward the dias and saw four of the Oracles had collapsed. The fifth member, dressed in all black, tended to them, laying them out comfortably.


    ¡°Bow,¡± the Baron commanded.


    Again, the gathered nobility bowed at the waist.


    ¡°Depart in silence,¡± their leader intoned.


    Minds buzzing with what they had heard, the nobles left, turning toward the distant entrance along with the partner across the path and moving quietly, not allowing their steps to echo through the stone hall.


    ~~~


    ¡°Uncle, what is happening?¡±


    Alastor, Lord of house Erryn, frowned ever so slightly, but did not reprimand his niece for her words. A clear sign of his own unease.


    ¡°Something rare. Something unusual. We must tread carefully, my niece. There is great danger and great opportunity in this moment. We may rise or fall on these turbulent waters.¡±


    All around, subdued conversations similar to her own were occurring as shellshocked nobles consulted their most trusted relatives and allies.


    From the grand cathedral, the Baron had ordered all attendees to assemble in a nearby chamber. Nobody would be allowed to leave until decisions had been made on how to proceed.


    Recillia felt her heart accelerate in her chest as she cast her eyes around the room. The most powerful people in the western province were gathered here, a rare occasion in itself, but the tension in the air, the unease, was a new experience. Even her uncle, normally a rock of confidence and power, held himself still, as if afraid any movement could compromise his position.


    Sweating and visibly nervous, her father made his way to them as the other Bishops, having finished their own rituals, began to filter into the room.


    ¡°Are the Oracles alright?¡± she asked before he could say anything inane.


    He glanced at her, irritated.


    ¡°They¡¯re fine. Communing with the gods and speaking on their behalf is¡­ draining. To qualify as an Oracle, they must be exceedingly¡­ durable¡­ against Divine influence.¡±


    If what they went through was more painful than just listening to them speak, it was unsurprising they collapsed.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be weeks until they¡¯re well enough to do anything so difficult again,¡± her father went on, ¡°but they will be cared for here at the Cathedral to the best of our ability. Now let¡¯s forget about the Oracles and focus on what they fucking said. Corruption? Blinded? What is going on here, Alastor?¡±


    ¡°Calm yourself,¡± Recillia snapped. ¡°We must project the proper air in a moment of crisis like this. Do you want the family to look weak?¡±


    With some difficulty, the Bishop managed to master himself as his eyes darted around the room.


    ¡°I thought the politics of the Church was bad enough. This is suffocating.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been swimming with goldfish, brother. This is a pool of sharks,¡± Lord Erryn said coldly. ¡°Try to be an asset, and control your reactions.¡±


    Face darkening at the criticism, her father nevertheless drew himself up and snapped, ¡°Well, what can we expect to happen next?¡±


    Alastor turned his gaze toward the Baron, who stood surrounded by six of his closest confidants. All senior members of his court, members of his own family or trusted advisors.


    ¡°The words of the Oracles could be interpreted in several ways,¡± Lord Erryn began softly. ¡°Corruption in the city could refer to infiltrators, criminal enterprise, or even political malfeasance. Of all the people in this room, the one who is most damaged by these revelations is the Baron. He will be desperate to be seen as doing all he can to resolve this problem.¡±


    ¡°I expect I will be called upon soon then,¡± Recillia said.


    Alastor nodded.


    ¡°Your position among the Magisters will be crucial to keep the slayers in line. If the Baron isn¡¯t a fool, and he usually isn¡¯t, then he will act swiftly to try and root out the cause of this corruption. Officers of the law will be appointed with sweeping powers. The church will launch a purge to hunt down unbelievers. There will be a crackdown of the slayers. Even the nobility will not be spared. I hope your books are in order, brother.¡±


    ¡°As clean as your own, I¡¯ve no doubt,¡± her father sniped.


    ¡°Then you are in trouble,¡± Alastor smiled grimly, his eyes locked on the huddle around the Baron. ¡°Luckily, I instructed the staff to straighten out the crooked edges when I heard the Oracles were coming.¡±


    ¡°We need to choose a side,¡± Recillia stated, and her uncle nodded while her father looked confused.


    ¡°The Baron is under pressure. If his response is deemed to be insufficient, then he is likely to be dismissed from his post and a new leader promoted in his place. The Emperor is unlikely to tolerate incompetence in the face of such direct words from the gods.¡±


    ¡°So if he succeeds¡­¡±


    ¡°Then he will solidify his power and rise in the eyes of the court. But if he fails¡­¡±


    ¡°... Then we need to be in position to replace him,¡± her father finished the thought.


    ¡°Thanks to Recillia¡¯s position, our family will be drawn into events regardless of what we do. It¡¯s likely the Baron will seek to replace you with someone more loyal eventually, but in the short term, such a decision would do more harm than good,¡± Alastor observed. ¡°If we are careful, we can present ourselves as competent, part of the solution, directly involved, yet not closely allied with the Baron. From there, we can seek advantage no matter what occurs.¡±


    ¡°I trust I will have the full support of the family then, uncle?¡± Recillia asked.


    He smiled humorlessly.


    ¡°Of course. The reputation of the family will depend on your actions during this time.¡±


    He broke off as the Baron stepped forward, grim-faced, into the centre of the room, raising his voice.


    ¡°My lords and ladies, if I can have your attention, please. The Oracles have delivered us a troubling Divine statement. As the hands of the Gods, it is our place to act, and act we shall. The heretics will be purged and the corruption will be annihilated. Of that, there is no doubt. Can the following nobles please gather here to me so that we might discuss the immediate steps that need to be taken.¡±


    He began to call names, and one by one, various officials and heads of houses made their way to him. When her own name was called, Recillia allowed no flicker of emotion to cross her face. Instead, she stepped smoothly and purposefully to the Baron.


    This was an opportunity, for the family, and for her. She would not fail.

 B3C68 - Beehive

    It took Tyron several weeks before he managed to fall into a steady equilibrium. Working on the enchantments necessary to keep his store running, teaching Flynn, reestablishing contacts with his suppliers and generally ensuring every aspect of his life as ¡®Lukas Almsfield¡¯ was once again ticking along smoothly.


    It was shocking to him just how quickly the edges began to fray after so short a time out of the city. Then again, his connections here were relatively new. It took years to build trust, especially in an industry like enchanting. Picking up and leaving for an extended period so soon after establishing himself was an extraordinary thing to do in the eyes of the business community, but here he was already planning his second trip.


    Over this time, Elsbeth kept in regular contact, keeping him in the loop regarding her fellow underground dark priests and their movements. More and more, they were extracting their people from farming communities, villages and cities around the province. Picking them up and moving them away from civilisation, heading further out west.


    It was likely that after another few months had passed, the population of Cragwhistle would double again. Ortan would doubtless be pulling his hair out at the constant influx of new residents, but Tyron took no joy in the thought. He was uncomfortable with how those people looked at him, uncomfortable with how the Old Gods had made them regard him.


    He was no saviour and he didn¡¯t imagine for one second that he was. If he could achieve his vengeance by throwing those people into the line of fire, then he would. Perhaps that was even what Raven, Rot and Crone wanted, which gave him pause.


    The steadier and smoother life as Lukas Almsfield became, the more freedom he had to indulge in his true purpose, and Tyron threw himself into it with wild abandon.


    Only the frequent intervention of Elsbeth kept him to anything remotely like a schedule. Thanks to her incessant mothering, he managed to keep himself rested, fed and clean despite spending almost all of the night hours locked in his study, working on his minions.


    Interestingly, he found he made better progress when he was actually taking care of himself. Who could have foreseen such a thing?


    Tyron looked around the Ossuary, smiling with satisfaction. Twenty skeletons, each a product of his current and most advanced preparation methods, now soaking in pure and concentrated Death Magick. These would be his first skeleton mages, simple undead with the Death Bolt spell engraved on their minds. In preparation, he had gone to great lengths to ensure they were capable of power sharing on a level far beyond his regular minions.


    With a final check, he stepped through the door and into a different realm. His study was more spacious now that he no longer needed twenty slabs to lay the remains on, but that room had quickly been usurped by his latest obsession: bone constructs.


    Using what he¡¯d learned from the Sand People, he was quickly coming to understand that even with his current abilities, he was capable of creating much more than he¡¯d imagined. Closing the door behind him, he was quickly surrounded by piles of bones, half-formed, partially moulded skulls, scores of discarded cores and abandoned experimental networks.


    ¡°I really need to clean up in here,¡± he sighed, looking at the stray materials.


    Long nights had been spent crafting, theorising and tinkering. Now that preparing the remains took so much less time, he had much more free time to pursue his avenues of enquiry, and for now, all of that time was sunk into exploring the potential of these constructs.


    He looked from one discarded test to the next. This one hadn¡¯t drawn power efficiently enough. That one had proven to be too thin to support the power output he needed. He still hadn¡¯t discovered all the variables he needed to nail down. How dense should he make the bones? Which bones were best for which purpose? How could ambient mana be safely converted without burning out the channels in his arrays? How many arrays was optimal? Which cores should he use?


    These and a dozen other questions thundered through his head, and he was progressing on all of them, but it was slow going. Part of the problem was that he didn¡¯t know what was actually possible.


    As he sat down at his desk, letting out a long sigh, he pulled his latest notes toward him. On one page, he¡¯d written a list of his greatest ambitions for his current enquiries. In the best case scenario, what would be possible?


    The list was populated with fanciful, wishful things that likely were impossible.


    A mobile engine capable of providing power to a thousand skeletons.


    Bone giant.


    Bone-spear launcher.


    Darkness generator.


    And more. Ideas for generating power, ideas for storing it, ideas for using it in powerful and destructive ways. All of it was possible, to some extent. He could probably fuse together multiple skeletons to create a bone construct twice the size of a person, but it would be hideously inefficient. To work out if it would be worth the expense in materials and the truly massive drain of Death Magick it would require to move, he would have to build one and test it. Several designs could be found already on the scattered pages around him, but which to use?


    It was late, and Tyron had become better at realising when he was starting to push further than was healthy. Before he could be tempted into picking up a pen, he pushed his chair back and rose again. His shoulders and arms cracked pleasantly as he stretched, before he ascended back up, out the secret door and then into his quarters.


    There would be more time to continue investigating his theories the next day, so he made sure to eat, drink, and wash himself before turning in to get a few hours of sleep before his staff would arrive in the morning.


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    However, the next day did not go as he had thought it would.


    The summons came shortly after breakfast, and Tyron barely had time to put his formal robes on before he found himself at the foot of the Magister¡¯s tower. This was his fifth visit to the dreaded red tower, but the security measures had only grown more strict, it appeared. Tyron was forced to produce his status four times, as well as strip down to small clothes to be carefully inspected by an altogether too thorough guard, before he was allowed to enter the tower itself.


    Inside, Tyron was greeted by the young lordling, Regis Shan, and a flurry of activity. Even here, on the ground floor, filled with maze-like corridors, it was clear things were not normal. The tower was like a kicked hornets nest, buzzing with activity. Beyond the regular, red uniformed guards Tyron was used to seeing, he noticed other soldiers, dressed in the Baron¡¯s livery, marching up and down the halls.


    As the young Magister Regis led him through the corridors, Tyron thought furiously, watching everything. Something had happened, something had changed, clearly. When he had come to the tower previously, there had been a faint feeling of malaise, of complacency, but now they were stirred up. There was urgency in the hurried way young trainees rushed through the corridors, and there was tension in the faces of everyone he saw.


    His guide did not give him any opportunity to speak or ask questions, setting a brisk pace through the twists and turns, then up the stairs as they ascended to the next level. In short order, he found himself outside Lady Erryn¡¯s office, a feeling of trepidation in his chest.


    ¡°Lord Shan¨C¡± he began.


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk,¡± the young lord shook his head sharply. ¡°We don¡¯t have much time.¡±


    For what?


    The question followed naturally, but Tyron didn¡¯t ask it, heeding the request to remain silent. Regis reached out and knocked firmly, then held himself still as he waited to be acknowledged. A voice called from within and he pushed open the door, indicating Tyron should enter.


    Once again, the Necromancer found himself faced with a real Noble, the Lady Recillia Shan, and her opulent office. Much like the rest of the tower, a change in tone had swept through this place also.


    No longer did the lady sit alone behind her desk. Furniture and displays had been moved to make way for more desks, behind which administrators poured through documents. Lady Erryn herself appeared unruffled, yet her own work area was laden with documents, and several men and women stood waiting on her words.


    A quiet, feverish air hung heavy in this room, muttered conversations and whispered questions kept the volume low, but the pace remained high. The Lady murmured to this person and that, pointing at the pages in front of her here and there, asking questions, seeking clarification. Several people were dismissed, and then Tyron stood at the front of the line.


    ¡°Please approach the desk,¡± the Noble instructed, and Tyron stepped forward as close as he deemed appropriate.


    His expression was polite and expectant, his posture subservient and willing. To the outside observer, he was honoured to be here and eager to help in whatever way the tower deemed necessary.


    Within him was a storm of fury and rage. He felt as if the blood in his veins cried out for vengeance. This woman needed to be dead!


    ¡°How may I serve, Lady Erryn?¡± he asked quietly, executing a reasonably elegant bow.


    As he rose, the sensation he had been dreading came once more. Like a needle driven hard into leather, an invisible force slammed into the glamour that covered his features. There was no change in his expression, no shift in his breathing, yet Tyron sweated as he felt the magick bend under that pressure, stronger than it had been the first time.


    Yet it did not break.


    Thank you, Dark Ones. Thank you, Elsbeth!


    Had his false-face cracked here, there is no doubt he would be dead in seconds, or worse.


    Giving no sign anything had happened, Recillia leaned back in her chair for a moment, letting the pen drop from her hand for the first time since he¡¯d entered.


    ¡°Your reputation continues to grow within the Arcanist community, Master Lukas Almsfield. Master Willhem speaks highly of you, as do all of those for whom you¡¯ve performed commission work. My own Magisters are pleased with what you¡¯ve done for us, indeed, they marvel at your expertise.¡±


    Tyron bowed low once more.


    ¡°Many thanks, Lady Erryn. My talents are narrowly focused, but in those areas in which I specialise, I believe I can claim to be exceptional.¡±


    ¡°Quite,¡± the noblewoman said shortly. She reached out for a page and gathered it smoothly, holding it out to him in one motion. ¡°We foresee a significant rise in demand for enchanting work which will outstrip the capacity of our in-house Arcanists. Would you be willing to take on more commissions for the Magister¡¯s tower?¡±


    A natural smile bloomed across the Necromancer''s face.


    ¡°I would be delighted.¡±


    She nodded as he took the page from her. A quick scan revealed what they wanted him to do. Significant sections of the tower¡¯s defences would be undergoing maintenance, upgrades, or being redone entirely. As a conduit expert, his list of tasks was extensive, having him hop from array to array to ensure they were as efficient and self-contained as possible.


    ¡°If you agree to undertake this work for us, I will require you to be bound by tighter restrictions than before. If you are willing, I will apply these restrictions now.¡±


    Without hesitation, Tyron accepted. Immediately, he was overwhelmed with Divine Authority. His blood pounded in his ears and his vision went fuzzy as the words spoken by the noble before him thundered within his brain.


    ¡°By my Authority. You will not speak on what you have learned here. You will not share what has been discussed, what you have seen or heard, through any means. You will work to the betterment of the Magisters and the Nobility, completing the commissioned work to the best of your ability. You will not betray this trust. Should you fail to heed this command, your heart will cease to beat, and you shall die. Divines make it so.¡±


    The words wrapped around him like invisible chains, tightening and binding him in ways he did not fully understand. When he came back to himself, he had managed to retain his balance, though he had clutched at the Lady¡¯s desk to keep himself upright. With a muttered apology, he stepped back and straightened himself.


    ¡°You may go. Magister Regis Shan will be your point of contact going forward. He will let you know when you are required to attend the Tower, and be responsible for ensuring your commissions are fulfilled.¡±


    Just like that, he was dismissed. Tyron bowed low once more, then turned and made his exit. Outside, he found the lordling waiting, looking none too pleased.


    ¡°You accepted the terms?¡± he asked flatly.


    ¡°I did. I take it you are to be my associate for the next while.¡±


    The young man grunted, making it clear he didn¡¯t appreciate the connection. He turned to walk away, remarking over his shoulder as he went, ¡±You look happy about this turn of events.¡±


    Indeed, it was difficult for Tyron to keep the grin off his face.


    ¡°Oh. I am always happy to serve.¡±

 B3C69 - Labours of the Loyal

    ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to see you here, of all people.¡±


    Tyron leaned back from the lens he was looking through, putting his pliance down as he turned with a smile to greet the newcomer. Short, dressed in a humble-looking shirt and pants with an irritated scowl on her face, Master Willhem¡¯s greatest apprentice looked much the same as she did the last time he¡¯d seen her.


    ¡°Back at you,¡± Annita Halfshard scoffed. ¡°Have the Magisters really grown so desperate they¡¯d bring in a barely qualified hack like you?¡±


    ¡°Well, if I¡¯m good enough to fix your conduits, then I must be good enough to fix theirs.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t fix my conduits.¡±


    ¡°I improved them, then.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    She rolled her eyes and approached his bench to look over his shoulder. The other Arcanists in the workshop had reacted strangely to her appearance, almost recoiling as she drew near.


    Master Halfshard did have a¡­ mixed reputation within the profession. An undoubtedly top class expert, but irascible and prickly. There was no need to draw her ire if it wasn¡¯t necessary.


    ¡°And of course it¡¯s transmission work,¡± she chuckled, leaning closer to peer at his work through the lens. ¡°Oh, shit! Is that an error there? This rah glyph. It¡¯s misaligned.¡±


    She smirked, pleased to have found an error. Tyron only shook his head.


    ¡°I¡¯m transmitting fire magick with this array.¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°So, if the rah was placed any closer¡­¡±


    ¡°It would burn out. Damn you, Lukas Almsfield. Can you fuck up one time?¡±


    ¡°At this? No. If I attempted to do any of the thousand things you can do better than me? Absolutely. Endlessly.¡±


    Much like he did while working with his more advanced death magick constructs. There had been many, many mistakes, but also a great deal of progress. Failure was a teacher, as Master Willhem had often said.


    ¡°Well, get up off your backside, I need you for something.¡±


    Tyron pushed his seat back and rose, glancing around until he found Regis Shan standing nearby, looking bored.


    ¡°Do you know anything about this, Magister Shan?¡±


    It takes a second for the lordling to get his bearings, standing around watching Tyron work had been unspeakably dull, and some days he almost fell asleep on the job.


    ¡°Is this¡­ Master Halfshard?¡±


    ¡°Yes. She wants me to go and work with her. I wanted to make sure I cleared it with you first.¡±


    Annita rolled her eyes before jabbing a thumb at Tyron while she spoke to his handler.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been asked to go upstairs and work on some stuff. Without a capable assistant,¡± she emphasised the word assistant, prodding Tyron in the chest, ¡°it¡¯ll take twice as long. This guy is good enough that I trust him to handle transmission and conduits for me.¡±


    Another magister hurried into the room, wheezing. It appeared as though Annita had rushed off, leaving the poor fellow, who appeared to be¡­ advanced in age¡­ gasping in her wake.


    ¡°Master¡­ Halfshard¡­¡± he gasped, ¡°we¡­ have¡­ just one¡­ moment.¡±


    He gathered his breath, sweating heavily in his robes.


    ¡°We have arranged for¡­ our best Arcanists to assist you. There should be no need¡­ for extra help.¡±


    Master Halfshard frowned.


    ¡°Did any of them graduate with a recommendation from Master Willhem?¡± she asked forthrightly.


    It was a pointless question. Only two people had ever received Willhem¡¯s blessing upon completing their apprenticeship, and they were presently standing next to each other in this workshop.


    ¡°Well, no. They haven¡¯t,¡± the old man muttered, reddening in the face, ¡°but their skills should not be dismissed. These Magisters work on the most powerful and secretive enchantments in the empire.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s heart slowed in his chest. He was talking about the brands. He had to be talking about the brands. Everyone suspected that they were controlled from somewhere within the Red Tower, but other than the Magisters themselves, who could confirm it?


    ¡°Obviously, they know things I don¡¯t, but it¡¯s the level of execution I question. I¡¯ve been commissioned to work on very specific things, none of which involve your¡­ particular duties as magisters,¡± Annita pointed out with some distaste.


    She wasn¡¯t here to touch whatever the Magisters used to control the brands, there was no chance they would allow anyone, not even Master Willhem himself, to touch something so sensitive. That meant it was probably more trap work, or dampening, or energy gathering, or any of the other thousands of enchantments built into the stone around the Magister¡¯s tower.


    The senior mages in the tower hemmed and hawed for a while before they reluctantly agreed¡­ to ask even more senior mages, who also delayed. It wasn¡¯t until Annita started visibly fuming that they got their act together and granted permission for her to use him as an assistant for the work she had been commissioned to do.


    Of course, it wasn¡¯t that simple, it never was with the Magisters. There were more checks, additional security, yet more supervision and scrutiny before either of them were allowed anywhere near a staircase. Yet, to his surprise, Master Halfshard got her way. That went to show just how highly she was regarded, only a half-step lower than Willhem himself. If the magisters were willing to bend this far to accommodate her wishes, then they were serious indeed about securing the best possible talent.


    ¡°Do you have any idea what¡¯s brought on this¡­ flurry of work here in the tower?¡± Tyron murmured as they marched up the steps. ¡°I¡¯ve asked a few questions, but nobody seems willing to give any answers.¡±


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, and I don¡¯t care,¡± she replied, eyes hard. ¡°The only reason I agreed to a commission with the Red Tower is because I was getting bored pumping out high-end toys for rich children who don¡¯t deserve them. My skills aren¡¯t improving, so I need new challenges. That¡¯s it.¡±


    Tyron had, of course, been doing a lot more digging, and he didn¡¯t like what he¡¯d found. The Magisters were active in a way they hadn¡¯t been for decades, but that wasn¡¯t all. Marshalls were being recalled, imperial soldiers had been seen outside the castle, even the priests were acting suspicious.


    There was a shakeup coming, a big one. Perhaps someone had gotten wind of the fomenting rebellion and were looking to crack down? It was plausible. Which would mean his manipulations of Magister Poranus were dramatically less likely to slip under the radar. Another problem on his list.


    Finally, the small group crested the end of the stairwell and found themselves in an open, relatively sparse part of the tower. Tyron had never been this high up before, this had to be almost halfway to the top. Strange fluctuations and magicks could be felt thrumming in the air around him, and excitement coiled in his belly. Who knew what secrets he might glimpse up here? What he might be able to get his nimble fingers on?


    ¡°Shall we get to work, then?¡± he suggested, smiling at the dour-faced, red-robed magisters standing around them.


    ¡°A workshop has been prepared,¡± the old man wheezed, gesturing for Annita and Lukas to follow him.


    Now that she had a chance to do some enchanting, a change came over Annita, one he had seen before. It was almost comical how much she resembled their Master. Surly and irascible almost all the time, but almost childlike in their enthusiasm for the Arcanists¡¯ art.


    Tyron himself felt like he was bashing his head against a wall with his current projects; he simply didn¡¯t have enough experience handling the levels of power he needed. Not to mention fitting so much magick, performing so many different functions, into such a confined space without interfering with each other. His speciality was maximising trickles of power, combining them, preventing loss, until they formed a stable flow.


    What his current ideas required were rivers of arcane energy. Wrangling such rich streams of magick into arrays was exactly the kind of high-end enchanting he had avoided.


    He was making progress, but it was slow. Too slow.


    He eyed Annita sideways as she strode toward the workshop, a slight grin on her face.


    She was looking for a new challenge, was she? Perhaps¡­


    ~~~


    ¡°Yor.¡±


    ¡°Tyron, a pleasure as always. What brings you to my humble abode today?¡±


    As if there was anything humble about the Red Pavillion. He¡¯d deliberately made sure to arrive as close to dawn as possible, to avoid the worst of the crowds, and ensure his host wouldn¡¯t be at her most¡­ energetic.


    He¡¯d never actually seen where she went during the day, had never laid eyes on her at rest. Quite a deliberate choice on her part. Given the current mood between them, were he to find a sleeping Yor, she would be likely to wake up in the middle of a bonfire.


    The Necromancer glared at her, openly hostile, not caring to conceal his anger. For her part, dressed in an alluring red dress with her midnight black hair pulled back to reveal her neck and shoulders, the monster appeared as ravishing as always. Seeing his anger, she merely smiled.


    ¡°Why, that¡¯s quite a passionate look you are sending my way, Tyron. I don¡¯t recall doing anything to deserve such ire.¡±


    The way she stressed the word recall, openly mocking him for being unable to remember what had been done to him. It was infuriating. It was also bait.


    ¡°I remember I¡¯m fucking pissed, Yor, that suffices for me.¡±


    ¡°Such a shame. I felt we had developed a special bond.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t, and you proved me correct. Can we move beyond this posturing? Whatever you managed to leave in my head is there until I figure out a way to get rid of it, and in return, you have earned my enmity. It is what it is.¡±


    The vampire hesitated for the briefest possible moment, perhaps taken by surprise he was willing to be this forthright.


    ¡°I have to admit,¡± she said slowly, ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to see you¡­ quite so soon.¡±


    ¡°So soon after what? Yor?¡±


    She smiled thinly.


    ¡°What brings you to my door, then, Tyron? More blood tablets? I hear they are bleeding you dry over at the Magister¡¯s tower. So many status checks. Whatever could they be up to?¡±


    ¡°Information,¡± Tyron said. ¡°I know you¡¯ve snaked your fingers into every crevice you can reach in Kenmor. You know a lot more about what¡¯s going on than I do.¡±


    Yor blinked, then sat back in her seat, the colour of her eyes shifting from a lighter ruby into a deeper red, like carmine.


    ¡°A trade, then? What are you proposing?¡±


    Once again, she did him the courtesy of letting the mask slip, setting free the unfeeling monster who sat behind the facade. It was chilling, sitting across from her. There was no emotion in this creature, nothing real. Except, perhaps, her thirst.


    ¡°There¡¯s something big going on in the city. The Magisters are acting like a hive poked with a stick. Security is bordering on paranoid around every secure area in Kemor. Something has spooked everyone from the nobles down. I don¡¯t know what it is, and I don¡¯t know what they intend to do. You can fix that.¡±


    She smiled, revealing her fangs.


    ¡°I can.¡±


    ¡°I presume there is a price.¡±


    She narrowed her eyes.


    ¡°It¡¯s rather bold of you to come in here, into my lair, with such a contemptuous air about you, Tyron. I would have thought your recent experience would have taught you a little fear.¡±


    Tyron grinned humorlessly in her face.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen what dealing with you respectfully will get me. No thanks.¡±


    ¡°If you thought that was bad, you are mistaken. It can be so. Much. Worse.¡±


    Tyron pressed his hands to the table and stood, sighing.


    ¡°Clearly, this was a waste of time. If you aren¡¯t interested in giving me the information I seek, then I will have to find it elsewhere.¡±


    Now, Yor allowed herself a slight smirk.


    ¡°You think you¡¯ll find someone as adept as vampires at hunting down secrets? I know everything that goes on in this city. Everything.¡±


    The Necromancer turned to leave.


    ¡°Oh, I agree with you, vampires are certainly unparalleled at ferreting out secrets from mortals.¡±


    He would never forget just how easily the creature in front of him had woven the nobles around her fingers.


    ¡°I just need to bargain with another coven,¡± he finished, smiling over his shoulder. ¡°After all, you aren¡¯t the only bloodsuckers in town.¡±


    The atmosphere around Yor changed instantly. No longer icy cold, she became furious.


    ¡°There is no chance you have found them,¡± she snarled, rising from her seat.


    Tyron turned back to face her.


    ¡°Oh?¡± he said, brow raised. ¡°I take that to mean you haven¡¯t located them yet? How¡­ odd.¡±


    ¡°Think very carefully before you take this step, Tyron Steelarm,¡± she said. ¡°Getting between two factions of the Scarlet Court is far more dangerous than you can possibly imagine.¡±


    ¡°Oh, so I should remain loyal to your faction? After all the care and consideration you¡¯ve shown me? Don¡¯t be ridiculous.¡±


    She watched him warily, like a beast assessing its prey.


    ¡°Have you really found another coven? If you have, then I¡¯m willing to trade information. I will tell you what you want to know in exchange for the location.¡±


    In truth, he hadn¡¯t located them, not exactly. However, a few things he¡¯d noticed had clicked together. The rats in the sewers around his study had continued to grow, an anomaly which eventually led him to investigate one. The whiff of blood magick had been oh so faint, but it had been present.


    As his explorations of the nearby tunnels had widened, he found other clues. Small rodents, exsanguinated and left to rot in the putrid sludge had been a major find. Who else could be bleeding rats dry in the sewers beneath the city? Or employing blood magick against the rodents?


    Tyron grinned.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure you¡¯re going to like the answer, but I accept the terms.¡±

 B3C70 - A Dizzying Pace

    Tyron looked down at the squirming rat in his hands. The thing was huge, as rats went, easily three or four times bigger than it should have been. By far the largest specimen he¡¯d come across in his sojourns into the sewers.


    It reeked of blood magick. A dangerous amount.


    Whoever these bloodsuckers were, they appeared to be growing careless. This much might be enough to be detected on the street above. Any more, and someone was bound to get a sniff of it. Someone other than him, who spent too much time wandering through these septic tunnels.


    They know


    It wasn¡¯t easy to shave a message into the side of a squirming, giant mutant rat, but he¡¯d done the best he could. With a grunt, he tossed the creature away.


    Squeaking furiously, the rodent tumbled through the air before crashing into the narrow stone grating, righting itself and scurrying away. It wasn¡¯t much of an introduction, but it would have to suffice. He wasn¡¯t foolish enough to try and track down these vampires himself. Here, in the dark sewers, at night? He¡¯d be food before he even saw them.


    Despite selling out their location to an unfriendly, rival coven, he hoped to maintain some level of cooperation with this new group. Anything to gain leverage over Yor and her Mistress.


    Despite how much he hated working with them, this latest deal had proved yet again how valuable the undead beings were. Perhaps he could have learned the same things from the Abyss, but he was still unwilling to pay their prices. Or maybe the Dark Ones could have informed him, but he was already so deeply in their debt that he feared what might happen when the bill came due.


    ¡°No time to dwell on it now. There¡¯s a lot to do,¡± he muttered to himself, turning his back on the dank tunnels.


    Back in his study, the proof of his labours lay everywhere. Bones, papers and half-formed constructs littered the ground in unceremonious piles, some dropped right next to the arch of bone that still stood proudly atop the ritual circle in the centre of the open space. Sheets of paper filled with diagrams, roughly sketched arrays and sigils were adhered to the walls in places, and he ran his eyes across them as he emerged again into the light.


    That was wrong, he¡¯d checked it two days ago. This one would fail, he saw it now, the design wasn¡¯t capable of handling the energy needed. That one was the worst of all. Overdesigned, elaborate, missing the elegance and simplicity all truly brilliant solutions required. Would it work? Maybe, but it wasn¡¯t enough for Tyron to cobble together something that merely functioned. It had to function well.


    With a sigh, he tore down all of the scraps and crushed them to a ball in his hands. With a toss of his wrist, these too joined the growing pile of refuse in the corner of the room.


    This place is a mess. I can¡¯t work like this.


    Splitting his focus in too many directions at once had caused him to become a little sloppy. Half of his time was taken by the Red Tower, working with Annita to complete her tasks, as well as dutifully fulfilling his own. The effort required was not small; the magisters worked him like a dog. When he wasn¡¯t being dragged from one place to another, making corrections, giving advice, or grinding away at cores, he was being grilled by their own Arcanists. Expected to explain every stage in his craft, detail his decision-making process, point out the flaws in their designs, they were attempting to wring him dry of knowledge as well as sweat.


    Coming back to the shop, he had to keep up appearances, fill the shelves, engage with his customers and continue to build a backlog of supplies so he could leave again.


    When that was done and night finally fell, into the study he went. Filetta had been able to uphold her end of the bargain, despite the misgivings of her superiors, and the bones had continued to flow. Crafting weapons and armour occupied a portion of his time, creating new minions took another, but experimentation with bone constructs took the majority of it by far.


    Before he returned to Cragwhistle, he was determined to unlock at least a portion of the potential he sensed within them. His initial attempt, rudimentary, almost childish in his eyes now, had already been far surpassed, but more needed to be done.


    Although he didn¡¯t like to say it, asking Annita Halfshard for advice had doubled his progress. Of course, he couldn¡¯t just show her what he was working on, but change a few sigils here and there, and a gathering array for death magick suddenly didn¡¯t look quite so illegal. Even just asking her for tips with some of the issues he was running into in general terms was enough for her to point him in the right direction.


    Whatever had happened between her and Willhem must have been serious, because Master Halfshard was clearly the successor he had longed for all along. She was insightful, possessed a vast knowledge of sigils and their applications, and had razor-sharp instincts for finding the correct solution on the first try. Versatile in ways Tyron could never be, she was a staggering paragon of the Arcanists¡¯ art.


    If she were to sit in his study for an hour, Tyron was confident he could resolve most of the difficulties he was having. More likely, it would get him arrested and killed, but the thought was nice.


    Reluctantly, he turned away from his desk, and the current iterations of his designs. He would need at least four hours of sleep tonight, and the room was becoming cluttered enough that it would soon begin to impede his progress. As he began to gather bones, cores and various other detritus, he cast his mind back to what Yor had revealed to him the previous day.


    ¡°Someone kicked the hornets¡¯ nest alright,¡± she grinned. ¡°The gods themselves, your Five Divines.¡±


    ¡°What? How?¡±


    ¡°They have ways and means of communicating with their servants here in the mortal realm, much as the Dark Ones do. I haven¡¯t been able to learn exactly what was said, but the reaction was immediate. Every noble house has been put on alert, every resource available to the state has been mobilised. They are planning to initiate a city-wide purge. Rooting out corruption, hunting down the evil within their midst.¡±


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°You don¡¯t seem concerned,¡± he observed. ¡°Isn¡¯t this a risk for your kind as well?¡±


    Her smile deepened.


    ¡°We have already taken steps to protect ourselves, with more to follow. As for the filth spreading in the sewers,¡± she grimaced with distaste, ¡°perhaps they will be taken care of without my coven having to intervene at all.¡±


    From how vicious she seemed to feel toward other vampires, he rather doubted she would hold herself back.


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯ve been able to find out when this might be happening? How much time is left?¡±


    ¡°The timetable is being kept in strict confidence by the baron, but you yourself have weaselled your way into the Red Tower, have you not? Surely, you can discern something on your own.¡±


    Unfortunately, he hadn¡¯t been able to learn much of anything from the Magisters. They were extremely tight lipped around any of the outsiders working within the tower, and he didn¡¯t possess the necessary skill to try and elicit anything from them.


    What this did mean, is that his timetable was much shorter than he¡¯d anticipated. Once the Baron initiated his purge, even working within his study, shielded and protected from prying as it was, would no longer be safe. In what time he had remaining, Tyron needed to complete his current projects, bolster his forces, and prepare for his next journey out to Cragwhistle.


    It would only get harder to gain levels as time passed, he had to scramble for everything he could right now. First thing first. He had to finish dealing with this mess¡­.


    ~~~


    ¡°You look awful. Have you been taking care of yourself properly?¡±


    ¡°Geez, Elsbeth. Nice to see you too.¡±


    The two had met in a nearby tavern, one with a good reputation for serving a decent stew. Though now, as Tyron looked down on it, he thought he detected the faintest trace of what might be blood magick within.


    No wonder this place is so cheap, if that¡¯s where they source the meat.


    ¡°Let¡¯s skip the stew today, I¡¯m not that hungry,¡± he lied.


    Elsbeth frowned.


    ¡°You need to eat. I know what you''re like when you get busy.¡±


    ¡°I know, I know. I¡¯ve been good, I swear. I¡¯ll eat later, just not¡­ just not this.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± she pushed her own bowl away before grabbing a bread roll and nibbling on it. ¡°You really do look rough, though. Are you sure you¡¯re taking care of yourself?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re worse than my aunt. Yes, I¡¯ve been sleeping every night and eating at least two meals a day. I¡¯ve just been extremely busy. Now, let¡¯s not worry about what my schedule looks like and talk about why you¡¯ve asked me to talk?¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± she pouted slightly. ¡°Although it could have been the case that I just wanted to see you. It¡¯s been weeks since we spoke.¡±


    ¡°But we both know that¡¯s not true. There¡¯s a lot happening right now and we both have a lot on our plates.¡±


    His old friend sighed and nodded.


    ¡°I would have liked to catch up earlier, but it''s just like you said.¡±


    Elsbeth grew more serious.


    ¡°I wanted to tell you that I¡¯m leaving Kenmor. It¡¯s getting less and less safe for my people here.¡±


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been wanting to tell you about that, but I suppose you have your own means of finding things out.¡±


    ¡°You probably know more than I do,¡± she shook her head, ¡°but that¡¯s fine. The Venerable has summoned us to his side. My people are leaving their homes all over the province, heading west. I¡¯ll be joining them. Which means you are going to be here on your own from now on. Will you be alright?¡±


    The Necromancer blinked in surprise. She was worried about him?


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. This is a dangerous moment, but there¡¯s also great opportunity. I¡¯ll be in the city for another few weeks, then I¡¯ll be heading to Cragwhistle again for training. Who knows? I might actually beat you there if you travel slowly.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather take my time than use your particular route,¡± she shivered. ¡°I don¡¯t know which is worse, that I suggested it, or that you actually did it.¡±


    Travelling through the Abyss was not something Tyron would describe as pleasant, or safe, yet the time saved was too valuable to pass up. The deal he had struck with the creature within would still hold, for a time, so at least he wasn¡¯t required to provide more¡­ sustenance.


    ¡°Things are beginning to accelerate now,¡± Tyron told her seriously. ¡°It¡¯s only going to get more difficult and dangerous for you and your people. Make sure you¡¯re as careful as you can be. I don¡¯t have any doubt a large reason for the coming trouble is because of the increased activity of your patrons. They¡¯ll be hunting for people like you.¡±


    His old friend nodded slowly.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard stories¡­ from the others. This kind of thing has happened before, many times. We go underground, we hide, we run, and we wait it out. Some make it, others don¡¯t.¡±


    Her eyes hardened.


    ¡°But that was in the past. Things are different this time. They haven¡¯t been so active at reaching out to their people for¡­ nobody knows how long. There¡¯s a chance they¡¯ll protect us, shelter us from danger.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s also a good chance they won¡¯t,¡± Tyron pointed out. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t feel comfortable leaving my fate to their whims.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve taken good care of you so far, without asking for much in return,¡± Elsbeth said tartly. ¡°Or have you forgotten?¡±


    It was true. Tyron hadn¡¯t even realised the extent to which the three had been acting on his behalf. Now that he knew, he wasn¡¯t comforted by that fact. There would be a price.


    ¡°They help me because they want something. Not everyone is in a similar position, that¡¯s all I¡¯m saying.¡±


    The two fell silent for a moment, contemplating the strange place that they found themselves in. Elsbeth had many things on her mind, had committed herself to many people, all of whom she hoped to keep safe. Tyron had devoted himself to one thing, and one thing only: vengeance. Even now, the hatred he felt burned steadily in his chest. It was always there, an ever-present fire, threatening to rise like bile up his throat and come pouring out of him.


    That was the fuel that kept him pushing forward.


    ¡°I should thank you for all the help you¡¯ve given me, Elsbeth. Without you, I would be in a terrible state at this point. Thank you.¡±


    She brushed her golden hair back and smiled at him.


    ¡°What are friends for?¡± she replied. ¡°Things may not have turned out the way we had planned as kids, but I, at least, was always a true friend to you Ty¨CLukas.¡±


    In a way, Elsbeth had gotten what she always wanted, to help people, to serve a community on behalf of those they worshipped. It wasn¡¯t the goddess she¡¯d expected to serve, nor the community, but here she was, sacrificing and helping.


    ¡°I know that,¡± Tyron said softly. ¡°I always knew that.¡±


    He breathed out, then stood up, extending a hand across the table.


    ¡°Travel safely, Elsbeth. I¡¯ll see you in the West.¡±

 B3C71 - Breakings pt 1

    Filetta eyed the slimy, dripping walls of the sewer with open disgust. She didn¡¯t like it down here, yet such a convenient network of unpatrolled paths was simply too useful to be ignored. Tonight, she felt especially resentful, though that might have been residual distaste from her task for the night.


    Carefully, she pushed that thought to the back of her mind. It wouldn¡¯t do to be distracted, not when undertaking important business on behalf of the Guild. Out of habit, she examined her surroundings, eyes scanning for abnormalities, odd behaviour amongst her crew, even without real conscious thought. A habit that had been beaten into her over years on the job.


    One didn¡¯t survive long in this line of work without developing keen senses.


    ¡°Two more lefts, boss,¡± Halfhand told her, his gruff voice echoing off the damp stone despite his attempt to speak softly.


    He was nervous. She didn¡¯t need directions, but he¡¯d felt compelled to break the silence, try and relieve some of his tension. Normally, she would smack him down for this, but tonight, she allowed it to pass with only a stern look.


    ¡°It¡¯s a normal night, gentlemen,¡± she murmured. ¡°Shoulder your burdens, and let¡¯s get this over with quickly.¡±


    She met each of their eyes one by one, ensuring that they were steady, that their nerves weren¡¯t too frayed. When she was satisfied, Filetta turned and began to walk once more, treading softly on the narrow walkway beside the flowing muck.


    Everyone had been on edge lately. The marshals had been active, much more active than usual. Just yesterday, the guild had lost a warehouse filled with contraband, the whole thing burned to the ground, six enforcers dead. The higher ups were furious, not only because of the lost profits, which were catastrophic, but because they couldn¡¯t identify the leak.


    The entire organisation was rattled. Even the goons like Halfhand had noticed. That didn¡¯t fill Filetta with a lot of confidence. When the most thuggish and simpleminded of them were getting cold feet, that meant everyone else was too.


    It was raining this night, the constant drumming of water on stone, and the dull roar of the flow draining down into the tunnels were unwelcome background noise for the business of the evening. Luckily, it wasn¡¯t too heavy; some of the tunnels were known to flood during a heavy downpour. If the river rose up, half the network would be underwater, but that wouldn¡¯t happen for a few days, at least.


    As the group rounded the last bend, the thief turned once more to check on her men. They appeared to have calmed, which was good. She didn¡¯t want anyone doing anything she didn¡¯t expect. Surprises were nobody¡¯s friend on a night like this.


    Waiting for them ahead of time, as always, was Elten, cowled as was his custom, his face a mask of shadows in the darkness. She paused for a moment when she noticed something new, something unexpected, beside him.


    It looked to be large, like a cauldron, but covered in black cloth. Even through the cover, she could see irregular lumps poking into the sheet. What in the realm was that?


    ¡°Have you brought a gift for me, Elten?¡± she purred, stepping forward and swaying her hips seductively. ¡°I thought you weren¡¯t interested in maintaining our private relationship any further.¡±


    The man frowned, and she almost laughed at his reaction. She knew he¡¯d enjoyed their time together, knew it for a fact, yet still he appeared nothing more than annoyed when she propositioned him. It was such an odd reaction as to be comical.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t time,¡± he replied simply.


    ¡°Should I be jealous?¡± the thief pouted. ¡°Have you found someone else to satisfy you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m working a great deal. Were I to wager, I would bet that you are too. Dreadful fire down on the dock, did you hear?¡±


    She frowned playfully.


    ¡°Did you have something to do with any of that?¡±


    Elten raised a silent brow and she chuckled. Of course he hadn¡¯t, and if he had, why would he ever admit it?


    He turned his head left and right, as if checking the tunnels on either side. As always, they had met at a crossroad, water sloshing and churning beneath the thick metal grating they stood upon. Filetta kept her face still, the warm smile still stretching her lips.


    The mage¡¯s shoulders slumped slightly, for he must be some sort of mage, no matter his extraordinary constitution.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with quickly then,¡± he said, gesturing Filetta to come forward. ¡°Things have been getting tense in the city over the last few weeks.¡±


    ¡°Not so fast, partner. What is it that you have brought us under that cloth? I don''t want my boys stepping into some sort of magickal trap.¡±


    The mage glanced down at the covered object by his side. It was large, almost coming up to his waist.


    ¡°So frightened of a cauldron, Filetta? Think I¡¯ll throw stew at you? Here.¡±


    He lifted the cloth to reveal what lay beneath and she leaned forward slightly, her eyes seeing everything through the gloom.


    Smooth, plain steel met her eyes, flat at the bottom, curved along the sides. It was exactly as it had appeared.


    ¡°Why do you have a cauldron in the sewer?¡± she asked, revolted.


    ¡°I had to collect it tonight in another part of the city and didn¡¯t have time to stow it safely,¡± he muttered, irritation plain on his face.


    ¡°So why the cloth?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to keep the thing clean!¡±


    He covered it once more, but Filetta was satisfied, there shouldn¡¯t be any risk to their business. She stepped forward to meet with Elten, standing not two metres apart.


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    ¡°I presume you have payment?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    He withdrew a clinking pouch from his sleeve and tossed it to her. She snagged it deftly from the air before pulling the drawstring and inspecting the contents.


    ¡°This is sufficient.¡±


    ¡°When have I ever attempted to cheat you?¡± Elten said stiffly.


    Compared to the other clients she had dealt with, he had been a remarkable partner. Never attempted to skimp on payment, or delay, or claim to have been cheated. As long as the Guild had delivered what he asked, the man had paid. Exactly the sort of people they liked to work with.


    Unfortunately, all good things had to come to an end.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid this is going to be our last transaction, Elten,¡± Filetta sighed, stepping back and gesturing her men forward. ¡°Things are getting too hot in the city right now, so we are planning to lie low for the next while. Things will die down eventually, then we can look to resume our mutually beneficial arrangement.¡±


    He grunted.


    ¡°I had a feeling something like this was coming. There¡¯s tension all over the city. Even a recluse like me is hearing things, whispers of trouble brewing in the noble houses.¡±


    Her boys slung down the bags they had carried on their shoulders, deposing them on the grating and stepping back until they had arranged themselves behind their leader.


    ¡°Are you going to inspect the goods?¡± Filetta asked, smirking.


    ¡°I won¡¯t touch anything until you leave, as always,¡± he sighed, not moving from his position.


    ¡°Very well. It¡¯s been good doing business with you, Elten. I hope I can see you again sometime soon.¡±


    No emotion crossed his hooded face. Eyes flat and cold, he replied, ¡°Be well.¡±


    With a careless shrug, Filetta turned and led her crew back down the path they had come.


    Except she did not continue.


    With a silent gesture, she directed her boys to keep moving. Halfhand gave her a nod, taking control of the group as she silently padded back along the stone walkway.


    Effortlessly, she melded into the shadows, her feet making no sound as she tread lightly back toward the intersection. Hidden, with all hints of her presence pulled in tight, she watched.


    Elten was listening, head tilted, as he waited for the ten man group to leave. When he was satisfied, he nodded to himself and stepped forward, approaching the nondescript brown sacks.


    She¡¯d always wondered what he did with them, but she had never asked, for obvious reasons, nor would she learn tonight. Elten was never going to collect these bodies. Tonight, he was going to become one.


    She tensed the muscles in her legs, ready to spring, as the mage approached the first sack. Eyes wide, she saw everything in the dim light, her Class abilities perfectly adapting her to these low light conditions. Even the wet stone was not a concern for her; with the grace and dexterity of a cat, she had no chance of slipping.


    As Elten reached down to touch the first bag, she leapt into action, From crouched and still, she launched into a full sprint in less than a second, keeping her body low and her steps soundless, she drew her blade.


    Just like the knife which slashed out from the bag, cutting through the thick canvas effortlessly, poisoned steel plunging toward the mage¡¯s leg.


    Filetta saw only flashes of what happened next, it occurred so quickly. Instead of falling, clutching at his leg as expected, the mage spun, ripping the cloth from the top of his cauldron, except what he revealed was very different from what she had seen before.


    There was no cold, grey metal, no smooth, curved edges. She¡¯d known it wasn¡¯t smooth, so why had she thought it was?


    Grinning skulls, dozens of them, each one moulded into those next to it, gleamed in the cold light, but only for a second. Before she had crossed half of the distance to her target, black smoke boiled out of the skulls, pouring from their eye sockets, the gap for their nose, even from between their teeth.


    It boiled outwards with unnatural speed, filling the intersection in an instant, and suddenly Filetta couldn¡¯t see a thing.


    Damn mages and their tricks! She should have been way more suspicious of the fucking couldron. Was she going senile?


    Even if that first knife hadn¡¯t found its mark, she could hear more of her people cutting their way free from the bags, climbing to their feet, daggers at the ready.


    As long as she could close in on him, Elten stood no chance of survival. Blinding her like this was a nice trick, but it wouldn¡¯t save him from her knife skills. Growling softly, she rushed forward, eager to catch a glimpse of him.


    He must be running.


    That¡¯s what anyone with half a brain would do, though it wasn¡¯t a good choice. Once the Guild decided he needed to die, he was dead; it was that simple.


    Elten wasn¡¯t his real identity, but that didn¡¯t matter. There were ways and means. He would be found, and ended.


    Not wanting him to escape, she sprinted forward, heedless of whatever obstacles might come her way. For a moment, she felt as if something had tried to snatch at her foot, a brief moment of resistance, and she frowned before dismissing it.


    That didn¡¯t matter. She had to find the mage.


    Snarling, she burst through the edge of the black cloud, her eyes adjusting instantly to the change in lighting, and once again she saw the sewer as it had been. She¡¯d expected to see Elten running, robes flapping as he attempted to get away. What she saw instead made her blood run cold.


    From the running waters of the sewer emerged clutching hands of bone, latching onto the stone and pulling themselves up. Elten stood, not ten metres away, hands raised, soft words rolling from his tongue.


    He was casting! SHIT!


    Her instincts told her to move forward, to close the distance before the spell could be completed, but that¡¯s when the first scream rang out from behind her. For a brief moment, she wavered, head whipping back to stare into the darkness, unsure of what was happening there.


    Then it was too late.


    More skeletons pulled themselves out of the water. A dozen. Two dozen.


    Some held weapons, swords and shields, others raised their hands and began to conjure balls of dark light.


    Each had the same dark purple light burning in their empty sockets.


    ¡°You really were a Necromancer?¡± she called, somewhat uselessly.


    Elten merely smiled and brought his hands down, completing the spell.


    Cold air washed over Filetta. No, it wasn¡¯t right to merely call it cold, it was freezing, unnaturally so. Blood seemed to congeal in her veins, muscles locked tight, and her teeth began to chatter in an instant as the frigid air invaded her lungs like a knife.


    Don¡¯t stay still; stop moving and you¡¯re dead.


    Skeletons thrust their hands forward, launching their spells, but Filetta was moving. She spun like a dancer, launching herself into a handspring that carried her back into the cloud of darkness. She couldn¡¯t see in here, but perhaps they couldn¡¯t either?


    More screams, sounds of scuffles, men and women swearing, anger and fear hung thick in the air.


    ¡°Get out of the dark cloud!¡± Filetta yelled, no longer caring if anyone above could hear her. ¡°We can¡¯t fight in this! Be careful of the water below!¡±


    Something hard latched around her ankle and Filetta looked down in horror. A skeleton had reached up through the grating and grasped her leg! She stifled a scream and moved to stamp down on the bones with her free foot. She couldn¡¯t afford to stay still!


    A spear of bone slammed into her side, punching straight through her leather gear and biting deep. The impact spun her slightly, a stunned expression on her face, which is when the second took her directly in the gut.


    Unbalanced, with a skeleton still locked onto her ankle, she fell, gasping.

 B3C72 - Breakings pt 2

    Tyron stood, grim-faced, as his skeletons went about their work. With the Shivering Curse applied, and the cloud of darkness constantly flowing from his cauldron, the field of battle was firmly to the advantage of his undead, and it showed.


    Men and women were crying out, screaming and cursing, cut down by skeletal soldiers they couldn¡¯t even see. A part of him burned with cold anger at this betrayal. He hadn¡¯t deserved this. At every opportunity, he had dealt straight with Filetta and her ¡®Guild¡¯, even paying their extortionate prices.


    Still, he shouldn¡¯t be surprised.


    When finally the fighting died down and the screams had ceased, he walked forward, several undead around him in case he needed protection. Surprisingly, Filetta was still alive, despite the two bone spears he¡¯d hit her with. Without much practice with the new spell, it appeared he was still inaccurate, since he¡¯d failed to hit anything vital.


    With a gesture, he deactivated the script within the cauldron, and the construct cut off its seemingly boundless spread of darkness. Within a minute, the magick had dissipated, and Tyron looked down on his former collaborator as she slowly bled to death.


    ¡°They wanted to tie up loose ends?¡± he asked.


    She grinned with bloodied teeth and nodded.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t turn out quite like how I¡¯d expected,¡± she choked out.


    Despite her failing condition, he didn¡¯t get too close. Underestimating opponents was an excellent way to get himself killed. The proof lay on the grating right in front of him.


    ¡°I suppose this gives me an opportunity to do the same,¡± he mused. ¡°With the crackdown coming, I don¡¯t want any sign of the guild¡¯s dealings with me to surface. If they sniffed out the slightest hint of a Necromancer, they wouldn¡¯t stop until I was found.¡±


    Groaning with pain, the thief rolled herself onto her side and glared up at him.


    ¡°Do you really think you can kill the guild? You don¡¯t know anything about us.¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°There¡¯s not really a good way to say this, Filetta, but I¡¯ll soon know everything about the Guild that you know.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll never talk,¡± she spat. ¡°I¡¯ll be dead in a few minutes anyway.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said, ¡°that¡¯s the point.¡±


    Perhaps it was the shock, or maybe the pain, but at his last statement, the truth began to sink in. She paled, her eyes going wide.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t.¡±


    The Necromancer stared at her levelly.


    ¡°I will.¡±


    He turned his gaze to the dead lying amongst the now empty sacks, their blood slowly dripping into the churning water below.


    ¡°I suppose I should thank you for this final shipment. Along with the ten men in your crew, it¡¯s a good delivery.¡±


    Filetta slowly closed her eyes.


    ¡°You got them too?¡± she groaned.


    ¡°Of course. No loose ends.¡±


    ¡°No loose ends,¡± she repeated.


    Then, she died.


    Tyron gazed around the scene of the fight. Two dozen of his skeletons stood at attention, ready and waiting.


    ¡°This is going to take a long time,¡± he sighed. ¡°May as well make a start.¡±


    With a mental command, his minions began to move, collecting the bodies, dragging them into a line, cleaning up the scene. From the tunnel in front came another ten skeletons, each dragging a corpse along behind them. As he¡¯d said, not one of Filetta¡¯s people had escaped.


    He walked over to the cauldron and reached inside, withdrawing several large cores, each heavily engraved and bound in a dark netting formed of finger bones. There were four in total and he placed them equidistant around the intersection, activating each with a touch as he placed them down.


    The constructs began to function immediately, soaking up the ambient mana and feeding any death magick they dragged in back to the cauldron itself. It wouldn¡¯t be able to remove all traces of what had happened here, but it would remove enough. Only a dedicated search would turn up any results, and there was little reason for anyone to go walking the sewers or streets, hunting for death magick specifically.


    As his undead stripped the bodies of their clothes and valuables, anything at all that might be bespelled, Tyron stood over Filetta¡¯s remains and raised his hands.


    He was much more proficient working with spirits than he had been in the past, so the spell formed smoothly. Soon he stood before the familiar pillar of mist, a spectre staring balefully from within.


    Don¡¯t do this to me, Elten.


    Filetta had possessed a pleasant voice, rough around the edges, perhaps, but clean and clear. It was now a horrific rasp, a terrible combination of a whisper and a scream that echoed across the divide between the living and the dead.


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    ¡°That¡¯s not my name, Filetta. I¡¯m Tyron Steelarm.¡±


    He executed a short bow.


    ¡°Nice to meet you. I presume ¡®Filetta¡¯ was not your real name either?¡±


    A moment of silence. Then.


    My thieves¡¯ name was Filetta. I was born Miriam. Release me. I beg you.


    ¡°There¡¯s always begging, after the attempted killing has failed. Who started this mess? Certainly not me. However, there¡¯s a chance I can release your spirit, allow you the dignity of a true death, if you cooperate with me. Or, I can squeeze your ghost like a sponge and force everything I need to know out of you.¡±


    He held out a fist and clenched it slowly for emphasis.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t want that, then cooperate. When every member of the Guild who knew of our deal is dead, I will reassess the ultimate fate of your soul.¡±


    Give me a guarantee. You KILLED me!


    ¡°You will get nothing of the sort,¡± he replied coldly. ¡°Now, are you going to talk, or am I going to make you?¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Where in the realm is Stacks?!¡± a voice bellowed. ¡°That FUCKER better not be dead!¡±


    ¡°Shut the FUCK up, Dag!¡± Stacks growled. ¡°We are being hunted, in case you didn¡¯t fucking notice!¡±


    Homing in on the sound of his voice, the burly man headed towards him, smoothly moving around the boxes strewn about the warehouse, despite the near total darkness.


    ¡°There you are,¡± the knifeman said, relief thick in his voice. ¡°I was worried you were gone too.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, too? Who else is gone?¡±


    Dags took in a shaky breath, and Stacks resisted the irrational urge to slap him. This man was one of the finest knife fighters he¡¯d ever seen, how was he this rattled?


    ¡°You haven¡¯t heard? Filetta is missing¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know about Filetta.¡±


    ¡°¡ª and Matron is gone. My boys picked up a runner from her stockpile in the tunnels. It¡¯s all gone, everyone dead. He was the only one to make it out.¡±


    ¡°FUCK!¡±


    Stacks slammed a fist into the wall, no longer able to contain the anger boiling in his chest. He felt he was choking on it, rage and indignation so profound it constricted his neck like a vise.


    Who was doing this? Those Salt Bay fuckers? They didn¡¯t have the balls. It wasn¡¯t the Marshalls, they didn¡¯t operate this way. The Shade Town rats? There was no way they had enough muscle.


    So who? WHO?


    ¡°Boss. We need to move. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s safe here.¡±


    ¡°Where the fuck is safe? Dags? Do you know?!¡±


    The wiry man reached down and tapped the two sheathed daggers at his waist.


    ¡°I can protect you from a lot, but not if I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m fighting. It might be better if we hit the streets, try to blend in with the crowd.¡±


    Stacks hunched his shoulders and pulled his hand up to his mouth, nibbling on his thumbnail out of habit as he thought. Disappearing into the crowd was good and all, but what about the organisation? If the leadership couldn¡¯t be reached, how was he supposed to hold it all together?


    He¡¯d built this enterprise from nothing but a group of kids running the streets, into a proper gang, into a recognised group with their own turf. He¡¯d be damned if he was going to let it all burn over the course of a few nights.


    ¡°We need to get a crew together and get some eyes on whoever is doing this to us,¡± he said, jabbing a finger hard into the knifeman¡¯s chest. ¡°We¡¯ve lost two warehouses, the stockpile and a workshop just this week, and we have no fucking idea who¡¯s done any of it!¡±


    He gestured to the stacked crates around them.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care if all the shit burns, but we need to find out who is doing this to us. You understand me? If we don¡¯t know, we can¡¯t fucking kill them. So I need you to round up everyone you can find. Contra. Mole. Eggtop. Anyone we can trust with some fucking levels. Then come back here. Go.¡±


    Dags looked as if he wanted to argue, but he wisely held his tongue, turned and moved off into the shadows. Once again, Stacks was left alone. Briefly, he considered moving back upstairs, heading to his office, but decided against it. If this place was hit, he didn¡¯t want to be trapped up there without a way out. All of the secret entrances and exits were on the ground floor. Instead, he found a good vantage point near one of the corners and hunkered down, keeping his eyes and ears open.


    With the advantage of his feats, seeing and moving in the depth of night wasn¡¯t an issue for the thief. From his position, he could see everything that happened on the floor of the warehouse, but none would be able to notice him.


    Not to mention, he was conveniently positioned close to a tunnel entrance that linked to the sewer network. Should things get out of hand, he could easily leave.


    Mind buzzing and chest pulsing with anger, Stacks watched, silent and still, while he tried to make sense of events. Things were simply moving too fast, he wasn¡¯t able to get his feet under him. Who could be responsible? He had a list of enemies as long as his arm, who didn¡¯t? The Guild had slit many a throat over the years, but this was too large to be simple revenge. This was organised.


    Who the FUCK is it?!


    His thoughts wound in twisted circles, considering a possibility, then discarding it just as quickly and moving to the next. Eventually, he would loop back to the first suspect and begin the whole process again. Nothing was making sense.


    Stacks.


    A sound, like a whisper, but from where? His head jerked up and his eyes flicked around the warehouse.


    Nothing. No movement at all. Had he imagined it?


    Stacks.


    He recognised that voice.


    ¡°Filetta?¡± he whispered. ¡°Where are you?¡±


    She was alive? Finally some good news. After he thrashed her for disappearing over the last two days, maybe she could shine some fucking light on this situation.


    Stacks.


    That whisper came again, and this time he was finally able to settle on a direction. The sound had come through the false wall to his left. She was in the tunnel. Why didn¡¯t she open it herself? Was she injured?


    ¡°You better have a fucking good explanation for where you¡¯ve been, Filetta,¡± he growled.


    Turning to his right, his hand sought and found the hidden latch, flicking it open with a dextrous motion of his fingers. A small panel, no higher than his knees, swung open soundlessly and he crouched down to see.


    ¡°Are you there? Come through,¡± he breathed.


    Stacks.


    ¡°Fucking. Really?¡±


    She couldn¡¯t make it to the entrance? If she was too injured¡­ that would explain her absence. Grumbling to himself, he slid down to the floor and shimmied through the narrow entrance and into the wider tunnel beyond. Before long, he was able to drop down into the sewer below.


    Landing in a crouch, he scanned the tunnel, hands held at the ready.


    Where was she?


    And why was it so cold?

 B3C73 - The Wight Which Rises

    ¡°You¡¯re looking tired, Master Almsfield.¡±


    Tyron blinked, then turned to look at his apprentice questioningly.


    ¡°More than usual, I mean,¡± Flynn hurriedly added. ¡°I mean, you always look tired, but right now¡­ I¡¯m not trying to be rude, I¡¯m merely observing¡­¡±


    His master did nothing but maintain that steady stare until the younger man wilted entirely.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Master Almsfield. I spoke out of turn.¡±


    Finally, Tyron relented.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. I am fatigued. The past few weeks have been extremely busy, and I¡¯ve found my nights to be filled with work and study. More so than usual. I¡¯m hoping to return to a more normal schedule soon, before I have to leave again.¡±


    Flynn chuckled nervously, visibly pleased to be let off the hook for his impolite observations.


    ¡°That work ethic is what made you into what you are today. Even Master Willhem has acknowledged your dedication and skill, and he was famous for his single-minded pursuit of the Arcanist¡¯s art.¡±


    At the mention of his own Master, Tyron could only smile wearily.


    ¡°My own passion for enchanting is like a candle compared to Master Willhem¡¯s roaring bonfire. Perhaps there is such a thing as being too dedicated. He lives for nothing else. Despite all the money and fame he has accumulated, he still burns to perfect his art and nothing else can satisfy him.


    ¡°I recommend you work hard, study hard, especially now in your youth, but if you wish to be happy, then do not seek to emulate my, or my Master¡¯s example. When you have achieved success, stop pushing, and cultivate other aspects of your life. You want to get married sometime, don¡¯t you?¡±


    His apprentice froze and blushed. How could anyone be this transparent?


    ¡°I do,¡± Flynn squeeked, then coughed and repeated himself in a lower tone, ¡°ahem¡­ I do, yes.¡±


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°You can¡¯t be married to enchanting and Cerri at the same time. As an example.¡±


    A flustered Flynn, began to try and deflect, but Tyron just waved his bluster away.


    ¡°Focus. I want us to finish this batch of cores before we close for the night.¡±


    ¡°R-right. Sorry.¡±


    The two fell back to work, each scraping away at the cores before them with their pliance, engraving the sigils that would enable them to function for their intended purpose. These particular cores were intended for water-condensing implements, enchanted to draw in water from the air, which was cheaper, magickally, than turning raw magick into a drinkable liquid.


    For another two hours, they worked, Tyron keeping a close eye on his apprentice, catching mistakes as they happened and providing instruction. For his part, Flynn was extremely grateful for the attention of his Master.


    Despite his somewhat weak personality, Tyron was pleased with Flynn. The young man was a good student, a hard worker, when pushed, and had a genuine affinity for the art of enchanting. As the sun dipped over the horizon and the noise downstairs began to die down, they wrapped up, cleaning down their benches, putting away the tools, and settling the cores they had finished into a neat tray, ready to be set the following day.


    With a pat on the shoulder and a slight nod, Tyron sent his apprentice on his way and farewelled the rest of his staff before he locked the front door and turned back to his now empty shop.


    He was exhausted. Eyes that felt like he¡¯d rubbed them down with sand. A slight trembling in his limbs. Pain in his joints. A permanent sense of fuzz, hovering around the edges of his awareness. All the signs were there, and he knew it well. Right here, in this moment, he should choose to rest.


    However, that¡¯s not what he did. Rather than going upstairs for food and sleep, he went into the storeroom, uncovered the secret stairs, and made his way down into his study.


    Even in his deprived state, Tyron was self-aware enough to give a wry chuckle at his own choices. It was unfortunate, but he and Master Willhem were similar in more ways than one. Willhem had dedicated himself to enchanting and cut almost everything else from his life. The acclaim he received was merely evidence of his mastery, and served no other purpose.


    Tyron loved magick, in all its forms, but he was fascinated by Necromancy. Unlike any other form of the magickal arts, it was a puzzle he had to assemble himself, without guidance, without reference. In fact, the complexity was a level above cobbling together a simple puzzle. Tyron was trying to fit the pieces together in the dark, unable to even see their shape, or gain a clue as to what the final picture was meant to be. Everytime the Unseen granted him knowledge, it was like a tiny flash of light, giving him a glimpse of the possibilities, then he was plunged back into the darkness, left to feel his way forward once again.


    Were he to meet another person who had been given the Necromancer Class, it¡¯s entirely possible the fundamentals of their spells would be totally different, even though they produced similar results.


    Of course, Tyron was convinced that his version would prove to be superior.


    With a sigh, Tyron turned his chair around, facing it away from the desk, and sat, chin propped up on one hand as he beheld what lay before him.


    Usually he didn¡¯t allow skeletons to remain in the study once they were animated, there were several nooks and crannies within the sewer in which he could leave them, but these specimens were somewhat different.


    A new batch of revenants, the latest amongst his collection. Several of the so-called ¡®guild¡¯ had been of a sufficient level and ability that Tyron had felt it would be worth binding them to their remains. After all, a Revenant was able to call upon the Skills they had cultivated in life, though they were usually diminished, and required a prohibitive cost in magick.


    For example, ¡®Dags¡¯. Supposedly, he had earned his nickname for the two daggers he wielded in battle. The man must have been prolific with them, almost reaching level forty in his Cutthroat Class. In life, Dags had been able to execute moves with staggering speed and accuracy. His body, enhanced by the Unseen, was faster, stronger and his ability to control it more finely tuned than would be possible for an unlevelled person.


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    As a Revenant, that body was gone, only the bones remained. Those muscles and tissues, strengthened by his levels, was replaced by Tyron¡¯s own threads. He was proud of his work, extremely proud, but even he would admit that the weave he produced was not at the same level as what nature and the Unseen could produce.


    When his new Revenant attempted to use his abilities, they simply weren¡¯t as good, and the cost for that exertion was not paid by the body, but by Tyron¡¯s available magick.


    ¡°Come here, Dags,¡± he said out loud.


    The Revenant turned towards him and walked over, two daggers formed of darkened bone held fast in its hands. Still sat in his chair, Tyron looked up at his minion, stared into its burning, purple eyes. Resentment thrashed there, a raging fire of loathing, anger and fear. The Necromancer could feel it, a scream that filled a frequency right on the edge of his hearing.


    This was normal for new Revenants. Some reacted with horror more than anger, some were the reverse. Eventually, they would fall to a numb acceptance, but that would take time. Time in which they would rail against the magick that bound them¡­ and fail to even bend it.


    ¡°Show me again,¡± Tyron ordered, gesturing toward the wooden block he¡¯d set atop one of the stone slabs.


    Without a word, for he could not speak, the former thief turned, readied himself, then lunged forward.


    Fast. Faster even than what he¡¯d seen from the swordsmen he had turned into Revenants. The skeleton flashed across the intervening space, blades snapping out to strike against the already marked wood so quickly he could barely see them.


    The drain on his power was considerable. Dags was pushing his undead body to its limit, drawing on all the magick he could push through the threads that bound his frame.


    Tyron carefully inspected the Revenant, using every observational tool at his disposal, until finally he placed them down with a sigh.


    ¡°Just like I thought,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°The weave simply isn¡¯t up to the task.¡±


    For weeks, Tyron had hunted down the remnants of the Guild, dismantling the organisation and killing everyone with links to the leadership. Everyone who might have known about his dealings with the thieves should be dead.


    But that was only part of why he was so exhausted. Following that burst of nighttime activity, he¡¯d, of course, processed the remains and used them to create new minions. What a waste it would have been to do otherwise!


    However, the real reason he was so tired was because of this particular Revenant. Dags had brought into sharp relief the area Tyron was now most lacking, the single greatest flaw in his Necromantic art.


    His threading.


    Now, Tyron was confident he¡¯d done all he could think of to improve his weaves. He¡¯d tested every variation of the established patterns he could think of, carefully assessed each iteration, before cutting the threads and starting over. Every muscle, every joint, he had exhaustively experimented upon. His current design, by far the best he¡¯d ever made, was a marvel compared to the horrific mess he¡¯d created when starting out.


    His skeletons could now move fluidly, more efficiently, properly able to articulate every joint, every finger.


    But, as Dags had so amply demonstrated, it simply wasn¡¯t good enough. There was a limit to how much power his current weave could withstand, and even someone as relatively weak as Dags had run into it.


    For nights upon nights, Tyron had been trying to find a solution, but so far, he hadn¡¯t been able to do more than slight improvements. He was missing something fundamental, something that would be key to his advancement in the Necromantic arts.


    As it stood, even if he were to capture a powerful slayer and turn them into a Revenant, they wouldn¡¯t be able to exert even a fraction of their former strength. The problem was eating away at him, but no matter what he did, he got no closer to a solution.


    With a frustrated grunt, Tyron slumped in his chair, rubbing at his eyes with his palms. He was exhausted, drained, there was almost no way he would make a breakthrough in this condition. It was time to go to bed.


    However, there was one thing he needed to do first.


    His fingers danced in the air and words flowed from his lips as he bent his magick, bent the world itself, to a shape that was more pleasing.


    Once again, the pillar of mist took shape, the baleful shade of Filetta contained within.


    Release me, she demanded. I have done as you wished. Answered all of your questions. Release me!


    Tyron nodded slowly.


    ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± he said, ¡°you¡¯ve cooperated to the best of your ability, as far as I¡¯m aware. All of your former partners have been dealt with. You have my thanks.¡±


    Of course, Tyron had done his best to verify her words with every other member he¡¯d captured, just to ensure she didn¡¯t omit anything crucial. Despite his efforts, nothing had shaken loose. Filetta, it appeared, had dealt straight with him.


    ¡°It¡¯s almost strange how quickly the docks settled. Afterwards, I mean. A powerful group like the Guild, built up over years, vanished overnight. You¡¯d think there¡¯d be more of a disturbance, but life goes on, apparently. All of the territories and businesses you had your fingers in has been snapped up by others. Things are running so smoothly that I wonder if the Marshalls even noticed a change.¡±


    I don¡¯t care, the spectre rasped at him, I am dead. Set me free.


    Tyron leaned back in his chair.


    ¡°I always wonder about this, so I might ask the question, if you¡¯ll forgive me. Why are you spectres so eager to move on to your next destination? Do you really believe it''s going to be better than where you are now?


    ¡°Even if I released you, no longer called upon your spirit, where do you think you¡¯re going to go? I know for a fact your spirit will remain here, in this realm, for some time, before it finally slips away. So whether I summon you or not, you¡¯re stuck here for the time being, Filetta.¡±


    The spectre hissed angrily at him.


    Your call strengthens my bond to this realm. I can feel it. Every time we speak, you delay my eventual departure. I no longer want to be here, Tyron. I don¡¯t care where I go, it has to be better than this.


    As he understood it, ghosts lived a fairly miserable existence. Every time he looked through the eyes of his own spirit minions, he caught a glimpse of it. Drifting through that mist-filled wasteland, unable to interact with the material world at all. It was little wonder they were so hateful toward the living.


    ¡°When you leave this place, you will only find yourself within the realm of the dead,¡± Tyron said softly. ¡°There will be no warm embrace of the Goddess for you, Filetta. I don¡¯t know much about that place, not yet, but I don¡¯t think it¡¯s any better than what you are going through now.¡±


    I¡¯ll take my chances.


    Tyron nodded, slowly. Then paused.


    ¡°There is an alternative. Not a solution, but a way to lengthen your existence, delay your eventual fall to the realm of death.¡±


    Like them? The spectre hissed, gesturing toward Dags and the like. Bound to your will like a slave? No thanks, Tyron. I have been bound before, and I swore I wouldn¡¯t be again.


    ¡°Not like them,¡± Tyron corrected her. ¡°Those are Revenants, and as you say, they are subservient to my will. They can¡¯t even think about opposing me. That is their fate. However, there is another form of undead. A Wight. You¡¯ll have a greater degree of independence. And¡­ I think¡­ I can give you access to the Unseen again. You¡¯ll be able to gain a Class and level, though it won¡¯t be the same as what you had before.¡±


    Filetta, or at least, her ghost, hesitated for a moment.


    What would be the point? For what reason would I exist? I have already lived my life and died. I have no great purpose left unfulfilled.


    ¡°I do,¡± Tyron said quietly.


    His true obsession, the endless hunger for vengeance, to see the Magisters dead, burned as bright within him now as it had five years ago above Cragwhistle.


    ¡°Let me tell you a little story,¡± he said, ¡°about my real name, and what we might be able to do together.¡±

 B3C74 - New Beginnings

    How long had it been, since he had last laid eyes on these mountains?


    The Venerable shifted uncomfortably as he gazed up at the many crags and peaks that stretched from the left horizon to the right. The barrier mountains, a now-impassable obstacle that marked the edge of the Western Province, towered high in the distance.


    A cold wind blew, cutting straight through his cloak. The chill penetrated deep into his impossibly frail body, digging into bones where it settled, coiled around his joints. For a brief moment, he wondered if the gods would see fit to free him of his aches as he undertook this final task for them, but then dismissed the thought with a sneer.


    He was going soft. Not for a single second had they ever lifted their burdens from his shoulders, and he had never asked them to. He was convinced this was the reason he got along so well with the Three. They liked him, liked to watch him survive and push onward despite the suffering he endured, waiting for him to crack and beg them to take back their blessings.


    But he never did.


    ¡°Are you alright, Venerable?¡±


    The young girl, Elsbeth walked alongside him, reaching out a hand to steady his shoulder.


    ¡°You¡¯re freezing,¡± she gasped, ¡°here, take my cloak.¡±


    The old man flashed her a gap-toothed grin.


    ¡°Not to worry, girl,¡± he wheezed, ¡°there¡¯s no way to stop the cold seeping into these old bones.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡±


    ¡°But nothing. The Gods have seen me through this far, I¡¯m sure they can take me the last little way.¡±


    He raised his walking stick and pointed ahead.


    ¡°That¡¯s the place we¡¯re headed, isn¡¯t it? Not so far to go.¡±


    Elsbeth peered ahead, and yes indeed, the outer wall of Cragwhistle could be seen in the distance, barely visible through the morning mist. Frost coated the ground and clung to the hardy, tall mountain grasses that grew along the sides of the road, giving a white tint to everything in view. Combined with the light fog that hung in the air, it almost seemed as though they walked an ethereal path, stepping on a road that led to a place beyond the mortal realm.


    Maybe it did, the Venerable mused to himself, chuckling.


    He turned around to view the long train of people behind him.


    ¡°Almost there,¡± he called in his thin voice. ¡°If you want to stop being stupid, you could be there in a few minutes.¡±


    As expected, all he got back were flat stares and slowly shaken heads.


    ¡°You really think the Three give a rat¡¯s buttock if you walk in front of me?¡± he railed, shaking his stick at them, but they wouldn¡¯t budge. He turned forward with a huff.


    ¡°They are trying to show you respect¨C¡± Elsbeth began.


    ¡°I don¡¯t need their respect,¡± the old man spat. ¡°I¡¯m just an old man. You¡¯re supposed to see the gods work through me, and respect them.¡±


    ¡°The gods favour you.¡±


    The Venerable snorted forcefully and almost fell over, catching himself at the last second.


    ¡°There is precious little difference between their favour and their anger, as well you know. Besides, they aren¡¯t as petty as the Five ponces. The Three don¡¯t care if people don¡¯t respect something just because they happen to favour it. In fact, overcoming someone who has attained their blessings was one of the best ways to attract their benediction, back in the day.¡±


    The old man leered as he cast his mind back to a simpler, bloodier time.


    ¡°Those were the days,¡± he sighed.


    Elsbeth, wisely, kept her tongue. Which of course led the Venerable into a wide-ranging tale of the extreme and oppressive violence he witnessed amongst the remote tribes in which he¡¯d been born, some of which might have even been true.


    Nevertheless, the poor girl was a visible shade of green by the time they arrived at the gates of the town. A simple construction, no more than three metres tall, made of logs bound together on the inside, it was clear where the majority of the locals¡¯ effort had gone: to the mountain-facing side, as it should.


    Their column had been seen approaching for hours, and a welcome party had emerged from within the gate, standing straight, trying not to appear nervous. It was at this point that the Venerable began to hear it, that special sound only he could hear.


    Was it one of the many gifts the gods had bestowed upon him, or was it something he had simply learned to recognise, over the centuries? Whichever was the case, he had long ago realised he could hear it when the gods were paying attention.


    There was a shift, ever so slight. The wind breathed. The ground sighed. The trees whispered. They were here, Crone, Raven and Rot. All throughout his shrivelled and trembling frame, he felt it, a tingling pressure.


    Old Gods, hard to please, impossible to satisfy, who craved amusement, were anticipating something, something from him. In his experience, the outcome of such events was never in his favour. Nevertheless, he continued to stride forward. He¡¯d never backed down in the face of the Three, and he wasn¡¯t about to start now.


    The young priestess, Elsbeth, stepped forward along with him, as they led the column straight up to meet the delegation waiting for them.


    ¡°Elsbeth, nice to see you again,¡± a large man said, standing in the midst of the gathering.


    ¡°Ortan,¡± she smiled up at him, ¡°it¡¯s nice to be back.¡±


    ¡°Doubtful. It¡¯s freezing.¡±


    The Venerable shuffled forward and jabbed this ¡®Ortan¡¯ in the leg with his stick.


    ¡°Which is why we shouldn¡¯t be leaving old men standing about in the cold. Open up the gates and let us in,¡± he demanded.


    Ortan¡¯s eyes widened as he looked down on this impossibly shrivelled man.


    ¡°Hold on there, father time, we won¡¯t take long. You¡¯ll have your heels up by the hearth in no time.¡±


    One of the women standing behind the huge villager twitched, and the Venerable glanced towards her. Ah, another member of the faith, no doubt. He recognised their touch upon her. He gestured for her not to bother stepping forward. When did the rest of the priesthood start being so protective of him? He¡¯d indulged them for far too long, allowing bad habits to build.


    ¡°There are eight thousand of us,¡± he wheezed, ¡°along with cattle and sheep, numbering near five thousand. What else do you need to know?¡±


    ¡°Eight?¡± Ortan blanched, eyes going wide. ¡°That many?¡±


    ¡°People are fleeing all over the province,¡± Elsbeth told him sadly. ¡°The church and the marshalls are beginning to crack down everywhere. People are disappearing in the night, never to be seen again. Members of the faith can see the writing on the wall, and this is their last refuge.¡±


    ¡°There will be even more behind us,¡± the Venerable chuckled thinly, ¡°another group this size will arrive in perhaps two weeks.¡±


    He glanced up at the big man, eyes dancing with mirth.


    ¡°I hope you¡¯re ready for it.¡±


    It appeared as though he wasn¡¯t. Ortan and the gathered men and women behind fell to muttering amongst themselves, whispered arguments and furtive gestures flying between them. The woman he¡¯d noticed earlier stepped around them and approached.


    ¡°It is nice to see you, Venerable,¡± she said.


    He peered at her.


    ¡°Munhilde? Is that you?¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± the priestess smiled.


    He shook his stick at her.


    ¡°Prayed to the Crone, did you? Too vain, that was always your weakness.¡±


    ¡°Are you going to judge me for preserving myself through prayer? You?¡± the woman replied, a little reproachful.


    ¡°Bah. I haven¡¯t lived this long because I wanted to. By Their Will.¡±


    ¡°By Their Will,¡± she echoed.


    When they were done, Elsbeth stepped forward and enfolded the other priestess in her arms.


    ¡°It¡¯s good to see you again, Munhilde,¡± she beamed. ¡°When did you arrive?¡±


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°A few weeks ago,¡± her teacher replied, returning her embrace with a soft smile. ¡°It¡¯s nice to see you as well, Elsbeth.¡±


    ¡°How long are those idiots going to argue amongst themselves before they let us in?¡± the Venerable grumbled. ¡°Surely they thought to count how many people they could see coming?¡±


    ¡°They thought it was five thousand,¡± Munhilde told them. ¡°Apparently, there was a miscount.¡±


    ¡°Only followers of the Three could be that bad at counting,¡± the Venerable said.


    The rocks were listening. Carefully, he avoided glancing towards them, but he could tell. That slight creak, as if each stone had shifted a hundredth of a millimetre in its place.


    What would they ask of him? Anticipation was beginning to build in what was left of his belly.


    ¡°Something interesting is going to happen today,¡± he said, and Munhilde snapped her gaze toward him.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± she asked.


    Elsbeth was confused by her teacher¡¯s tone. Looking between the old man and the priestess in confusion, she hesitated to speak.


    ¡°I am,¡± the Venerable confirmed, ¡°but I¡¯m not sure what.¡±


    Legs trembling, he walked forward once again, leaning heavily on his walking stick, until he stood before the group of arguing officials.


    ¡°Time¡¯s up,¡± he declared in his thin, wavering voice. ¡°Open up the gates and let¡¯s get this show on the road. What will be will be.¡±


    Frustrated with both the old man and the people he was arguing with, Ortan turned around.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, grandfather, but it¡¯s going to take a little time for us to work out how to house and feed everyone.¡±


    ¡°They will be provided for,¡± the Venerable waved a dismissive hand. ¡°Hasn¡¯t that always been the case before? Don¡¯t tell me you believed it was your administration skills that kept this place running all this time?¡±


    At his words, Ortan fell quiet for a moment.


    ¡°No,¡± he said quietly, ¡°I don¡¯t believe that.¡±


    The Venerable gave him a surprisingly understanding look.


    ¡°The gods have been knocking at the door for some time, young one. But my gods are impatient creatures. They will only knock for so long before they take it upon themselves to open the way.¡±


    With apparent effort, the old man lifted his stick off the ground, then brought it down again.


    There came a slight ¡®thud¡¯, as the hardened tip of the stick met the packed dirt on which he stood, then came the rumbling, followed by the shaking.


    When it was done, the gate, and only the gate, had collapsed, the logs rolling out of the way and leaving the way into the town open.


    ¡°Oh look,¡± the Venerable wheezed, ¡°it¡¯s open.¡±


    Before anyone could stop him, he began to shuffle forward, Elsbeth and Munhilde falling in beside him, and the entire column following from behind. A stunned silence gripped the gathered administrators just long enough for them to enter Cragwhistle itself before they caught up with him, shouting and yelling, waving their arms, demanding he explain. Munhilde and Elsbeth tried to calm them, to explain who he was, to warn them, but they didn¡¯t want to listen.


    Only Ortan hung back, looking troubled.


    Smart young man, the Venerable thought to himself. He learned quickly.


    Without stopping his slow, staggered walk, the Venerable reached up with one hand, as if grasping hold of the air, then clenched his fist.


    Silence immediately fell, as the men and women around him continued to open their mouths, only for no sound to come out. Shock quickly turned to anger, then to fear, which wasn¡¯t respect, but lived next door. It was close enough for him.


    He barely paid those people any mind. The Gods were calling him forward. Somewhere in this town was the place they wanted him to go. Not far now.


    That sense of destiny was intoxicating. It chased away the cold which had dug deep into his marrow. Chased away the pain in his limbs he hadn¡¯t been able to escape for hundreds of years. Eyes alight with a mad glee, he hobbled forward, senses alive to what the Gods had to say.


    Challenge me again, you bastards. I dare you.


    ¡°Venerable, are you alright? There are places you can rest not far from here,¡± Elsbeth said, laying a hand on his shoulder.


    He shrugged her off.


    ¡°No need. No need! The Three are calling. Can¡¯t you hear them?¡±


    The commotion at the gate had drawn people out of their homes, some staring in confusion at this old man making his slow way down the main street, others bowing in respect at the two priestesses beside him. Still more turned their eyes to the voiceless people who helped run the town, people they trusted, following behind the old man, desperate to draw close to him but too afraid to do so.


    The second he lay eyes on the town well, he knew it was where he needed to go. It made sense. Right in the centre of the town, it had become the hub around which this growing settlement revolved. At this hour, early in the morning, there was plenty of foot traffic here, people shopping, going about their day. All of it came to a stop as the Venerable drew near, a terrible sense of purpose urging him forward.


    As if possessed, he picked up speed, eager to confront this new challenge. Elsbeth reached out to support him, worried he would fall, but Munhilde stopped her.


    ¡°He is in communion with the Gods,¡± she warned her former apprentice. ¡°Something is going to happen here.¡±


    More people filed into Cragwhistle with each passing moment, the thousands of refugees, pleased that their long journey was finished at last, pressed forward, squeezing through the destroyed gate. They followed at the Venerable¡¯s heels, and filed into the open circle in the centre of town by the hundreds.


    As soon as he reached the low stone wall of the well, the Venerable grew still, and closed his eyes.


    Caw!


    He looked up. A raven flew down from the sky and alighted upon the wooden beam around which the rope was wound, staring at him with storm-filled eyes.


    Squeak!


    A rat, lean and patchy, climbed up from the depths of the well, jumped down from the stone and came to rest at his feet. It looked up at him, eyes filled with unending hunger.


    From within the crowd, he felt Her gaze upon him. In a moment, he found her, an old woman, as wizened as he himself, watching him with a thousand pairs of eyes set in a thousand different faces.


    A fierce grin bloomed on the Venerable¡¯s face as he was confronted by his gods once more.


    What are you waiting for? You¡¯ve never held back before!


    The raven fluttered its wings, the rat chittered, and the old woman laughed.


    With a smirk, the Venerable brought his hands together and lowered his head, showing proper respect.


    As the Venerable bowed in prayer, Elsbeth watched from nearby, fearful, as she and Munhilde clung to each other. To the two priestesses, the air around the well was as heavy as a blanket, the oppressive weight of the Three gods pressing down on them to the point they could barely stand.


    How the old man endured it, Elsbeth couldn¡¯t begin to imagine. Even to those who weren¡¯t as sensitive, they could tell something was different, something was wrong.


    No matter how they tried to suppress their presence, the Three were Old Gods, tied to the realm from the moment of its creation. In their presence, the air, the land and the water turned to listen. As the Venerable prayed, and as more refugees gathered around, they fell to their knees and clasped their hands together, sensing the holiness of this moment.


    Elsbeth too, lowered herself to the ground, Munhilde following with her, and began to earnestly pray. She did not know what was about to happen, but she asked that the Venerable, a loyal servant all his life, be cared for and uplifted in this moment.


    As she repeated the prayer, surprisingly, she felt an impossibly ancient voice whisper in her ear.


    The Venerable raised his head, hand clenched tight around the shaft of his walking stick, a drip of sweat rolling down his frozen, withered forehead.


    That¡¯s what you want, eh? Saved the worst for last.


    They gave him a choice, of course they did. They gave him the choice knowing he would reject it. He had never stepped back from their demands, not once in over a thousand years.


    Slowly, he raised his head, and opened his eyes.


    No longer were they the eyes of an aged man, filled with rheum and fog. Now, they crackled with lightning, and his voice boomed like thunder.


    ¡°Gathered servants of Crone, Raven and Rot! Kneel, and hear my words!¡±


    His words rolled across the entire town and boomed against the mountains themselves. In an instant, every eye was fixed upon the tiny old man before the well, who in this moment appeared as mighty as any heroic slayer of legend. People stumbled from their houses, rushing toward the voice, or fell to their knees in their homes, certain in the knowledge that their gods were at work amongst them.


    ¡°For more than a thousand years, I have served the Three. In all my days, I have lived in a world ruled by the usurpers and their insipid followers, while my own gods lay still and silent, waiting, watching.¡±


    He paused for a moment, watching the crowd.


    ¡°THEY WAIT NO LONGER!¡± he boomed. ¡°It has been over five thousand years since the false ones took their unearned power and changed the face of the realm to suit themselves. Five thousand years of torment and suffering for those who kept to the old faith. The true faith. At long last, our patience has been rewarded. Our endurance has been tested, and we have not been found wanting.¡±


    As one, the gathered faithful pressed their faces to the ground. Some were openly weeping, others trembling with deep emotions. These were the words they had longed to hear, that their grandparents had longed to hear, but died without ever getting a chance.


    ¡°Crone, Raven and Rot walk among the faithful once more. Their eyes are upon you. Our realm has been pushed to the brink of collapse, and now the Three have roused to save it. This is the last chance, the final roll of the dice. Either the faithful will rise together in triumph, or the empire will fall to ruin, and the realm will be corrupted shortly after.¡±


    A dire warning, spoken directly to the fear that resided in the heart of every citizen from the moment they were old enough to understand the reality of where they lived.


    ¡°Of course, there can be no boon from the Gods without suffering. No blessing untempered by pain. Strength and sacrifice are what they demand from their followers. Watch now, and remember me, as I demonstrate the standard.¡±


    The old man raised his hands, frenzied glee burning in his crackling eyes.


    ¡°I offer myself,¡± he declared to the sky, voice booming over the gathered crowd. ¡°Take me and use me to make a new way for your people.¡±


    A moment of pure silence descended, of perfect stillness. Noone moved, except for Elsbeth. She had listened to the voice that whispered in her ear, and she had accepted.


    Now, she stepped forward, avoiding Munhilde¡¯s frantic attempt to grab her skirts.


    ¡°I offer myself in your place,¡± she whispered to the Venerable, head kept low.


    By her foot, the rat watched her, head tilted to the side.


    ¡°They have accepted me,¡± she said, then swallowed, unable to keep the trembling from her voice.


    The Venerable watched her for a moment, then shook his head, sadly.


    ¡°Fool girl,¡± he wheezed. ¡°So keen to take up the burdens of others. If you aren¡¯t careful, you¡¯ll end up just like me. They will pile those burdens upon you, just to see if you will break.¡±


    With a gentle push of his hand, he sent the priestess flying back to crash into the arms of her teacher, metres away.


    ¡°I never broke,¡± the Venerable declared, then lowered his head.


    Lightning struck. And again. Again.


    Power surged, light flashed, thunder crashed and the air itself howled in pain as reality itself began to twist. People cried out in terror, recoiled away from the well, which they could not look at, but their voices were stolen away by the torrent of light and sound that only grew more intense.


    Until, suddenly, it was over.


    When it cleared, the raven, the rat and the crone were gone. The Venerable was gone. The well itself was gone.


    In its place, stood a simple stone platform, circular, with a gleaming gem mounted upon a plinth rising in the centre.


    To the people of the empire, it was obvious what they were looking at, a familiar sight to them all, something they had witnessed every year from the time they were old enough to walk.


    An Awakening Stone.


    But, if one looked closely, it was possible to see the shape of this one was not even, not like the ones they had seen before. No, if one gazed upon it in the right light, from the right direction, it almost appeared like a small, hunched old man, laughing.

 B3C75 - Gathering Storm

    ¡°There¡¯s a strange atmosphere in the market today.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯s nothing, Madam Geller.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t try and placate me, Cerry, I¡¯m worried. The Marshalls arrested three people just yesterday! I knew Mr Wisten from when I was little, he¡¯s a pillar of the community. They rolled in and took him away without a word to anyone. His poor wife is much too old to be taking care of herself.¡±


    ¡°If there aren¡¯t any charges, then I hope he¡¯ll be released soon¡­.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not the only one!¡± Madam Geller said, shaking her little fist at noone in particular. ¡°You be careful out there, Cerry. Something strange is happening lately, and I don¡¯t like it one bit.¡±


    ¡°Th-thank you for your concern. I¡¯m sure everything is going to be fine¡­.¡±


    ¡°Silly girl! You need to be careful!¡±


    Tyron stepped out from behind the counter and spoke, not raising his voice, but being firm.


    ¡°Thank you for your concern, Madam Geller. We appreciate it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, Master Almsfield. I didn¡¯t realise you were there. I-I apologise if I was too loud.¡±


    ¡°Not at all. Now, I trust you are satisfied that your order has been filled.¡±


    The little old woman looked down at the parcel she held in her hands. Bed warmers, good to ward off the chill. With winter approaching, they were selling well.


    ¡°Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you. I¡¯ll be on my way, then.¡±


    He walked her to the door despite her protestations and waved to her from the doorstep before turning back into the shop.


    ¡°Sorry, Master Almsfield,¡± Cerry said mournfully, ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure how to respond.¡±


    Cerry was an amazing sales clerk, but if she had one weakness, it was the more wealthy matrons who came in and mothered her. She appeared to have a face that reminded every old biddy of their daughters.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. And I agree with some of what the Madam had to say. There is an added layer of danger in Shadetown these days. I recommend you step with extra care coming to and from work.¡±


    The girl hesitated for a moment before speaking up.


    ¡°Y-you don¡¯t think they¡¯ll come here, then?¡± she asked timidly.


    ¡°What, and arrest me?¡± Tyron pretended to smile wide. ¡°I run an honest business here, Cerry.¡±


    ¡°I know that¡­.¡±


    ¡°Unless you¡¯ve been skimming money off the top?¡±


    ¡°I would never!¡±


    Tyron just laughed, though he felt no amusement himself.


    ¡°I know that. Now let¡¯s discuss more pleasant things. Your Awakening is coming up soon, isn¡¯t it? When¡¯s it happening? Next week?¡±


    The young woman pouted at him, put out.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure not even you are so distracted by work that you forgot when Awakening day is happening. It¡¯s next Tel¡¯anan¡¯s day.¡±


    ¡°Ah, of course.¡±


    In truth, he had forgotten. For something like this to have slipped his mind was a definite sign he¡¯d been working too much. He needed to pull back.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry I won¡¯t be here for it, Cerry, but I¡¯m confident everything is going to be fine. Don¡¯t forget, you are welcome to stay on at the store afterwards, no matter what Class you get.¡±


    She looked down, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.


    ¡°Thank you, Master Almsfield. That¡¯s very reassuring.¡±


    She excused herself in a hurry, leaving Tyron wondering if he¡¯d been that emotional in the leadup to his Awakening. Pretty much everyone had been unstable in that final week. Crying, fighting, unable to sleep, isolating themselves, he¡¯d seen every type of reaction amongst the people he¡¯d grown up with, and among the young folk who¡¯d travelled from out of town. Looking back, it wasn¡¯t hard to work out where he¡¯d fallen on that spectrum. As much as he¡¯d tried to hide it, the pressure and anticipation had driven him into seclusion, working on his uncle¡¯s accounts and studying books.


    Well, it had all turned out well in the end, hadn¡¯t it?


    Tyron chuckled humourlessly, and turned to catch the eye of Wansa, then gestured for her to join him in one of the back rooms. The thrall appeared reluctant, but didn¡¯t have any choice but to accede to his request.


    ¡°What is it?¡± she asked warily once the door was shut behind her.


    He eyed her. Since his falling out with her mistress, Wansa had been even more standoffish than she¡¯d been before, if such a thing were possible, but had continued to perform her role faithfully. He might think the methods Yor used to control her creatures were detestable, but they were certainly effective.


    Now, however, things were different.


    ¡°You¡¯re close to a liability in the current environment,¡± he told her bluntly. ¡°If Yor and her coven are sniffed out during the purge, then you¡¯ll provide a trail straight to my shop.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been working here for months,¡± she replied smoothly. ¡°Even if you get rid of me now, you¡¯ll still be under suspicion. In fact, you may look even more suspicious, as if you knew something and sacked me once you realised the officials were investigating.¡±


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    Yor was obviously still squeezing her if she was this eager to keep her post. Clearly the former slayer had spent some time anticipating his concerns. She wasn¡¯t wrong, firing her could be seen as suspicious, but there were other ways.


    ¡°You could just disappear,¡± Tyron said, his tone flat and emotionless, ¡°vanish, no trace of you ever found. No one would ever connect your disappearance with a little Arcanist¡¯s shop, and as they say, dead thralls tell no tales.¡±


    Wansa¡¯s eyes narrowed. She tried to disguise it, but she was clearly nervous. Her gaze flicked to the door.


    ¡°My mistress would be most displeased if harm were to befall me. She would demand a price.¡±


    ¡°She would,¡± Tyron agreed, ¡°and that is the only reason you are alive. Return to your mistress once the store is closed tonight and tell her your time of employment here has come to an end. If you are here in the morning, you will be an undead before the sun goes down. Am I clear?¡±


    The former silver ranked slayer swallowed nervously.


    ¡°Crystal,¡± she replied.


    ¡°Good.¡±


    With a flick of his fingers, he indicated she should leave, which she did, expeditiously. Another loose end tied up. With that conversation taken care of, he returned to the upstairs workshop to continue instructing Flynn and added to the stock of cores that would be needed to tide the store over while he was away.


    As evening fell, he farewelled his employees, locked up the store, and made his way down to the study. There, he was greeted by a spectral voice, emanating from an orb in the centre of his desk.


    ¡°It¡¯s boring down here,¡± Filetta complained.


    ¡°You know how to sleep,¡± Tyron told her wearily, sitting down with a sigh.


    ¡°It¡¯s boring to be asleep! Tyron, if I wanted to spend my time drifting in an eternal haze, I would have told you to leave me as a spirit! I agreed to be one of your experimental undead with free will, not a ghost stuck in a ball.¡±


    ¡°If it were that easy to do, I would have done it already,¡± he growled, a frown creasing his forehead. ¡°I¡¯m trying to uncover magick before the Unseen has provided it to me. Complex magick. There are steps. It takes time.¡±


    ¡°Time you don¡¯t have,¡± the spirit replied, a little tartly. ¡°I¡¯m only going to tolerate this existence for so long before I go insane or demand you release me.¡±


    Which was consistent with Dove¡¯s experience. ¡®Living¡¯ in such a way was simply intolerable for people, to the point even someone with a highly trained mind, with the willpower of an experienced mage, could be driven to the brink.


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Tyron said, holding up his hands. ¡°I know it¡¯s difficult. I¡¯m working as fast as I can, but I have to admit, it¡¯s been difficult to make any progress.¡±


    Which was putting it mildly. He felt like he was smashing his head into a wall in the hopes of eventually wearing away the stone. To create a Wight, a higher form of skeletal undead, he needed to make another qualitative leap. The key to making Revenants was to find a way to properly fuse the soul with the remains, connect the ghost and threads that allowed it to control its body.


    To create a Wight, he theorised that it was necessary to forge a connection between the spirit and the Unseen, eventually instantiating them as a new, undead entity in its eyes. He¡¯d worked out a method via which a spirit could cast a status ritual, but how was he supposed to build that into the process of creating an undead? This was the question to which he¡¯d been trying, and failing to find an answer.


    And now he¡¯d run out of time.


    ¡°The Marshalls have been a lot more active this week than last,¡± he said.


    Filetta sighed.


    ¡°I find it difficult to care about the struggles of the living, given that you killed me.¡±


    ¡°You tried to kill me first.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s such a comfort.¡±


    ¡°Fine. I only mention it to provide context to what I have to say next. I¡¯ll be leaving in the next few days. Leaving Kenmor, I mean. I aim to spend a month in Cragwhistle, on the far western edge of the province. There¡¯s a new rift there I can use to gain levels and practise my magick.¡±


    ¡°You want to leave me here for months on end? You¡¯re out of your mind if you think I¡¯m going to just wait for you.¡±


    And where exactly are you going to go?


    He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. If he wanted to create a more independent min¡ªundead, then he needed cooperation. If his experiment with Filetta didn¡¯t work out, then he would free her spirit, as he¡¯d promised.


    It would be a waste of good materials, but he would do it.


    ¡°Obviously not,¡± he said. ¡°I wanted to bring you with me and continue my work out there. It¡¯s possible my next status ritual will divulge some clues that light the path forward. I know you may not want to come, so I gave you the context so you could make your own decision.¡±


    The spirit contemplated from within her orb, a slight ethereal glow the only clue as to her presence within the mundane object.


    ¡°I appreciate you giving me the option,¡± she said finally, ¡°I know you¡­ don¡¯t have to.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not trying to force you into anything. This will only work if you are willing. The moment you don¡¯t want to proceed, I will release your spirit.¡±


    Filetta made a sound like a shaky release of breath. She¡¯d spoken to him about what it was like, to be an unbound spirit. It didn¡¯t sound great. Half awake, half asleep, drifting through a nightmare realm of fog and spectres who clawed at the living without being able to touch them.


    As a Necromancer, Tyron thought it was well past time he found out what happened to the spirits of the living when they died. It was kind of his business, after all. The church of the divines preached that the souls of the worthy were collected by one of the Five and granted entry to their respective afterlife.


    It might even be true. How was he to know?


    He hadn¡¯t lied to Filetta, though, he did believe that her spirit was bound for the realm of the dead, which he knew existed thanks to Dove¡¯s Class description.


    Perhaps it would prove to be a paradise for unclaimed spirits, but he doubted it. He doubted it very much.


    ¡°I¡¯ll come with you,¡± the ghost said, interrupting his thoughts. ¡°I¡¯m still willing to have another shot at life. Unlife. You know what I mean.¡±


    That was a relief. Tyron smiled.


    ¡°Good. I¡¯m determined to succeed, just you wait.¡±


    He leaned back with a sigh and glanced around the room.


    ¡°Well, It¡¯s going to be a busy few days. Need to get everything packed and prepared for the trip, and make sure there aren¡¯t any signs of Death Magick for the inquisition to sniff out.¡±


    ¡°When will you be able to work on me again?¡±


    ¡°Not until we get there. A week, perhaps? I recommend you sleep until then. I¡¯ll let you know when the time comes.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    The light flickered and died around the orb as the spirit within returned to that subdued state Dove had referred to as ¡®sleep¡¯. One more problem taken care of.


    Now all he had to do was pack everything up, prepare the undead for transport, take care of Filetta¡¯s bones, ensure he had enough of his alchemical mixtures to work on new minions out in Cragwhistle¡­.


    And a thousand other things.


    At least he had the Ossuary to help transport everything. Whatever he wanted to take with him, he could shove into the interdimensional space. There was plenty of floor space after all, one of the benefits of pouring in as much magick as he had. Once he was done, he could close the door here, then resummon it once he arrived at his destination. Much more convenient than paying to ship box after box of skeletons and bone weaponry.


    It did mean, however, that he needed to summon all his minions out of the city¡¯s sewers, which was going to stink.


    ¡°May as well get started,¡± he sighed.


    He enjoyed Necromancy, but it was always such a dirty job.

 B3C76 - Leave The World Behind

    ¡°I¡¯m innocent! I¡¯ve done nothing wrong!¡±


    Tyron¡¯s head snapped around before he could catch himself. There was a crash as something was knocked over and the sounds of a struggle. People gasped and cried out, some ran, while others drew closer, willing to brave the risk of getting involved to see what was happening.


    Most, however, did as Tyron did; avert their gaze, turn away, and keep walking.


    This was an all-too-common occurrence over the past few days. Even as he continued to move, the sounds of the scuffle disappearing in the distance, he saw another group of Marshals, this one with a priest in their midst, moving down the street with purpose. The people of Shadetown had grown to dread these little squads of five or six officials. They didn¡¯t search randomly, didn¡¯t accost people at random, they seemed to know exactly who they wanted and where they were, which somehow made them all the more chilling to encounter.


    There was only one possible way they could have such accurate information that he could think of, and that was Divine Intervention.


    He almost snarled, his upper lip curling with disgust and futile anger. For the first time, the Five deigned to intervene in the Western Province. Not when the gate at Woodsedge became unstable, or when it broke and rift-kin spilled across the land, killing thousands. No, they stepped in now, when the threat to their power was starting to take root.


    As the squad approached him, he stepped to the side of the path and kept his eyes down. The grim-faced men and women didn¡¯t glance at him twice, striding past on their way to make another arrest.


    Criminals, smugglers, killers, thieves, people who skipped taxes, people who spoke ill of the empire, people who disrespected the magisters, everyone was at risk. Though Tyron suspected that followers of the Three were the primary target for this purge.


    He needed to get out of town. He needed to be gone yesterday.


    His preparations weren¡¯t complete, but it would have to do. He¡¯d gone out to collect his order for warm winter clothes and seen three arrests and seven groups of officials before he¡¯d even made it back to the shop.


    The purge was in full swing here in the capital. Kenmor was gripped by fear as hundreds, even thousands of people were arrested every day and taken no one knew where.


    There was no way to know just how rigorous the protections placed on him by the old gods were, and Tyron was in no mood to push his luck. It was past time to get out, and it may be some time before he returned.


    The front door of his shop had never looked quite so welcoming to the Necromancer, and he gratefully pulled the door open, manoeuvring around the bulky packages in his arms to squeeze through the entrance. A few moments later, Cerry was by his side.


    ¡°Master Almsfield, welcome back! Can I take any of that for you?¡±


    She was smiling, as always, but there was an undercurrent of nervous energy there. The Awakening drew closer every day. He probably should have given her the week off and made Flynn man the desk, but then, perhaps, she was grateful for something to act as a distraction from the upcoming event?


    ¡°No, thank you,¡± he said, ¡°I can take care of it. Look after the shop, I¡¯ll be back down in a minute.¡±


    After unwrapping the bundles, checking he¡¯d gotten what he¡¯d paid for, Tyron immediately packed them away. He would be out of the city before the day was done, but there were a few things he wanted to take care of before then.


    First, he sought out Flynn, finding his apprentice hard at work setting cores into appliances in the downstairs storeroom.


    ¡°Master Almsfield, is there anything I can do for you?¡± he asked, looking up from his work.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to be leaving earlier than expected. Today. So I wanted to give you some final instructions.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Flynn said, looking surprised. He sat up at his worktable, pushing away the glass he¡¯d been peering through.


    ¡°There should be more than enough cores to keep up stock levels until I get back, but if for some reason I¡¯m delayed and the supply runs out, I want to temporarily shut down the store. Also¡­¡±


    Tyron hesitated for a moment, unsure how much he should say.


    ¡°Should¡­ conditions in Shadetown grow too difficult to do business¡­ you understand me?¡±


    Flynn¡¯s eyes widened, and he nodded, looking nervous.


    ¡°If that happens¡­ close the store, and keep your head down. Wait for things to blow over.¡±


    Flynn went to speak, but Tyron cut him off, lifting a pouch full of coins from his belt.


    ¡°I¡¯m paying you your bonus early. There¡¯s plenty here for you to live off for a couple months.¡±


    He threw the pouch to his apprentice, who caught it.


    ¡°Th¨Cthis is too much!¡± Flynn exclaimed.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been an excellent apprentice and have put up with more eccentricity from your teacher than most would be willing to,¡± Tyron disagreed. ¡°I¡¯ve no complaints about your work ethic, or the quality of what you¡¯ve produced. Take the money.¡±


    Lastly, Tyron produced a key and placed it on the table next to the young man.


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    ¡°I still have mine, obviously, but make sure you don¡¯t lose this.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t, Master Almsfield, of course!¡±


    ¡°Good man.¡±


    With his apprentice dealt with, Tyron went and found Cerry on the shop floor, waiting until she¡¯d finished with her customer before he pulled her aside.


    ¡°Yearly bonus,¡± he said, holding up another pouch, ¡°with something extra thrown in as an Awakening present.¡±


    The young girl flushed, looking embarrassed.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to do that, Master Almsfield.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense. The store has been a great success in no small part thanks to your efforts. Now, I¡¯ve given special instructions to Flynn regarding the store given the current climate. Talk to him for the details. I expect to be back in two months, but if something goes wrong and you need assistance before then,¡± he handed her a letter, ¡°you can give this to Master Willhem, and he¡¯ll help you.¡±


    She went pale.


    ¡°Master Willhem! I couldn¡¯t possibly!¡±


    ¡°Cerry, it¡¯s fine. I¡¯ve warned him in advance, so it won¡¯t be a surprise in the unlikely event you have to call on him, alright?¡±


    Reluctantly, she nodded, and Tyron passed her the money, along with the letter.


    Less than an hour later, he was on the road, tucked away inside a carriage, a pensive expression on his face as the streets of Shadetown rolled by.


    During the days long journey to the Ortan estate, Tyron mostly slept. The driver of his carriage, along with those behind, directing the wagon in which he¡¯d packed his things, were paid to push through the day and night, and so they did. With winter approaching, the condition of the roads wasn¡¯t perfect, but it was good enough that they made good time.


    There were too many thoughts spinning through the Necromancer¡¯s head for him to be able to rest well. Plans for his time in Cragwhistle. The ongoing purge that would soon spill out across the province. How to advance his Wight project, along with the many others he was working on. Despite his best attempts, thoughts of his ¡®patrons¡¯ continued to creep into his head.


    The Dark Ones were advancing their plans steadily, drawing the faithful to the remote edge of the Western Province, filling them with belief that Tyron would ¡®save¡¯ them. He would do no such thing. All he cared about was executing his vengeance. Elsbeth and her fellow priests would need to take care of the rest.


    The Abyss¡­ What could be done? Knowledge had been promised, valuable, powerful secrets¡­ but the price. Could he pay it? Would he even be willing, if he had the chance?


    The Scarlet Court. His lip curled just thinking of the vampires. Whatever they had done to him still festered in his mind. To place it there, they had earned his eternal enmity, but they had judged that to be a price worth paying. This was a problem that, as far as he could see, had no solution. If he needed their help to achieve his goals, what could he do to ensure he wasn¡¯t further compromised?


    These thoughts and more rattled around in his head, causing his sleep to be fitful and unsatisfying. Not that it was easy to sleep in the back of a moving carriage to start with.


    Near the end of the journey, he realised the carriage was slowing earlier than expected. Confused, he pulled back the curtain and looked out the window to see they were still several kilometres from their destination.


    Voices could be heard, someone talking to the carriage driver, the gruff man replying in a mollifying tone. This was odd, to say the least.


    He stood and opened the door so he could step down and see for himself what was going on. The moment his foot hit the road, it was clear what had happened. There was a blockade across the road.


    Tyron frowned and walked forward until he was alongside the driver.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on here?¡± he asked.


    The driver, a middle-aged man named Giff, leaned and spat over the side of the carriage before replying.


    ¡°They¡¯s sayin¡¯ the roads blocked tha way we won ta go.¡±


    There were ten of them, Marshals from the looks of the uniforms, standing astride the road that led to the Ortan estate. He had a bad feeling about this.


    He approached the closest officer, who¡¯d been speaking to Giff earlier.


    ¡°Can I ask what the problem is, Marshal? I have business at the estate and have been travelling for days from the capital.¡±


    The officer gave Tyron a penetrating stare as he visibly sized him up.


    ¡°I¡¯m terribly sorry, Mr?¡±


    ¡°Elten. Elten Rirath.¡±


    ¡°Hm. Unfortunately, this road has been barred as the estate is under investigation.¡±


    ¡°Oh my. How terrible.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    The Marshal narrowed his eyes.


    ¡°Might I enquire as to the nature of your business with the Ortan family?¡±


    ¡°I have family who work on the property,¡± Tyron replied, trying to appear as a mildly put out city-dweller of means. ¡°I come and visit my uncle and aunt here several times a year. It¡¯s very difficult for me to find time to get away from Kenmor. Are you sure I can¡¯t proceed?¡±


    ¡°You cannot. I¡¯m going to ask you to take the road to the nearby village, Brenith,¡± the officer stated, pointing down the path. ¡°Find lodging there and wait for an officer of the law to contact you.¡±


    ¡°Am I under arrest?¡± Tyron gasped.


    ¡°No, but we will want to ask you questions regarding your relationship with the estate. If everything is as you say it is, there should be no problem.¡±


    His tone indicated just how likely he thought that eventuality would be.


    Internally, Tyron was fuming. The purge had reached this far already. Someone in the city must have been connected to the Ortan¡¯s and been swept up in the arrests. Whatever method they were using to get their suspects to talk, it seemed to be exceptionally effective.


    He could feel his connection to the undead stored within the cellar under the manor, stronger than it had been in weeks. His minions were still there, unharmed, but for how long? They represented hundreds of hours of work and a treasure trove of resources that he couldn¡¯t easily replace.


    ¡°I will do as you say,¡± Tyron said, not needing to fake his irritation, ¡°but I¡¯m not happy about it.¡±


    He turned back to the carriage, mind buzzing furiously.


    ¡°What did ya want ta do?¡± Giff asked.


    ¡°Just wait here for a moment,¡± Tyron replied. ¡°I need to think.¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡±


    He climbed back into the carriage and sat carefully, hands folded in front of his face as he considered his options. Would it be possible to sneak onto the estate and free his minions? Unlikely. If the Marshals were going to make a scene and block the road, there would have to be more patrolling the surrounding woods.


    Were they going to investigate the entire estate? If so, they may come across the ritual circle he¡¯d constructed and housed in one of the distant corners of the Ortan lands.


    They may come across Magnin and Beory¡­.


    Tyron stood and exited the carriage again.


    ¡°Just going for a piss,¡± he told Giff and stepped off the road. He walked more than he likely needed to, a hundred metres away from the carriage, hidden behind a copse of trees and shrubs.


    There would be mages at the manor who would likely detect what he was doing, but that was fine. He was coming for them next.


    He brought up his hands, inhaled a long, slow breath, then began to speak.

 B3C77 - Purge

    They noticed, of course they noticed. Shouts could be heard in the distance, feet pounding on the road, drawing closer. Questions, commands, one coming on top of the other.


    Tyron blocked all of it out. There was only the ritual, only the magick.


    Before they reached him, the ritual was complete. Rising from the ground came the arch of bone, inset in its centre, the door. Reaching out a hand, he opened it, sending a mental command the moment the space beyond became connected to the realm in which he stood.


    ¡°Oh SHIT!¡±


    The Marshal at the forefront of the charge, the one Tyron had spoken to on the road, gaped in shock as the first skeleton emerged from the horrid archway. Dark purple light glowed in the eyes of the undead as it strode forth, shield and blade held at the ready. Then came the next, and the next.


    Who¡¯s to say what they expected to see, but the officers of the empire reacted with admirable speed. As others arrived, they quickly organised themselves and made a wise decision.


    They tried to run.


    Tyron was almost a little surprised when the order rang out.


    ¡°Retreat to the manor!¡±


    Almost.


    The Shivering Curse descended on them before they could take two steps. A penetrating cold drove straight into their muscles, locking them up, and then further, into their blood, freezing their hearts in their chests. Before they could adapt, the first of the skeletal soldiers were amongst them, and Tyron¡¯s hands were still moving.


    The undead moved with deadly grace and efficiency, crashing into the officers as they attempted to flee, using their rapidly swelling numbers to press their advantage, flinging themselves on their adversaries. Only two managed to escape the radius of the curse, but it was too late.


    I really should have stored the revenants closest to the door instead of furthest away.


    His latest creations were very different from his old revenants. Thieves and scoundrels, rather than proud slayers, they used very different methods to fight. As the Marshals attempted to flee, the former leaders of the ¡®Guild¡¯ hunted them down. Nimble, light and fast, they slipped alongside their targets, slashing and stabbing from tricky angles with long, curved blades made of bone.


    It didn¡¯t take long for the last of their opponents to fall.


    ¡°This is going to be annoying,¡± Tyron grumbled to himself. ¡°Let¡¯s get this cleaned up first. Put the bodies inside the Ossuary for now, then we can bring out the cauldrons.¡±


    His skeletons moved to obey him, lifting up the bodies and laying them out neatly inside the door. Marshals weren¡¯t exactly a combat Class, but they did have much better stat gain than the average farmer or citizen. Tyron was already looking forward to how well his next batch of undead would perform.


    ¡°Wha¡­ what the fuck?!¡±


    A strangled yell from closer to the road brought Tyron¡¯s head around. Giff, the carriage driver, had come looking for him. Most unfortunate.


    He didn¡¯t make it back to the carriage.


    ¡°Damned fiend,¡± he choked, hand clutched to his shoulder where a spear of bone protruded, blood pouring into the grass.


    ¡°I apologise. I promise you that your remains and spirit won¡¯t be touched after you pass. Die in peace.¡±


    ¡°Fuck y¡ª¡±


    Tyron ended it himself, then frowned when he realised what he¡¯d done. Progression for his Class wasn¡¯t granted if he fought for himself! Now the man¡¯s death was doubly a waste. He wouldn¡¯t repeat this error with the other driver, and he didn¡¯t.


    Two more bodies tucked into the Ossuary, and Tyron dismissed the door, ordering his minions to obscure the circle he had created as best they could. Such a hasty ritual, performed without the proper diligence he would normally exercise for such a spell, it was bound to leave significant traces. Hopefully, his lack of a focus would make the residue too difficult for someone to accurately read.


    However, the significant use of Death Magick in the ritual was almost certainly detected by someone at the manor. He had to move quickly.


    There were a little more than a hundred skeletons in total within the Ossuary, all he¡¯d been able to create since his return to Kenmor. It would have to be enough.


    There was no doubt in Tyron¡¯s mind that every individual who had attacked the estate would need to die. Once he exposed himself, word of his existence had to be prevented from escaping. Not even altering their memories would be enough to ensure his anonymity. With the purge underway, everyone remotely close to an incident like this would be checked, and any manipulations would be quickly uncovered.


    Dead men tell no tales.


    There were four cauldrons in total, so Tyron divided them amongst his minions, splitting them into roughly equal groups. It wasn¡¯t difficult to activate the constructs, there were magick-capable skeletons in each group who could perform the task, and they would be able to draw from the well of power contained within as they fought.


    Rummaging through the luggage in the second wagon, Tyron found the case he was looking for and opened it. Inside, six orbs lay, each with a soft, ethereal glow around it.


    With a gesture, he conjured the spirits forth, forcing them from their containment. The ghosts weren¡¯t happy to be removed, but then again, they weren¡¯t happy no matter what happened.


    Scout the way, he ordered them, do not attack.


    They rasped and hissed at him, the sounds of their ire scraping against the edge of his awareness, but he paid them no mind. With the ghosts leading the way, he fell in with one of his skeletal teams and began to ascend.


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    Lastly, he found another case, within the Ossuary this time, that contained the bones he had custom fashioned to form his latest armour. With a short spell, the armour rose into the air and fastened itself to his body. Adequately protected, he was ready to proceed.


    The manor itself stood atop a hill, a little over a kilometre from the road. After splitting from the main road, the path followed a gentle curve, bending this way and that as it cut into the side of the slope until it ended at the house. Tyron didn¡¯t take that route. Instead, he and his skeletons went off-road, hunting for those Marshals who were surely patrolling the wooded property.


    If he¡¯d arrived at night, things would have been so much easier. As it was, he needed to move cautiously, letting his ghosts roam until they found what he was looking for.


    If a single Marshal saw his skeletons and managed to escape, it would be disastrous. With the purge already underway, it would be trivial to gather the levelled individuals necessary to hunt down a Necromancer, and they would prioritise it, no question. Despite all that he had gained, Tyron wasn¡¯t ready to match the full might of the Western Province. Not remotely.


    The first squad was dispatched easily, as was the second. Teams of five men and women who didn¡¯t take their task lightly, the Marshals had been impossible to sneak up on, but he didn¡¯t need to. All he had to do was get close enough to cast the Shivering Curse. Within that freezing field, they couldn¡¯t run fast enough to escape the swiftest of his skeletons.


    It was then that he ran into complications. There were more groups patrolling the grounds, he was sure of it, but he was unable to track them down. Perhaps they had retreated to the manor after noticing the others couldn¡¯t be contacted? It was possible.


    There was nothing else to do except advance on the manor.


    After a final sweep of the land between the road and the house, Tyron gathered his minions together and sent the ghosts forward once more. The ethereal creatures drifted nearly invisibly, passing through the trees without disturbing a leaf until they reached the clearing.


    With a simple spell, he looked through their eyes, and cursed at what he saw.


    The manor was being ransacked. He didn¡¯t know how long the Marshals had been here, perhaps only a few hours, but they would finish with the house and begin checking the various sheds and cellars soon. Kept under guard, the staff and perhaps even the owner of the property were still on site, bound and gagged, and many of the maids were openly weeping.


    There had been fighting, too. Some semblance of resistance had been put up, but quickly overwhelmed, judging by the looks of things. A shame. He had met many of the men and women who now lay dead, dried blood splashed across their faces.


    But the Marshals themselves¡­ they weren¡¯t alone. Several priests had accompanied them, along with several soldiers. These were the warriors of the noble houses, men and women trained, not to hunt rift-kin, but people.


    Tyron almost couldn¡¯t help the smile from tugging at the corner of his lips. He had to have them.


    With no time available to draw up a sophisticated plan, he decided to simply commit with everything he had. So long as one of his minions reached the entrance to the cellar and pried it open, he would have an overwhelming advantage in numbers.


    The defenders were on guard, watchful, but even so, they were momentarily stunned as a wave of black fog burst up around the manor before it rolled toward them. Covered by the darkness summoned by the cauldrons, Tyron marched forward along with his undead. His ghosts hunted for the soldiers, heading straight for them, but they were fast. The moment one of them felt the icy chill of the spirit on his flesh, he was gone, shifting to another place, calling out a warning to the others.


    Of course it wouldn¡¯t be easy¡­.


    Tyron¡¯s hands were already moving as the first defenders were enveloped by the thick cloud of black mist.


    Death Blades.


    He poured his magick into the blessing, stretching the range as far as he could. Within the cellar, the skeletons'' weapons began to glow with an ethereal light as they were infused with Death Magick.


    Shivering Curse.


    Again, Tyron cast the spell with all the force he could muster, widening the area of effect to cover as much ground as possible. If they wanted to confront his skeletons, they would have to do so on ground that favoured him.


    Tyron committed everything he had, holding none of his skeletons or revenants back. The silent undead rushed forward on bony feet, their heels clacking against the stone pavers of the courtyard before the manor.


    Terror gripped the enemy. Marshals cried out in fear as they caught glimpses of glowing purple eyes coming towards them from within the darkness. Priests called out to the Divines as they raised their staves, trying to invoke a blessing, of perhaps just praying to be spared.


    The exception was the soldiers. They were decisive, and quick to act. Though there were only six of them, they moved to rally the rest of the officers quickly. He could hear their voices rising above the growing din, shouting out commands, demanding that the cowards turn and fight.


    Yes. Turn and fight. It¡¯ll be so much faster than having to hunt you down one by one.


    As blades were drawn and the fighting grew more widespread, Tyron noted, pleased at how well his regular skeletons performed against the Marshals. Perhaps one on one they were still inferior, but that¡¯s what their numbers were for. Following his commands, they were quite capable of fighting in small groups.


    At least, for relatively small skirmishes like this. If he had thousands of skeletons on his side, there would be no way he could efficiently command so many.


    His revenants, he sent against the soldiers. They were the only ones with any chance at all to stall the soldiers long enough for him to get to the cellar. With a silent command, he ordered his trapped minions to try and force their way out from inside.


    As the hundreds of undead came to life, he felt the drain on his magick increase precipitously. Although, it was nowhere near what it should have been. His investments in efficiency and enchanting to help defray the costs of his undead continued to pay dividends.


    Right now, there were over three hundred minions moving, all following his commands, yet the draw on his personal reserves was still manageable. More than manageable.


    With a deep feeling of satisfaction, he flicked his eyes around the battlefield before judging that the way was clear. Best he keep his minions in the fight and go to the cellar himself, keep himself out of sight and out of harm''s way.


    After watching the unfolding battle for a moment, he judged he was safe and began to run through the darkness. The skeletons wielding the cauldrons had remained back from the frontlines, protecting the constructs as they continued to pour out the black mist. He slipped straight past them, moving to the westward-facing side of the house. It didn¡¯t take long for him to leave the darkness behind, reaching the edge of the cloud and emerging into the light, but he didn¡¯t stop moving.


    There it was!


    The cellar door was twitching and jumping as his minions pounded against it from the inside. The damned thing was sturdy, way more sturdy than it needed to be.


    He¡¯d found that a comfort when originally locking his undead in there, knowing they would be safe, but now it was extremely inconvenient. As he ran, Tyron reached a hand within his armour and removed a small sliver of bone, words of power already rolling from his tongue.


    With a thought, he urged his minions to retreat from the doors as he flung a hand forward, launching the bone shard through the air. Like a howling dervish, it blasted through the air and crashed into the wooden doors, splintering them.


    His undead surged against the doors again. It wouldn¡¯t be long now until they broke through. All he had to do was wait.


    Might as well find a spot to conceal myself until they break free¡­.


    He began to look around, only catching a glimpse of something flashing toward him at the last moment.


    He raised his arm to neck height out of pure instinct, only for his own limb to crash into his face, sending him sprawling.


    Throbbing pain exploded in his arm as he rolled across the dirt, scrambling to his feet as quickly as possible.


    ¡°Thought I had you there,¡± the soldier grinned at him. ¡°You¡¯re quick, for a dead man.¡±

 B3C78 - Battle

    Tyron couldn¡¯t help a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.


    The soldier stepped carefully as he centred his blade once more.


    ¡°What are you smirking for, heretic? Clearly, my sword didn¡¯t bite deep enough. I¡¯ll correct that shortly.¡±


    Tyron shrugged slightly, straightening himself and raising his hands. Behind him, his minions continued to break down the door covering the basement.


    ¡°It¡¯s just something I¡¯ve struggled with since becoming a Necromancer,¡± he said.


    ¡°The evil you commit against Divinity, I presume?¡±


    ¡°No¡­it¡¯s a bad habit I¡¯ve developed. No matter how much I try to tell myself off, it always seems to crop up.¡±


    ¡°Interesting. What¡¯s this habit you speak of?¡±


    ¡°Talking to the minions.¡±


    The soldier scoffed and lowered his stance, raising his weapon to eye level.


    ¡°I¡¯m not the one who¡¯s about to die.¡±


    ¡°I appreciate your confidence. It assures me of victory.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s hands flashed up and the soldier rushed forward. Despite his armour, the man moved inhumanly quick, his movements a blur as his blade slashed towards Tyron¡¯s neck. Despite the speed in which he acted, the soldier still possessed keen awareness, so much that Tyron envied his incredible reactions.


    When he had crossed half the distance, the soldier felt an impenetrable chill begin to invade his body. Instantly, he adjusted, kicking into the ground so hard the dirt sprayed high into the air, just in time to avoid the welcoming arms of the ghost. With a muttered curse, he spun and rotated, spinning like a dancer as he regained momentum and brought his blade to bear.


    Too late.


    Tyron spoke the final syllable and his mind slammed into the soldier¡¯s like a sledgehammer. With all of his advantages, the Necromancer had expected to crack the clearly physically dominant warrior like a nut, but that wasn¡¯t the case. To his shock, the mental blow hit home, freezing his target in place, but only for a moment. Something repelled his attack, bouncing it back and causing a fierce headache to bloom in his head.


    The nameless soldier felt a surge of triumph as the mage stumbled. Feeling flooded back into his limbs and he began to move again, completing the arc of his swing.


    The impact of the arrows and spells shattered his armour and ribs, punching into the soft flesh beneath. Dozens of bolts at once had overwhelmed even the enchantments woven into the metal. So strong was the force it knocked him off his axis, leaving him unable to complete the blow.


    With a shake of his head, Tyron regained control of himself in time to see the soldier try to pick himself up from the ground. Try, and fail. That had been close. He¡¯d intended to freeze the man in place for his archers and skeletal mages to finish him off, and fortunately the plan had still worked, but only barely. He¡¯d underestimated just how much the noble houses would be willing to spend on their personal soldiers. Protection against mind magick? Perhaps it was something given to them as they went about this purge. A preventative, to stop them being corrupted by the ¡®evil¡¯ they hoped to expunge.


    Behind him, his minions finally burst free. The door swung open, and the silent ranks of his undead began to file out, weapons already blazing with dark magick.


    With a thought, he directed them into the fight, sending his revenants to help corner the remaining soldiers. No doubt there would be losses, but those were losses he was perfectly willing to absorb. After all, he¡¯d already secured one exceptional specimen, and soon there would be so many more.


    Unwilling to make the mistake of moving on his own again, he waited until a full guard had formed around him, a moving wall of bone shields and skeletal soldiers, before he advanced into the fight once again.


    With his array of magicks, Tyron had no need to expose himself to danger on the front lines, not like he¡¯d done in the past. Instead, he used his stockpile of bone spears, sending them streaking into any clear targets he could find, or casting Death¡¯s Grasp to trouble the more difficult to pin down opponents.


    The soldiers were whirlwinds of death. Fast, strong, well equipped and experienced in battle, they were able to fend off his revenants, dodge away from his ghosts, and even escape or block his magicks. However, with so much directed against them, arrows and spells from his minions included, it was difficult for them to mount an effective offence. Every time they rushed forward and cut down a skeleton, they exposed themselves to a barrage of projectiles that forced them into a hasty retreat.


    Undoubtedly, they would have extraordinary reserves of stamina, but there would be a limit. The undead were untiring, the only thing preventing them from fighting eternally was the necessity for magick to power their movements. Despite fuelling so many undead, and casting so many spells, Tyron was pleased to note his reserves were far from depleted. With the individual magick gathered by each skeleton, and the reservoir of power contained within the cauldrons, he could maintain this level of activity for some time yet. They would not be able to outlast him.


    ¡°Damn you, vile unbeliever!¡± one of the priests roared, locking eyes with Tyron, who tilted his head, questioningly.


    ¡°I believe the five Divines exist,¡± he called back, ¡°but I also believe they need to die.¡±


    If it were possible, the man¡¯s eyes bulged even further from his head. He raised his staff high, and it began to reverberate with the ambient magick, glowing bright and emitting a warm, golden light.


    The Necromancer tensed and slipped within the closest cloud of darkness, cautious of what may happen next.


    ¡°I call on the Five to smite this heretic,¡± the priest declared, eyes dangerously wide. ¡°Let my soul be the fuel for the pyre!¡±


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± Tyron cursed.


    Undead archers and mages turned their attention to this new threat as the air around the priest ignited. Power began to condense around him, the magick in the air gathering, adding itself to his spell, then rising high. Overhead, an ominous light began to form.


    There was shouting amongst the priests, but Tyron had no time for it. Unwilling to let this magick complete, he flung bone spear after bone spear toward the roaring priest, but each shattered against a golden barrier that snapped into place around him at the last moment. With each collision, it flared brightly before dimming, only to surge back to life as the next blow fell.


    The other priests were fuelling it, hoping to preserve the one fanatic until his spell was complete. That initial priest was looking the worse for wear. As time moved on, he poured more and more of his magick into the working, and something more. Whatever was happening to him wasn¡¯t normal, this was far from a typical spell, or miracle. To the Necromancer¡¯s eyes, the priest appeared as if he was pouring out his very lifeforce. He was shrivelling into a cadaver right in the midst of the battle, giving up his life to enact this one magick.


    What madness is this?


    Tyron fought against bewilderment as he watched the priest empty himself of everything he possessed, even his own soul, to fuel the now raging light overhead. No doubt it would descend and annihilate a large area, wiping out his undead and likely himself in the process. He couldn¡¯t hide, nor could he deflect it, the priest had to die.


    Tyron grit his teeth and ordered his undead to surge forward. He didn¡¯t doubt the priest would allow the spell to detonate right atop himself and his own allies once it completed. Perhaps it would be harmless to them, but he doubted it. It was unlikely the soldiers and marshals even realised what was about to happen. They fought desperately to defend the man who was sacrificing his own life to ensure they too would die along with the threat before them.


    Summoning the arcane power from within himself, Tyron began to weave two spells simultaneously, each hand flicking out sigils independently. Words of power rolled in a continuous flood from his tongue, each chant fit into the gaps of the other as both spells took shape.


    He thrust both hands forward, unleashing two Death¡¯s Grip spells at once. Duel waves of black magick, like ethereal smoke, rippled toward the priest at great speed, undulating through the air. When they reached him, Tyron clutched both his hands into fists and the magick coalesced around the dying man. Of course, the shield was there, but Tyron persisted. As the barrier flared to life, he squeezed, trying to crush it by force of will. Under his relentless assault, the light dimmed and ignited repeatedly as the other priests used their own reserves to fuel it.


    Arrows and spells pounded into the shield, the entirety of Tyron¡¯s force focused on it. He would have to make so many bone arrows if he survived this!


    With his spells attempting to crush the barrier, it was never able to fade, forced to coalesce without pause. This proved decisive in the final moment.


    As the priest, with precious little life left within him, raised his staff one more time, an arrow seared through the air, slammed into the weakened shield, and shattered it. The barrier snapped into place once again, but it was too late. The revenant, Laurel, had aimed true, her empowered arrow breaking through the defence and piercing the priest straight through his head. Before he could complete his sacrificial ritual, his staff fell from his hand, and the light overhead began to dissipate.


    A wave of despair rose from the remaining defenders, and Tyron pressed his advantage. None could be allowed to escape.


    Against hundreds of undead, it wasn¡¯t possible for his opponents to hold. Not without literal divine intervention. No matter how the remaining priests called out, or what spells they used, Selene, Orthriss, Hamar or Lofis did not descend from the heavens to defend them.


    Naturally, the dead god Tel¡¯anan did not come either.


    It was the first time Tyron had ever witnessed priests of the Divines in battle, and it was interesting, to say the least. He was familiar with the ladies in the temple of Selene using their divinely gifted abilities to perform minor miracles of healing. Such a thing was common enough, even in a place like Foxbridge. Here, they used their abilities to defend their allies, even strike out against their enemies with hammers of divine light, a blessing of Orthriss, no doubt.


    What could high level priests accomplish, especially when paired with deadly fighters like the professional soldiers of the noble houses?


    Mercifully, there simply weren¡¯t enough of them to hold back the tide at the Ortan estate. Once he freed his trapped minions, the tide turned in his favour and never turned back.


    Clouds of darkness rolled over the manor, undead swarming within, stabbing and striking without sound and without remorse. In ten minutes, it was done.


    When silence fell, Tyron knew he didn¡¯t have much time to waste. What had occurred here would spread, even if none were alive to speak of it. He could conceal his identity, he could prevent word of his Necromancy, but the loss of such a large force of marshalls, priests and soldiers was impossible to hide. Others would come, and soon.


    With a thought, Tyron scattered the majority of his undead across the property. Groups of twenty, each led by a revenant, where possible, moved as quickly as their bony legs could carry them out into the fields and woods. If anyone escaped, they had to be hunted down, there could be no survivors.


    Then, he turned his attention to the captives. Maids, groundskeepers, people he¡¯d seen before and interacted with in a limited fashion, none would meet his eye, trembling as he drew close to them.


    ¡°No harm will come to you,¡± he reassured them in a flat tone of voice. ¡°I will take you somewhere safe, but you must remain calm, you must not flee. Anyone who attempts to run will die, understand?¡±


    Fresh sobs from some, hurried nods from others. It would have to do. He managed to catch the eye of one who appeared a little more steady than the others.


    ¡°Make sure nobody does anything stupid,¡± he told her. ¡°You will be safe and free so long as everyone remains calm.¡±


    With no more time for them, he left a detachment of undead to watch over them and entered the house.


    Picking his way through the debris, it was clear the officers had been in the middle of ransacking the place when the fighting had arrived. Every drawer and cupboard had been flung open and rummaged through, seemingly without exception.


    Clearly, they had been on the hunt for anything that might signify this manor as a refuge for heresy, which indeed it was.


    In the dining room, he found Madam Ortan herself. Still breathing, gasping for breath through the gag that had been tied around her head. He stepped up to the table quietly, looking down on the unfortunate soul.


    It didn¡¯t look as though they had waited to find much before putting her to the question. She had been stripped and tied to the table, arms locked above her head. Blood dripped from the edge of the dark wood and onto the carpet where it continued to soak in.


    Tears flowed freely as she continued to rasp in breath after breath. With a hint of professional detachment, he examined the way the knives had been applied. Whoever had done this had known what they were doing. This was a butcher¡¯s technique, used to separate the skin from the meat beneath.


    They hadn¡¯t gotten far, but the Madam was in clear agony.


    ¡°Live, or die?¡± he asked her quietly.


    She only glared up at him. With gentle hands, he reached out and cut the gag, withdrawing the rough cloth from her mouth.


    ¡°I¡¯ll not die to the likes of these dogs,¡± she spat, throat still raw from screaming. ¡°In the name of the true gods, I endure.¡±


    All energy spent, the matron of the Ortan family fell limp, only her chest rising and falling with each breath. Tyron dipped his head to acknowledge her grit.


    ¡°I¡¯ll send in your people to care for you,¡± he said, ¡°but we aren¡¯t staying still for long. I have a path, a dangerous path, that will take us from here to Cragwhistle. We need to be gone in a few hours.¡±

 B3C79 - Take What is Mine

    So much to do and so little time. After ensuring that Madam Ortan would be cared for by her people, Tyron was able to turn his attention to more important matters. Corpses lay everywhere outside the manor, which simply wouldn¡¯t do. The majority of his skeletons continued to scout the area for any officers who might still be lurking nearby, which meant he was a touch shorthanded. Nevertheless, his minions were committed to the work.


    The dead needed to be stripped and the bodies safely stowed within the Ossuary, which meant he needed to summon the doorway once more. To show his respect to the owners of the land, and to avoid a possible confrontation with the survivors, he decided not to take the bodies of the fallen workers. Instead, he commanded a small group of undead to dig a grave for them.


    As tempting as it was to take the armour the soldiers had been wearing, he decided against it, and the same went for the priests'' staves and robes. Perhaps there were useful and powerful enchantments there which he could study, but such things were also eminently possible to trace. A risk he wasn¡¯t willing to take. Even if the chances they could be found within the Ossuary were infinitesimal, he still didn¡¯t want to assume that chance.


    When word of the massacre got out, things would get extremely tense. The church would undoubtedly assume that old god worshipping heretics were responsible and step up their crackdown. That was fine with him. But if they were to determine a Necromancer was responsible, things would become much more difficult for him.


    Despite all the precautions he¡¯d taken, the main reason he hadn¡¯t been discovered was because nobody was actively looking for Death Magick. The moment a Necromancer was even suspected, that went out the window. Kenmor would be scoured, the surrounding lands soon after, and any whiff of his spells would be found. For that reason, he spent the next hour attempting to collect every shard of bone from his fallen skeletons and scrub every trace of his magick from the manor and surrounding grounds.


    It wasn¡¯t possible to fully do so, of course. Every skeleton left a trace remnant just by walking through an area, which should dissipate naturally over a few days. The cauldrons, and the spells he had cast, left a much more dense residue which needed to be removed.


    The job was far from done to his satisfaction, but he couldn¡¯t afford to take any more time. He recalled his minions, then changed his mind and directed them straight into the forest. It was past time to be moving.


    ¡°Time to go. If you haven¡¯t packed it, then it isn¡¯t coming,¡± he announced, striding into the dining room.


    The mistress of the house was certainly better than she¡¯d been the last time he¡¯d seen her, with thick bandaging around her middle to hold everything in place, but she was clearly still in great pain.


    ¡°Madam Ortan is not in condition to travel,¡± one of the maids protested softly, unwilling to look at him.


    ¡°Then she stays behind and gets killed by the next group of officers,¡± he stated flatly, ¡°or worse, they can finish what they started. If anyone here doesn¡¯t feel like having their skin peeled off, screaming and crying, condemning your friends and family to end the pain, then get moving.¡±


    Madam Ortan glared at him, but didn¡¯t disagree with anything he said. Instead, she started to rise from her seat, teeth set against the undoubted agony she was suffering.


    ¡°There is no choice. We move or we die, and I would much rather all of you live,¡± she said. ¡°Gather your things quickly, we are leaving.¡±


    Tyron was already striding from the room. He couldn¡¯t afford to waste too much time and energy on these people. He had other priorities, and his own safety to think about. He had extended a way out, they would grasp it, or they would not.


    Exiting the manor, he took stock. The cellar had been emptied of everything he had ever touched, most of it stored within the Ossuary. He considered once again if there was anything he needed to collect, then almost cursed himself.


    As the surviving staff and residents of the manor rushed to collect whatever they could carry for the hard journey ahead, Tyron similarly rushed to collect valuables: souls.


    Although he had secured all the raw materials, the spirits were an equally important ingredient. Considering where he was going, the more spirits he could secure, the better.


    However, there was something he found disturbing. The souls of the priests were not to be found. All of the marshals were accounted for, along with the soldiers, but the priests? No matter what he did, he couldn¡¯t conjure forth the ghost of a single one.


    Perhaps it was true and they really did ascend into heaven, to live alongside their god for all time? At the very least, they were no longer here, bound to this realm. If they had gone to be with their gods, hopefully they weren¡¯t capable of revealing how they had died. The last thing he needed was dead priests conveying his existence to the Five.


    Task done, he called out, once, to those inside the manor, and then began to walk. They spilled out of the doors behind him, still stuffing packs with clothes and supplies, rushing to catch up. Madam Ortan came along behind, three of her staff helping to support the woman by her sides. Already the bandage had begun to be stained with red, but without any healing miracles or spells, there was nothing that could be done. It would be a long journey to Cragwhistle, but for some reason, Tyron believed that she would make it. There was steel in her, and fire burning in her gaze, a heat that he himself was all too familiar with.


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    Hate, and an unquenchable thirst for revenge.


    Those feelings stirred within him now, as he strode away from the house and into the surrounding grounds. Over the fields and into the woods that pressed up against the border to the central province he walked, the raw, naked fury growing brighter and brighter with every step.


    When they drew close, he turned to those following him.


    ¡°Wait here. Do not follow me.¡±


    ¡°How long will you be gone?¡± one dared to ask.


    ¡°Not long. You should go back and help the others catch up, but someone needs to remain here, as this is where I¡¯ll return.¡±


    With no more to say, he turned back and continued to stride forward. Five minutes later, he stood before them.


    The anger flared within him again, growing so bright and hot it threatened to burn everything else away, but his grief rose alongside it. Despite the years that had passed, the things he had done and the suffering he had endured, his grief remained undiminished.


    Tears burned in his eyes as a vice closed around his throat, forcing him to choke. With a monumental effort of will, he mastered himself. There wasn¡¯t time.


    Within the clear, crystal-like material, Magnin and Beory lay, perfectly preserved, as they had intended.


    His father had advised him to make use of their remains, to create powerful undead from them, but he hadn¡¯t. With his current abilities, there was no way he could make proper use of these two, and he wasn¡¯t sure if he could ever bring himself to.


    ¡°Mother, Father. I¡¯m sorry about this, but I¡¯m going to have to disturb your rest.¡±


    When it was done, he returned back to find the others had gathered. Even Madam Ortan had made it, sweat dripping from her forehead as she shuddered and stifled her groans.


    ¡°We are nearly there,¡± he told them. ¡°Let¡¯s get going.¡±


    The shack was exactly as he had left it, the ritual circle preserved perfectly within. Sealed by the alchemical mixture, it wouldn¡¯t be easy to destroy, so he decided not to. If it was found, any mage who studied it would be able to determine its function, to connect to the Abyss, and it would be attributed to the ¡®heretics¡¯ who lived here.


    However, using it in the future would be out of the question. Once discovered, they would surely trap it, or monitor it in some fashion. This would be the last time he was able to utilise it.


    A shame, given how much he had invested in creating it.


    ¡°Remain outside,¡± he told the others, ¡°I will go inside and cast a ritual. This will open a portal to the Abyss, which we will need to travel through to reach our destination.¡±


    To say they weren¡¯t happy to hear this was an understatement, but none protested. Perhaps the presence of several hundred undead was weighing on their minds.


    ¡°This is the only way,¡± he told them. ¡°If you try to travel overland, you will be caught before the sun goes down. Using this method, you will vanish, no trace left behind. After moving through the Abyss, we will pass into a rift-realm. It will be dangerous, but I will keep you safe. From there, we will find the rift that connects to our own realm, pass through, and be at Cragwhistle in less than a day.¡±


    He looked at each of them.


    ¡°Whatever warm clothing you have, put it on now. Temperature is¡­ not really a thing in the Abyss, but beyond the rift, we will be in a frozen wasteland. And Cragwhistle isn¡¯t that much warmer.¡±


    Despite their reluctance, and obvious fear, no one disagreed or protested. Perhaps the grim determination showed by Madam Ortan was the deciding factor, and the others simply followed her lead.


    Soon, the entrance to the Abyss yawned open within the shack, and Tyron stepped through first.


    Within, he found the nothingness-between was the same as it ever was. Hidden voices whispered, tempted, clawed at the edges of his mind, but he warded them off. He wasn¡¯t here for these weak ones, the pilot fish who had attached themselves to the great shark.


    With nothing by which to see, moving through the Abyss was an exercise in faith. He almost didn''t notice the great creature until it shifted before him, letting itself be known.


    It was as if the world itself had moved. An entity so vast, his mind couldn¡¯t fully grasp it, turned its attention to him.


    It spoke to him.


    The barest brush of its great mind, the faintest whisper of its voice, was almost enough to shatter his sanity on the spot, but Tyron endured. This was a creature of fathomless power within this empty place, and his only way to secure safe passage.


    It didn¡¯t have a name, not as a normal person understood them. When referring to itself, Tyron was granted an impression of mind-numbing age, and an endless need to consume.


    So he named it Void.


    Void spoke to him with a hundred voices, each whispering a different thing. A welcome. A threat. An offer. A secret. A blessing. A curse.


    Tyron responded as best he could, accepting the welcome, declining the offers, ignoring the threats, blocking out the secrets.


    Void regarded him silently.


    Tyron steeled his nerves, and spoke. He told of others needing safe passage through the Abyss.


    Void seethed. There was a price.


    Tyron rejected it. He could not pay.


    A counter offer.


    Tyron reluctantly accepted.


    Then he reached within his armour and withdrew several stones, each glowing with dense, ethereal light.


    He reminded Void of their previous arrangement, and asked if the payment was sufficient.


    Void leaned forward eagerly, and in a blink, the souls were gone, drawn from the stone, the echoes of their screams haunting the nothingness around them.


    It would do.


    Tyron bowed low, though the creature cared not for such gestures. With his mind on the verge of dissolving, he withdrew, gasping, blood dripping from his ears and eyes. After he gathered himself, he brought his minions through, and the survivors, who entered shivering and full of trepidation.


    ¡°Do not listen to the voices, if you want to live,¡± he warned them, then turned to lead the way.


    It would be a difficult journey, and not all would make it, but soon they would be free, able to make a new life among others who shared their faith openly.


    But for Tyron, the war would continue. He had to grow stronger, he had to learn more, and faster. With the purge in full swing, discontent among the slayers would only grow. With enough pushes, enough words in the right place at the right time, a spark could grow to a blazing inferno, one he would use to burn Kenmor to the ground.

 B3C80 - Epilogue

    Cerry¡¯s cheeks flushed with excitement as she found her place in the line. Despite promising herself she wouldn¡¯t, she¡¯d gotten up early this morning, rolling from her sheets at the first sign of light. Her mother had laughed and shaken her head when she realised who was in the kitchen making breakfast. She understood, after all, it had been the same for her. It wasn¡¯t easy to lie still on the day you became an adult!


    Her mother and father were here now, somewhere in the crowd behind her, along with the families of every other person she knew from Shadetown who was Awakening today.


    She¡¯d hoped that Flynn would be able to make it¡­ but he was probably working, even though Master Almsfield had told him he didn¡¯t have to. It was difficult to keep a pout from her face. Being diligent was one of the things she liked about him, but it would have been nice if he¡¯d pulled himself away from those cores just for today.


    No matter. The young woman shook her head and drove the negative thoughts out of her mind. Nothing was going to ruin her day today!


    The line shuffled forward as someone stepped away from the crystal and another took their place. The young man was smiling slightly, so he must have been happy with his Class. That was good! Cerry¡¯s heart leapt in her chest and she clamped both her hands together to try and keep it still.


    Don¡¯t get too excited! Just accept whatever comes your way!


    ¡°Keep the line nice and orderly! No cuts! Hey! I said no cuts! Don¡¯t give me that look, young lady, I¡¯ve been running this event since before you were born, I know a cutter when I see one!¡±


    Old man Jissel was his usual self, marching up and down the line, swinging his cane at everyone who dared to put a foot out of place. When he came alongside her, his frown softened for a moment.


    ¡°Cerry Tiln, all grown up! Where does the time go? I remember when your mother and father came for their Awakening.¡±


    ¡°Nice to see you again, Mr Jissel. How¡¯s your wife, Gelda?¡±


    ¡°Taking too long to get out of bed,¡± the old man harrumphed, ¡°says her hips hurt. As if mine don¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure she¡¯s just doing her best to take care of herself,¡± Cerry said as tactfully as possible.


    The old man looked as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it.


    ¡°You¡¯re probably right. I¡¯m too busy taking care of other things. Like this line! I¡¯m watching you Jessup! You shift sideways again and I¡¯ll give you a reason to lean on that leg!¡±


    ¡°Everyone is just impatient is all,¡± she tried to soothe him, knowing it was useless. ¡°It¡¯s a big day for all of us.¡±


    ¡°Of course it is! I¡¯m trying to help. A good Awakening goes ten times faster if people just stick to the line and don¡¯t make a fuss.¡±


    He spat to one side.


    ¡°Bah. I may as well warn you now, you¡¯ll need to register your Class today, so you might as well get it done before you leave. See over there,¡± he pointed toward the edge of the square where several tents had been erected, marshalls patrolling in front. ¡°They have clerks in there who can perform the status reading for you, then you come back and hand it to me.¡±


    ¡°Today? Isn¡¯t there usually a three day wait?¡±


    There always had been before, she was sure of it. Her family was waiting for her to return so they could go and eat together. Father had booked a table at the Boar¡¯s Knees! Cerry could taste their famous potato and gravy already.


    Jissel brought his large eyebrows together in a fierce frown.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know why, but they¡¯re insisting on it. Breaking with tradition for no good reason! That three day grace period is our gods-given right! Who doesn¡¯t go out and get pissed after their Awakening? If you aren¡¯t too hungover to function the next day, you aren¡¯t celebrating right! That¡¯s what the third day is for, getting all the blasted paperwork done. Anyway, it¡¯s not my business if the authorities want to stick their noses in where they don¡¯t belong.¡±


    He reached up to pat Cerry on the arm.


    ¡°Nice to see you again, girl. Good luck with your Awakening. I¡¯d best get back to managing these hooligans. Yes, that means you, Jessup! I couldn¡¯t give a hairy rat''s ass if you''re my grandson!¡±


    She gave him a small wave as he limped down the line, still hollering at his poor relative, and then it was time to take another step forward. Not long now! She was so close.


    Calm down, Cerry. Don¡¯t get too carried away!


    Honestly, she had played the same game as every other young person in the empire, trying to decide which was the perfect Class, the one that suited her best. Whereas others had flitted from favourite to favourite, wanting to be a slayer one day, to a merchant the next, then back to a slayer. The boys always wanted to be slayers.


    She¡¯d never really settled on a favourite. Even now, she didn¡¯t know what she wanted. As long as she was able to keep working in Master Almsfield¡¯s store, keep working with Flynn, then she would be happy. Life was good right now, and she didn¡¯t see any reason to wish that away.


    Another step and she was closer again to the front. After a moment, she realised she was bouncing on her heels, and forced herself to stop. The time would come on its own, no need to fuss about it! To distract herself, she scanned the crowd again. People had formed into a rough circle around the line, with the bulk of the watchers gathered around the stone at the front. Most were content to wait at the back, but some people really wanted to see the moment their son or daughter lay their hands on the stone.


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    So many people she recognised from the area, and many she didn¡¯t, people who¡¯d travelled in from other areas of the city or even from the surrounding countryside.


    Wait a second¡­ was that? It was.


    Flynn smiled at her bashfully and gave a small wave from the back of the crowd. She felt herself blush as a wide grin broke out on her face. She waved back to him wildly, and he grinned back at her before catching himself and moderating his expression. He was just too shy for much of a public display of affection, but she was so pleased to see him.


    Now the day was perfect and her heart swelled until it was fit to burst.


    Maybe after she received her Class, he would formally propose?! He¡¯d already asked her father for permission to court her, but surely he wasn¡¯t ready for the next step already?


    No, of course he wasn¡¯t. This was Flynn she was thinking about. There was no chance he was going to ask her to marry him until he¡¯d finished his apprenticeship.


    Another step, and suddenly Cerry was the next in line. The person in front of her, a young woman named Heather, walked forward, listened to a few words from Jissel, who¡¯d made his way back to the front, and then placed her hands on the glowing stone.


    She was next! Excitement fluttered in her stomach to the point she feared she might throw up.


    Get a grip Cerry, give it a few minutes, and it¡¯ll all be over.


    She focused on taking deep, slow breaths, like her mother had told her, and it helped a little.


    ¡°Are you alright there, Cerry?¡± old man Jissel asked her with a knowing smile. ¡°There¡¯s nothing to worry about, you¡¯ll see.¡±


    He turned back to Heather, who had just removed her hands from the stone.


    ¡°Don¡¯t forget to head over and have your status read. Thank you, lass. Alright, Cerry. Up you come.¡±


    He was being so kind, and it was so out of character for him, it jolted her back to her senses. With a confident step, she walked forward, took a deep breath and placed both of her hands down on the Awakening stone.


    Instantly, her awareness was stolen away and taken to a world of white. This was expected, her family had described their own experiences to her, so she¡¯d known this was coming, though nothing could prepare her for just how immediate the transition had felt. Any moment now, she would hear the words of the Unseen and her Class would be granted.


    Except. Her family had never told her of this lingering darkness, a shadow on the edge of her mind. It sent a chill through her. Then came the words, each syllable rippling through her mind, warping her soul like a stone tossed into a lake.


    Cerry Tiln. You are a bright spark, a pinpoint of light within the darkness who brings joy where others seek to bring misery.


    Gradually, the tone and timbre of the voice changed, growing colder, more vicious with each word.


    So, light you will bring to those who need it most. You seek to experience joy and spread it to others. This desire shall be granted.


    You have received the Class: Spirit Speaker.


    The messenger of the dead, the Spirit Speaker can talk to the ghosts of the deceased, summon them from their restless wandering and grant release from their suffering, in exchange for loyal service. To increase your proficiency, you must engage in the core pursuits of the Class; speak with the dead and give them purpose in your service.


    Class Attribute per level:


    Manipulation +2;


    Presence +1;


    Poise +2;


    Skills granted level one:


    Spirit Speech.


    It burned in her mind, more than she expected. Were she connected to her body, she might have cried out, but as it was, she couldn¡¯t emit a sound as the Unseen engraved the Class upon her.


    Bewildered, she tried to comprehend what had just happened. What did those words mean? What Class had she received?


    It didn¡¯t make sense.


    In a flash, it was over. She returned to herself with a start, staring in confusion at her hands pressed into the surface of the stone.


    She withdrew them in a daze, then turned. To her left, Old man Jissel watched her, his kindly smile fading into concern as she didn¡¯t react. Unbidden, tears came to eyes, but still she didn¡¯t move, completely lost.


    With a gentle hand, the old man drew her to the side and waved for the next person to step forward.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright, child. No matter what, your life will go on, you don¡¯t have to worry, regardless how bad it seems right now,¡± he told her softly.


    He turned and glanced over his shoulder. Towards the tents, she realised. In that moment, a new fear was born in her heart. Was this Class illegal? It had to be. Surely.


    So she would lose her Class. It was almost a relief, she didn¡¯t want this burden.


    Then, a new fear was born.


    People had been disappearing all over Shadetown for weeks. She would need to have had her head buried in the sand not to notice, to see the fear in the eyes of everyone she spoke to. Everyone knew someone who had been taken, and she was no exception. A terrible thought surfaced in her mind, and once she had acknowledged it, there was no hope it would release her.


    Will it really end with giving up the Class? Normally, it would. But what about now?


    She grew even more pale, and Jissel tightened his grip on her shoulder until she looked at him.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about the registration right now,¡± he told her. ¡°Head back to your family and I¡¯ll let them know to follow up with you later, alright? Remember, it¡¯s never as bad as it seems.¡±


    With a gentle push, he urged her away, back down the line. One look at her face and those still waiting thought they knew what had happened. Sympathetic looks and words were sent her way, but Cerry couldn¡¯t bring herself to acknowledge them. Even Flynn, desperately trying to get her attention from the crowd, couldn¡¯t distract her from the terror rising in her chest.


    What was she going to do?


    ~~~


    All across the empire, the number of illegal Classes Awakened rose more than ten times. Dark Sorcerers, Death Mages, Rot Soldiers, Raven Eyed and many, many more. Classes not seen for hundreds of years, some not for thousands. Magisters were forced into the depths of their libraries to seek the records of some, coming up empty-handed at times.


    Thieves and bandits proliferated alongside other, more mundane illegal Classes.


    Despite their preparations, it was impossible for the Marshals, even with the help of the Church of the Divines, to catch them all. Many families awoke to find a child had slipped away in the night, vanishing into the darkness, a brief note on the kitchen table, never to be seen again.


    Many were forced to abandon their Classes. Many others were taken for questioning, leaving anxious parents waiting for days, which turned to weeks, then to months, with no word of their children.


    In a small mountain town in the far western edge of the Empire, the youth lined up to place their hands upon a very different Awakening stone, a stone that had once been a person. Here, there were no magisters, no priests, not of the Five, and the Classes received were just as rare, just as dark.


    Bone Smiths. Flesh Tuners. Corpse Weavers.


    And Necromancers.

 B4 - Prelude

    ¡°Just tell them I¡¯m writing out my notes as quickly as I can,¡± Tyron frowned, ¡°but don¡¯t forget I have my own work to worry about.¡±


    ¡°Your work will go a lot faster if you have help,¡± Munhilde pointed out reasonably. ¡°The people are more than willing to give you all the assistance you need, they just need to know how.¡±


    Willingness wasn¡¯t the problem. He rubbed a hand across his weary face as he tried to find a tactful way to explain that he didn¡¯t want low-skilled people interfering in his process. He¡¯d much rather do everything himself to ensure the final outcome was something he could put his faith in than turn a single skeleton over to these¡­ amateurs.


    ¡°You think I can¡¯t see what you¡¯re thinking?¡± Munhilde observed wryly. ¡°You don¡¯t want them to help because they¡¯re not up to scratch. Which means they¡¯ll never get up to scratch, because they don¡¯t get to practice. You see the problem?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m doing this to repay a favour for your people,¡± Tyron replied, irritated. ¡°I don¡¯t want or need any help, I don¡¯t care how many bone smiths you have down there. The old gods want to play with people¡¯s fate and mess with the Awakening? That¡¯s their business, theirs and yours.¡±


    He was perfectly capable of managing his own undead horde and didn¡¯t intend to let anyone else lay a finger on a skeletal bone.


    The priestess of the dark gods, Elsbeth¡¯s teacher in their ways, looked at him as if she were staring at a misbehaving child.


    ¡°What?¡± he said, begrudgingly.


    ¡°You¡¯re being stupid,¡± she told him bluntly. ¡°You don¡ª¡±


    She cut off with a strangled sound as Tyron crushed her mind with his own, freezing her in place. After a moment, he breathed out a long, slow breath, and tried to push the flash of violent anger that had exploded in his chest at her words. His temper appeared to have suffered lately, which wouldn¡¯t do. He couldn¡¯t afford to lose control.


    Once he was sure the flash of anger was gone, he released his hold on the priestess and dipped his head.


    ¡°I apologise. I must be lacking rest.¡±


    He was, but it wasn¡¯t a good excuse.


    Freed from his control, Munhilde glared at him furiously, but mastered herself with effort.


    ¡°As I was saying,¡± she spat, ¡°you don¡¯t know what is happening down the mountain. The Corpse Weavers and Bone Shapers have been making expeditions down onto the plains to the east and north. They gain proficiency by working with remains, so they wanted to see if they could unearth any of the mass graves.¡±


    ¡°They found some?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°They¡¯re still carting in the bodies,¡± she told him in clipped tones. ¡°There could be as many as a thousand in just the graves they found so far.¡±


    A thousand sets of remains¡­ Tyron could scarcely imagine it. Not that long ago, he was paying solid gold for twenty a month. This represented an unprecedented amount of wealth. What could he do with such an amount of resources?


    He quickly realised the issue that Munhilde was getting at. No matter what, there was no way he could use them all. Preparing every corpse, stitching them all, even with the Ossuary, then raising them¡­ it would take an enormous amount of time. He doubted he could even support that many undead to start with.


    And this was only the beginning. There were tens of thousands of dead in the wake of the rift break, entire villages, farming communities, small towns, wiped from the map by unthinking, bloodthirsty kin.


    Now he began to grasp what it was that the Old Gods had arranged for. The newly Awakened had been granted many Classes he¡¯d never heard of. Among the Famers, Haulers, Coopers and Smiths, there had been so many related to the dead and the handling of corpses. The Corpse Weavers in particular were a Class which seemed to be entirely related to preparing the dead for¡­ other uses. If they reached a high level, it was possible they could significantly improve the quality of remains, well beyond even what he himself could do.


    With so many recently dead, and the looming conflict ahead, these newly Awakened, along with the Bone Smiths and others, would become the craftspeople feeding a war machine of Necromancers and other dark magick users.


    No need for forges, or slayer schools, bowyers and fletchers. All he needed was a steady supply of well-prepared remains and he could fuel the fighting indefinitely.


    The Bone Shapers could possibly even collect the skeletons who fell in battle and repair them, something he already didn¡¯t have the time to do. Over the years, more of these Classes would appear, and there would soon be hundreds of them, collecting the dead and turning those useless bundles of flesh and bone into something so much more.


    ¡°Fine. I understand what you¡¯re saying, and I see the value in it. I¡¯ll devote more time to condensing my notes.¡±


    ¡°That won¡¯t be enough, soon. No matter how clear you try to make it, these newly Awakened didn¡¯t have your magickal education growing up. Even with your formulae and diagrams, I doubt one of the new Necromancers will ever succeed in casting Raise Dead without your direct assistance.¡±


    As much as he wanted to refute that statement and insist they¡¯d be fine without him¡­ he knew it wasn¡¯t true. His mother had prepared him to be a mage from a young age, and he¡¯d extensively studied prior to his Awakening. Fluent in the words of power, thousands of hours spent practising hand sigils and dexterity exercises, vocal training and breath control.


    Even with all that, he¡¯d barely been successful in his first cast. He¡¯d provided them with a simplified version which should make things much easier for them. Tyron had been forced to craft the ritual from nothing but the vague impressions the Unseen had granted him. They were gifted with a fully functioning, notated version, but without preparation, even that was useless to them.


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    ¡°What do you want me to do?¡± he growled, ¡°run a school for Necromancy up here?¡±


    ¡°Of course not. I want you to teach the Bone Shapers and everyone else as well. You can show them how to mould bone, summon spirits, manipulate souls, prepare corpses, the works. AND¨C¡± she cut him off loudly before he could protest, ¡°¨Cthey will then be able to take over some of those responsibilities for you. This will save you time in the end.¡±


    ¡°I have so many projects to work on, and you want me to add more to my plate?¡±


    ¡°Delay all of your projects to do this, and then you can go back to them with a loyal group of Classed individuals doing the legwork for you. Besides, wouldn¡¯t it be helpful to have others to help work on your projects? Who is there who understands Necromancy like you do to collaborate with?¡±


    It was tempting to roll his eyes at that. Tyron was good at Necromancy, to put it mildly, and he was well aware of the fact. Not just anyone would be able to give him useful advice, but he understood what she was getting at.


    In truth, he just didn¡¯t want to deal with this and was looking for reasons to decline. Investing time in others seemed like such a waste when he could be working to enact his revenge, improve his abilities or furthering his studies. Despite understanding intellectually that teaching these newly Awakened had the potential to aid in all of his goals, his gut reaction was decisively negative. Perhaps he just didn¡¯t want to be around people. He was growing increasingly isolated, and increasingly, he didn¡¯t mind it.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he said quickly, before he could change his mind. ¡°I¡¯ll make myself available for the next month. I¡¯ll still be farming the rift for part of every day, but I can help instruct for the rest. Come back tomorrow and I¡¯ll have a schedule for you.¡±


    Munihlde raised a brow. From being so reluctant, he had moved to preparing a schedule? No matter, she wasn¡¯t going to argue after she¡¯d gotten what she wanted.


    ¡°This will be the best for all of us,¡± she assured him, and the Necromancer snorted.


    ¡°That remains to be seen, but I will give them a chance. Give them this warning: anyone who comes here needs to ensure they don¡¯t waste my time. They won¡¯t get a second chance.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll kill them?¡±


    ¡°What? No, I just won¡¯t teach them.¡±


    ¡°Clarity is important when talking to Necromancers,¡± she said smoothly. ¡°I¡¯ll leave you be for today. See you tomorrow at the same time.¡±


    There was no reply as Tyron had already returned to his notes, his eyes burning into the page with a focus that bordered on unsettling. The Priestess left him to it and began her descent. She had no idea why he still insisted on living in his cave, but Tyron Steelarm wasn¡¯t someone she was going to argue with. If she had to hike several kilometres up a mountain to talk to him, then that¡¯s what she would do.


    Once she was inside the wall, she found her former apprentice pacing anxiously just beyond the gate. When she saw her former mentor, Elsbeth rushed forward.


    ¡°Did you manage to convince him?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I did, though it wasn¡¯t easy. Your friend is a lot more prickly than I remembered him.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s been through a lot,¡± Elsbeth leapt to Tyron¡¯ defence.


    He¡¯s barely human anymore. There is little left of him beyond his hunger for revenge.


    Munhilde kept her thoughts to herself. The young Steelarm was a weapon, and so long as he was pointed at the same targets her gods wished to destroy, then she would give him all the aid she could.


    ¡°So he agreed to teach? When does he intend to start?¡± Elsbeth followed up.


    ¡°He intends to give me a schedule tomorrow and begin shortly after that.¡±


    ¡°Tomorrow? That soon?¡±


    ¡°It appears he doesn¡¯t want to waste any time,¡± Munhilde replied wryly. ¡°Now come, we should give the lucky young ones the good news. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll be delighted.¡±


    The younger priestess¡¯ expression warped as she considered just how this news would be received. Some would be pleased¡­ but others? Not all were keen to learn from someone as feared as Tyron Steelarm. The two turned and began to walk side by side, but didn¡¯t get far before they were accosted.


    ¡°Did you talk to him for us?¡± Trenan demanded as he approached.


    The Hammerman looked tired, his eyes lined with care, but beneath his fatigue there was anger.


    ¡°I¡¯ve asked that you be patient,¡± Munhilde attempted to soothe the slayer. ¡°We have many things to talk to Tyron about. You and your teams are only one of those concerns.¡±


    ¡°I have been patient. You asked us not to speak to him, and we haven¡¯t. Meanwhile, the rift we depend on for levels, and for our living, is being monopolised again. Patience has a limit, and slayers are usually the kind of people you keep happy.¡±


    Munhilde¡¯s eyes sharpened as Elsbeth sucked in a breath.


    ¡°Is that a threat?¡± the older Priestess asked coldly.


    ¡°Not a threat, a statement. There¡¯s unease in the barracks. Not everyone in there is as fucking patient as I am.¡±


    Elsbeth turned to Munhilde and placed a hand on her arm. The older woman drew a breath before letting it out slowly.


    ¡°Fine, go speak to him. I advise you to be careful. He is¡­ irritable, at the moment.¡±


    The Hammerman snorted loudly as he turned away.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be more polite than talking to my fucking mother, don¡¯t you worry.¡±


    So saying, he broke into a jog, ready to carry the good news back to his teammates in the barracks while Elsbeth and Munhilde continued on their way to speak to the newly Awakened.


    ¡°Why has all this responsibility fallen on our shoulders?¡± Munhilde muttered. ¡°There is a council, why aren¡¯t they the ones making the decisions?¡±


    ¡°Because the believers far outnumber the unbelievers at this point,¡± Elsbeth said simply. ¡°Followers of the Three will listen to us above the Council, so they are putting decisions in our hands.¡±


    Especially ones that concerned Tyron and the strange Classes of the newly Awakened. Ortan was more than willing to wash his hands of all of it.


    ¡°If only the Venerable were still with us,¡± Munhilde sighed as they entered the town centre.


    There, the stone that had formed from the old man remained, an object of veneration for the people of Cragwhistle.


    ¡°I think he did enough for us,¡± Elsbeth said softly, ¡°now we need to find our way without him.¡±


    Munhilde rolled her eyes. The girl was right. She didn''t like it, but she was right. There were none who had given more for the Three than the Venerable, including his life. There was literally nothing left for him to give.


    The two Priestesses continued to walk, exchanging greetings and words with the people they passed, until they found the house they were looking for. One of the original buildings, made of stone and wood, it was relatively small, with a low-hanging thatched roof. Munhilde knocked on the door, which opened shortly after.


    Inside, a small gathering of young people, merely eighteen years of age, revealed itself. The Priestess smiled at them.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got good news, and bad news. Fair warning, they¡¯re both the same news.¡±

 B4C1 - Interactions

    ¡°Tyron, you can¡¯t monopolise the whole thing for months at a time,¡± Drenan said, ¡°the slayers are already losing their fucking shit.¡±


    The Necromancer didn¡¯t respond immediately, watching the Hammerman with a neutral expression.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that I don¡¯t understand your concerns,¡± he said finally, placing his hands on his knees, ¡°but there are several matters that you need to consider.¡±


    He brought up a hand and began ticking off his fingers.


    ¡°First, if I decide to claim all of the kin who come through the rift for myself, there is nothing you can do about it. Even if all of you come at once, I¡¯ll still kill you all.


    ¡°Second. There is a greater conflict afoot, and you just so happen to be stuck right in the middle of it. If you aren¡¯t on my side, then why would I give you anything at all? In fact, if you aren¡¯t on my side, then why am I leaving you alive at all?


    ¡°Third. If you throw a tantrum because I¡¯ve taken your toys away, why should I even care?


    ¡°Fourth. If you are on my side, and if I were so generous as to share the rift, there is an important question that needs to be answered. Are you of any fucking use? Are the levels and proficiency gained by you going to be more help than if those same resources were spent on myself?¡±


    As the list went on, Drenan¡¯s expression fell further and further. Although he didn¡¯t fear actual violence from the Mage, he did manage to get his point across with those threats. In effect, he was saying ¡®I am stronger than you, so I can do what I want, what the fuck are you going to do about it?¡¯


    The answer to that was¡­ not much. Drenan was perfectly prepared to die in the defence of his people fighting against the rifts, but not against a Necromancer. There had been many additions to Tyron¡¯s collection of former Classed skeletons, and he did not want to become one of them.


    ¡°As far as the conflict you spoke to us about, I can¡¯t speak for the others, but I¡¯m¡­ sympathetic, at the very least, to your point of view.¡±


    ¡°Sympathetic?¡± Tyron raised a brow. ¡°The Magisters let a break happen rather than relax the leash around Magnin and Beory¡¯s neck. The best and strongest slayers in the province were put to death for the sin of getting too strong. That¡¯s a system you¡¯re prepared to live with?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not that simple, and you know it,¡± Drenan growled. ¡°I¡¯m never going to be as good as Magnin or Beory Steelarm, so what they had to face is never going to apply to me. I just want to do my part and help keep people safe. That¡¯s it. The systems and authority we have in place are corrupt and cruel, I understand that, but they¡¯re all we have.¡±


    This was something the Hammerman believed in passionately. The devastation that had rocked the Western Province had shaken him to his core. The people who¡¯d allowed it to happen needed to be punished, certainly, but what difference did that make to the suffering of the common folk? They experienced danger every single day, simply for trying to live in this doomed realm, and they deserved help.


    ¡°You don¡¯t get it, Drenan,¡± Tyron shook his head. ¡°The war is coming. Slayers are furious, across the entire province. That rage is only building. The crackdown might have put a lid on it for the moment, but as time passes, that pressure is going to grow until it finally erupts. The believers in the old gods are fighting back, they won¡¯t sit back and watch as the purge goes by this time.¡±


    He took a long drink from his waterskin and sighed.


    ¡°Even if none of that happens¡­ even if the slayers and believers roll over¡­ I won¡¯t. I¡¯m going to fight, and I¡¯m going to kill, and I¡¯m not going to stop until I fail, or I throw the Magisters down and slaughter the Nobles in their castles.¡±


    He turned his gaze on Drenan, and not for the first time, the Hammerman noted the intense fury that burned within. Normally, the man appeared so cold, it was easy to forget what was going on within.


    ¡°Keep this in mind, Drenan,¡± Tyron continued, ¡°I don¡¯t fail.¡±


    There didn¡¯t seem to be any point continuing the conversation. Drenan pushed his hands against his knees and stood.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take this news back to the others, and you already know how they¡¯re going to take it. I expect Samantha might come up to speak to you herself, but others may just make a run for it, try and rat you out to the magisters. There¡¯s doubtless a fat reward for information on a den of vipers like Cragwhistle.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± Tyron said.


    ¡°What?¡± Drenan asked, caught off guard as he was turning to leave.


    ¡°Who is it you think will try to leave for a reward?¡± Tyron explained patiently.


    ¡°What are you going to do?¡±


    ¡°Remove the threat.¡±


    The Hammerman frowned, his mouth set in a thin line.


    ¡°You want me to betray fellow slayers?¡± he spat.


    ¡°Pick a side, Drenan. From the sounds of things, you already know some slayers who chose who they¡¯re willing to fight for, and it isn¡¯t my side. I told you what happens to people who aren¡¯t on my side.¡±


    Still, the slayer hesitated. It didn¡¯t sit right with him to sell out people he¡¯d fought alongside, but then again, the people he was protecting didn¡¯t feel the same way. He had little doubt he¡¯d be sold out himself, along with the rest of the village.


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    After considering for a long moment, he sighed and hung his head.


    ¡°Gramble has been openly discussing abandoning the village. The other members of his team aren¡¯t convinced, but they aren¡¯t happy, either.¡±


    Tyron nodded slowly.


    ¡°I knew that much already. Don¡¯t worry about Gramble.¡±


    ¡°No?¡± Drenan said, surprised, raising his head. He thought the Necromancer would take drastic action immediately.


    ¡°You thought I would race down the mountain and kill him?¡± Tyron asked. ¡°There is no need. Gramble is already dead. He began to pack his things the moment you left the barracks.¡±


    That fucker. He¡¯d already made up his mind, just biding his time until he wasn¡¯t being watched. There wasn¡¯t any point being mad at a dead man, so he directed it towards another deserving target.


    ¡°Why drag that out of me if you already knew?¡± he demanded. ¡°Do you get some sick pleasure from making me betray my own fucking ideals?¡±


    Tyron held up his hands in a gesture of peace.


    ¡°Of course not. I just can¡¯t afford to move cautiously. Not anymore. Gramble was a risk that I couldn¡¯t allow to fester, it¡¯s as simple as that. As for you¡­ I¡¯m just pushing you to make a choice. You¡¯re a good person, Drenan. Loyal. Competent. You¡¯re exactly the kind of slayer my parents were proud to call their comrades.¡±


    He looked almost wistful as he reflected on Magnin and Beory.


    ¡°So I want you on my side. That¡¯s all. And as thanks for you being willing to share that name with me, I¡¯ll tell you something. I won¡¯t be staying here for too long. There¡¯s another site in the province which is almost as isolated as Cragwhistle right now, and the rifts there are an awful lot more developed than the one here.¡±


    Drenan didn¡¯t have to think long.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to Woodsedge?¡± he said, disbelieving. ¡°There are hundreds of slayers there.¡±


    ¡°You think they¡¯ll kill me?¡± Tyron chuckled. ¡°They might, but I doubt it. I defeated one Magister here, but there will be a dozen victims in Woodsedge.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re really going to do this,¡± Drenan said, eyes widening. It¡¯s not that he hadn¡¯t believed it, but hearing it spoken in such stark terms was still a shock. This man in front of him fully intended to attack a slayer keep and subdue the Magisters inside. Such an act of rebellion was¡­ unthinkable¡­ absurd.


    And yet.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to send some skeletons down with you,¡± Tyron said, ¡°to collect Gramble for me. If you could have a word with his teammates for me, I would appreciate it. Despite how this may look, I do not want to kill slayers unless I have to. They can make wiser decisions than their leader.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll pass that on.¡±


    But I¡¯m not sure how much they¡¯re going to listen.


    It was an eerie journey back down the mountain, with two skeletons on his heels. Being around them more didn¡¯t help with the uncomfortable sense he got from the undead. If anything, the opposite was true. Their silence, their disturbing gaze, all of it set his teeth on edge.


    When he reached the gate, he was unsurprised to see there was a disturbance. After he explained himself, he, along with his two escorts, were allowed within the gate.


    The barracks was a mess. Christoff and Petri were in the common area, yelling and crying in equal measure. Samantha was grim-faced, listening to them patiently, while the rest of his own team stood against the walls, arms crossed, angry expressions on their faces.


    When he entered, everyone fell silent and turned towards him. When the two skeletons followed behind, the two remaining members of the Weaver slayer team burst into anger.


    ¡°No fucking way! They aren¡¯t taking him, Drenan! Over my dead body!¡±


    The Hammerman winced. In the circumstances, that was an extremely poor choice of words. He held up his hands.


    ¡°Don¡¯t shoot the messenger, I was just talking to the guy on behalf of all of us.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t speak for us!¡± Petri shouted.


    ¡°Then you go up the fucking mountain and talk to him yourself.¡± He turned and pointed to the door. ¡°Well? Get moving.¡±


    Despite their simmering anger, neither of the two Mages made a move toward the exit.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think so.¡±


    Drenan sighed.


    ¡°Look, I¡¯m just going to tell you what the Necromancer had to say, then we can make a decision about what to do. In the meantime,¡± he turned his attention to the two skeletons, who still hadn¡¯t moved after entering the barracks. ¡°I hope these two will stay still¡­.¡±


    There was no response from them, which was expected, since Tyron couldn¡¯t speak through them, but hopefully he was listening. There was no further movement from the undead, so possibly he was.


    He took a seat and the gathered slayers listened as he explained what he¡¯d been told. They were pleased to hear that Tyron may leave for Woodsedge, but the dire warning of a coming slayer rebellion was disturbing, to say the least.


    ¡°Is that really true?¡± Samantha asked, looking troubled. ¡°We¡¯re so isolated here, it¡¯s impossible for us to know what is happening in the Keeps around the province.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been talking to the new arrivals,¡± Choll said, her dark skin gleaming in the low light. ¡°There is a great deal of fear in them. They talk of family members being taken in the night, of Marshals and Priests roaming the cities, taking people without warrants. Something is definitely happening out there.¡±


    ¡°What about Gramble?¡± Christoff demanded. ¡°What did he have to say about murdering one of us in cold blood?¡±


    Drenan sighed. He still didn¡¯t know how he felt about it himself.


    ¡°Again, I¡¯m only telling you what he told me. He said Gramble was preparing to leave, sneak out and report on what was happening here to the Magisters.¡±


    Petri exploded.


    ¡°Gramble would never!¡± he shouted.


    ¡°I wish I shared your confidence,¡± Drenan said quietly, and Petri¡¯s face twisted.


    ¡°So is that the case, Drenan? You¡¯re going to side with the Necromancer over us?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not as if Gramble made it easy for me, did he?¡± Drenan shot back. ¡°He started openly talking about leaving the same day that Tyron came back. The man is a fucking Necromancer. Did anyone here think he would take the risk?¡±


    That silenced most of them, but Petri would not be silenced.


    ¡°I¡¯m not giving over his body, Drenan. There¡¯s no chance.¡±


    The Hammerman turned to the two skeletons waiting by the doorway.


    ¡°You heard the man,¡± he said. ¡°For what it¡¯s worth, I agree with him. Gramble might have been a little shit, but he was one of us.¡±


    Without a word, the undead turned and left. The gathered slayers watched them go, and some of the tension drained from the room with them.


    ¡°Things are going to be tough from here,¡± Drenan said quietly. ¡°We need to work out what we¡¯re going to do.¡±


    ¡°You mean, we need to pick a side,¡± Samantha replied. ¡°There¡¯s nothing to be done until we do.¡±


    She was right. Drenan didn¡¯t like it, but she was right.

 B4C2 - Teacher is Talking

    Not even as a youth, in more innocent times, when he¡¯d spent most of his time studying, practising spellwork or reading history, had Tyron ever imagined he would be called upon to teach. He¡¯d pictured his future as an archmage, left to his own devices in a tower somewhere, called upon to drop lightning, storms and fire upon the kin when things got really out of hand. Now, he found himself responsible for a dozen youths, some of them newly Classed Mages¡ªNecromancers, like himself¡ªwho couldn¡¯t speak a single word of power, let alone a phrase!


    How could he possibly get through this without getting too frustrated and losing his temper?


    That happened far too often these days. He was irritable, impatient, and quick to anger, which was leading him to make rash decisions. He didn¡¯t remember being this susceptible to it. The rage he felt deep within, a slow-burning but white-hot anger born when his parents had died, was always present, but now it was so difficult to keep it under control. If he wanted to make useful allies of these newly Awakened, then he couldn¡¯t be roaring at them every time they wasted remains or incorrectly cast a spell.


    Which meant he would need to be careful.


    It had taken a day to prepare his initial lessons, time not spent on his projects, but he was prepared to accept that, it was a price he needed to pay to gain in the future. As light crept over the horizon and night gave way to day, Tyron took stock of his skeletons.


    His army of undead, reinforced since the last time he¡¯d been here, now with the cauldrons to help them battle, were easily capable of handling the kin streaming from the rift, even without his active interference. The skeletons possessed overwhelming numbers and firepower to deal with such weak kin, although the ice-mammoths still posed a significant threat, requiring him to coordinate the fighting personally.


    What worried him wasn¡¯t the kin coming through, but the rapid expansion of the rift itself. Not that it had grown a lot, but it was still growing too fast. At this rate, it would only be a few years until larger creatures would emerge, and things like the mammoths would cross with greater frequency. Then, more rifts would form nearby, increasing the number of kin who could cross each day, which would lead to greater and faster expansion, which lead to more rifts.


    The doomed cycle had already begun here in Cragwhistle. Before long, more slayers would be needed to contain it, more meat for the grinder, the already stretched Slayers in the province being inched that little bit closer to the brink. There hadn¡¯t been any major disasters since the last break, but it wouldn¡¯t be long before the province suffered for the lack of Magnin and Beory. They had always been called upon to plug the gaps in the past, and they had willingly done so. Soon, the Magisters would be forced to send the gold slayers back out into the field, let them slip the leash. That would help, for a while. Eventually, perhaps in a few hundred years, even that wouldn¡¯t be enough.


    ¡°Tyron, are you there?¡±


    ¡°Elsbeth? Give me a second, I¡¯ll be right out.¡±


    He dragged his mind away from these thoughts. It didn¡¯t matter to him if the Empire was facing collapse. He wasn¡¯t going to wait that long to enact his vengeance, and would likely be dead before the rifts deteriorated to that extent. One last glance over the table and he gathered up what he needed for the day. Brushing aside the blanket keeping the warmth inside his cave, he stepped out into the light and blinked when he saw Elsbeth standing in the clearing by herself.


    ¡°I thought the students were coming with you?¡± he asked, looking around, wondering if they were hiding behind the trees.


    The Priestess of the Three reddened.


    ¡°I thought I¡¯d come and talk to you alone first, see if you were ready before I dropped them on your lap.¡±


    She wanted to see if I was in a good enough mood to receive them.


    It was telling how quickly his temper had become known by those around him.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, Beth,¡± he said, forcing a smile. ¡°I¡¯ve been preparing to teach and am ready to help them get started on their new Classes. Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t bite their heads off.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think you would,¡± she insisted, ¡°I just didn¡¯t want to bother you if there was something important happening up here.¡± Her eyes softened as she looked up at him. ¡°Are you eating? Sleeping alright?¡±


    The Necromancer chuckled.


    ¡°Yes, I am. More than I used to, certainly. Don¡¯t worry, I haven¡¯t forgotten what we discussed. I¡¯m taking care of myself.¡±


    ¡°Good. Well¡­ that¡¯s¡­ good. I¡¯ll go and get your new students, Master Steelarm.¡±


    Tyron groaned.


    ¡°Suddenly, I feel so old.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been Master Almsfield for ages!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s different.¡±


    ¡°If you say so¡­.¡±


    Elsbeth turned and left, returning five minutes later with three young folk, two boys and a girl, though he should probably think of them as adults, given that¡¯s what they were, post-awakening. As they stepped forward, following behind Elsbeth like ducklings behind their mother, he struggled to picture himself as being that young. It wasn¡¯t that long ago he¡¯d Awakened, all things considered, but in his mind, it felt like decades in the past.


    Then again, I haven¡¯t exactly had a normal experience. Things escalated rather quickly for me. Hopefully, their path will be a little smoother.


    As she drew close, Elsbeth had the three students line up as she fussed over them before she turned and beamed at him with forced cheeriness.


    ¡°Tyron, these are the three who Awakened the Necromancer Class last week. From left to right, we have Georg, Briss and Richard.¡±


    Each of the three ducked their heads, but seemed to struggle to look at him directly, refusing to meet his eye. He probably couldn¡¯t blame them, all things considered. With a little time, they would become more comfortable. At least, he hoped so. It would be difficult to teach people who were terrified to be anywhere near him.


    ¡°Hello,¡± he said, trying to sound unthreatening. ¡°Welcome to your first lesson. Are you intending to stay, Elsbeth?¡±


    ¡°No, I will leave you to it. I¡¯ll be back in a few hours when time is up.¡±


    Two of the students, George and Briss, sent desperate, pleading glances toward the Priestess, but Elsbeth was resolute. With a friendly wave, she was off down the mountain, leaving the three alone with their new teacher.


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    Tyron sighed.


    ¡°Come and sit, please,¡± he said, gesturing to the area he had prepared.


    It wasn¡¯t much, five relatively flat-topped stones around a fire pit not too far from the cave entrance, but it would do for now. It took a few seconds for the three to start moving, but eventually they did, still avoiding his gaze as they sat down, not saying anything.


    ¡°This is going to be difficult for you, very difficult, because what I have to teach is hard to do. Necromancy is complex magick, with a myriad of different methods and techniques required to get the best out of your Class.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to be much, much harder, if you can¡¯t bring yourselves to even look at me. I¡¯m not here to hurt you, or poison your minds, but to help you get a good start with the Class. It¡¯s something I wished I¡¯d had starting out, and you¡¯ll regret it if you don¡¯t make the most of our time together.¡±


    He paused to let them think about that.


    ¡°Now, let¡¯s be civilised adults. I would appreciate it, if the three of you would do me the courtesy of meeting my eyes.¡±


    They were hesitant, shifting on their seats. Richard was the first to raise his head, followed by Briss, then Georg, but they did do it. Now that he had a proper look at them, Tyron was able to begin forming an impression of the three.


    Richard had the look of a bookish sort, probably not from a farm workers family. Merchant¡¯s son, perhaps, or a Clerk or Bookkeeper of some sort. Clear blue eyes under a short-cut, well-combed head of blonde hair, his gaze wavered a few times as Tyron considered him, but held firm in the end.


    Briss was slight of frame to the point she appeared almost malnourished; the Constitution she was going to get as a Necromancer was probably going to be of great help to her when winter came. She too had blonde hair, though hers was wispy, so thin it seemed there were strands wafting in the air in defiance of gravity. Although she hesitated a long time, she eventually looked directly at him, locking her gaze on his with some effort.


    Georg was a farmboy; it was written all over him. From the way he dressed, to the stained nature of his clothes, or the workmanlike boots he wore, there wasn¡¯t a single thing about him that pointed to any other origin. His eyes flicked this way and that, darting toward Tyron and then away, though it was hard to keep track of them through the mess of curls that hung down over his face. With the thick, callused hands of someone who worked with them every day from a young age, it would be difficult for him to acquire the dexterity needed for proper sigil work, but as long as he was willing to practise, he should get there.


    ¡°Nice to meet you all. As I said earlier, my name is Tyron Steelarm, though you can call me Tyron. I Awakened as a Necromancer over four years ago, and am currently level forty-five.¡±


    Though he did need to perform the Status ritual soon. It had been a long time.


    When they heard his level, the three of them jumped a little on their seats, surprised.


    ¡°I¡¯ve advanced very quickly,¡± he agreed, ¡°and you can too. This is a Class that lends itself well to rapid growth, but as with all things, it depends on the strength of your fundamentals. I trust you¡¯ve all taken some time to grapple with the information the Unseen granted you upon Awakening?¡±


    Each of them nodded with some measure of reluctance. The Raise Dead spell had been difficult to untangle for Tyron and his first attempt at a complete ritual had been crude, to say the least. Without any form of magickal training, that bundle of knowledge must have seemed totally impenetrable.


    ¡°The ritual granted at level one, Raise Dead, is a complex, multi-stage magick that will take almost an hour to cast on your first attempt,¡± he told them. ¡°Without proper training and preparation, you are not only almost guaranteed to fail, but run a high risk of doing yourself an injury. I myself ran dry of magick on my first cast and passed out on the spot.¡±


    He¡¯d been hoping to get a smile out of them, but they barely even blinked. This was going to be more difficult than he assumed.


    ¡°Let¡¯s start with the basics, then. Has anyone here had any training at all in magick? Even the slightest thing.¡±


    Unsurprisingly, only Richard put his hand up.


    ¡°I was taught a few phrases and gestures,¡± he admitted softly. ¡°Nothing much. I¡¯ve never cast a spell in my life.¡±


    ¡°I thought as much,¡± Tyron said. ¡°Which is why we are going to have to start with basic magick before we can even talk about being a Necromancer. Without a good understanding of the words of power, spellwork, and hand sigils, your odds of casting anything are nill. I can see now why my notes weren¡¯t particularly useful to you. I wasn¡¯t considering that your starting point would be so different than mine.¡±


    He rubbed at his chin as he looked at the three young people, then he sighed. He was trying hard to be patient, but already he could feel the effort it was taking him.


    ¡°Unfortunately, I¡¯m something of a perfectionist,¡± he told them, ¡°which is going to mean my standards are higher than they need to be.¡± It was fully expected that they would struggle with even the basics, and Tyron was trying to gird himself to have the patience necessary, but he was constantly aware of time passing. If he wasn¡¯t progressing, then his goals were getting further away.


    ¡°I have a question for you all, and I want an honest answer. Do you want me to give you a fast path to power, or build you up from the fundamentals? I can teach you just what you need to cast Raise Dead and the basic Necromancer spells. You¡¯ll be up and running much quicker, able to create undead and fight kin to gain levels. Or, I can give you a proper basis in magick. It will take a long time, require gruelling, repetitive practice, but you¡¯ll come out with a basic education in spellwork and sigils that you can apply to a wider variety of abilities. I can¡¯t say I can replace several years of training in an academy, but it¡¯ll be better than nothing. You choose.¡±


    Richard spoke up immediately.


    ¡°I want to learn the fundamentals.¡± The others looked at him and he shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable with all the attention. ¡°My father told me just how expensive it can be to learn the kinds of things Mr Steelarm is offering to teach us for free. It¡¯s a lot.¡±


    Mr Steelarm? Nobody in my family has ever been called Mr Steelarm.


    ¡°Please, just call me Tyron,¡± he said, holding up a hand.


    The image of his father laughing hysterically at him being called Mr Steelarm wouldn¡¯t leave his head.


    ¡°What about you two?¡±


    Surprisingly, it was the farmboy, Georg, who spoke next. He still averted his gaze as he spoke quietly.


    ¡°Working slow and proper is faster than rushing. That¡¯s what me mam always said, and it¡¯s true.¡±


    Tyron turned to Briss.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go with what the others want,¡± she said softly.


    It wasn¡¯t exactly what he wanted to hear, but it was easier for him if they all wanted to learn the same things, so he shrugged and decided to get started.


    ¡°Alright then, basic spellwork is where we begin. It¡¯s a lot neater than butchering corpses, which is a plus.¡± He started rifling through the papers he¡¯d prepared until he found what he wanted and handed each of them a page. ¡°Right now, I know about two thousand words of power, which isn¡¯t many in the grand scheme of things. On this page, I¡¯ve written out pronunciation guides for ten, along with descriptions of the matching hand gestures required to form the sigils. These make some of the most common phrases you¡¯ll come across in any spellwork.¡±


    The three looked at the pages with bewildered expressions and only now did Tyron realise something.


    ¡°You can all read, right?¡±


    All three nodded.


    ¡°Thank the Unseen. Alright. Now I know that it looks confusing, but don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m going to go through each word and phrase one by one, and I¡¯ll demonstrate the hand gestures. In addition to this, I have another page¡­¡± he rifled around until he found it, handing a copy to each of the three. ¡°... which details some simple drills and stretches you can use to increase your finger dexterity, along with vocal exercises. Breath control and endurance are completely necessary to cast complex Rituals, which you need as Necromancy is almost entirely Rituals. We will go through these as well before we finish today, but I expect you to dedicate as much time as you possibly can to them.


    ¡°Don¡¯t practise so much you injure your hands or make yourself hoarse, but you¡¯ll need to push yourselves hard if you want to make the most out of the time we have together. Now, this first word is Rhuam. R-hu-ah-em. It is vital you pronounce each syllable perfectly, no mistakes. We start by speaking it slowly, one piece at a time, until we¡¯re sure we have all of them right, and only then do we try and put it all together. Now, repeat after me¡­¡±


    This was going to take a long time, but strangely, he found himself enjoying it. After all, what was more interesting than magick?

 B4C3 - Lessons Continue

    The next two weeks passed faster than Tyron had imagined they could. His days were filled with preparing and delivering lessons to the various Necromancy-related Classed that had Awakened in Cragwhistle. When he had a spare moment from that, he was directing his minions to fight kin or poking away at his own projects.


    Filetta was growing frustrated with his lack of progress, but he assured her that his next status ritual would provide the levels and hopefully some clues as to how he could finally raise a Wight. Fortunately, she was relatively content to pass the time away sleeping within the stone he¡¯d placed her spirit in. It was better than being a lost and wandering soul, apparently, so that worked out in his favour.


    It hadn¡¯t taken all that long for him to teach the Corpse Weavers and Bone Shapers what he¡¯d been able to figure out on his own. How to identify the various qualities of a corpse, what could be done to improve the condition of the bones. They¡¯d listened carefully to what he¡¯d told them, gone through a few demonstrations and hands-on practice sessions, then gotten to work with surprisingly little fuss. A few had been reluctant to handle the dead, which was understandable, Tyron hadn¡¯t been thrilled about it when starting out either, but it was surprising how quickly people could adapt.


    Green faces and vomit turned into casual indifference pretty fast when handling corpses became a daily activity. What was becoming rapidly apparent was just how many corpses there were to handle. Teams were still venturing out into the still-ruined areas of the province to look for mass graves, and they were still finding more. The bodies had largely rotted, but the bones were fine, and collecting them for the Shapers and Weavers had become a small industry in Cragwhistle.


    ¡°Steady your breathing and practise the sequence in your heads,¡± Tyron told his Necromancer students.


    The three of them were sat around the fire with their eyes closed, comfortably at rest, though their brows were furrowed as they concentrated.


    ¡°It¡¯s a long sequence, and I don¡¯t expect you to remember the whole thing. The key is to stop once you are no longer completely certain you have it right. There¡¯s no such thing as blundering forward and hoping it works out when spellcasting. The odds of succeeding at random are millions to one, whereas the odds of your spell exploding in your own face are quite good. If you aren¡¯t completely sure what comes next, stop, refer to your notes, practise that phrase, then start again. Constant repetition is the only way you will be able to squeeze this into your heads.¡±


    Georg, Briss and Richard each nodded as they continued to run through the Ritual in their heads. Tyron had pulled out all the stops to create as bare bones and simple a version of Raise Dead as he possibly could. It wasn¡¯t optimal by any means, the result would be a weak, barely functioning zombie that drew so little power it couldn¡¯t move itself, but it would count as having raised an undead. If all went well, that would be enough to get the three of them to the second level, where they could start working with skeletons.


    If they wanted to specialise in zombies, they were more than welcome, but he couldn¡¯t help them much there. Quite deliberately, he had focused his build on the second form of basic undead, and he didn¡¯t regret it for a second.


    ¡°The ritual should take around twenty minutes to cast. That¡¯s twenty minutes of continuous, flawless casting,¡± he reminded his students. ¡°Every phrase, perfect. Every gesture, perfect.¡±


    They¡¯d spent all of their previous sessions gradually building up their skill and comprehension of basic magick principles, but Tyron knew if he kept the lessons completely theory-based, the three youngsters would burn out eventually. His mother had done the same thing for him, giving him just enough knowledge to create some little effect, even if it wasn¡¯t a complete spell, then introducing the next set.


    So, he¡¯d guided them towards this cut-down version of their primary Ritual. Specifically designed to use as few sigils as possible, it was possibly Tyron¡¯s finest creation, even if it was complete rubbish. Getting the ritual to function in such a short time with such a limited number of words was a feat and a half.


    Tyron watched his three students as they struggled to do as he¡¯d asked them. Richard was a fast learner, with a good memory, but he could be overconfident. Several times, he¡¯d declared himself proficient in certain phrases or gestures, only to be sharply corrected.


    ¡°Good enough isn¡¯t good enough,¡± he¡¯d warned the young man sternly, much as his own mother had done for him. ¡°An imperfect phrase in the middle of battle will get you killed just like if you jumped on your own sword. If you can¡¯t get it right sitting here without any danger, then you have no hope of doing it right under pressure.¡±


    Briss was surprisingly adept, and a very dedicated student. She practised more than the other two, and it showed in how well her hand movements were coming along, but she was timid. She lacked the confidence to decide for herself when she was proficient, needing to check with Tyron if she was ¡®doing it right¡¯ over and over again until he refused to supervise her any more. He knew some people needed positive reinforcement to learn, but she didn¡¯t have that much time. If she couldn¡¯t move on to the next thing without being told a hundred times she¡¯d learned the last, she¡¯d never get anywhere before he left.


    Georg¡­ Georg was an interesting package. Softly spoken, even mumbly at times, with his thick and worn hands, he struggled with the spoken element of spellcasting just as much as did the hand gestures. The youth lacked the memory of Richard or the drive of Briss, but what he did have was a willing practicality and a better understanding of what it was he was trying to become.


    ¡°Things die,¡± the young farmhand had shrugged when Tyron had asked him about working with the dead, ¡°even people. If anything, I think it¡¯s nice we can get some use out of them.¡±


    The lad had butchered cattle before, skinning the animal and cutting it up for meat. He¡¯d cleaned bones, handled offal and generally seen and done all the dirty work that went into working with living creatures. Of the three, he had the best mindset when it came to Necromancy.


    He left them to their preparations for a few hours while he focused on other things. Looking through the eyes of his minions, he could take a look at almost all of the mountain slope between the rift and the rapidly expanding town. The majority of his undead were positioned high up, close to the rift itself, ready to intercept the kin the moment they came through.


    The fighting was extremely one-sided for the most part. His skeletal mages and archers pelted the monsters the moment they emerged, followed by a charge from his skeletons and revenants. Almost two hundred undead remained there, with small groups scattered across the mountain and a large force close by to defend himself.


    Only the mammoths required his direct intervention, but they appeared rarely, and usually one at a time.


    After he had left them to their internal reflection, he gathered his students¡¯ attention with a clap of his hands. They opened their eyes and looked at him seriously. At least their willingness to meet his gaze and be around him had mellowed as time passed. It probably helped that he no longer wore his bone armour when they were present.


    ¡°Come with me,¡± he told them and directed them away from the cave a little ways into the woods. There, they came upon a corpse that had been prepared for their use. A young man, probably unawakened, dead to the cold and found by Tyron¡¯s skeletons out on the mountain.


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    ¡°Gather around,¡± he told his students. ¡°Don¡¯t be so far back, Briss, come closer.¡±


    She looked a little green, but Richard was worse. Of the three, he¡¯d clearly been the most sheltered. Georg barely changed expression.


    ¡°You have the Corpse Appraisal Skill, same as I have. What is your intuition telling you about these remains?¡±


    There was silence for a moment as Richard and Briss considered, but Georg was the first to speak.


    ¡°Cold has kept him pretty fresh,¡± he said. ¡°Body will be a bit stiff, though, I wager.¡±


    ¡°Every body you work with will be stiff, Georg,¡± Tyron told him. ¡°It happens to a person when they die.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I seen that before.¡±


    ¡°You sure would have. The cold won¡¯t be any impediment to our magick. After casting Raise Dead, the zombie will be able to move just fine.¡±


    After another pause, Briss spoke up.


    ¡°I think some animals got to him, there appears to be¡­ some damage¡­ to the right leg.¡±


    ¡°The body is a little chewed on,¡± Tyron agreed, ¡°which would limit his movement as a zombie. Remember, a zombie uses magick to fuel the muscles, but doesn¡¯t replace them. This minion would have a definite limp. Anything else?¡±


    Richard hesitated.


    ¡°Th-that¡¯s a person, though,¡± he said.


    Not an unreasonable response, but an unhelpful one.


    ¡°That¡¯s a corpse,¡± Tyron corrected him. ¡°Whatever it is that turns tissue and bone into a living person is long gone.¡±


    In fact, the spirit was tucked away in a stone back in Tyron¡¯s cave, but they didn¡¯t need to know that.


    ¡°This is materials. This is a potential servant that you send to fight on your behalf. That¡¯s it.¡± He gestured up towards the rift. ¡°Would you rather send a dead body up there to fight the kin or a living, breathing person? Think of your neighbours and friends. Should they fight, or should this?¡± he declared the question pointing a finger down at the dead body. ¡°To me, the answer is obvious. In fact, Necromancers like us could be the answer to the growing problem suffered by the empire. There aren¡¯t enough slayers, but there are a lot of dead bodies. We are the only Class that can use one problem to solve the other.¡±


    Richard nodded, somewhat reluctantly, but Tyron was satisfied he got his point across.


    ¡°Now, I am going to cast the modified version of Raise Dead that I have prepared for you. Pay close attention to my words, and to my hands. Keep in mind that this is easier for me due to my higher level Skills and Mysteries. Your result won¡¯t be as good, and can¡¯t be, so don¡¯t expect it.¡±


    ¡°You have mysteries? Plural?¡± Briss blurted out.


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that,¡± he snapped. ¡°Focus on what is happening here.¡± He glared at the three of them until he was satisfied they were focused. ¡°Each of you is going to make an attempt after me. I¡¯ll cut off your spellwork the moment you make a mistake, so don¡¯t worry about killing yourselves.¡±


    Richard gasped.


    ¡°I said don¡¯t worry about it. This is a normal way to teach students Rituals. Now, I¡¯m going to start.¡±


    He raised his hands, glanced at the students one more time, then began to cast. He went slowly, not throwing the full force of his magick behind the Ritual, but even so, the words tolled like a bell, sending a ripple through the air that washed over the surroundings and through the three young apprentices. It took him twenty minutes to complete, and when it was done, the corpse on the ground opened its glassy eyes, and began to twitch.¡±


    Lowering his hands, Tyron nodded with satisfaction. The Zombie was drawing a bare trickle of power, the conduit formed between the two of them totally insufficient to fuel its movement, even with the reduced cost compared to a skeleton.


    ¡°There you have it,¡± he said, brushing his hands together and flexing his fingers. ¡°A successful cast of Raise Dead. As you can see, it worked, the modified ritual isn¡¯t intended to create a useful undead, but to help you learn the spell.¡±


    He cut off the flow of power between himself and the zombie. In moments, lacking the energy required to maintain its unlife, the corpse fell back into the snow.


    ¡°Georg, you first.¡±


    The farmboy raised his brows in surprise before he stepped forward, the others shuffling around to make room for him. As he steadied himself, closing his eyes and mumbling words of power beneath his breath, Tyron focused. He would need to intervene the instant a mistake was made, before the arcane energy spiralled out of control.


    ¡°I¡¯ll start now,¡± the young man declared, then raised his hands.


    He spoke well, better than Tyron had anticipated, but his fingers continued to be an issue. He was forming the sigils correctly, but only barely. The fact he was this successful at all spoke to how hard he¡¯d been practising.


    He made it two and a half minutes in before his first major slip.


    Tyron leapt forward and clamped down on his hands, shouldering the young man out of the way as he blasted away the warping Ritual energy with a burst of his own magick. After a few breaths, he was satisfied nothing further would happen. Georg lay on the ground gasping and Tyron extended him a hand.


    ¡°I hope I didn¡¯t hit you too hard,¡± he said, ¡°I forget sometimes that you don¡¯t have any levels.¡±


    Reforged by the Unseen, Tyron had thirty points of strength on him from advancements. He was far, far stronger than even the mightiest unawakened.


    ¡°I¡¯m alright,¡± Georg wheezed. ¡°I didn¡¯t think you could hit that hard, sir.¡±


    ¡°Take a moment to get your breath. Briss, you¡¯ll be up next. I promise I¡¯ll be a bit more gentle,¡± he tried to reassure her, but she still looked nervous.


    She shuffled forward, then took several deep breaths as she tried to focus. Then, she began.


    Surprisingly, her diction was excellent, and her fingers were quite nimble. At a steady pace, she moved through the ritual until Tyron had to intervene almost five minutes in. Trying to restrain himself, he rushed forward, used his hands to push her out of the way before erasing the warping spell. This was another reason why he designed it to contain so little power. Failure wasn¡¯t as catastrophic as it would have been otherwise.


    ¡°Well done, Briss. Now it¡¯s your turn, Richard.¡±


    The studious young man swallowed heavily before he stepped forward and readied himself. Georg helped pick up Briss and they moved to the side to watch.


    After a moment, he raised his hands and began.


    He made it barely past a minute before Tyron had to intervene. After dealing with the aftermath, he led the three young Mages back towards the cave and spoke to them there.


    ¡°Georg, you did well, especially with your diction and breath control.¡±


    ¡°Fingers tripped me up,¡± he nodded, staring down at his thick digits.


    ¡°There¡¯s a Dextrous Fingers feat you can choose in the general feats list if you have a slot open. It may be worth considering. If you keep doing your exercises, it will get better, but it will take time, and you¡¯ll never be quite as nimble as you would like to be.¡±


    He turned to Briss.


    ¡°You did extremely well, but you need to maintain your focus. A normal version of this ritual can last up to an hour, and many spells last longer than that. Start practising the whole ritual at once, as well as working on your phrases. You need to get used to concentrating for extended periods at a time.¡±


    Next was Richard, who hung his head, disappointed to have performed the worst.


    ¡°I know you¡¯ve been working hard, but nerves got the best of you. I know it''s difficult, but you can¡¯t be nervous. You need to find a way to channel that energy into something helpful, or put it out of yourself.¡± He considered for a moment. ¡°Have you ever performed publicly?¡±


    Richard blinked.


    ¡°Uh, no?¡±


    ¡°Try heading to a tavern or inn and singing or something. Juggling. Whatever you can do. If you can get through a song in front of a crowd, performing a ritual in front of three people will seem like a breeze.


    ¡°Now, I¡¯m going to be away for a few days, through the rift. I expect each of you to keep working on your drills and practising the ritual. When I get back, you¡¯ll need to show me some improvement.¡±

 B4C4 - The Hunt is On

    ¡°We¡¯re being pushed too hard. Magisters are falling over from fatigue. Mistakes are being made. You need to reconsider your timetable!¡±


    Lady Erryn kept her expression neutral as her eyes bored into the Grand Magister¡¯s.


    ¡°This is not my timetable, but that of the gods themselves,¡± she replied coolly. ¡°If your Mages cannot keep up, then consider why they are so unfit for the purpose that has been assigned to them. Perhaps you should explain to his excellency the Duke why his purge of the heretics is falling behind. I can¡¯t wait to see his expression when he hears that the divine purpose placed into his hands is being delayed by fat and lazy Magisters.¡±


    She lashed him with the weight of her authority in the last sentence, letting him feel the pressure of her scorn.


    ¡°Grand Magister Tommat, I would hate to think that, even at this late stage, I need to remind you of the price of failure. If you think that my head would be the only one to roll, you are sorely mistaken. Yours, along with all the senior Magisters, would be rotting in a sack before mine touched the ground.¡±


    With a glare so heated she herself felt the heat of it, the old Mage before her wilted visibly, a weed blasted by the sun.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t dream of such a thing, Lady Erryn. I wish for nothing but success for our current endeavour, I am a loyal servant of the Divines! All I wanted was to ensure you were aware of the situation. Mistakes are being made, mistakes that could impact the great work of yourself and the Duke. It would be remiss of me not to alert you of potential failures¡­.¡±


    At that moment, Recillia Erryn hated everything about this situation. She hated this frail, short-sighted old man who had somehow risen to the top of his order. She hated the Red Tower, infested with entitled, lazy second sons and daughters. She hated her office, and the fact she had to sit here amongst these cast-offs. Most of all, she hated her responsibilities here, having to wrangle such creatures to serve as was their fate.


    ¡°Stand straight,¡± she demanded acidly. ¡°You¡¯re the Grand Magister, for the gods¡¯ sake. Show a little dignity.¡±


    Magister Tommat straightened himself, flushing red from both anger and shame. She didn¡¯t care.


    ¡°There will be no change to the timetable,¡± she informed him, ¡°and with even a modicum of thought, you would understand why. Should the Duke fail to enact the words of the Oracles, he will be deposed faster than you blink. When the stakes are so high, you can imagine what will happen to those who put success in danger. The main problem I see, is that your people are not operating under enough fear.¡±


    She stared contemptuously at the old man.


    ¡°These are unprecedented times that come with unprecedented danger. Even the heads of the Noble houses are at risk, let alone Magisters.¡±


    Leaning back in her char, the noble lady considered her options, one finger tapping against her bottom lip. As she thought, Grand Magister Tommat could do nothing but fidget and sweat, cursing his own bad luck. A few more years and he would have retired, a respected and valued contributor to the peace of the realm. As much as he hated to admit it, he was unsuited to the circumstances he found himself in. For the entirety of his time as a Magister, things had run like clockwork, the occasional slayer problems put down quickly and easily. Now that they were being forced to perform in ways they were unaccustomed to, the fragility of the Red Tower was being brutally exposed.


    ¡°I believe a demonstration of the seriousness of the situation is all that is required,¡± Lady Erryn announced, her tone as sibilant as a snake.


    Unease crept into Tommat¡¯s mind as he tried to process that.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± he asked slowly. ¡°I¡¯m sure my people are more than aware of the circumstances.¡±


    ¡°I disagree,¡± she replied smoothly. ¡°The next two Magisters to fail in the course of their duties are to be sent directly to me. I will ensure they receive the discipline that is warranted.¡±


    Though he knew it was pointless, Grand Magister Tommat had to speak up on behalf of his people.


    ¡°We have always handled disciplinary matters internally. I myself have been responsible for ensuring lapses are met with appropriate punishment.¡±


    Recillia narrowed her eyes.


    ¡°We are in this position because we disagree on what is ¡®appropriate¡¯. It will be as I say.¡±


    Tommat bowed his head, knowing he had no choice but to yield. The Magisters served by the will of the Noble houses; they could not defy them.


    ¡°What are you going to do?¡± he asked softly.


    ¡°I will give them to the church,¡± she replied, voice flat and emotionless. ¡°They will be tried for obstructing the work of the Divines.¡±


    ~~~


    The screams were never ending. No matter where he was in the tower, there was no way to escape them. They haunted his sleep along with his every waking moment.


    The young, recently promoted Magister Regis Shan had never seen anything like it, and he hoped never to see it again. The Divine fire that had descended, burning not the flesh, but the spirit. Even now, it continued to burn, two Mages committed to the flames.


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    The only thing that kept him going was the thought that he might be next.


    Despite the fatigue, he pushed himself forward, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the door frame as he knocked on the door. Without waiting for a reply, he swung it open, closing it quickly behind himself.


    Inside, Grand Magister Tommat sat behind his desk, two other high-ranking Magisters alongside him, including Herath Jorlin. For once, the young Magister wasn¡¯t looking his usual, well-coiffed self, appearing just as haggard as Regis felt.


    However, it was the much older man who drew his eye. The Grand Magister appeared as a shadow of his former self, eyes sunken into his head, skin pallid and pale.


    ¡°I have the reports from Lotsford,¡± Regis announced quietly, placing the pages down in front of the three men.


    Herath collected them without a word, eyes running down the summary on the first page quickly.


    ¡°That many?¡± he asked, no hint of surprise in his tone.


    ¡°That¡¯s what the report says,¡± Regis replied.


    ¡°Surely even the church is going to have trouble dealing with so many prisoners at once. What are they doing with them?¡±


    ¡°That is not our concern,¡± Tommat said. ¡°We are not to interfere in the working of the Priesthood. Handling the heretics is their responsibility. We are to assist them in collection and managing slayers. That is all.¡±


    After a moment¡¯s pause, Herath bowed his head toward the Grand Magister.


    ¡°Of course. I will refrain from such enquiries in future.¡±


    ¡°See that you do.¡±


    All through the conversation, the sounds of screams rang in their ears, ceaselessly. None acknowledged it.


    ¡°The further the search stretches to the west, the thinner our numbers become. There are barely enough Magisters left in the tower to maintain our normal functions as it is,¡± the hitherto silent Magister Anlyn said.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Tommat sighed. ¡°There will be cessation in the efforts to sweep the unclean from the province. The Duke has set the timetable; we have no choice but to meet his demands.¡±


    ¡°That means more Magisters leaving the tower,¡± Herath said, forcing out a smile. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll need to start packing my bags. I¡¯m guessing they won¡¯t be finished in Lotsford anytime soon, which means the next group to head out will be going to Waybridge?¡±


    Anlyn shuffled through his papers for a moment before he nodded.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he confirmed. ¡°Then further south, toward Endless Sand and Dustwatch Keeps.¡±


    ¡°I hate it down there,¡±: Herath compalined. ¡°The sand gets into everything.¡±


    ¡°Pardon. Should I remain or return to my duties?¡± Regis asked.


    He was swaying on his feet, so he reached out a hand to grasp an empty chair to steady himself. It had been over three days since he¡¯d last slept, and the lordling was unaccustomed to such deprivations, to say the least.


    ¡°Stay a moment, young Regis,¡± the Grand Magister said, turning his haunted gaze upon him. ¡°You will need to leave us and head out into the field alongside Magister Jorlin. I wanted to ensure that you are prepared for your new duties.¡±


    Although he had been dreading such news, the fatigue left the young Shan lordling feeling too numb for any great reaction. All he could muster was a sigh and a shrug.


    ¡°As long as I get to sleep on the way there, I think I¡¯ll be fine,¡± he said.


    Herath forced a laugh with a lopsided grin to match.


    ¡°I understand where you¡¯re coming from, but you don¡¯t want to be making any mistakes out there. The consequences can be¡­ ear-splitting.¡±


    On and on, the screaming simply never ended, a constant refrain to life in the tower. How did they not run out of breath? Surely their voices would be gone soon? Were the damned Priests healing them?


    Regis shook his head. It wouldn¡¯t do to dwell on such thoughts. He pushed them from his mind.


    ¡°Remember, we don¡¯t determine the targets, we help the Marshals and Priests. Our main responsibility is to step in and control any slayers caught up in the purge.¡±


    Herath Jorlin found a map amongst the scattered papers on the desk and unrolled it.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be heading to Waybridge. There are already teams at Reynold Keep and Havercroft in the south. Have you ever been to Endless Sand Keep?¡±


    Regis shook his head wordlessly.


    ¡°It has a¡­ reputation, let''s say. It¡¯s a long way from Kenmor, and the Slayers are a little more¡­ independent than those you find at Blackrift or Undermist. Dustwatch and Skyice are even further west and are significantly worse.¡±


    Regis blinked. They were openly talking about disgruntled Slayers? Such a thing had never happened in his presence before.


    ¡°What should I expect?¡± he asked finally, trying to focus his mind.


    ¡°The worst,¡± Herath replied. ¡°That way, when things turn out better, we won¡¯t be surprised. One thing has been true for the duration of this emergency: the further from the capital we get, the more arrests are made. By the time we get to Skyice, half the damn place is going to be in chains, including the slayers.¡±


    ¡°What happens when we arrest slayers?¡±


    ¡°People die,¡± Grand Magister Tommat answered for him, wearily. ¡°If they aren¡¯t subdued fast enough with the brand, they¡¯ll try to push past the agony and inflict as much damage as possible. We¡¯ve already lost Magisters who weren¡¯t careful enough, and I would hate to see a promising young man cut down just as his career was beginning.¡±


    Despite the crushing fatigue, Regis felt a chill run down his spine. There were so many ways to fail, so many ways to die. Just what was happening in the province, and why were the Magisters being crushed under so much weight?


    Just how bad were things going to get as they pushed further west? How many Magisters were they going to lose?


    Perhaps Herath could see the thoughts written on his face, for he smirked and answered his unspoken questions.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to get bad. Very bad. I expect there will be far fewer members of this tower by the time this is all done. Lady Shan is driving us hard, and there will be more examples before too long.¡±


    The screaming. Always the screaming.


    ¡°But it isn¡¯t coming from her. It¡¯s coming from the Duke, from the Priests, the Oracles, the Emperor himself. We live in unprecedented times, and if we aren¡¯t sharp, we will be swept away with the tide.¡±


    Regis stiffened his back.


    ¡°I won¡¯t be swept away,¡± he declared quietly. ¡°I¡¯m going to survive.¡±


    Herath stood and clapped him on the shoulder.


    ¡°You¡¯re starting to sound like my good friend Poranus. A little fire in our bellies will get us a long way right now.¡± He turned back to Tommat. ¡°How long until you need us to leave?¡±


    The old man didn¡¯t need to consult his notes.


    ¡°Two days. That¡¯s the most I can give you.¡±


    ¡°Very well. If you¡¯ll excuse me then, my fellow Mages of the Red Tower. I¡¯m going to bed.¡±

 B4C5 - Web Of Knowledge

    ¡°Did you see his hands?¡±


    ¡°Yes. For the fifth time, we all saw his hands.¡±


    ¡°The movement was so crisp. No wasted motion. I could barely see him flip from one sigil to the next.¡±


    ¡°We know.¡±


    ¡°And he said he was working slowly. If that¡¯s slow, then how fast can he go?¡±


    Georg sighed and pushed away the notes he had been attempting to study for the last half an hour. In the dim light, it wasn¡¯t that easy to see, but he found it difficult to sleep at the moment. Much like life on the farm, there was always more that could be done when studying Necromancy.


    ¡°Richard. He¡¯s good, alright? We know he¡¯s good. If he wasn¡¯t, would he be worth learning from?¡±


    His fellow Necromancer, lean, with pointed features and a permanent nervous expression, threw his hands up in frustration.


    ¡°Good? Good doesn¡¯t begin to fucking cover it, Georg! I¡¯ve seen others do magick. Admittedly¡­ not much¡­ but he blows all of them out of the water. Almost everything he¡¯s showing us he taught to himself!¡±


    Again, Georg sighed. They¡¯d been over this so many times. Once Richard got a thought into his head, he found it extremely difficult to push it out. Hopefully, his current obsession would run its course soon.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care,¡± Georg told him honestly. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter if he¡¯s the best milker in the paddock or barely average. I¡¯ll get cream out of him all the same.¡±


    Richard turned to him, aghast.


    ¡°Did you just compare Tyron Steelarm to a cow?¡±


    ¡°S¡¯fine,¡± Georg shrugged defensively. ¡°Gets the point across, doesn¡¯t it? As long as he teaches me how to do this¡­¡± he wiggled his thick fingers with an air of general frustration, ¡°... nonsense, then I¡¯m satisfied. I want to make the best of my Class.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t seeing the big picture! Someone with his skill could take us so much farther¡­.¡±


    Georg thumped a fist to the table, causing Richard to jump. Recognising he¡¯d lost his temper, the farmhand quickly apologised.


    ¡°Sorry. It¡¯s just¡­. You need to stop doing this to yourself.¡±


    And to me.


    ¡°Doing what?¡± Richard asked, lowering himself into a seat at last.


    ¡°You¡¯re making yourself nervous! The more you build up Tyron in your mind, the more desperately you want to impress him, the more likely you are to fail when you try to work your magick in front of him. You know damn well what happened last time¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to talk about it.¡±


    ¡°¡ªand it¡¯ll happen again if you keep getting yourself worked up.¡±


    The bookkeeper¡¯s son slumped in his chair and hung his head.


    ¡°You¡¯re right. I know you¡¯re right. It¡¯s just¡­ there¡¯s a lot of pressure. This is an illegal Class, right? If we don¡¯t become strong quickly¡­¡±


    There was a rattle at the door, and a moment later, Briss pushed it open and stuck her head through.


    ¡°Am I interrupting?¡± she asked.


    ¡°No,¡± Georg growled, folding up his notes. Clearly, he was destined not to get any work done tonight.


    ¡°Good,¡± Briss muttered as she slipped through the door and closed it behind her, totally oblivious to Georg¡¯s frustration. She looked at Richard, still curled up like a slater at the table. ¡°Is he stressing himself out again?¡±


    ¡°What do you think?¡± Georg replied.


    Heedless of his suffering, Briss scuttled next to Richard and started poking him in the side.


    ¡°Hello? Snap out of it, Richard. You¡¯re fucking this up for yourself.¡±


    A few more pokes and Richard snapped, flapping his arms until Briss backed off.


    ¡°He emerges from his shell!¡± she declared triumphantly before seating herself at the table. She rummaged around in the small leather bag she carried over her shoulder and pulled out her own notes. ¡°Now, you guys can help me with this phrase. Is it supposed to be ¡®Rhu-al-atten¡¯ or ¡®Rhu-al-att-hen¡¯,¡± she asked.


    Georg frowned, unsure.


    ¡°The latter,¡± Richard stated dully. ¡°You have to emphasise the accent on the final syllable.¡±


    ¡°I knew it,¡± Briss breathed, closing her eyes and trying to commit the phrasing to memory. ¡°I¡¯ve been stressing about that for hours. When I wrote my notes, I wasn¡¯t clear enough.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it spelled out on the sheet we were given?¡± Georg asked, confused.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t. Not on the one you¡¯re thinking of,¡± Richard answered the question. ¡°It¡¯s not part of the ritual. Briss is working on her fundamental phrases.¡±


    Exhaling a big puff of breath, Georg leaned back in his seat and stared up at the low roof of the house they dwelled in.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how you commit so much to memory so fast. The words get tangled in my head before I get halfway through the list.¡±


    ¡°Chunking. Break the list into smaller groups and work through them one at a time. Trying to do too many at once will stall your progress.¡±


    Richard, of course, was the source of this sage advice.


    ¡°How can you be so good at this while also being such a mess?¡± Briss asked innocently.


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    Richard slumped flat on the table, miserable.


    ¡°I¡¯m just good at memorisation. My father taught me how to manage lists from a young age.¡±


    ¡°Useful talent for a mage, it turns out,¡± Georg noted.


    ¡°What does it matter if I can¡¯t manage to hold it together long enough to finish the ritual?¡± Richard said.


    ¡°You failed once,¡± Georg pointed out. ¡°It¡¯s normal to be bad at something before you can get good at it. More practice is all you need.¡±


    ¡°I wonder how much time we really have?¡± Briss muttered. ¡°Even Tyron told us he would only have weeks with us.¡±


    That sombre statement caused a hush to fall over the trio as they thought about the implications. Learning magick from scratch was proving to be exceptionally difficult, no matter how skilled their teacher was. To even get started with their new Class, they would need to become proficient enough to cast a complex ritual. It was a steep hill to climb.


    None felt that more than Georg. He struggled to remember the arcane phrases, his hands refused to move the way he needed them to¡­. He spent hours on the drills he was taught every day, but his progress remained glacially slow.


    If he wasn¡¯t able to learn enough to make his start as a Necromancer before Tyron left, what was he supposed to do?


    Richard cleared his throat as he straightened in his seat. He and Georg had been living in this small house since the Awakening, while Briss stayed next door, sharing with some of her friends who were Bone Shapers. It wasn¡¯t much, a single room with a firepit, some straw beds and a table, but it had one luxury the rest of the town struggled to get their hands on: an enchanted light source. Not that it was a particularly good one. Now, as the night drew close, it barely provided enough illumination to reach the edges of the small room, shrouding the wooden walls in shadow at the corners.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been wanting to ask¡­ though I didn¡¯t want to be rude or anything¡­ but¡­. What did you two want to get out of this Class? Why do you think you received it?¡± He shrugged his narrow shoulders. ¡°For me¡­ I¡¯ve always wanted to be a mage. I didn¡¯t even necessarily want to be a slayer, I just always wanted to learn magick, I didn¡¯t particularly care what kind.¡±


    ¡°So you got your wish,¡± Georg said quietly.


    ¡°I did, I suppose. It¡¯s exciting¡­ most of the time. The rest of the time¡­ I just feel terrified. Mr Steelarm¡­ Tyron, he talked about wanting to bring down the Magisters. I guess I¡¯m only now starting to realise that we won¡¯t have a chance to keep our Classes unless he succeeds.¡±


    The bookish young man looked uncomfortable being this open about himself, but he pushed on.


    ¡°Maybe it won¡¯t even end at Classes. With everything that¡¯s been happening,¡± he gestured vaguely toward the east, ¡°maybe they¡¯ll just kill us if they find us. In which case, we can¡¯t even survive unless Tyron¡­ wins.¡±


    Briss looked at him, compassion on her features.


    ¡°Oh, Richard. Your family is here in Cragwhistle, right?¡±


    The young man nodded.


    ¡°They aren¡¯t just going to take your Class away. They won¡¯t even just kill you. My grandparents were taken by them, right when it all started.¡± She teared up a little, recalling the painful memories. ¡°My nan and pa were tortured, until they gave up the names of everyone they knew, just to make it stop. Our neighbours were taken next, and we would have been taken after that if my mum and dad didn¡¯t take us away that very night.¡± She drew a shuddering breath. ¡°It won¡¯t end with just killing you. They¡¯ll stick hot knives in you until you talk. Then, your family will be next.


    ¡°We came here after that, looking for protection. Instead, the gods gifted me with this Class, and I¡¯m going to use it to keep my family safe.¡± The willowy girl nodded to herself. ¡°Tyron has shown us that it¡¯s possible. He¡¯s gone through the rift, by himself. That alone should tell you how strong a Necromancer can be. If the three of us work together, then we might be able to protect Cragwhistle.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I want to do.¡±


    Her words fell heavily into the silence. Richard looked shocked and saddened to hear her story, as well as fearful. Perhaps he¡¯d never fully considered just how much his family was at risk, simply from being here, in this place. Were he to be caught, as a Necromancer, all of his relations would go down with him, there was no question of that.


    For a smart person, Georg had no idea how he managed to overlook the obvious. Briss turned toward the farmboy, who sat at the table, staring at his calloused hands.


    ¡°Everyone worshipped the Three where I grew up,¡± Georg said, ¡°so I kind of fell into it as well, I suppose. S¡¯fine, really. I don¡¯t think it really matters that much which set of gods people worship.¡±


    ¡°If you ask a god, they might disagree,¡± Richard said faintly.


    Georg shrugged.


    ¡°I suppose. I mean it doesn¡¯t make much difference to the people. I seen a lot of people pray, but I never seen a god muck out a stable. I pray to Raven every now and again, and Rot a few times, but I¡¯ve never heard a whisper back. For the most part, my life has always been about getting the work done.¡±


    He closed his hands into fists on the table. Even now, his hands seemed smudged with dirt, despite not having worked a field in weeks. Sometimes it felt as though the earth had bonded with his skin, and no amount of washing would get rid of it. Not that it bothered him; hands were for working.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know why I was given this Class, and honestly, I feel like it was a mistake most of the time. I don¡¯t see how I¡¯m suited to it. But since I have it, I want to make the most of it.¡±


    He turned to Richard.


    ¡°Your parents are bookkeepers or somesuch, right? Briss, your family are coopers?¡± the other two nodded in confirmation. ¡°Well, my family have been Farmhands. Classed Farmhands, for generations. We¡¯ve never even been able to make enough to own our own land, not even out here.¡± He looked down at his hands again. His mother and father had hands just like his, except¡­ more. More calloused. More dirty. More scarred.


    ¡°As a Necromancer, I¡¯ve got a chance to make something of myself. You said it yourself, Briss. Tyron is on the other side of the rift, by himself. He keeps every core he finds for himself, right? With that kind of money, I can buy some land. My brothers and sisters won¡¯t have to work themselves to the bone for someone else¡¯s farm anymore. That¡¯s what I want.¡±


    Of course, there was more to it than that. Briss had spoken the truth. Unless Tyron was victorious, and Cragwhistle remained free from the purge, his goals would go unrealised. He needed time. Time to grow strong and carve a path forward. Being impatient wouldn¡¯t get him anywhere, he knew that. Steady progress was the important thing: every day, get a little bit further forward.


    ¡°I¡¯m with you, Briss,¡± Georg announced before he turned a level stare toward Richard. ¡°You¡¯d better get on the same page as well. Maybe you didn¡¯t want any part of this fight, but you were thrown in all the same the moment you got this Class.¡±


    Without another word, he reached down and picked up his notes, rifling through them until he found a blank page, which he placed flat on the table in front of him. From his belt, he withdrew the small whittling knife he always had, and made a small cut in the meat of his thumb. Just another scar to add to the collection.


    Richard noticed what he was doing first.


    ¡°Are you¡­ sure?¡± he asked hesitantly.


    Georg nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯ve thought about it. I¡¯m learning too slow, my hands can¡¯t keep up with my head. If I have to burn a feat for it, then I will.¡±


    ¡°General feat slots are¡­¡± Richard started to say, then caught himself and shook his head. ¡°Sorry, I know you¡¯ve given it the right amount of thought. It¡¯s your decision.¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s the right decision,¡± Briss encouraged him. ¡°Tyron suggested it himself, so it must be useful for a Necromancer.¡±


    I hope so, Georg thought to himself.


    Unfortunately, he hadn¡¯t levelled once in his Necromancer Class, but that was to be expected. The process to select a new General Feat was a simple one, and in moments he¡¯d confirmed it, writing out his choice with his own blood on the page. Then, he ended the ritual.


    ¡°How does it feel?¡± Briss asked, curious.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ strange,¡± Georg said, looking down at his hands. ¡°Like a tickling running up my fingers and into my head.¡±


    ¡°It can take a while for a feat like that to finish taking effect,¡± Richard said. ¡°You may not even notice a difference until morning.¡±


    ¡°Well then,¡± Georg said, picking up a page of his notes while doing his best to ignore the sensation, ¡°may as well get back to learning. Are you going to sit there moping, Richard? Or are you going to get back to it?¡±


    The bookish young man looked down for a moment before he forced a laugh, picked up his own notes, and began to read. After a moment, Briss joined them. Soon, the three students were immersed in the world of magick once again, memorising phrases, practising gestures, and trying to make sense of it. Together.

 B4C6 - Moving Forward

    The cold was even worse than Tyron remembered it, though he wasn¡¯t sure if that was because it had gotten worse, or because he¡¯d pushed it from his memory. Regardless, he¡¯d come adequately prepared this time.


    The wind picked up outside, sending the constant snowfall battering against the side of the tent, but Tyron paid it no mind. He¡¯d had this specially made, and it had cost him more than he¡¯d expected, a lot more, but had proved to be worth every copper mark. Triple layered canvas, treated to be proof against water, kept the inside as dry as a cookhouse, while the heaters he¡¯d enchanted himself kept it just as warm.


    It took four of them, one placed in each corner, but it was enough to stave off the chill and keep him relatively comfortable, which was something of a miracle given the frozen hellscape he was in. Outside, his skeletons surrounded his little pocket of safety. Immune to the cold, heedless of the snow and ice, his minions watched and waited in case another pack of roaming kin came across this hiding spot.


    It had taken a while to find this spot, tucked away between two outcroppings of rock. For the past three days, this had been his refuge against the worst of the weather, but it appeared the direction of the wind had changed.


    Would it be too much to have his skeletons form an unliving wall to block the snow? How effective would they even be? They were more gap than solid.


    Tyron grunted to himself. If something didn¡¯t change soon, he¡¯d just have to bite the bullet and relocate. As much as he didn¡¯t want to leave his tent, if it was needed, then it was needed. He¡¯d been out there plenty of times already, what was one more?


    Whatever it was called, this realm only grew more dangerous with time, and fighting on this side of the rift was far more perilous than being on the other side. On several occasions, he¡¯d encountered packs of roaming ice mammoths, though never more than three at a time, thankfully. Against opponents like that, he couldn¡¯t leave his skeletons to fight on their own discretion. His minions would likely win, but how many would he lose? An unacceptable risk.


    By applying his magick and directing the fighting personally, he was able to overcome such packs with no permanent damage done to his horde. Although repairs were often required, which slowed things down.


    The smaller boar creatures and ice wraiths were far more common, springing up from the snow-covered ground at any moment. The Ice creatures were almost impossible to see in the storms, blending into the flurry of ice and snow without effort. Fortunately, his skeletons could spot them just fine, their strange eyesight picking the creatures out from the sleet. Despite the increase in power he¡¯d experienced, Tyron still had to be cautious here beyond the rift. There were more dangerous creatures than the mammoths roaming the wilds, though he¡¯d never seen one up close, thankfully.


    All he¡¯d gotten was the impression of something large, covered in white fur. The hulking creature either hadn¡¯t spotted them, or had other prey in mind as it stalked through the frozen wasteland. Whichever was the case, Tyron was grateful. He hadn¡¯t come here to fight creatures like that, risking his minions and himself.


    For the time being, he was perfectly content to battle against the hordes of weaker creatures. Those were the opponents his skeletal army was perfectly equipped to fight.


    In one corner of the tent, the bag containing the cores he¡¯d collected bulged, fat and happy. Stopping to cut the cores from the weaker monsters had become a waste of time, given the prevalence of the mammoths, though the Ice Wraiths were usually worth plundering. With such a haul, he¡¯d have plenty to fuel his next experiments and creations, one of his aims for this trip achieved.


    The other sat on the floor of the tent in front of him.


    Tyron stared down at the blank page, biting his lip absentmindedly as he pondered. Eventually, he realised he was making no progress at all at untangling the thoughts running through his head. Rather than waste any more time trying, he cut his thumb, leaned forward and pressed it into the paper.


    The ritual was as short as it was simple, and soon his blood flowed over the paper, forming the letters which became the words which communicated the influence of the Unseen.


    It had been awhile since his last status ritual, and the blood continued to flow for longer than he was accustomed, to the point he wondered if he would need to find a second page, forming messages about his proficiency in various skills rising. Tyron began to wonder if extremely levelled individuals like his parents ever had to worry about running out of blood. Someone like Magnin would have had dozens and dozens of Skills and abilities he could level. Tyron knew for a fact his father had gone an entire year between status rituals at least once¡­. What would his sheet have looked like? How did he even survive the blood loss?!


    Eventually, once each of his Skills had been dealt with, the ritual came to the meat of the matter.


    You have raised skeletons and they have fought on your behalf. Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 48. You have received +6 Strength, +9 Constitution, +9 Intelligence, +6 Wisdom, +6 Willpower, +6 Manipulation and +9 Poise.


    You have utilised Death Magick to cast spells and rituals. Death Mage has reached level 6. You have received +5 Constitution, +5 Willpower, and +5 Poise.


    Your patrons have lavished you with gifts and delight to see you using them well. Ensure you continue to utilise your talents to further their ends, lest they become less generous. Forbidden One has reached Level 30. You have received +3 Manipulation, +6 Constitution, +6 Intelligence, +6 Willpower and +3 Poise.


    Despite everything he¡¯d done, he¡¯d only gained another three levels in his main Class. It was difficult, but he forced the dissatisfaction he felt aside. He¡¯d risen exceptionally quickly; reaching the Silver ranks as fast as he had was almost unheard of, if he didn¡¯t consider the time he¡¯d taken to learn enchanting. He knew it was absurd to expect he would proceed to level sixty as quickly as he had to level forty. It took years of fighting for most Slayers to reach Gold after promoting to Silver, the most dangerous period of their career.


    He needed to be satisfied he was moving forward at all, even though he knew his progress would become even slower in the future.


    ¡°Forward is forward,¡± he told himself.


    At least his new sub-class was rising quickly, as it should. Five levels in Death Mage was nothing to sneeze at, and he could look forward to a feat and three new ability selections. As always, the message from his ¡®patrons¡¯ brought a sneer to his face. Lavishing him with gifts, were they? He had no doubt that whatever the vampires had done to him counted amongst those ¡®gifts¡¯.


    For now, he was still too weak to achieve his objectives alone, so he needed their help. That wouldn¡¯t always be the case, but for now, he had to bide his time. Reaching level thirty meant another feat selection for this sub-class as well. Yet more decisions to make.


    On top of that, Tyron was determined to spend his general slots as well. He¡¯d hemmed and hawed over the decision for too long, until the weight of indecision had paralysed him. It was past time to break out and spend what he had to spend. They were valuable, unretractable choices, and there were hundreds of possible options and thousands of combinations, but delaying any further was only going to stifle his growth.


    Name: Tyron Steelarm.


    Age: 23


    Race: Human (Level 20)


    Class:


    Lord of the Ossuary (Level 48)


    Sub-Classes:


    <ul>


    <li>Forbidden One (Level 30) </li>


    <li>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</li>


    <li>Death Mage (Level 6)</li>


    </ul>


    Racial Feats:


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    Feat Selections Available: 2


    Attributes:


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Strength:


    </td>


    <td>


    78


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Dexterity:


    </td>


    <td>


    135


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Constitution:


    </td>


    <td>


    191


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Intelligence:


    </td>


    <td>


    308


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Wisdom:


    </td>


    <td>


    202


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Willpower:


    </td>


    <td>


    167


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Charisma:


    </td>


    <td>


    66


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Manipulation:


    </td>


    <td>


    105


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Poise:


    </td>


    <td>


    122


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Several important milestones had been reached, the most important of which was intelligence over three hundred. A formidable number only possible thanks to the favourable stats of the Necromancer and Anathema Classes. With that level of power behind his magick, Tyron was well on his way to achieving both the enormous pool of energy required to fuel his spells and rituals, and the punch necessary to make up for his lack of offence.


    Wisdom over two hundred was a great leap forward in his level of control, something he had always excelled at. With the aid of the Unseen breaking through another milestone, his ability to manipulate arcane energy would only rise higher. This would prove particularly useful when enchanting.


    General Skills:


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 4)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Engraving (Level 5)(Max)


    Sculpting (level 3)


    Skill Selections Available: 4


    Four general Skill selections and two General Feats. These were the most prized slots in any build, not due to their power, but to their versatility. Georg struggled due his relatively clumsy fingers, but that problem could be, if not solved, at least alleviated by the use of a General Feat. A person could become partially ambidextrous, gain better balance, better body control, a more glib tongue, more sensitive hearing, greater store of magick, better sense for the movement of energy, better ability to track objects in motion and almost anything else that could be thought of.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    General Skills were less prized, but no less valuable. The ability to have the Unseen provide the basics of any Skill considered part of itself was incredible. Tyron had taken advantage of this already, learning butchery to help advance his Necromantic career.


    ¡°I really did expect I¡¯d have to do a lot more sneaking,¡± he muttered to himself, staring at the level three ability with a frown.


    With a base maximum of only five, these Skills would never be life-changing, but they could help in unexpected ways, and add new dimensions to how a person interacted with their Classes.


    After pondering for so long, Tyron knew full well what Feats he wanted to choose. He worked his thumb to force a little more blood from the cut and wrote at the end of the page.


    Well of Magick.


    Arcane Renewal.


    There were a range of things he could have picked, and he¡¯d agonised over many different choices. Resilient Flesh would have coupled with his high Constitution brilliantly, as would Stamina Renewal. The first would make him even tougher, hardening his skin and muscle until it was like corded wood. The latter would have helped him push fatigue even further away, allowing him to push through days and days without food, water or rest.


    A classic combination for Mages was Dextrous Hands and Agile Tongue, making it easier to cast using hand sigils and spoken components. Tyron was already extremely proficient with both, but the feats could have helped elevate him to an even higher level. Perhaps.


    It wasn¡¯t always possible to know just how great an effect a particular feat would have. It would always work, but how well could vary.


    Night Owl paired very well with Tireless, which would have combined to almost deactivate his biological clock. With the sleep spell ready to hand, he never had to worry about getting natural rest, and those two feats combined would have enabled him to function without sleep for so much longer.


    In the end, he decided to bow to the demands of his Class. The Necromancer Class demanded an almost unlimited supply of power, and so he would do whatever he could to slake that thirst. Well of Magick should increase his pool by roughly a tenth of its current capacity, and Arcane Renewal would decrease the time it took to refill by a fifth.


    Beneath that, he continued to write the list of general Skills he wanted.


    Weaving.


    Dodging.


    Running.


    The first choice would, he hoped, prove useful in furthering his craft, even a little. With any luck, Weaving would assist in his bone stitching. He¡¯d run into some roadblocks in that area, and perhaps this Skill would help shine some light to get him through.


    The last two were quite obvious in their utility. He was never going to be able to stand and fight with any proficiency. If a level five dodge saved him even once, it was worth it. If a level five run helped him escape even once, it was worth it.


    With those choices written in blood, it was time for the class selections.


    Necromancer Skills:


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 20)(Max)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Death Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    Enhanced Minion Commander (Level 14)


    Undead Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Minion Modification (Level 10)(Max)


    Bone-Soul Melding (Level 12)


    Death Infusion (Level 5)


    Bone Forging (Level 15)


    Anathema Skills:


    Abyss Tongue (Level 6)


    Spell Concealment (Level 10)(Max)


    Arcanist Skills:


    Expert Magick Scripting (Level 30)(Max)


    Channelling (Level 10)(Max)


    Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 19)


    Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 18)


    Expert Network Formation (Level 29)


    Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Core Sense (Level 16)


    Expert Power Control (Level 28)


    General Spells:


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)


    Necromancer Spells:


    Raise Dead (Level 36)


    Bone Animus (Level 28)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 10)(Max)


    Shivering Curse (Level 10)(Max)


    Death Blades (Level 10)(Max)


    Empowered Bone Armour (Level 8)


    Minion Sight (Level 10)(Max)


    Spirit Binding (Level 10)(Max)


    Death¡¯s Grasp (Level 7)


    Anoint Dead (Level 7)


    Black Miasma (Level 8)


    Death Bolt (Level 10)(Max)


    Summon the Ossuary (Level 5)


    Bone Lance(Level 3)


    Anathema Spells:


    Pierce the Veil (Level 10)(Max)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 5)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    Advanced Suppress Mind (Level 20)(Max)


    Repository (Level 10)(Max)


    Fear (Level 5)


    Glamour (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Invasive Persuasion (Level 12)


    Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 8)


    Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)


    Necromancer Feats:


    Skeleton Focus III


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery


    Spirit Mastery


    Undead Specialist


    Awaken the Altar


    Anathema Feats:


    Repository


    Wall of Thought II


    Drain Life


    Stormwise


    Arcanist Feats


    Magick Thread Control II


    Compact Sigils II


    Conduit Seal II


    Core Networking II


    Mysteries:


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Advanced): WIS +20 CHA +20


    Essence of Death (Initial): INT +3 WILL +3


    Soul Magick (Initial): WIS+3 CHA +3


    Lord of the Ossuary has reached Level 48. Choose two additional Skills or Spells:


    Skills:


    Corpse Divining - Deepen your connection to the dead, allowing you to understand them more fully. Will replace Corpse Appraisal and raise its maximum level by 10.


    Corpse Singing - Enhance your ability to empower remains, cleansing and purifying them. Will replace Corpse Preparation and raise its maximum level by 10.


    Spells:


    Skeletal Sacrifice - Detonate a skeleton to shower your foe in shards of bone.


    Ossuary Vent - Create an opening through which the energy of the Ossuary can be extracted.


    Blessing of Bone - Invigorate your Skeletons, empowering them to greater speed.


    Forbidden One has reached level 30. Choose two additional Skills or Spells:


    Skills:


    Corrupting Presence - Subvert the Will to resist from those around you.


    Dimension Weaving - Improve your capacity to manipulate the Dimensional Weave.


    Crone¡¯s Gaze - Sense the inner motives of another when meeting their gaze.


    Raven Speech - Communicate with the children of the Old God.


    Spells:


    Advanced Bewitch - Replace Bewitch and increase the maximum level by 10.


    Blood Shield - Draw the essence from your opponents to form a protective barrier.


    Flesh to Power - Sacrifice your own body, or the body of another, to generate magick.


    Death Mage has reached level 6. Choose three additional Skills or Spells:


    Skills:


    Curse Weaving - Enhance your capacity to manipulate curses.


    Expert Death Magick - Replaces Advanced Death Magick and raises the maximum level by 10.


    Spells:


    Greater Death Bolt - Will replace Death Bolt and raise its maximum level by 10.


    Sap Life - Drain lifeforce from an opponent to invigorate yourself.


    Wilting Curse - Weaken and enfeeble your foes.


    Death Fist - Will replace Death¡¯s Grasp and raise its maximum level by 10.


    Forbidden One has reached level 30. Choose an additional Feat:


    Dark Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Dark Ones.


    Abyssal Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Abyss.


    Scarlet Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Scarlet Court.


    Ruler in Shade - Your false faces are harder to break and see through.


    Corroding Presence - Encourage Death Magick growth in all around you, even the living.


    Bewitching Gaze - Those who look into your eyes are more susceptible to magickal influence.


    Black Soul - Tune your spirit to the void.


    Dead Flesh - Adapt your body to contain death aligned energy.


    Still Blood - Your blood will cease to flow, and change.


    Death Mage has reached level 5. Choose an additional Feat:


    Efficient Death I - Your mastery will allow you to achieve more with less.


    Empowered Death I - Your mastery will strengthen your spells to greater heights.


    Penetrating Death Bolt - Your Death Bolt will pierce.


    Death Conversion - You will be faster when converting normal magick to Death Aligned magick.


    Curse Tuner - Curses you apply to others will have the opposite effect on you.


    Death Sense - Detect nearby sources of Death Magick.


    Deaden Self - Your sense of pain will grow dull.


    Eyes of the Grave - You will see as the spirits see.


    Rot Claws - Your hands will generate Death Magick in your nails.


    Fallen Shadow - You may store Death aligned energy in your shadow.


    Tyron¡¯s abilities continued to grow apace as his Skills and Spells improved, but he wasn¡¯t satisfied with this level of progress. He needed to make greater leaps, get ahead of the Unseen. His Mysteries remained stubbornly frozen in place, refusing to progress even as he learned and grew.


    There were many difficult choices to make in this ritual, and some he honestly didn¡¯t want to make.


    Death Mage was relatively simple. Greater Death Bolt, Death Fist and Sap Life were all useful choices. With his greater capacity to contribute more directly to the fight, increasing his personal offensive options made good sense. TMeanwhile, the Death Mage feats were a welcome surprise. Efficient Death would be nice, allowing him to cast more spells using less energy, and he would choose it if that was all it did. If the Unseen decided it also applied to the energy drawn by his minions¡­ then it would be incredibly powerful. He had to take it to find out, so take it he did, despite there being other interesting options.


    For Lord of the Ossuary, he had to stop and think. Both of the new options, which would replace Corpse Preparation and Appraisal, would be useful and powerful¡­ IF circumstances hadn¡¯t recently changed. Were he to be handling all of the remains himself, then they would be amazing, but if others with specialised Classes would be doing those things for him¡­ then they would be two wasted slots. Just how much did he trust the newly Classed people of Cragwhistle to rise to the challenge? Would they ever be able to do it better than he himself could do it now?


    It was a leap of faith.


    For the time being, he selected Blessing of Bone and the Ossuary Vent. Empowering his skeletons? Great. Exploding them? He wasn¡¯t a fan. The Ossuary Vent was an intriguing option, allowing him to make use of the rich and dense energy of the Ossuary even when he wasn¡¯t inside it. He could already think of ways to incorporate such a spell to flash-charge his constructs.


    Which left him with Forbidden One. For starters, he struggled to find a feat he actually wanted, let alone liked. Curry favour? He did more than enough of that already, thank you very much. Ruler in Shade was useful, but the Old Gods already provided a similar benefit. It would be good not to be dependent on them for the effect, but he was loath to choose something he could get another way.


    Corroding Presence? Wouldn¡¯t that make it almost impossible for him to hide?


    Which left only Bewitching Gaze as something he could pick without doing some permanent modification to himself that he didn¡¯t understand. So that is what he chose.


    For the abilities, the choices were slightly more appealing. Dimension Weaving grew more and more relevant as time passed. Crone¡¯s gaze and Raven Speech were both possibilities, though perhaps not ideal. Blood Shield was straight up distasteful, but it was another defensive option, which, paired with the Drain Life feat, could work to both shield and heal him.


    In fact, with this many options to inflict harm and heal himself being available, something like Flesh to Power became ever more appealing, though a dangerous option. Injuring himself in the hopes of being able to repair the damage seemed like a slippery slope. As usual, he didn¡¯t have any details to determine if the risk would be remotely worthwhile.


    After some consideration, he took Dimension Weaving and Blood Shield. They were, perhaps, the safer options, but there was no need to waste a slot on something that may not be useful.


    Then he drew the ritual to a close.

 B4C7 - Reams of Gold

    Am I really going to die in here?


    Once again, the thought bubbled up unbidden. It was getting harder to push it away, especially recently. Feolin didn¡¯t try to fight it this time, just letting that unsettling idea rattle around inside her head, growing louder and louder. Eventually, she realised it wasn¡¯t going away on its own, not this time. She slammed a hand down on the table, then stared at her clenched fist in surprise.


    Was she really that angry? Had it really gotten to her this badly? She¡¯d been living in the bird cage for almost a dozen years, twelve years of idle leisure and luxury that she had yearned for while knee-deep in blood and guts at the rifts. Only twelve years, and already she was turning against the paradise she had wanted for so long, railing against the prison she had entered willingly. It happened to everyone eventually. No matter how much they pretended it didn¡¯t get to them, it did. Eventually, everyone cracked. And when they did¡­ the other slayers had to band together to put them down. If they were lucky, that is. Some managed to hold off their friends and lovers. They were unlucky. The Magisters came for them, turning up the brand until they were a screaming mess on the floor, unable to move, unable to speak.


    Fuck you, Brole. You were right all along. Am I really going to die in here?


    Before she started to spiral, Feolin pushed herself up from the table, determined to go out. She felt an irresistible urge to move, to do something, anything to avoid the thoughts. A quick glance in the mirror on the way out the door didn¡¯t tell her anything she didn¡¯t already know. Short of stature, with a wave of curling brown hair running down her back, she appeared to be approaching middle age, despite being significantly older than that. One of the many benefits of rising high in the esteem of the Unseen.


    But perhaps her age was starting to show. Was she a touch more pale than she was before? Did she detect a hint of grey in her hair? Perhaps it was all in her mind. Maybe she was just tired. She looked tired.


    Stepping out of her apartment and into the broad streets of the Golden District was like stepping into a painting. Tall trees lined the streets, old oaks and maple, swaying gently in the breeze and providing shelter from the midday sun. Planters carved from stone lined the front of every building and every floor, each connected to the automatic watering system flushed by water mages daily. Surrounded by vibrant life, it was difficult not to feel an upswell of joy at the sight.


    Feolin walked down Splinter street, giving her greetings to neighbours and acquaintances that she passed on the way. All Gold Ranked slayers, enjoying their retirement, there was easy laughter and broad smiles aplenty. These were the people who¡¯d made it, the ones who¡¯d survived.


    From those who¡¯d been in the cage a little longer¡­ there was something else about them. A knowledge, deep in their eyes, that something was not right. For them, the smiles were a little forced, the laughter, just a touch on edge.


    It¡¯s all in your head, Feolin! They¡¯re tired because they were out drinking and fucking and just woke up. Or they were working, or they¡¯re not in a good mood today. It¡¯s fine!


    Hurrying her steps, she rounded the corner onto Dunwodden Street. Two hundred metres up the road, she came to a stop at a doorway, lined with flowers like all the others, and began pounding away at the dark wood door. A gardener tending to the planters looked up at the noise and recognised her.


    ¡°Ms Nurn,¡± he called out in a hushed tone, ¡°I believe Mr MacRielly is asleep. He only came home a few hours ago.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± the former slayer noted, continuing to pound on the door. ¡°Which brothel was he at this time?¡±


    ¡°I certainly didn¡¯t ask, madam.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she grunted, ¡°that probably wouldn¡¯t be appropriate.¡±


    She gave up on using her fist and instead used her foot, leaning back and delivering kick after kick into the door until it began to splinter. Even for a flame mage, the strength gifted by the Unseen to a gold rank was enough to do some serious damage. She had enough trouble with incidental breaks as it was, she had no idea how more physical classes managed to roll out of bed without shattering their side tables.


    After a minute or two of determined kicking she finally heard something from inside. Cursing mainly, followed by stumbling, a fall, then groaning, then more cursing. Eventually, the door opened to reveal a haggard, pale, red-headed man with a large moustache and bloodshot green eyes.


    ¡°I should¡¯ve known it was you, Fee. What in the name of fuck are you doing to my door?!¡±


    ¡°A pleasure to see you as always,¡± Feolin offered a short curtsy. ¡°May I come in, old friend?¡±


    The northerner blinked a few times before he stood to one side and pushed the door open.


    ¡°Why in the fuck do you insist on the good manners after kicking the ever-loving shit out of my door? I¡¯ll never understand women,¡± he muttered to himself.


    Feolin wrinkled her nose as she walked past him.


    ¡°You reek of alcohol. It¡¯s midday.¡±


    The man visibly counted for a moment in his head.


    ¡°Well, it makes sense, then,¡± he burped. ¡°I only stopped drinking four hours ago.¡±


    ¡°Go and wake yourself up. I¡¯ll wait for you in the kitchen,¡± she sniffed.


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    MacRielly slapped himself in the face, wondering if today was finally going to be the day he clapped back. After a moment of consideration, he wisely chose not to. He wasn¡¯t that drunk. Trying to tell Fee what she could and couldn¡¯t do was a mistake a person only made once in their lifetime, and he¡¯s learned that lesson a long time ago.


    There was only one method for dealing with the mad bitch, and that was getting the hell out of her way. Besides, he was extremely pleased with the current state of his moustache. It was bushy, but not too bushy, and had achieved a pleasant arc on either side of his mouth, hanging down at just the right angle. Having it burned off along with all the skin on his face would be such a shame.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be with you in a minute, dearie,¡± he grumbled, taking himself to the washroom.


    ¡°I am not your ¡®dearie¡¯,¡± she replied in a clear voice.


    ¡°It¡¯s a term of endearment, you fucking hag!¡±


    With the practised motions of a person who¡¯d gone through this same process many times before, the northerner took that cap off a small bottle, imbibed a purging agent, then spent the next five minutes being violently ill. Then he disrobed, stepped into the wash basin and allowed the enchanted facility to shower him with water and lathered soap. With the enhanced alcohols purged from his system, his superhuman physiology was already well on its way to a full recovery by the time he¡¯d dried off and changed.


    Still a little damp, he staggered into his own kitchen to find Fee had made herself very much at home. The diminutive mage had made herself a cup of tea, no doubt having sneered at the poor quality of the leaves a little, and sat reading the paper laid out across his table.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know why you insist on this poor excuse for a table,¡± she remarked. ¡°It looks like it¡¯s made by nailing logs together.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because it is,¡± MacRielly grunted as he sat down and started pawing at the bowl of dried meat he kept in the kitchen. Eventually, he found a well-salted hunk of venison and shoved it in his mouth, groaning with satisfaction as his teeth scissored through the unbelievably tough meat like sheers through cotton.


    ¡°I almost can¡¯t remember what it was like to struggle to chew this stuff,¡± he said, gesturing toward the jerky. ¡°A single piece of my father¡¯s smoked venison could last me half a day. It was as tough as my shoes and twice as tasty.¡±


    Then he looked down at the table.


    ¡°Never disparage this true, rustic furniture in front of me again. That¡¯s how we do things in the north, and I fucking like it that way.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s uncivilised,¡± Feolin noted.


    ¡°Fee. We¡¯ve known each other for what, twenty-five years? Have I given you a single indication in all that time that I care for civilisation? Even once?¡±


    The mage rolled her eyes and pushed the paper away before meeting his gaze.


    ¡°You soak yourself in Sounland wines every chance you get,¡± she scoffed. ¡°Not just any wine, mind you, vintage Sounland wines. The kind my father kept locked away in the cellar because it was too good for drinking. You act like you''re happy drinking ewe piss, but the truth is plain to anyone who knows you. You¡¯re a snob.¡±


    MacRielly placed a hand on his chest, gasping theatrically.


    ¡°You wound me, Fee. You cut fucking deep. But it¡¯s true. Those fuckers in Sounland make some incredible ewe piss.¡±


    Feolin snorted with laughter, but the humour vanished from her eyes all too quickly. Her friend noted the change and realised what had happened, why she was so desperate to wake him up this morning.


    ¡°How bad is it?¡± he said softly.


    She didn¡¯t reply for a while, letting the question hang in the air while the two of them looked down, not willing to glance up lest they see it.


    ¡°It¡¯s getting worse,¡± she confessed finally. ¡°I thought¡­ I thought I had it under control. I do have it under control, but it keeps getting worse. Eventually¡­ eventually.¡±


    They both knew what would happen eventually. Some people settled into the Golden District and lived happily for thirty, forty years. Some, even longer than that. Fifty. Sixty. Eventually, everyone cracked.


    ¡°You remember Magnin and Beory?¡± MacRielly asked.


    Feolin leaned back in her chair, sighing. ¡°How could I forget?¡± she replied. ¡°Beory Steelarm was my hero.¡±


    ¡°Just before we retired, back at Dustwatch, I spoke to Magnin when they came in. You remember? I asked him if he was ever going to take the stipend and come to Kenmor. If he was really going to keep fighting for the rest of his life.¡±


    MacRielly laughed and shook his head, remembering the expression on the legendary swordsman¡¯s face.


    ¡°He looked at me like I¡¯d just asked him when he was planning to cut his cock off and eat it. ¡®Never¡¯ he told me, and I just remember thinking that the man was crazy. A hero, a legend, but crazy all the same. But you know what? He was looking at me exactly the same way. He thought we were mad. All of us Silvers who promoted and took the golden ticket, every one of us. He thought we were barking mad.¡±


    Feolin nodded slowly.


    ¡°Brole was right, wasn¡¯t he?¡± she asked, her voice quiet and trembling. ¡°We should have stayed out. Stayed Silver.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s difficult to say,¡± MacRielly grimaced. ¡°Brole is fucking dead, impaled on the end of a Driftbeast¡¯s blade. We can¡¯t exactly ask him if it was worth it.¡±


    ¡°He died fighting,¡± she pointed out. ¡°He died protecting people while we sit here, slowly fading into nothing. Slowly suffocating in this cage.¡±


    The birdcage. Slayers had always called it the birdcage. The bronzes laughed about it, treated it as a joke. The Silvers yearned for it, hoping against hope they would survive the slaughter until they could leap into the cage and slam the door shut behind them. Hoping it would keep the monsters out.


    The Golds, the ones living inside it, gradually realised what it was for, and they hated it.


    ¡°Well, for the first time in a long time, I might actually have some good news for you, Fee.¡± MacRielly said, a little hesitantly.


    The brown-haired mage¡¯s eyes flashed to him in an instant. The mere mention of something positive had the flame burning in her again. He could practically feel the heat rolling off her.


    He held up his hands. ¡°Don¡¯t get too excited. It¡¯s only a rumour, at this point. I haven¡¯t just been drinking and fulfilling my duties while down the street of sin, you know? I keep my ear to the ground. I¡¯ve been visiting the Scarlet Pavilion this week, and I¡¯ve heard a few things. There¡¯s a lot of movement in the province lately. You¡¯ve heard about the purge that¡¯s happening?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Feolin rolled her eyes. ¡°I¡¯m not deaf, dumb and blind. Everyone is talking about it.¡±


    ¡°Well apparently, they¡¯re losing more slayers to the purge than they expected. Numbers are getting thin out there. If things keep going like they are, they¡¯re going to get real fucking thin.¡±


    The diminutive mage stood in a rush, eyes growing wide. MacRielly grinned.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he confirmed. ¡°It¡¯s only a whisper right now, but there¡¯s talk. They might let us out!¡±

 B4C8 - Teach the Teacher

    ¡°I¡¯m impressed,¡± Tyron noted, nodding with satisfaction. ¡°Each of you has managed to learn the ritual and reach level two. This is where the real work can finally begin.¡±


    The three young Necromancers exchanged excited glances, pleased that he was pleased. After returning from beyond the rift, the Steelarm scion had thrown himself into private study for a few days, then emerged without warning and resumed lessons.


    ¡°I¡¯m happy to see that Feat worked out well for you, Georg. Your hands are noticeably more dextrous. Have you found it¡¯s helped?¡±


    The former farmhand nodded, holding his hands up and gazing down at them.


    ¡°It¡¯s helped a lot more than I thought it would,¡± he admitted. ¡°Feel like they actually listen to me now.¡±


    ¡°Good. I was a little reluctant to hand out build advice to people. It¡¯s not as if I have a text I can study to point out the best ways to be a Necromancer. I¡¯m figuring it out as I go, and so will you.¡±


    The four of them sat around the crackling fire outside of Tyron¡¯s cave. The sun was still high overhead, though it offered little warmth at this time of year, and each of them was eager to progress, having overcome the first hurdle that had been set before them.


    Briss could hardly believe that each of them had managed it. Learning how to cast magick had seemed impossible to her only weeks ago. After receiving the training that Tyron had offered, all three of the students had thrown themselves into study. It was all they did each day. They rose, practised magick until they couldn¡¯t any more, then went to sleep. The words and phrases, which had seemed so alien, began to feel even a little natural on their tongues. The hand gestures and sigils, so difficult, so demanding, had caused each of them to experience cramps and spasms through their fingers, Georg in particular.


    ¡°Before we move onto the next, perhaps most important topic, I want to provide some honest feedback for you, to help improve your magick fundamentals.¡±


    Georg, Briss and Richard exchanged glances. They were impatient for new knowledge, but had each opted to learn the basics from their teacher while he was available. The training was demanding, but it was necessary. They were proud of how far they had come.


    Tyron looked up at the tree-line, mulling over his words.


    ¡°I¡¯m painfully aware that you¡¯ve only been practising magick for a matter of weeks. So let me preface my words with some praise. You¡¯ve done well. The level of dedication you¡¯ve shown has been¡­ acceptable.¡±


    Richard¡¯s eyes widened a little before he caught himself. Acceptable? They did nothing but practice magick and sleep! What more could they do?


    ¡°However¡­ all of you are still terrible,¡± Tyron said flatly. ¡°If the ritual I constructed for you wasn¡¯t as stable as it was, each of you would still have failed. If you¡¯d attempted to cast the actual Raise Dead spell, you would all be dead. Your breath control is poor. Your lung capacity is lacking. The way you transition from one gesture to the next is¡­ it¡¯s¡­ dreadful.¡±


    He can¡¯t even find the words, Briss thought to herself, heart sinking.


    ¡°The cadence is barely within the limits of tolerance. That has to sharpen up if you want to be a proper mage. How many times have I told you that rhythm is exceptionally important when casting any type of spell? To properly utilise magick, you must be as reliable as a metronome.¡± He smacked one hand into the other to form a solid beat. ¡°Every. Time. Perfect.¡± He let his hands fall.


    ¡°To be honest, it¡¯s dangerous for you to start progressing this quickly when you are still so poor. You aren¡¯t capable of raising a battle-ready undead at this point, but I¡¯m hoping the attributes you received from the Unseen will be enough to help push you forward a little and accelerate your progress.¡±


    All three of the students were hanging their heads at this point. Of course, they knew as much without being told, but it was difficult to hear it stated so bluntly.


    Tyron looked at them without pity. It was true, they were awful, and if they got a false sense of confidence now, after experiencing even a tiny amount of success, they would surely fail soon down the line.


    ¡°Don¡¯t think I¡¯m just trying to burst your confidence so you don¡¯t get a big head,¡± he warned them, ¡°because you are dangerously incompetent. Do not attempt to cast any ritual magick without my supervision. You¡¯ll die. Now, with that out of the way, let¡¯s talk about advancement.¡±


    After having their egos crushed, the young folk were still able to perk their heads up. Having performed the status ritual not long ago and made their choices, the heady rush of progression was still very much on their minds.


    ¡°I know we talked fairly extensively about the choice you need to make at the second level,¡± Tyron stated. ¡°Bone Stitching or Flesh Mending. One to unlock the ability to make skeletons, the other to¡­ freshen up corpses, basically, make them more suitable to create zombies. As I told you, I went down the skeleton route, but that doesn¡¯t mean you have to. Now, tell me, what did you all pick?¡±


    Georg spoke up first, as he usually did. He wasn¡¯t as shy as the other two.


    ¡°Flesh Mending,¡± he said.


    Tyron nodded slowly.


    ¡°Any particular reason?¡± he asked.


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    The former farmhand lifted his fingers and wiggled them wryly. ¡°They might be a lot better than they were before, but I¡¯m not sure my fingers would be quick enough to do that stitching you showed us. I figured going with a more straightforward type of undead would be a safer bet.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m glad that at least one of you picked it. Now you have an ability I don¡¯t and we can take some notes on it. I¡¯m especially curious to see what sort of Class advancements will be offered to a zombie specialist, since I¡¯ve never seen them. What about you, Richard? Briss?¡±


    ¡°Bone Stitching for me,¡± Briss spoke quickly.


    ¡°For me as well,¡± Richard confirmed.


    ¡°Very good. Well, we¡¯ll need to split up the lessons a little between the three of you now. You two will need to work on your stitching technique, while Georg will need to find some dead flesh he can mend. Getting a handle on these fundamental abilities will be key to creating your first minion. The better your stitching, the better the skeleton can move and fight. The same goes for a zombie. The better a job you do getting their muscles and tendons back together, the more mobile your minion will be.¡±


    The most fundamental building blocks of the Class, creating functional undead. There was so much for him to teach them, Tyron almost didn¡¯t know where to start. He drummed his fingers on his knees for a time as he thought, the three students waiting patiently for him to speak.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have a corpse brought up here, Georg, so you can practise. Fortunately, I don¡¯t believe it needs to be human for you to train your new ability, even if you won¡¯t be able to raise it as an undead. My ghosts have spotted a few dead deer out there, mostly frozen over, that you can work on.¡±


    Richard looked a little green at the thought, but Georg simply nodded. Working with and around dead animals was daily life as far as he was concerned. He¡¯d worked on a cattle farm.


    ¡°Richard and Briss, you can start immediately working on your threading.¡± Tyron raised a hand, palm down, and spread his fingers. After a moment, threads of magick extended from the tips of each digit hanging down, unmoving in the slight breeze. ¡°These are the threads you¡¯re going to work with. You should have a basic understanding of how to manifest them now, right?¡±


    The two newly Awakened nodded before they too held out their hands and concentrated. It took Briss a minute before she was able to create the threads, Richard slightly behind her.


    ¡°Just another thing that you have to practise,¡± Tyron said. ¡°When you manifest the thread, it¡¯s important that your concentration doesn¡¯t waver. If they flicker out of existence halfway through working on a joint, you are going to be filled with regret, since you¡¯ll have to start over. It¡¯s also important that the thickness is consistent. If some fibres are thicker and stronger than others, then it won¡¯t function right, whether it''s sinew or muscle you¡¯re imitating.¡±


    He looked at his own threads.


    ¡°I made this as thick as I could so it would be easier to see, but I¡¯m honestly a little stuck when it comes to threading.¡±


    It was difficult for Richard to imagine that Tyron Steelarm would struggle with anything magick-related; it all seemed to come so naturally to the man that it was unfair. What could someone this proficient possibly be struggling with?


    ¡°What¡¯s the difficulty?¡± he asked, curiosity overcoming his instinct to remain silent.


    Tyron frowned, but not at the student. His ire was focused on the threads. He lowered his hands with a sigh.


    ¡°I don¡¯t mind sharing. Half the point of teaching you is to get an outside perspective on Necromancy. The issue is simple. Eventually, you will reach a point where you will turn increasingly powerful levelled individuals into minions. Some types of Undead can retain the abilities, or at least some of them, that they possessed in life. So if you happened to get your hands on a dead slayer¡­¡±


    Richard¡¯s eyes widened. That would be a powerful undead indeed.


    ¡°The issue, Tyron grumbled, ¡°is that the threads are not strong enough.¡± He held up his hand and the thin lines of magick formed once more, dangling down from each finger. ¡°When creating a skeleton, this thread takes the place of the sinew and muscle, allowing the bones to move. However, the thread isn¡¯t as strong as a high levelled person''s body. You may not ever run into this problem, Georg, given you¡¯ll be using the original materials rather than replacing them. When this new undead attempts to use the abilities they could use in life, the threads may not be able to take the strain and begin to degrade, or even snap.¡±


    Once again he let his hand fall, frustration written plainly on his face.


    ¡°This is a key milestone I need to overcome to create the highest tiers of skeletal undead. I¡¯ve tried thickening the thread, adjusting my weaves¡­ everything I can think of, but so far, nothing has worked.¡±


    Richard and Briss stared blankly ahead. The thought of turning a high levelled slayer into a skeleton was shocking enough to them that the rest hadn¡¯t really registered, but Georg merely shrugged.


    ¡°Have you tried weaving the threads together?¡± he said.


    Tyron blinked, then scowled.


    ¡°What do you mean? How do you weave the threads together? For what purpose?¡±


    Now the other two students turned to face him as if he were crazy, offering advice to this expert, but Georg continued doggedly.


    ¡°Like we do when we make rope. You never made any rope before? You take a whole bunch of long, thin fibres, and then we weave ¡®em together to make something stronger.¡±


    The gears visibly turned in Tyron¡¯s head as he tried to visualise what he was being told. Rope? No, he¡¯d never given a moment¡¯s thought to the construction of rope.


    ¡°What do you make rope out of?¡± he asked intently.


    A little uncomfortable with all the attention, Georg shrugged.


    ¡°Straw, mostly. Or hemp. As long as it grows long and stringy you can make pretty decent rope out of it.¡±


    Would that even work? How thick could the threads that bound a skeleton together be before they were no longer practical? Tyron had seen the ropes used to tie ships to the dock in Foxbridge, some of them as thick as his wrist. Obviously, that was far too large, but perhaps something thinner would work? If he was able to double the strength of the threads with less than a threefold increase in thickness¡­ then it could possibly suit his needs. Growing more and more interested, the atmosphere around him began to change.


    As the subject of his attention, Georg saw the worst of it. The intensity that was always present in their teacher became¡­ almost manic. His breath came a beat too quickly.


    ¡°You need to explain to me how you make rope. Now,¡± Tyron demanded.


    ¡°Uh. It¡¯s¡­ it can be a¡­ there¡¯s a few steps¡­¡± Georg muttered, wracking his brain to recall exactly how it was done. His grandfather had been the one to show him, but that had been years ago. Whenever rope needed making, he¡¯d just done what he was told. ¡°You need to¡­ braid the fibres. There¡¯s an¡­ a pattern.¡±


    There was also a heck of a lot of preparation involved to get the straw in the right condition to turn into rope. It wasn¡¯t like you could just yank some reeds out of the ground and make a rope out of them.


    Tyron stood, stalked forward, and clapped a hand down on Georg¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Show me.¡±

 B4C9 - What It Takes

    Richard staggered out of the cave and into the light, blinking owlishly. It took a few seconds for his brain to register the glare of the light stabbing his brain. He closed his eyes and flinched back awkwardly, almost stumbling over his own feet. How long had it been since he¡¯d slept? Since he¡¯d been allowed to sleep?


    ¡°Hurry up and piss!¡± Tyron snapped from within the cave. ¡°You¡¯ve got more work to do on your threading!¡±


    At the sound of the Necromancer¡¯s voice, the young man flinched, then slumped in despair. With slow, staggered steps, he began to make his way into the woods so he could find a likely tree. Leaning against the wood as he did his business, he felt as if he might have dozed off for a second. He was so exhausted, he could have fallen face first into an ants nest and slept soundly as they repeatedly stung his face. He¡¯d never known fatigue like this before, or anything remotely close.


    His thoughts moved though bogged down in molasses. Slowly. Each thought struggled to connect to the next. It took him several moments to recall that he was supposed to return to the cave and continue practising. In that moment, he almost wept.


    It took all of his willpower, but Richard mastered himself and began the slow walk back to the cave. As long as he kept going, it would end. All he had to do was keep working, and eventually the nightmare would stop and he would at last be allowed to sleep.


    ¡°Is that¡­ Richard? Are you still up here?¡±


    A voice called out to him, and Richard, for a moment, wondered if he¡¯d begun to hallucinate. Was there really another person here? Someone come to rescue them from their relentless teacher? He turned his head and saw that yes indeed, someone was there, the blonde priestess who he¡¯d met shortly after the Awakening.


    ¡°Uh. El¡­ Elsbeth?¡± he mumbled.


    ¡°That¡¯s me,¡± she smiled, walking up to him. As she drew closer, her expression began to shift from bright and warm, to show increasing concern. Once she reached his side, she was clearly worried, extending a hand to grab him by the arm.


    ¡°Are you alright, Richard? You look dreadful! Look at your eyes, they¡¯re practically red! When was the last time you slept?¡±


    When was the last time he¡¯d slept? He wasn¡¯t sure. He tried to count the number of times it had been dark outside since they¡¯d started working on threading, but couldn¡¯t quite trust he had the numbers right.


    ¡°Three¡­ I think¡­ I think it¡¯s been three days?¡± he said, not sounding confident at all.


    ¡°Three days!¡± Elsbeth gasped. ¡°That¡¯s dreadful. I know your Constitution gains can help you endure a lack of sleep, but this is ridiculous. You could only have levelled once or twice. Don¡¯t fall into bad habits this early into your life as an Awakened.¡±


    She continued to lecture him while Richard¡¯s fuzzy brain tried to work out why she could possibly imagine any of this was his idea. Elsbeth held onto his arm and guided him towards a seat, speaking all the while. When she eventually asked him a question, Richard had no idea what it was, he could finally get a thought out.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to be up this long,¡± he said.


    A moment later, he realised those words could possibly constitute a kind of betrayal by his teacher. He opened his mouth to try and correct himself, but closed it again when he realised that Elsbeth was no longer in front of him. Where had she gone? Was it some kind of magick?!


    ¡°TYRON!¡± she bellowed from behind him, causing the young man to jump in his seat.


    What confronted Elsbeth inside the cave was equal parts comedy and tragedy. Tyron sat at the head of the table, feverishly scrawling into his notes, eyes half bulging from his head, while at the same time performing a one-handed weave using magick threads with his free hand. As if that weren¡¯t enough, he somehow also had the capacity to rant at the two students who sat at the table with him, each hollow-eyed and sluggish, slowly working their hands as they practised some form of magick or another.


    At her shout, Tyron cut off immediately, turning a baleful glare on her, whereas it took the students a couple of seconds to register her presence.


    ¡°What are you doing interrupting my teaching, Elsbeth?¡± Tyron snapped. ¡°We were just starting to get somewhere.¡±


    She looked from him to the near-corpses that were his students, then back to him.


    ¡°Are you out of your mind, Tyron?! They¡¯re so exhausted they can barely move! Look at them! No, really look at them!¡±


    At first, Tyron had flicked them a dismissive glance and looked away, but at her demand, he actually took a second to properly assess them. Then, he squinted a little.


    ¡°Oh,¡± he said, sounding surprised.


    ¡°Is that really all you have to say?¡± Elsbeth said acidly. ¡°You¡¯ve worked them into a stupor. They¡¯ll be lucky if they remember anything from the last day. Three days without sleep? What in the name of the Dark Ones were you thinking?¡±


    ¡°Three days?¡± Tyron blinked, visibly confused. ¡°Hasn¡¯t it been four?¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


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    After more shouting and hollering, Georg and Briss were eventually ejected from the cave, emerging into the sunlight to join Richard, who sat awkwardly nearby while the Priestess continued to scold the Necromancer inside.


    ¡°How dare you treat them like this?¡±


    Something unintelligible.


    ¡°People need sleep!¡±


    More muttering.


    ¡°No, you are not normal!¡±


    It would go on like this for some time before a dishevelled-looking Tyron walked out of the cave. He appeared somewhat irritated, though there may have been an element of embarrassment underneath. With one hand scratching his cheek, he addressed the three students somewhat sheepishly.


    ¡°Uh¡­ Apparently¡­ I¡¯ve been working you too hard?¡± He sounded a little doubtful.


    ¡°You have,¡± Elsbeth insisted, emerging from the cave with her arms crossed across her chest, glaring.


    ¡°Fine. Go back to town and get some sleep. I¡¯ll call on you again in a few days. Don¡¯t forget to practise.¡±


    It took a moment for the three students to realise what had taken place. As soon as they realised they were finally free, they reacted with strong emotions. Georg slumped over, uttering a prayer to the Three. Richard simply fell over and began to crawl/roll down the mountain. Briss silently wept.


    Tyron shifted uncomfortably.


    Perhaps, now, he could see that he had gotten carried away and pushed the young people too far. With the help of some skeletons, he managed to get the three of them home while Elsbeth watched him disapprovingly.


    ¡°I said I was sorry,¡± he grumbled.


    ¡°That¡¯s not good enough and you know it,¡± she sniffed. ¡°I thought you were finally starting to take care of yourself, but not only do I find you slipping back into your worst habits, I find you forcing them onto others who are not equipped to deal with it like you are! Honestly, Tyron. What was going to happen if I didn¡¯t intervene? Would they have just worked until they literally collapsed?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t say anything!¡± Tyron defended himself, a little lamely. ¡°I would¡¯ve thought they would mention it if they were being pushed beyond their limits.¡±


    Elsbeth scowled.


    ¡°I notice you said ¡®would¡¯ve¡¯ thought. You didn¡¯t actually think about it, did you? Not even once.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t. Caught up in the work, he¡¯d paid little mind to his students save that they were practising, or helping him work on his new threading technique. Especially at first, it was easier to use the methods Georg had recalled with more than one person, which had led to a whole new area of study which was weaving with more than one Necromancer¡¯s threads at the same time. There had been a few revelations come out of that exercise, each of which had pushed his understanding of this new weaving technique further.


    ¡°I got a little carried away,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°A little?¡±


    ¡°Yes, a little. This might seem absurd to them, but I¡¯ve done this sort of thing all the time. Going a week without sleep isn¡¯t that a big a deal for an Awakened.¡±


    ¡°For someone like you, with a level over forty, sure. They¡¯re level TWO!¡±


    ¡°Alright! I get it! I¡¯ll be more careful in future.¡± Tyron felt his temper flaring and worked to tamp it down before he turned back to Elsbeth, the only one of his childhood companions who wasn¡¯t an undead in his service. ¡°What did you come up here for, Elsbeth? Is there a problem?¡±


    She shot him a look to let him know she wasn¡¯t done arguing with him, but moved on for the sake of furthering the conversation.


    ¡°I came up here for a few reasons. One, to check on you and your students.¡±


    Another glare.


    ¡°And to see if the Slayers had been up to meet you yet. I know they wanted to see you after you returned, but I have no idea why.¡±


    Tyron grunted. The local Slayers were more of a pain than they were a help, but that would change if they were willing to commit to the fight against the Magisters. If they did, he would have a reason to invest in them, even if they only paid lip service to start with. It wouldn¡¯t take much to turn them into traitors in the eyes of those in charge of the purge. In fact, they likely already were, given the number of ¡®heretics¡¯ out here in Cragwhistle. When they eventually reached this place, the Magisters and priests would burn the whole city to the ground and kill everyone here, without exception.


    The only chance they had was a general uprising. If it also helped him achieve his goals, Tyron was willing to play along and help foment such a rebellion.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t spoken to them since I returned,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve been¡­ busy.¡±


    ¡°So I see,¡± Elsbeth stated tartly.


    ¡°I¡¯ve made a major breakthrough, Elsbeth! Georg told me about rope making and, although a lot of the methods involved can¡¯t be directly applied, the fundamental principles still apply to bone weaving. With some further refinement, I believe I¡¯ll be able to strengthen the sinews of my skeletons by as much as half!


    ¡°With some time and practice, I should be able to completely restructure my weaving methods to work with the thicker strands and produce Revenants capable of utilising their full range of abilities! Do you know what that means?¡±


    Getting swept up in the moment, Tyron¡¯s eyes were gleaming with manic light. Elsbeth simply nodded.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s nice, I suppose,¡± she said.


    ¡°Nice?¡± Tyron said, spinning to face her. ¡°Beth, this is a huge step forward in the field of Necromancy! This could unlock all sorts of possibilities!¡±


    ¡°Just keep in mind that your students can¡¯t help you if you kill them, or scare them off.¡±


    Well, that was a good point.


    ¡°Now are you going to sleep?¡± she asked him pointedly. ¡°You''ve been working for what, four, five days? Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s time for some rest?¡±


    This wasn¡¯t what he wanted to hear. The Necromancer¡¯s mind reeled with all of the things he wanted to do. Further development of the ¡®rope thread¡¯ method was critical. Getting the greatest improvement in strength for the smallest increase in width was an inexact science, and he had several different weaves to try. Then there were the many, multi-faceted applications of the ¡®rope thread.¡¯ How to best form tougher, stronger musculature? How to shape and forge more durable joints? Which joints would benefit the most? Fingers would probably need to still be made of the thinnest, finest threads, but shoulders, hips, knees and ankles could all do with being able to handle a higher load.


    And to determine the best course of action, experimentation was required! Exhaustive, repetitive experimentation! He had to get skeletons onto the Altar and re-weave their threads. Perhaps ten at a time, to have a good-sized group with each different thread configuration. His weaving Skill was going to be maxed out in no time at this rate.


    ¡°Tyron?¡± Elsbeth pointedly interrupted his thoughts.


    He rolled back his head and groaned.


    ¡°Fine! You¡¯re right, I know you¡¯re right. I¡¯ll eat and sleep and all of that nonsense.¡±


    She¡¯d convinced him it was necessary back in Kenmor, that resting was more efficient, since his work got worse and worse the less he slept, and that argument still held true. Despite being able to endure more privation than ever before, after five days of consecutive work, he was getting worn down. It was time to rest.


    Though she wasn¡¯t pleased to hear the necessity of sleep and food be described as ¡®all that nonsense¡¯, Elsbeth still nodded in satisfaction.


    ¡°Good. Don¡¯t forget to wash yourself also. And probably change your clothes while you¡¯re at it.¡±


    It was difficult not to roll his eyes. Here he was trying to further the advancement of a totally undeveloped field of magick, largely by himself, and he was getting henpecked about his clothing.


    ¡°Alright, Elsbeth. Will there be anything else?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s fine. I¡¯ll come back and speak to you tomorrow.¡±

 B4C10 - Rumours of War

    As much as he hated to admit it, Tyron did feel better. He disliked being mothered by Elsbeth; it was something Beory had never really done for him when he was growing up. If he associated anyone in his life with the kind of fussing and care that he considered the unique domain of mothers, it would be his aunt, Meg. She was the one who¡¯d cared for him when he was sick, forced him to eat when she thought he was wasting away, and demanded he sleep when she found he¡¯d been up for too long.


    The image of his aunt, a plump, brown-haired woman with a warm smile and a big heart flashed into his mind, and Tyron sighed. It didn¡¯t feel right, to leave Meg and Worthy thinking that he was dead, but at the same time, he didn¡¯t see what he could do about it.


    Tell them he was still alive? To what end? His Uncle may well still be strong enough to force him to abandon his revenge, sitting on top of him and preventing him from performing Necromancy. Worthy was a Silver Ranked Slayer when he retired, a hammerman of some renown, with years of experience on the frontlines. If he decided he wanted Tyron to give up on revenge, then what would have to be done to stop him?


    Tyron was absolutely unwilling to fight his own uncle, risking killing him, when he didn¡¯t have to.


    Better to leave them in ignorance for now. When he was a little stronger, Worthy wouldn¡¯t be able to stop him anymore, and it would be safe to bring them into the fold.


    Thinking along these lines left a sour taste in the young Mage¡¯s mouth. He resolved to take better care of himself, to prevent Elsbeth from having to intervene in this manner again. Sleeping every third night seemed perfectly sustainable in his eyes, so that would be the schedule he stuck to.


    He just wouldn¡¯t force the same habits onto his students. Getting carried away like that in front of them was frankly a touch embarrassing, and he hoped he hadn¡¯t scared them off completely. Not in his wildest dreams did he imagine working with new Necromancers could pay off so spectacularly and so quickly.


    Ropes. Ropes. It made perfect sense when he thought about it. In fact, it was so obvious he felt idiotic for never considering it before. He¡¯d spent so much time trying to modify the thread as he produced it, coming out of his fingertips, that he¡¯d never even bothered to consider doing something with it afterwards.


    Refreshed and ready to work, he felt that bubbling mania rising within him as he took swift steps toward the table in his cave. His eyes greedily landed upon the notes left there the previous day. Yes, yes. There was so much to do, so many ideas buzzing around in his mind! This would be another great leap forward in his mastery of the undead, a massive qualitative step that would push his revenants to new heights.


    Even if it didn¡¯t mean much for the minions he had now, there were only a few who were capable of damaging their current stitching when exercising their abilities, it would change everything for the skeletons he would create in the future. It was only a matter of time until he got his hands on a Silver ranked set of remains, and when he did, he wanted to be ready.


    Before then, he needed to push, to learn how to make Wights, and create the finest undead it was possible to make. And this technique in front of him would help unlock the first layer, all he needed was a little time to focus.


    ¡°Hey, Tyron! Are you in there?¡±


    Just as he was preparing to immerse himself back in his studies, a voice, like jagged nails down a chalkboard, dragged him away, shattering the gathering momentum of his thoughts. It set his teeth on edge.


    Snarling at the interruption, Tyron stalked toward the entrance to his cave and tore it aside.


    ¡°What?¡± he demanded, knowing the irritation was written all over his face, and not caring one whit about it.


    Outside, he found an unexpected gathering. Samantha Douglas, leader of the Stafire Slayer team, Drenen Ebert, leader of the Hooligans, along with Brigette, the scowling blonde swordswoman he worked with, and another person, a stranger. Taken unawares, Tyron felt a little defensive around these Slayers. He hadn¡¯t expected to see four of them, he presumed the stranger was also a slayer, show up on his doorstep.


    With a few silent commands, he ordered his skeletons to draw closer. The guard he always kept nearby formed up around him, shields and swords at the ready. He didn¡¯t mind if they thought he looked weak; he would rather be safe than thought of as impressive.


    ¡°Drenan? What¡¯s going on here?¡± he asked, his tone clipped.


    The only people able to hurt him on this mountain were the Slayers, and he didn¡¯t appreciate being approachd by a group of them. Silently, he had his ghosts start to sweep the woods around the cave, seeking any who were hidden. Drenan held up his hands in peace.


    ¡°No need to worry, just came up to talk. This here,¡± he gestured toward the newcomer, a middle-aged man with silver hair and numerous scars on his face, ¡°is Brom. He arrived yesterday, from Woodsedge.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you, Tyron,¡± the newcomer said, his voice low and gravelly. ¡°I worked with your parents a few times, heard a fair bit about you. Glad I can finally put a face to the name.¡±


    Tyron raised a brow.


    ¡°You worked with Magnin and Beory? As a Silver?¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Brom chuckled.


    ¡°I¡¯m a scout, and your old man couldn¡¯t be bothered to do it, so they brought me through the rift with them. Twice I¡¯ve been to the other side with them. Once at Woodsedge, once at Blackrift.¡±


    That did sound like Magnin. Due to his sheer physical prowess, he could do most things himself, including scouting. He had extremely sharp senses, unbelievable speed and reflexes, and knew how to move quietly when he wanted to. Was he as good as a dedicated scout class? No. He couldn¡¯t become next to invisible in a shadow, or see around obstacles like they could, but so overwhelming was he in every other respect, it almost didn¡¯t matter.


    Not to say he liked doing it. Magnin liked to fight, not skulk around, find a target, leave it alone and return to the group. Whenever they could find someone else to do the job for them, his parents were more than happy to hire them on. Problem was, they had a difficult time meeting people who were up to their standard. Whoever this Brom was, he must be good.


    ¡°You were lucky to see them fight up close,¡± Tyron mused. ¡°Not many got the chance.¡±


    ¡°They were incredible,¡± Brom agreed heavily. ¡°This realm is much worse for their loss. Such senseless waste.¡±


    Drenan spoke up, wanting to explain what they were doing here.


    ¡°Brom brought some news from up North. He¡¯s on his way down to Skyice once he¡¯s done here, and thought you¡¯d be interested to hear what he has to say before he leaves.¡±


    This was interesting. Whatever it was must be good.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard there were some rumblings up at Woodsedge. I was planning to go there myself,¡± Tyron said. ¡°Brom the Silver Slayer, I¡¯m going to assume you came to tell us those rumblings were more than a passing shake?¡±


    The grizzled man rubbed at the stubble on his chin as he eyed the Necromancer.


    ¡°Well, you aren¡¯t wrong about that. First of all, I¡¯m not a Silver Slayer, not anymore,¡± he grinned, wolfishly. ¡°I¡¯m Gold, as of last week.¡±


    Gold. An unsanctioned promotion. That could only mean one thing.


    ¡°Rebellion,¡± Tyron stated, his tone flat.


    Silvers who were close to reaching level sixty were monitored like hawks. Every time they left a keep to fight at the rifts, it was monitored, and when they got back, they were checked. Slayers who refused to promote, who remained in the high fifties and simply never performed the status ritual, were watched even more carefully. To promote to Gold and slip through the Magisters¡¯ net was¡­ unthinkable. He must have done it in the keep, right before the fighting started.


    ¡°Aye,¡± Brom confirmed. ¡°There¡¯s no Magisters alive in Woodsedge to speak of.¡±


    ¡°What about the Slayers who didn¡¯t want to fight?¡± Tyron asked.


    The man looked down at his worn boots for a moment.


    ¡°There¡¯s none of them either,¡± he said quietly.


    Fight or die. A Slayer who wasn¡¯t with you, was against you, whether they liked it or not. They could be compelled by the brand to do almost anything.


    ¡°What about your brands?¡± Tyron asked pointedly. ¡°How were you able to fight at all?¡±


    Almost without thinking, Brom reached a hand up to his left shoulder and rubbed at it. Slayers didn¡¯t get to choose where it was applied, as that decision was left to the whims of the Magister performing the ritual. Often it was on the neck, though most slayers hated it being visible. Due to that fact, most were on the chest or back of the shoulder.


    ¡°You probably know this already, but every time you advance, they have to reapply the thing, strengthen it. The version they use on bronze folk isn¡¯t as effective on silver. A few vets like me got together and planned everything out. We advanced together, then we did what we had to do.¡±


    Tyron winced. Less effective or not, that would have hurt like hell.


    ¡°Have you started to train up some unbranded fighters? It¡¯s only a matter of time until they realise what you¡¯ve done. They can trigger the pain remotely whenever they please,¡± he warned.


    Brom nodded grimly.


    ¡°Oh, we¡¯re well aware. There were six of us, and we¡¯ve spread out, trying to get word to as many of the keeps as possible before the curse takes us. Fucking pricks.¡± He leaned over and spat on the ground. ¡°They¡¯ll get around to me eventually, but so far they seem occupied with other things.¡±


    The purge, Tyron realised. Of course the Magisters were busy, they¡¯d been pushed out of the tower in unprecedented numbers, sweeping across the province. Rounding up heretics, hunting for rogues alongside the priests and marshalls. Maybe it was helping to suppress rebellious slayers close to the capital, but this far out, Magisters were few and far between.


    ¡°You might have more time than you think,¡± Tyron mused, before explaining his thoughts.


    ¡°Well, I hope you¡¯re right. If you¡¯ll excuse me, I¡¯m going to get going. I¡¯ve got a long run ahead of me, and I don¡¯t want to delay any further.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Brom,¡± Drenan said, shaking the man''s hand as he turned to leave.


    ¡°Don¡¯t thank me,¡± the grizzled scout scoffed. ¡°Fight with me. You don¡¯t have long to make a choice.¡±


    With that, he set off at a jog, keeping his feet with uncanny precision and balance as he moved far too quickly down the slope. That left Tyron and the local Slayers standing around outside his cave in the frigid air.


    ¡°Well, now you¡¯ve heard from someone that isn¡¯t me,¡± Tyron said. ¡°I hope that speeds up your decision.¡±


    Drenan scowled, but Samantha was more measured.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t an easy decision to make. My girls are so young, just starting out as Slayers. They don¡¯t want to risk their lives in a desperate fight against the Magisters.¡±


    Tyron wasn¡¯t sympathetic.


    ¡°What we want, or don¡¯t want, doesn¡¯t apply in the current circumstances. Or do you think my parents wanted to be tortured to the brink of death before they killed themselves?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Samantha replied quickly. ¡°No I don¡¯t think that.¡±


    ¡°So, let¡¯s not talk about what we want, let¡¯s talk about what is. The Magisters are coming. The Priests and Marshalls are coming. There are soldiers from the Noble houses coming with them. Every Slayer on this mountain is going to be killed when they get here. The only question you need to ask your team members, is are they going to cut their own throats now, or are they going to fight?¡±


    Brigette, watching from behind Drenan finally spoke up.


    ¡°How can you say that? Where is your pity?¡±


    Tyron looked at her as if she were mad.


    ¡°My pity, my mercy and my sympathy, all died along with Magnin and Beory.¡±


    He turned and walked back towards his cave.


    ¡°Besides, you heard Brom. If you don¡¯t fight, the other slayers will kill you themselves.¡±

 B4C11 - Advanced Undead

    It took Tyron longer to implement his new methods than he expected. Devising a functioning framework that utilised the newer, thicker threads was multiple times more difficult than the usual thin ones. Even before reaching that point, he¡¯d needed to test and evaluate half a dozen different varieties of ¡®rope¡¯ before he settled on a solution.


    Most frustrating of all was that there wasn¡¯t a clear winner out of his test versions. Some were stronger, some more flexible, some a little thinner, some a little thicker, each with their own unique strengths and weaknesses. Tyron eventually decided that different types of ¡®rope¡¯ would be better for different jobs. Some joints needed more flex, some needed to be more durable, and others needed to tolerate as much power as could be put into it.


    When, after much experimentation, he was finally able to settle on a complete design, it utilised five different varieties of ¡®rope¡¯, along with the original, unmodified threads for the most delicate sections. The complexity was obviously many times greater than the threading process he¡¯d performed earlier, and took more than twice as long to implement, but for the results he was looking for, this kind of effort was expected.


    ¡°What do you think? This is as good as I can make it right now.¡±


    The skeleton in front of him turned left and right, flexing and shifting its weight from side to side. In one smooth movement, it brought up its bow and pulled back the draw, released it, then repeated the motion.


    ¡°It¡¯s good. Much smoother than before. It feels a lot more natural, closer to how I remember my own body feeling.¡±


    Tyron grunted.


    ¡°Well, those are your bones, but I take the point.¡±


    For several long moments, the skeleton didn¡¯t speak, and he knew why. It wasn¡¯t possible for his revenants to even think of hurting him, even if they really wanted to. As a result, their own minds wouldn¡¯t obey them, going blank if their thoughts turned to defiance. This was far from the first time this had happened.


    Need to stop reminding her that she¡¯s dead. And why she¡¯s dead.


    ¡°Thanks for helping me out with this. I appreciate it.¡±


    The skeleton turned towards him, one hand resting on a hip in a familiar pose.


    ¡°You¡¯re thanking me?¡± Laurel groaned. ¡°I don¡¯t want thanks, Tyron.¡±


    ¡°What do you want then?¡±


    ¡°I want to be dead.¡±


    ¡°I figured.¡±


    Of course she did, life as an undead wasn¡¯t supposed to be pleasant. The more he learned about the afterlife, though, the less Tyron thought it was an improvement. Speaking to Filetta about wandering souls, drifting purposelessly through a hazy fogland, didn¡¯t fill him with great expectations for his own life after death. One thing he was reasonably certain of, though, was that it ended.


    Service to a Necromancer wouldn¡¯t end, not until he died.


    ¡°I¡¯ll think about letting you die when I¡¯ve achieved my aims,¡± he told the skeleton.


    ¡°And what are you aiming for, Tyron?¡±


    Her voice emanated from within the skull, without her jaw moving. It was another eerie aspect to speaking with the dead that unnerved his students fiercely. He himself was perfectly used to it.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to kill the Magisters, overthrow the red tower, and bring down the rulers of the province,¡± he replied.


    Of course, his ambitions stretched even further than that. Those responsible for the deaths of Beory and Magnin were largely confined to the Western Province, but they were merely agents. He wouldn¡¯t be satisfied until the Five Divines themselves were forced to answer for his grief. How he could achieve that, he had no idea. For now, he kept that idea to himself. He would only be laughed at were he to say it out loud.


    As it was, Laurel acted just as expected, her bony shoulders rising and falling with mirth.


    ¡°Well, I guess it won¡¯t matter if you¡¯re going to let me go or not, since¡­¡±


    She trailed off, unable to finish her thought.


    Since I¡¯ll get myself killed anyway.


    Even if he won, and defeated the Magisters, killed the duke and murdered the other members of the noble houses, what then? When the wrath of the Emperor was stirred against him, and the troops poured out of the Central Province, what was he going to do then? It was basically a death sentence.


    He had a few thoughts, but it would take time to develop those into proper plans. Time he severely lacked.


    ¡°Since you¡¯re done being so talkative, I don¡¯t see any reason to let you speak any more.¡±


    Immediately contrite, the skeleton backed away from him, it¡¯s hands up.


    ¡°No, Tyron, there is no need for that. It¡¯s fine, right? I¡¯m sorry. I wasn¡¯t trying to upset you. I can be quiet, just leave me be, alright. I won¡¯t bother you. I promise. Please. Please? PLEASE?!¡±


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Despite her frantic pleading, Tyron¡¯s expression didn¡¯t twitch. With a wave of his hand, he was able to disconnect her soul from the functions that enabled her to speak, a neat trick he¡¯d mastered while working with Filleta.


    Once again, the skeleton fell silent, no longer able to speak. He could almost hear Laurel¡¯s silent scream as her mind roiled against him through the conduit they shared. Or at least, it attempted to.


    ¡°Boring to the point of insanity, that¡¯s how Dove described it, being dead and unable to influence the world around you of your own free will. And he could talk. I was almost surprised you were able to communicate as well as you could when I gave you the chance, Laurel.¡±


    After all this time, he was almost certain she would have gone completely mad. If he gave Rufus the ability to speak, he¡¯d expect to hear nothing but endless screeching. With a mental command, he ordered the skeleton back to her post and watched as she silently complied.


    With that finally taken care of, he could begin the process of converting his remaining skeletons, which would be days of finger-breaking work. Thankfully, he had the Ossuary to help speed things along. If he had to unstitch and restitch every skeleton individually, it would take him weeks, perhaps months to finish the job.


    This put him one step closer to his aim of creating Wights without learning how via the Unseen. He¡¯d been able to teach himself the secret of raising revenants without having to purchase the ability, and he was determined to repeat that triumph. This was only the first step, however. Now that he was able to create a skeletal body which could withstand the full power of a Classed fighter, what remained was to discover the qualitative difference between a revenant, and a wight.


    There had to be something, an advanced technique or method, that enabled them to unleash greater strength than a revenant could. His current suspicion centred around the status ritual. A revenant could, theoretically, display the same level of power it possessed in life, already. The only way to improve upon that, was to create an undead that could grow stronger. That meant granting it access to the Unseen in some way. And it couldn¡¯t be via an ad-hoc process like he¡¯d cobbled together for Dove. No, it would have to be built into the process of creating the undead in the first place.


    And, he had no idea how to do that. Not yet, anyway.


    ¡°Anyone up there?¡± someone called out.


    Drenan¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Just me,¡± Tyron called back, ¡°come on up.¡±


    He and the rest of his team emerged from the trees and climbed up the slope towards the cave. Drenan cast his eyes around at the dozens of skeletons visible in the clearing.


    ¡°You call this fucking ¡®by yourself¡¯? There¡¯s fifty undead here!¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t qualify as people, Drenan. They¡¯re literally soulless. Without souls. There¡¯s no person in there.¡±


    ¡°There is in some of them,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°None of these ones. So I¡¯m here by myself. And what, you want me to introduce you to the shackled and tormented souls of the people I¡¯ve enslaved in death?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ no. Not really.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes and reigned in his temper.


    ¡°You¡¯re heading up the mountain?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ Going to relieve team Starfire and watch over the rift for a day.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going through?¡±


    ¡°Fuck no. I¡¯m not trying to get my team killed, Tyron.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    They probably were too weak to survive in the cold against the Mammoths.


    ¡°Does it feel good to be back doing Slayer work?¡± he asked the group at large.


    The two mages avoided his gaze, but Brigette met it defiantly, as always, though she didn¡¯t appear quite as pissed off as she had.


    ¡°It is good to be helping people again,¡± she said. ¡°And I¡¯ve needed to cut loose. Being cooped up inside for weeks on end isn¡¯t what I wanted when I signed up to be a Slayer.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s only one thing Slayers want in the end, that¡¯s what my father used to say,¡± Tyron said. At the mention of Magnin, her interest immediately perked up. ¡°Freedom. He said they always want freedom.¡±


    He reached up and tapped a finger at the left side of his chest, indicating the position a brand might be placed. ¡°That¡¯s why they never get to have it. At least, that¡¯s what he said.¡±


    Her face immediately clouded over.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to fight for you,¡± she growled. ¡°There¡¯s no need to rub our faces in it all the time.¡±


    Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t me being a prick. That was something he genuinely used to say. Helping people is nice, protecting the land is nice, but deep down, I think he believed every Slayer wanted to be in control of their own destinies, which is why they fought when nobody else would.¡±


    Brigette fell silent and Tyron decided not to belabour the point.


    ¡°Well, good luck up there. The rift is growing a lot faster than expected, but it¡¯s still a manageable thing. I¡¯m sure Samantha and her team will be grateful for a break.¡±


    They¡¯d been up there for two days at this point, which was still a difficult ask for a bronze team. With the loss of Gramble, and his two allies refusing to help manage the rift, it was up to the Hooligans and team Starfire to put in the work. Though Tyron still chipped in, after the local Slayers had committed themselves to the rebellion, he¡¯d left it to them for the most part. There was still some time before he intended to return to Kenmor, and he wanted to push himself at a more punishing rift. Soon, he would need to go to Woodsedge.


    Perhaps sensing his mood, Drenan asked him a question as the group gathered their things to leave.


    ¡°Are you going to be here when we come back down?¡±


    ¡°Probably not,¡± Tyron replied, deciding to be honest. ¡°It¡¯ll be a while before I return to Cragwhistle, possibly months. Hopefully you guys manage to advance before I get back.¡±


    ¡°Well, I hope so,¡± Drenan replied. ¡°Good luck out there. Try not to get yourself killed. I don¡¯t know why, but there are a lot of people here who believe in you.¡±


    I never asked for that.


    He didn¡¯t voice his thoughts aloud.


    ¡°I don¡¯t intend to die just yet,¡± he said instead.


    Then off they went up the mountain to fight. Soon, Samantha and her all-female group would come down, eager for rest, though they were unlikely to speak to him. Which meant blessed silence.


    ¡°No time like the present then, I suppose.¡±


    If left to his own devices, he¡¯d likely dive back into his research, or start working on his minions, which would delay his travel further and further. Eventually, he¡¯d run out of time and be forced to return to the capital without having the opportunity to fight more kin. As much as he wanted to continue to experiment and work on his notes, Tyron was unwilling to give up the chance to gain even a single level. Which meant it was time to pack.


    Surprisingly, Elsbeth found him a few hours later as he was trying to gather all the disparate sheets of paper he¡¯d scrawled on into some semblance of order.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad I caught you before you left,¡± she said from the cave entrance, holding the blanket slightly aside so she could peek through.


    ¡°Elsbeth? What is it this time?¡± he asked, half serious. ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve been taking my daily nap.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not funny.¡± She entered the cave and wrinkled her nose at the smell.


    ¡°Don¡¯t say anything. It¡¯s a cave, there¡¯s a limit to the ventilation that¡¯s available. I¡¯m aware it smells, and I don¡¯t care.¡±


    ¡°Be that way. I wanted to talk to you before you left, about your students.¡±


    ¡°What about them?¡±


    ¡°Well, they want to go with you. To Woodsedge.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡±


    Elsbeth stared at him.


    ¡°To learn from you, I suppose? Why do you think?¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t have that much time to teach,¡± he replied, irritated. ¡°I¡¯ll be fighting at the rifts most of the time.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll be grateful for any of your time, I¡¯m sure. I¡¯ll also be going. There are people Munhilde and I want to meet at Woodsedge.¡±


    ¡°Oh, great.¡±


    So much for his blessed silence.

 B4C12 - Speak with the Three

    ¡°You owe them.¡±


    ¡°Do I really?¡±


    ¡°They have been working tirelessly on your behalf. Far more than your other patrons.¡±


    ¡°Tirelessly?¡± Tyron barked a laugh. ¡°They¡¯re gods, I¡¯m not even sure they can tire at all. And, correct me if I¡¯m wrong, but I gather that they¡¯ve essentially not lifted a finger to help their people for several thousand years. I think they¡¯re due for a little work.¡±


    Munhilde glowered furiously at this disrespect, but Tyron remained unrepentant, glaring back as the now familiar fury kindled in his chest.


    ¡°They are the only thing shielding you from the eyes of the five pretenders. If they withdrew their support for a second, you would be seen by the oracles, and the armies of the province would march to cut you down.¡±


    This statement angered Tyron, largely because she was correct. Without their protection, the purge would have been knocking on his door before he¡¯d ever had the chance to learn about it. On top of that, the Crone had been responsible for reinforcing his false visage. There was no chance he could have gotten past the Magisters or resisted the efforts of the noble lady who¡¯d attempted to break his facade. So far, all they¡¯d asked in return was for him to lend his support to the growing rebellion, but he hadn¡¯t needed to do much yet. This demand came right before he had a chance to discharge some part of his debt via working with the rebels in Woodsedge. Once he returned to Kenmor, he¡¯d depend on their support again to protect his identity as Lukas Almsfield.


    The fact that she was right didn¡¯t do anything to diffuse his anger. Instead, it only seemed to fan the flames, and he struggled for a moment to contain himself.


    ¡°It¡¯s the only ritual to speak with your patrons you haven¡¯t performed,¡± Munhilde pointed out in a softer tone, perhaps sensing his mood.


    He resisted the urge to snarl. There was a good reason he¡¯d never done so. After they¡¯d invaded his dreams and threatened Elsbeth to force him to side with them, they were lucky he hadn¡¯t abandoned them completely.


    ¡°Fine. Fine. I¡¯ll do it before I leave Cragwhistle.¡±


    He wanted to be out of this conversation, and he wanted to be out of it now. Arguing with the priestess wasn¡¯t going to get him anywhere. She was right, even if he didn¡¯t want to hear it, and losing his temper here in the middle of town was not something he wanted to be involved in.


    Munhilde opened her mouth to say something, but the Necromancer was already stomping away. He didn¡¯t like being in Cragwhistle to start with. Despite spending almost no time in town, he was recognised almost everywhere he went. How was it possible? There were so few who he¡¯d spent any amount of time with in town, but that didn¡¯t seem to matter.


    As he walked past buildings, people leaned down to whisper to their children, or watched him from the corner of their eyes. Heck, some just openly stared, not caring if he noticed. He could appreciate how open they were, but he hated being the centre of attention, which he inevitably was inside Cragwhistle.


    Perhaps he should have brought fewer skeletons with him. But he wasn¡¯t going anywhere without at least a handful of guards, since he wasn¡¯t able to defend himself well without them.


    Before he managed to get out of town, Ortan caught up with him, breathing heavily, as if he¡¯d come running. Tyron didn¡¯t break stride as the larger man gasped for air beside him.


    ¡°Thanks¡­ thanks for waiting up,¡± Ortan wheezed.


    ¡°What do you want, Ortan?¡±


    It took a few moments for Ortan to gather his breath.


    ¡°I wanted to ask when you were going to get back? There¡¯s a lot of people who wanted to meet and speak with you. We¡¯ve kept most of them away. Well, Elsbeth did most of that, but I helped.¡±


    ¡°What could they possibly have to say to me?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Some of these people look at you in an¡­ unhealthy way.¡±


    Tyron glanced at him sideways.


    ¡°Unhealthy? According to who?¡±


    ¡°According to straight common sense,¡± Ortan growled. ¡°And do you really have to bring the undead into town?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Ugh. Fine. Anyway, I told them I¡¯d see if you¡¯d speak with them before you leave.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I figured as much. I¡¯ll let them know. I expect they won¡¯t be happy, but what are they going to do about it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back in a few months. If they really have something to say, I can hear it then. If that¡¯s all, I¡¯ll talk to you the next time I¡¯m in town, Ortan. I have to go and prepare for an unpleasant conversation.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Who are you talking to?¡±


    ¡°Three pains in my neck.¡±


    It delayed him by several hours, but he wasn¡¯t prepared to perform a complex ritual like Dark Communion without dotting his i¡¯s and crossing his t¡¯s first. He may have come a long way as a Mage since he first attempted Pierce the Veil, but he hadn¡¯t truly appreciated just how dangerous these rituals were at the time. He¡¯d done almost no work to develop this ritual, since he hadn¡¯t ever intended to cast it, so at the very least, minimal preparations were necessary before making an attempt.


    He¡¯d had to ask Elsbeth and Munhilde to entertain the students as he worked. As usual, the spell contained many similar elements to the other two he¡¯d learned as an Anathema. Many dimensional elements, forging a connection between two places and opening the way, but as with those previous rituals, there were elements wholly unique to the patron on whom he was calling. The Dark Ones weren¡¯t beyond a Veil, or within another realm, they were here, with him. Not directly, but their realm, the dark forest, or whatever they called it, was¡­ local. Separate, but part of the place in which he lived.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    This created several key differences in the ritual that he found illuminating, but he didn¡¯t have the time to chase down those loose ends. Right now, he wanted to get this ritual done as quickly as possible. Delaying his departure any longer than necessary was time wasted that he could ill afford to lose.


    Right now, he huddled in a crevasse outside of Cragwhistle, sheltered from the near omni-present wind, frantically scrabbling in one of his notebooks. Different collections and orientations of sigils appeared on the page as fast as his hands could manage, but no matter how quickly he wrote, his mind was still faster. One pattern was only half completed before he discarded it and started on another.


    It didn¡¯t take as long as it might have for him to piece together something he considered workable. He was much better at this than he once was, but even so, this was quick. Normally, he wouldn¡¯t dare enact this ritual with such flimsy preparations, but he almost disdained to give it that level of care. If the Three wanted to mess with him, there wasn¡¯t an awful lot he could do about it, and he was confident enough in his ritual magick that he felt his rough and ready arrangement would work.


    So he committed. He¡¯d brought all the ritual components he needed on the trip, in case a need arose. With the help of his skeletons, he prepared a ritual circle, planted the staff his mother had prepared for him at the head, and began to cast.


    Almost immediately after he began to speak, words of power thundering into the air, he felt the change come over him. After five minutes of casting, he could hear a sound, as if the wind around were rustling through the leaves of trees that he couldn¡¯t see.


    After twenty minutes, he could smell it, the deep loam and rotted leaf of the forest floor. After thirty minutes, he could feel gnarled roots under his feet. After forty, he could see it, the woods overlapping his own vision, rock and tufts of long grass mixed and blending with ancient trees. At this point, Tyron finally realised what the key differences between this ritual and the others really was. He wasn¡¯t just connecting one place to another, he was travelling.


    When he was done, and the last of the sigils was formed, the final words spoken, Tyron lowered his hands, relaxed his voice, and looked around.


    The forest was just as he recalled it. An old, old place, the trees burdened with the weight of uncountable years. Mist and moisture clung to everything; the air itself was damp enough that his clothes became immediately uncomfortable.


    He rolled his shoulders, ill at ease. This was their place, and he could almost see their power. It was everywhere, full and potent. Was he more sensitive now? Or perhaps the gods truly were more active, their strength waxing as they exerted greater influence on the world.


    ¡°I¡¯m somewhat surprised they agreed to let you back in here, given what occurred last time,¡± a sinuous voice spoke from behind him.


    Tyron whirled on the spot and found the thin, hooded figure standing apart from the trees, as if he had always been there. The Necromancer went to make a reply, then hesitated, raising a brow at the Messenger.


    ¡°You may speak,¡± the creature offered a long-suffering sigh. ¡°Despite doing nothing to earn the privilege, you are permitted to profane this sacred place with your worthless utterances.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you too,¡± Tyron swore. ¡°I haven¡¯t forgotten what happened last time I came here. Haven¡¯t forgotten the way your precious gods tried to break the rules.¡±


    ¡°This is bold talk from a little mage who hides behind the three like a child clinging to their mother,¡± the Messenger replied, sarcasm cutting like a knife. ¡°You peek from behind their skirts and think yourself bold, but I can see you for what you are.¡±


    ¡°And what am I? Other than an unworthy vessel, in your eyes?¡±


    For a moment the Messenger appeared at a loss.


    ¡°An unworthy vessel? You took the words directly from my mouth. That is exactly what you are. Nothing more.¡±


    Tyron folded his arms across his chest.


    ¡°Your gods are the ones who demanded I come here. If the only purpose was for you to spit childish insults, then I¡¯ll leave.¡±


    ¡°And how exactly would you leave?¡± the Messenger drawled from beneath the shadows of his hood.


    ¡°I¡¯d rework the ritual to move myself back to the point of origin.¡±


    Not easy to do on the fly, but he could do it.


    ¡°Would your magick, even work here? Do you truly understand what this place is?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t see the point in speculating, since I don¡¯t believe you have any intention of enlightening me. Since your name is ¡®Messenger¡¯, and not ¡®Useless piece of shit¡¯, I presume you have something to say to me. What is it?¡±


    ¡°If you do not cease with this disrespect, my gods will shatter your existence like glass!¡± the Messenger growled.


    Tyron raised a brow.


    ¡°I¡¯m being disrespectful to you, not them. I believe they know the difference.¡±


    ¡°What you believe bears little resemblance to what is,¡± the hooded figure hissed. He whirled in place and began to stride away between the trees. ¡°Follow,¡± came the command, filled with derision and scorn.


    There was nothing else to do, so the Necromancer shrugged and began to move forward, trailing after his mysterious guide.


    It was such a strange place, this wood. The more he saw, the less certain Tyron became of what it actually was. Were these trees actually trees? Or were they something else entirely? Was it really dirt and roots beneath his feet? Was this place even real in any sense of the word? Time felt strange. Distance felt strange. Much like the Broken Lands, it was as if the normal rules that governed the existence of a being such as himself did not function in this place. What he saw wasn¡¯t what he saw. What he heard wasn¡¯t truly what he heard.


    As he puzzled over it, trying to understand just what it was that he was experiencing, the Messenger led him to a clearing, in which he saw three statues.


    Except there weren¡¯t three statues.


    A Crow perched upon a thin branch, watching him with eyes of thunder. A Rat crawled up from beneath a grasping tree¡¯s roots, chittering with insatiable hunger. An old man, who was also a young man, who was also a newborn babe, who was also a decrepit Crone, grinned at him with a toothless grin, the madness of humanity crowded upon her face.


    The Messenger bowed low to each in turn before stepping to the side, and vanishing into the shadows, leaving Tyron alone with the three. With the Three.


    The Crow did not speak, and yet it spoke.


    DO YOU KNOW, THE NATURE OF MAGICK, THE TRUE IDENTITY OF THAT WHICH INVADES?


    All at once, the sheer power of the god washed over Tyron, as those words slammed into his mind. He staggered under the force of it, but held firm.


    ¡°No,¡± he replied when he had steadied. ¡°No I don¡¯t. Magick came through the rifts. Magick corrupts the realms it touches, creating monsters, making rifts, connecting the fallen worlds to their next victims. But I don¡¯t know what it is, or where it came from.¡±


    The Rat stood up on its hind legs.


    ENTROPY AFFECTS ALL THINGS. REALMS. GODS. EVEN ENERGY. DO YOU KNOW HOW MAGICK CAN DIE?


    The presence of Rot was just as overwhelming as that of his brother god. Tyron reeled before he gathered himself again. What did this question even mean? How to destroy magick? Magick? It was an ever changeable, ever malleable source of energy. It could become fire, water, light, dreams, even death. There was nothing in existence that it couldn¡¯t mimic or influence, but it was never lost.


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± he was forced to admit. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of magick being destroyed, or vanishing. Even when consumed, it merely changes form, or dissipates, only to reform again later.¡±


    The Crone laughed, and a thousand voices laughed along with her.


    THEN WE HAVE MUCH WE CAN TEACH YOU.


    She grinned.

 B4C13 - Woodsedge

    It had been years since Tyron stepped foot in Woodsedge. The journey north took almost a week, even covering distance quickly with a Classed wagoneer. He was curious to see what the area looked like, post-break, if the damage would even be visible, or if enough time had passed for the land to recover.


    It had not been enough time.


    When the rift had broken open, hordes of monsters, including the largest, most powerful creatures, which couldn¡¯t normally fit through, had entered this realm. As he leaned out the side of the carriage and looked at the approaching wall of green that was the forest, he could tell it hadn¡¯t recovered well before they drew close.


    Whatever those massive beasts had been, they¡¯d torn their way through the woods with the same mindless rage they¡¯d applied to everything else. Wide paths were still scattered with tree trunks and other debris. Rotting wood was everywhere, along with the shoots of new growth.


    When they drew close enough, the three students also poked their heads out to look, Briss whistling with awe as she took in the damage.


    ¡°What happened here?¡± she wondered.


    ¡°The break,¡± Richard answered shortly.


    ¡°I know it was the break,¡± she replied, ¡°but how exactly was this done? What monsters are able to cause this kind of destruction?¡±


    Tyron had leant them the few bestiaries he kept with him, volumes that detailed what was known about the creatures from beyond the rifts, as well as those that manifested within this realm on their own. If they were going to fight against the kin, it was important they acquired at least a rudimentary understanding of what they were going to see.


    ¡°The rift at Woodsedge isn¡¯t that large, not like Skyice or Dustwatch¡ªwell, I suppose it¡¯s bigger now. Usually you find slayers in the high bronze range who are confident fighting here, all the way up to mid-silvers who are cautious.¡±


    Dove¡¯s group had been one of the cautious ones. Carefully amassing experience and pushing themselves toward the threshold of gold rank a little bit at a time.


    ¡°Which means you would only rarely see the really nasty kin on this side of the rift. Those slayers who are strong enough to venture to the other side will come across them, and in fact, it''s important that they do. Having strong kin ripping and tearing at the rifts is the main way they get wider.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me, but that doesn¡¯t answer my question,¡± Briss pointed out respectfully. ¡°I was hoping to learn more about the monster that can do something like this.¡±


    She gestured toward the devastated woods, wide tracks of trampled trees that had previously stood for decades, perhaps even longer. Tyron sighed.


    ¡°If I¡¯m completely honest with you, I don¡¯t know their names,¡± Tyron admitted. ¡°I¡¯ve never been beyond the rift here myself, though I¡¯ve seen it. What I was trying to say is that such kin are so rarely seen, and only by a few, powerful slayers, that they don¡¯t appear in most bestiaries. You need to get your hands on specialist volumes dedicated to specific rifts. We¡¯ll be able to find plenty of those when we reach the keep.¡±


    The three students exchanged glances, as if surprised that there were things he didn¡¯t know, but Tyron ignored them. As if he had the time to learn the name of every type of kin beyond every rift. There were uncountable realms that had become corrupted by magick, and dozens of those had connected to this one, with dozens of types of kin to be found in each. Memorising all of that information was something even his parents hadn¡¯t bothered to do, despite being some of the precious few slayers to actually fight at every rift in the province.


    They had decreed Skyice to be the worst, not necessarily because of the strength of the kin, but due to the extreme cold and high altitude. If Magnin had lived on, he would have been irritated that the new rift had been discovered atop another frozen mountain.


    As the students discussed quietly amongst themselves, pointing out features of the scenery, the carriage continued on its way through the woods, powering its way toward the keep. It took a few hours, but eventually they reached the wide clearing he remembered. The canopy pulled back to reveal the sun burning overhead, the sudden light making him squint. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted and the new Woodsedge was revealed to him.


    A lot of work had been done since last he¡¯d been here. After he and Dove had emerged from their cellar refuge, they¡¯d come here to investigate and pick through the ruins. Well, he¡¯d picked through the ruins, Dove had just complained and made sarcastic remarks. At that point, there had been holes in the walls, entire streets had been flattened and many buildings were severely damaged.


    Clearly, the people had been busy. The slayer keep itself hadn¡¯t been damaged that much, but repairs to the town were well underway. From the outside, he could see the walls had been mostly repaired, trails of smoke rising from the chimneys of buildings within.


    He poked his head out the window again, looking backwards to confirm that the second carriage, carrying Elsbeth and Munhilde, was still trailing, which it was.


    When they finally pulled up at the gate, Tyron was pleased to step down and stretch his legs outside as the two priestesses alighted from their own carriage.


    ¡°We¡¯ve finally arrived,¡± Elsbeth said, relief clear in her tone as she looked toward the gate, a small distance away. ¡°Do you think we¡¯ll have any trouble getting inside?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to say,¡± Tyron replied. ¡°Since the slayers overthrew the magisters and took over the keep, they may not be too welcoming of strangers right now. I don¡¯t suppose Munhilde¡¯s friends know that she¡¯s coming?¡±


    ¡°They know I¡¯m coming,¡± she said, joining them, ¡°but that doesn¡¯t mean I have a letter of entry. We¡¯ll need to convince them to let us in, just like everyone else.¡±


    She pointed toward the gate, and when Tyron looked more carefully in that direction, he realised that there were quite a few carriages, carts and people waiting outside. The first time he¡¯d seen it, he¡¯d assumed it was a normal amount of traffic, but considering less than half the number of people lived within the walls as compared to before the break, this was excessive.


    Faced with the prospect of being denied at the gate, Tyron could only hope there wouldn¡¯t be too much resistance.


    ¡°Well, nothing for it but to unload our things and talk to them,¡± he said.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    By now, the three students had exited the carriage, and he turned to address them.


    ¡°Help get all the luggage down and arrange it all on the side of the road. I¡¯ll go talk to the guards at the gate and see if they¡¯re going to let us in. If not, we¡¯ll need to head a little distance away and set up a camp.¡±


    As he wandered over to the gate, Elsbeth and Munhilde fell in alongside him and they walked together in silence. They were halfway there before Tyron realised something.


    ¡°Should I disguise my face here?¡± he asked aloud.


    He¡¯d gotten used to walking around with his real face showing, and considering there were no magisters here, he hadn¡¯t thought he¡¯d need to return to concealing himself. He certainly couldn¡¯t wander around the scene of open rebellion as Lukas Almsfield, but he had other faces he could adopt.


    Elsbeth looked thoughtful, but Munhilde barked a short laugh.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that will be necessary. Your face is probably our ticket inside.¡±


    Tyron looked at her curiously.


    ¡°Not just your face. Your name as well,¡± she elaborated.


    When they arrived at the gate, they could hear the yelling and arguing well before they arrived. As expected, the gate was shut, only a small side door being open, and a stone-faced guard stood facing a group of clearly furious people demanding entry.


    The three travellers approached and stopped a respectful distance behind the half-dozen shouting figures. Tyron figured they¡¯d run out of breath eventually and then he could step forward, but the guard noticed them first and gestured for them to draw closer.


    ¡°Shut the fuck up for a minute and let me talk to these people,¡± the guard stated levelly to the yellers, the first words he¡¯d spoken to them since Tyron had seen him.


    ¡°You¡¯ll talk to them but not us?!¡± one of the waiting men demanded, spittle flying in his rage.


    ¡°I have something to say to them they haven¡¯t heard a hundred times before. That¡¯s not the case with you. Now, unless you want me to get the others out here to beat you back again, shut your mouth for a few minutes.¡±


    With no change of expression, he turned towards the new arrivals.


    ¡°Welcome to Woodsedge. The gates are closed for the time being as we sort out some administrative details. Check back with us in a few days if you still want to enter the walls.¡±


    ¡°You have the patience of a saint,¡± Tyron chuckled. ¡°How long do they keep yelling at you like that for?¡±


    ¡°Usually a few hours after it¡¯s announced the gates aren¡¯t opening. They run out of steam eventually.¡±


    ¡°We can fucking hear you!¡±


    ¡°Is there anything else?¡± the guard asked.


    Munhilde prodded him in the back, causing Tyron to shoot a glare over his shoulder. Then he sighed.


    ¡°I¡¯m Tyron Steelarm. I want to get inside and talk to the people in charge. The¡­ new¡­ people in charge.¡±


    The guard¡¯s brows raised.


    ¡°That¡¯s quite the claim. I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯d be willing to perform a status ritual to confirm it?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say I¡¯d be happy to, but I will if I have to.¡±


    There were no official records, in fact, no records at all of his actual status, as he destroyed all the copies he produced and cheated every official check using the blood magick of the vampires.


    The fact he was willing to entertain the idea of the ritual seemed surprising to the guard. After a moment of contemplation, he turned and knocked at the door, followed by two others stepping out a few moments later.


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem, Prich?¡±


    ¡°Got a chap here who needs to perform a status ritual. Can I get you lads to handle it?¡±


    ¡°Status ritual? What for? Gate¡¯s closed.¡±


    ¡°Might not be closed for him,¡± Prich replied without emphasis. ¡°Folks up at the keep might want to hear what he has to say, if he is who he says he is.¡±


    Both newcomers looked somewhat surprised, but gestured for Tyron to follow them through the gate, which caused no shortage of outrage from those who were still waiting outside. Paying no mind to the furor, the two men closed the door and locked it before hunting for a sheet of paper in the small post they occupied inside the gate.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t worried about him being out there by himself?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°Prich? No way. He might look like that, but he¡¯s a fucking beast. Been out hunting kin to get levels on the sly over the last few weeks. For a guard, he¡¯s got a lot more levels than those idiots would expect.¡±


    That made sense. It made sense that the local slayers would have been trying to encourage others to gain levels, especially people with combat classes but no brand.


    ¡°Here we are. Put a bit of claret on that, would you please?¡± one of the guards said, passing Tyron a sheet of somewhat clean paper.


    A swift cut to the meat of the thumb and some muttered words later, his blood flowed onto the page for the guards to see. Sure enough, his name was there, along with his Classes.


    ¡°Holy shit!¡± one of them breathed.


    The other stepped sharply away from Tyron, putting a hand on the hilt of his weapon.


    Before either guard could grab it, Tyron snatched up the page and pressed it to his chest.


    ¡°Well, I assume you saw the name?¡± he asked the two guards.


    ¡°Hey now. You¡¯ll need to be handing that over to me,¡± the first guard said, the one who hadn¡¯t retreated.


    ¡°No,¡± Tyron replied simply. ¡°I¡¯ll show it to whoever has to see it, but I will not hand it over. I¡¯m sure you understand why.¡±


    The air was tense for a few moments as the two guards looked at him, one with a blank expression, the other with open fear on his face.


    ¡°How about you open the door, and I¡¯ll step outside?¡± Tyron offered. ¡°You can lock me out, no problem, and I¡¯ll talk to your friend. How¡¯s that?¡±


    It felt odd to be trying to calm these men down. If anyone should be feeling uncomfortable, it should be him! He was here without his minions, without his bone armour, revealing his status to these strangers for the first time in his life!


    They were more than amenable to the idea of him going back outside the gate, to the point where they didn¡¯t even consider it much, they simply threw open the door and allowed him to walk out. Prich, still receiving a faceful of abuse, turned to regard him, then glanced down at the page he clutched to his chest. Then blinked when the door slammed shut and was noisily bolted behind him.


    ¡°I take it they didn¡¯t see what they wanted in your status?¡± Prich asked flatly.


    ¡°They certainly didn¡¯t, but not in the way you¡¯re thinking,¡± Tyron replied. He stepped forward, gripped the page in both hands, then held it out for the guard to read. ¡°I refuse to hand this page over, but you can get what you need from it.¡±


    He scanned the paper briefly before he blinked. Once, then twice.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± he said.


    Tyron stepped away, frowned, then crushed the paper in his hand before shoving it into his mouth. It was disgusting, and he hated doing it this way, but he didn¡¯t have a way to start a fire in the next five seconds and every moment this sheet existed he felt less comfortable. Prich watched him masticate, grimacing and grunting as he tried to force the mess of dirty paper and blood down his throat.


    ¡°Well, I can understand why you¡¯d do that, but the people you want to see are likely to demand you make another one.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll eat that one too,¡± Tyron managed to force out, between chews.


    ¡°Alright, you¡¯ve proven who you are, and shown what you are. I¡¯m going to have to talk to some people before I can let you in, though. I¡¯m sure you understand.¡±


    Tyron nodded, then finally swallowed the last of it.


    ¡°That¡¯s foul,¡± he gagged before spitting. ¡°I¡¯m here with five others who also want to enter the city. Two priestesses of the¡­ less well-regarded gods, and three students of mine.¡±


    ¡°I understand you. I¡¯ll ask about them as well. I suggest you make yourselves comfortable, it might be a while before you¡¯re let in.¡±

 B4C14 - Rebel Keep

    Rurin Wilkin wanted nothing more than to bury her face in her hands and scream. Failing that, a stiff drink would likely do the job. Or perhaps ten. Twenty if she was still conscious by then.


    ¡°Fuck you, Brom,¡± she growled, thinking of the absent slayer as her eyes roamed over the myriad of pages in front of her. ¡°You knew to piss off the second it got hard!¡±


    Advancing to gold in secret? No problem. Racing to gain levels out in the rift before she returned? Easy. Working with her old friends to overthrow the slayer keep and murder the magisters? That was harder, but still relatively simple. Managing all this paperwork? She wasn¡¯t cut out for it in the slightest. There were only so many people in the city, and still they managed to find ways to piss and shit all over each other (metaphorically), then sprint toward the person in charge.


    Which, unfortunately, was her.


    A knock on the door was followed by Tim sticking his head through a narrow gap.


    ¡°Looking for a distraction?¡± he asked with a slight smile.


    ¡°By the godess¡¯ tits, yes,¡± Rurin said emphatically. ¡°Tell me there¡¯s something I can kill.¡±


    Tim frowned a little, considering the issue.


    ¡°Well, I suppose that comes down to how you feel about Beory Steelarm.¡±


    Rurin stared.


    ¡°She was a friend of mine for two decades. I loved that woman to death.¡±


    Hearing that Beory and her husband had passed had ripped the heart out of her chest, plunging her into mourning, just as it had hundreds, if not thousands of other slayers across the province. They¡¯d been too bright, too exceptional for anyone to be in their presence and not wish to be even a little bit like them. The Steelarms had been the light, and every slayer they met was an insect, hopelessly drawn closer, almost against their will.


    She¡¯d first met Beory closer to the capital, when she was working in Blackrift Keep. Things had gotten out of hand there, the slayers pushed to breaking point, until those two had strolled into town and smashed the kin back inside in a week. At that point, she and Magnin had still been gold ranked, though it was never officially known if and when they¡¯d gone higher.


    Becoming friends with Beory was more luck than anything Rurin had done. It seemed the dark-haired battlemage had seen her one day and decided they should spend time in each other¡¯s company, not that Rurin was ungrateful. It was impossible not to want to be around them.


    With her opinion on the matter stated clearly, Tim was able to continue.


    ¡°In that case, I doubt there is any killing involved. I wouldn¡¯t expect you to cut down the child of your deceased friend.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Rurin squawked, springing up from her chair so quickly it toppled over loudly behind her. ¡°Tyron is here?¡±


    Tim raised his brows.


    ¡°At least, someone claiming to be him is here. Apparently, he produced a status sheet for the guards, but ate it on the spot rather than let them take it to show us. You¡¯ll have to go to him, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    As if Tyron Steelarm would be so foolish as to let someone wander off with a copy of his status. He¡¯d be an idiot if he did, and Beory had not raised an idiot.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be there immediately,¡± she declared, walking around the table as she snatched up her coat from the hanger, pulling it on in a hurry.


    ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll tag along,¡± Tim mused, ¡°it would be interesting to meet the child those two created.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t say anything weird. I¡¯ve met Tyron before, he¡¯s a good kid.¡± She fell silent as she pushed out the door and her fellow gold ranked slayer fell in behind her. ¡°Well, he was a good kid.¡±


    Who knew what toll everything that happened five years ago had taken on him. When she¡¯d last seen him, he¡¯d been probably¡­ fifteen? A quiet and serious young man who¡¯d struggled to conceal the envy in his eyes as she had left the house with his parents, off to the rifts.


    She ruminated on that last meeting as she made her way out of the keep and down through the town. What had become of that child? Beory had come to see her after he¡¯d run away, not that there had been anything Rurin could do for him.


    ¡°Just look out for my boy,¡± Beory had said with a faint smile. ¡°Help him, if you get a chance.¡±


    ¡°Tell me what¡¯s going on, Bee,¡± Rurin had begged. ¡°This isn¡¯t like you. What can I do for Tyron that you can¡¯t do yourself?¡±


    The battlemage had given her a wan smile. On reflection, she had likely already been suffering from the brand.


    ¡°I won¡¯t say, so don¡¯t ask. You¡¯ll understand why when it¡¯s done.¡±


    But that wasn¡¯t the case. Even now, with her friend in the ground for years, she had no idea why.


    At the gate, she walked straight up the guard house and found Prich waiting for her.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d come down yourself,¡± the guard said, as expressionless as always. ¡°Not this fast.¡±


    ¡°She needed an excuse to get away from the paperwork,¡± Timothy offered before she could say anything.


    ¡°Shut the fuck up, Tim. If you want to throw stones, go and take care of it yourself.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve finished my work for the day,¡± the mage said, as calm as ever. ¡°You¡¯re the only one who¡¯s fallen behind.¡±


    ¡°Why are we doing filing after rebelling against the fucking empire anyway?¡± Rurin threw up her hands, exasperated.


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    ¡°You¡¯re deflecting, but I¡¯ll bite. Because we need to keep the people here fed, and we need to ensure the laws are still observed. Besides, I think an unorganised rebellion is even more doomed to fail than a well-run one.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re still doomed to fail either way?¡±


    ¡°Naturally.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a depressing fucker sometimes, you know that?¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    Throughout the exchange, Prich remained blank-faced. If he had any thoughts about the two gold slayers in front of him, the supposed leaders of the rebellion, he kept them to himself.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Tyron?¡± Rurin demanded, turning away from her contemporary. ¡°Is he outside?¡±


    ¡°I encouraged him to settle in somewhere nearby, since I thought you¡¯d be too busy to come down here for some time,¡± Prich informed her.


    ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll go out. Thanks for your work today, Prich. We appreciate what you do for us.¡±


    ¡°Happy to do my part,¡± the guard replied, no change in his expression.


    Through the door, Rurin and Tim found the other two guards on duty confronted with a pack of red-faced, shouting men and women gesticulating wildly as they demanded to be let inside.


    ¡°What in the realm is going on?¡± Rurin asked.


    Tim leaned close to her ear to whisper.


    ¡°These are the people waiting for you to finish their applications before they can enter the city.¡±


    The gold slayer felt a headache building in her temples. With an explosive exhalation, she pushed her tension away. Then she stomped on the ground. The impact was fierce, enough to make the non-guardsmen standing close stumble as the ground shook beneath their feet. As the crowd gathered themselves, shocked at the sudden shake, she cleared her throat.


    ¡°Come back tomorrow morning and I¡¯ll have your papers for you. If any of you are at the gate when I come back, your application will be instantly denied.¡±


    Looking around the clearing, she spotted a small group of people arranging their luggage and laying out bedding. Assuming that was who she was looking for, she strode away, Tim walking alongside her.


    ¡°Ho, the camp!¡± she called as she approached.


    Several figures turned towards her, a few raising a hand in greeting, but she only had eyes for one. Something about the way he stood, the slight hunch to his shoulders, the way his hair fell down to his shoulders. She recognised that boy.


    ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t Tyron,¡± she grinned as she approached.


    The young man seemed a little taken aback, but he recognised her a moment later.


    ¡°Rurin Wilkin. I should have known you¡¯d be part of this.¡±


    She stepped forward and grabbed him up in a bear hug, which he weakly returned with one arm, though not nearly as weakly as she¡¯d expected.


    ¡°Holy shit, boy! You¡¯ve gotten stronger. Aren¡¯t you a Necromancer?¡±


    ¡°A silver Necromancer, thank you very much,¡± he grumbled as she set him back on his feet.


    ¡°Silver, eh? How in the realm did you manage that? Don¡¯t answer, let me get a good look at you.¡±


    She pushed him out to arm¡¯s length and inspected him, only then did she begin to detect just what had changed about the lad. He was older, obviously, eight years had passed since she¡¯d last seen him. He was taller than her now, more mature, more fleshed out and no longer as skin and bones as he¡¯d been before. But that wasn¡¯t the change that most caught her attention. His eyes were different. Where once they were curious, and intense, now his gaze burned with purpose. It was so clear it may as well have been written on his face for the world to see.


    ¡°Oh, Tyron,¡± she said sadly, ¡°they wouldn¡¯t want this for you. Vengeance was never something your parents cared about.¡±


    The young Necromancer raised his brows in surprise, just a fraction, before his eyes hardened.


    ¡°They can¡¯t push me from the path I¡¯ve set,¡± he said, ¡°because they¡¯re dead. I won¡¯t rest until those responsible have been crushed.¡±


    His voice was so flat, so unemotional. All he did was state a fact. Rurin shook her head.


    ¡°You¡¯re as stubborn as your mother,¡± she sighed. ¡°You look more like her now than you used to, I think. Get a haircut and maybe you¡¯d favour your Da a little more.¡±


    She placed a hand on his shoulder and met his haunted gaze.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about what happened to your folks. I was honoured to call Beory a friend. She asked me to help you, not long before it ended. Things are difficult right now, but I¡¯m willing to give whatever aid I can, you just have to ask.¡±


    Tyron nodded, grateful.


    ¡°I¡¯m also here,¡± Tim said, waving just from behind Rurin¡¯s shoulder, dragging everyone¡¯s attention to him.


    ¡°Shut the fuck up, Tim,¡± Rurin said, not turning around. ¡°That¡¯s Tim,¡± she said by way of explanation, ¡°Timothy Falns. A fellow gold rank, like myself. I suppose you could say that the two of us are leading this tumbler¡¯s show, now that Brom has flown the coop.¡±


    ¡°We met him. Brom, I mean. He stopped by Cragwhistle, which is where I was training, on his way down to Skyice,¡± Tyron said. ¡°I came here for two reasons, to fight the kin beyond the rift, and to help in whatever way I can.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you were going to help? Are you sure about that? We could use all the help we can get,¡± Rurin sighed. ¡°Organising the town is a nightmare, along with keeping word from spreading about what we''re doing here. Every day, I expect to drop dead on the spot, except the magisters haven¡¯t bothered to get around to it yet. In the meantime, we¡¯ve been doing our best to grow the rebellion and get some sort of structure in place.¡±


    ¡°Slayers are terrible at running anything other than a bar-fight,¡± Tim added helpfully. ¡°We¡¯re drowning in paperwork.¡±


    ¡°Not to mention the cleanup and construction of the town isn¡¯t finished, so we don¡¯t have much space to work with,¡± Rurin said, gesturing back towards the walls. ¡°Unless you¡¯ve brought a few dozen labourers, I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯d be much help with that.¡±


    Tyron allowed himself a slight smile.


    ¡°I think I can have the cleanup taken care of rather quickly. The construction may prove more difficult, but if all you need is things moved from one place to another, I can certainly do that. You know my Class.¡±


    Rurin raised a brow.


    ¡°I don¡¯t see any undead around, though. Are you keeping a horde of zombies up your ass?¡±


    ¡°No. I have a pocket dimension.¡±


    ¡°Ah, handy.¡±


    ¡°As for your organisational troubles, I think I can help with that too. I¡¯m a mean hand at paperwork; I can spare some time to help deal with that. As for leadership, I can assist you there too. More accurately, I can introduce you to others who can help. This is Munhilde and Elsbeth, priestesses of the three.¡±


    Rurin¡¯s eyes widened, and she offered a short bow to the two women as Tyron introduced them.


    ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to welcome any representative of the old gods,¡± she said carefully.


    Getting on the shitlist of their clergy was even scarier than crossing the five in her books.


    Munhilde shot Tyron a dirty look before she stepped forward to address the two gold slayers.


    ¡°I had hoped to speak to my contemporaries within the city before we made ourselves known, but it is true, the gods themselves are putting their weight behind the growing rebellion, and my fellow priests and priestesses have been tasked to assist. Our people are spreading themselves across the far flung reaches of the province, creating a network by which we can coordinate our actions.¡±


    ¡°Fuck me,¡± Rurin breathed, and even the unflappable Tim seemed shocked. ¡°With that sort of firepower behind us, we might just get something done.¡±


    ¡°You were expecting to fail?¡± Tyron asked, surprised.


    ¡°Oh, yes,¡± Tim replied immediately. ¡°Utterly.¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t rebel because we thought we would win,¡± Rurin answered him, stomping on Tim¡¯s foot, ¡°we did it because it¡¯s the right thing to do. What happened to your parents was wrong, and the divines have allowed the realm to rot for far too long. If we don¡¯t try and do something, then what¡¯s the point of fighting the kin at all?¡±


    Tyron¡¯s eyes glittered.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going to fail,¡± he said, certain. ¡°We are going to kill them all.¡±

 B4C15 - Within the Walls

    Tyron and company had indeed been allowed within the walls, and while Elsbeth and Munhilde hurried to meet with the other members of their faith, Rurin ushered him and the three students to a less salubrious part of town.


    ¡°There aren¡¯t enough people to need these buildings, so this part of town hasn¡¯t been repaired,¡± she told him cheerfully. ¡°Since you seem so confident in your labourers, you can put them to work here. Probably do it at night, though. I doubt the locals would take too kindly to seeing zombies doing street work.¡±


    The Necromancer raised his brows.


    ¡°I thought they might be pleased to see the work getting done at least, and I don¡¯t keep zombies, skeletons only.¡±


    ¡°At least you won¡¯t be found out by the smell. I¡¯ll let a few of our people know you¡¯re here and who you are, and send some runners out to the rifts so the people in the field know you¡¯ll be out there. I doubt they¡¯d be grateful to be surprised by undead in the field.¡±


    ¡°Unlikely,¡± he agreed.


    Having said their piece, Rurin and Tim had waved their goodbyes and departed back to the keep, leaving Tyron and three nervous students alone in a dark, half-crumbled building, surrounded by more of the same.


    ¡°Be careful,¡± he warned them, ¡°it¡¯s possible there may be stray kin here, tucked away in the rubble.¡±


    The three jumped closer together, eyeing the toppled walls and beams with naked suspicion, if not outright fear. Tyron could only roll his eyes before he stepped away from them and began to prepare a ritual space.


    This far from the keep, tucked deep into the broken areas of town, he hoped nobody would notice the magick, but even if they did, he didn¡¯t really have a choice but to do it. All of his minions were currently locked away within the Ossuary and he felt naked without them. Munhilde and Elsbeth had assured him it would be the best and safest way to approach the city, but he¡¯d needed a fair bit of convincing before he¡¯d finally agreed. Things had worked out, but he still hated feeling so vulnerable.


    When the ritual was complete and the doorway into the Ossuary had manifested once more, he threw open the door with a smile on his face, pleased to see the rows of waiting undead within. With a brief mental command, he summoned the strongest of his minions to his side, along with a smaller contingent of regular skeletons. Forty should be enough to start with.


    His three pupils watched him perform the magick from close by, but as usual, they seemed totally lost watching him. At their level, what he did must seem impossible, beyond human, and they¡¯d probably be surprised to learn he knew the feeling well. His own mother had dazzled him with her mastery, sending spells flying around the house so quickly he could barely see her hands move, or understand the words coming out of her mouth.


    For a Battlemage, fast casting was perhaps the most important skill to master, and Beory was well beyond a master. At his best, he could match only half her speed, even now. But he didn¡¯t need speed, he needed precision, and efficiency. That was how he comforted himself, anyway.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it,¡± he comforted his students, even though they hadn¡¯t asked, ¡°it¡¯s hard to learn anything when you watch somebody who¡¯s far above your level. This ritual dabbles in areas of magick you haven¡¯t touched, and perhaps never will.¡±


    The three each digested his words in their own way. Georg accepted it most readily, while Richard was the slowest to let go of his frustration.


    ¡°What would you like us to do, Mr¡­ uh¡­ Tyron. Sir,¡± Briss stammered out, eyes locked on the skeletal arch that had materialised before her.


    ¡°We need a place to sleep. Let¡¯s see if we can find something that looks like it won¡¯t fall on our heads.¡±


    It didn¡¯t take that long to find one. It looked like an old clothing shop, built right up against the wall. With huge gaps in the walls further around on both sides, it appeared this particular dwelling, and those close by, had been spared the worst of the monsters¡¯ rampage. With the aid of the undead, it didn¡¯t take long to gather up the refuse and dump it in a neat pile nearby. Within a couple of hours, they¡¯d managed to tie up a canvas and put up some tents. Most importantly, Tyron pulled his table out of the Ossuary before he dismissed the door once more, giving everyone a place for their notes as they returned to their studies.


    Out of sight of the rest of the town, his skeletons continued to toil, moving rubble and broken beams, gradually bringing order back to this abandoned section of Woodsedge. When night fell, Munhilde and Elsbeth came looking for them, along with Rurin and Tim.


    The two priestesses looked satisfied, if a bit weary, whereas Rurin looked completely exhausted.


    ¡°I hate paperwork!¡± she groaned, slumping to the ground as Tim stood behind her, radiating smug energy.


    ¡°Did you bring your ledgers for me to look at?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°And miss a chance to get them out of my hands? Not on your life.¡±


    She had, in fact, brought a leather satchel, which she deftly removed from her neck and tossed at him as if it weighed nothing. It did not weigh nothing.


    He caught it with a grunt, then pulled out the two thick, bound volumes within. With a sigh, he placed them on the table.


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    ¡°It¡¯ll take a little while to hear back from the teams on the rift, but you should be safe to head out there tomorrow or the day after,¡± the gold slayer informed him.


    ¡°In the meantime, I get to go through your records.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it a shame?¡± she grinned at him.


    ¡°You¡¯re worse than my father was,¡± he told her.


    She gasped and clutched a hand to her chest.


    ¡°How dare you?¡± she demanded. ¡°I saw him file a report once. He nearly died!¡±


    It sounded like an exaggeration, but it almost certainly wasn¡¯t. Magnin had hated pen pushing with the intensity of a thousand suns. He would rather carve his details into a wall with his sword than fill in a form, and had, in fact, done so on more than one occasion.


    Beory had handled most of the filing work in their household.


    ¡°I confess, I didn¡¯t know the Steelarms that well,¡± Timothy mused, ¡°but I find it hard to believe the Century Slayer had an even greater aversion to lodging paperwork than this sorry excuse for a rebellion leader.¡±


    ¡°In that case, you¡¯re right,¡± Tyron told him.


    ¡°In what respect?¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t know them well.¡±


    The man pondered that for a moment before he shrugged.


    ¡°You two look like you had a mixed reception,¡± the Necromancer said to the two priestesses.


    Elsbeth pulled a face.


    ¡°It was fine, really,¡± she sighed.


    ¡°Our fellow clergy members just aren¡¯t used to operating so openly,¡± Munhilde chuckled. ¡°We¡¯ve tended to the flock in secret for thousands of years, and been actively hunted all that time. Now they want us to help lead a rebellion against the empire? My fellow ordained may have been hoping for it to happen most of their lives, but they now find themselves more exposed than they are comfortable with.¡±


    ¡°Are they going to be alright?¡± he asked with one raised brow.


    If the clergy didn¡¯t stand up and lead, then the rebellion would falter in its early stages, whereas they needed it to grow as quickly and smoothly as possible.


    He needed it to grow. It was an instrument of his vengeance, one tool with which he would pry open the empire and scoop out the guilty.


    Munhilde snorted at his question.


    ¡°Of course they will. Think about the gods we worship and serve. Do you really think the people chosen to serve them are soft?¡±


    If they were anything like the Venerable, then they were the toughest and most ornery bastards to ever walk the realm.


    ¡°I suppose not,¡± he said, nodding. He turned back to the volumes on the table. ¡°Well, let¡¯s get started. I want to finish this as soon as possible.¡±


    ¡°What¡­ now?¡± Rurin gaped.


    ¡°Yes, now.¡±


    Tim smiled like a cat.


    ¡°It¡¯s like my birthday,¡± he murmured.


    ~~~


    He remained within the walls for two days, working without rest on ledgers and forms under the resentful gaze of Rurin, until she managed to convince Tim to sit in for her. It wasn¡¯t a challenging task, merely tedious, with the most important documents being the ones required to send to the Red Tower. The magisters loved their records, and the more innocent the paperwork flowing from Woodsedge was, the longer it would take them to investigate the place. It was a paperthin ruse, given that they would eventually know the magisters here were dead, but any time they could buy would be valuable.


    The rest of it was simple recordkeeping and administration for the town itself. He was hardly an expert in such matters, but he flew through the pages with such cold efficiency he left the two gold ranked slayers wide-eyed with shock.


    ¡°Are you sure you weren¡¯t a clerk in a previous life?¡± Tim had asked him at one point.


    Once he figured out what needed doing and how to do it, it was simple enough to turn those tasks over to Elsbeth and Munhilde, who could then pass them on to the local clergy. On the third day, Tyron rose and stretched, finally freed from the table. After checking on the students and giving them some feedback on their studies, he once again summoned the Ossuary and brought out everything that had remained inside, including the ¡®study materials¡¯.


    Before they had left Cragwhistle, he had received the first offerings from the newly Awakened who now specialised in the preparation of corpses. Those bodies had been fermenting within the Ossuary for some time and needed the condensed death energy within them to be purged, lest they rise on their own, but once that was done, he had dozens of bodies for his students to practise on while he was away.


    After some final instruction, it was time for him to depart. It had been stifling, sitting at the table while the rift was so close. The kin emerging at Cragwhistle hadn¡¯t been strong enough to truly test him anymore; his skeletal horde had grown beyond it. Now he finally had the chance to take on a greater challenge.


    Nagrythyn, the realm beyond the Woodsedge rift, was far more dense in magick that the world of ice which had so recently connected to the western province. More dense magick meant more potent kin, and more of them. With the full might of his undead army, Tyron intended to push harder to gain the levels he desperately needed to realise his plans.


    Stepping out through the hole in the wall, he smiled to himself, thinking just how difficult it had been for him to leave the town the first time he¡¯d tried. After lining the street hoping for a slayer team to notice him for days on end, he¡¯d finally gotten a chance when Monica Briar, a mage on Dove¡¯s slayer team, had picked him out from the crowd.


    Now, all he had to do was literally walk out through an unrepaired hole in the wall.


    Just like that, he was on his way. With over two hundred skeletons in formation around him, he pressed forwards, into the woods. Despite the teams in the field being told of his presence, he avoided the main path, preferring to go cross country. Not that his path was too rough, given he had dozens of shield-bearing skeletons to clear the way for him.


    He didn¡¯t see too many kin at first, which made sense. After a break, the buildup of monsters on the other side of the rift was depleted. Well, not depleted, they just came into this realm and murdered everything they could find until they themselves were killed, but it still equated to less kin. It would take time for their numbers to build again, and once they did, they would press against the rifts once more, with more slipping through than before.


    After almost an hour of careful trudging, he ran into his first kin. The little ankle-biting swarms had been difficult for him to hunt when he had only a few poor-quality minions, but now they were destroyed before he was really cognizant they were there. The skeletons at the front of his formation skewered them the moment they appeared, launching themselves out of the brush.


    For a moment, he considered collecting their cores, but decided against it. The more he pressed forward, the more frequent the monster attacks became. Eventually he would close in on the rift itself, and then he could finally put his new abilities to the test.

 B4C16 - Unleash Undeath

    Tyron stood, looking down once again on the Broken Lands. The rift at Cragwhistle was much too small to produce such an intense reality-warping effect, but here, it was just as bad as he remembered. The realm itself seemed to twist and shudder as the rifts spewed a torrent of magickal energy forth in an endless stream of power. He was more sensitive to it now, the movement and flow of energy had been his study for the past several years during his Arcanist training, but here, standing so close, he almost couldn¡¯t believe what his senses were telling him.


    So much magick.


    It was¡­ obscene. Perhaps he hadn¡¯t sensed it before because of just how vast it was. In this place, where the dimensional weave was a tattered, ragged thing, the rifts were like¡­ plug holes in the bottom of a bath. Nagrythyn, an entire world fully polluted by arcane energy, was draining into this one at a staggering rate. There were eight rifts in the western province alone, and this wasn¡¯t even the largest.


    What hope did his world have? Just how much longer would it be before dangerous kin began to arise here? Already, there were beasts twisted by magick. Ro¡¯klaw were used as messenger birds, but they hadn¡¯t existed before the rifts. Exposure to magick had twisted an existing bird species into something tougher, hardier, more vicious. Across the empire, there were cattle species reared which had not existed before the rifts had opened.


    Already, the magick was woven into every part of their lives, their existence. The Unseen itself was a thing of magick, a weapon to fight back against the poison, allowing people to turn the blight back against itself.


    Yet as Tyron stood, looking down on the rift at Woodsedge, and feeling that torrent of power rising into the sky, he began to understand a little of what the Three had been hinting at.


    This realm, the empire, was on the precipice. The corrupting influence of the rifts was reaching a tipping point, and soon there would be no road back. This realm would fall, becoming another endless source of monstrous rift-kin. Then, the power would reach out, punching through the weave to find other, new realms to poison.


    He shook his head. This was a problem far too large for one Necromancer to handle. There was nothing he could do right now, except focus on himself and his immediate goals. He wasn¡¯t focused on saving, but on destroying.


    There were several teams patrolling the area around the rift. Indeed, there were several fighting right up close to it. Those who spotted him raised an arm, and he waved back, then retreated back into the woods.


    After establishing a simple camp, he forced himself to sleep. Tackling Nagrythyn was a difficult task and not one he wanted to attempt without proper rest.


    When he awoke, his mind felt refreshed. He rolled from his blankets, stretched, and washed himself with cold water from his canteen. There had been several attacks during the night, but his unsleeping guards had seen to it that he remained safe. Now, Tyron prepared himself with a cold breakfast and some exercises to stimulate his mind and loosen his fingers.


    His last status ritual had proven to be unusually fruitful in terms of new spells and abilities, largely thanks to a rush of levels in his new Death Mage sub-class. Of course, he had performed some tests, done some examination, but putting them to use on the battlefield would soon reveal their true worth.


    Preparations complete, he assembled the full might of his undead with a thought and proceeded to march toward the rift. With every step, the warping effect of the Broken Lands grew stronger, twisting his senses. Colours seemed to drip and run, his sense of time shifted and bent, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, varying from moment to moment. Even the light was affected. One moment he stood in perfect sunshine, the next he was plunged into deepest shadow, travelling from day to night in a single step.


    It was bewildering, but if he focused, he could push it from his mind and focus on what really mattered. The kin. The closer he drew to the rift, the more his skeletons were engaged by the monsters. Swift, insectile beasts with lashing claws and blade-like arms, propped up by their many stabbing legs. Swarms of smaller creatures scuttling out from under the foliage to snap and bite at the feet of his undead.


    His troops were more than a match for the challenge. A wall of bone shields stood between him and any foe. His archers and mages reached out to stab into the fast-moving kin before they could draw close. His longsword-wielding skeletons stepped forward in unison, their bodies flowing over the ground with light and easy strides, before they drew back with their blades, pulled on his power and struck home.


    It was so effortless. Of course, he needed to concentrate, to direct his troops and sense the threats through the eyes of his ghosts before they could threaten his undead, but against these lesser kin of Nagrythyn, his skeletal horde was untouched.


    He dismissed a twinge of bitterness that threatened to rise up within himself. This solo march to the rift proved exactly what he had hoped all along. A Necromancer could be a forceful weapon against the rifts. Using the bodies and bones of the fallen, useless materials otherwise, one such as himself could do the work of dozens of slayers. Were he to grow stronger, perhaps it would be possible for him to hold a rift as large as the one at Woodsedge by himself.


    He¡¯d been right. It was foolish in the extreme to make Necromancy an illegal Class, a tragic waste that he¡¯d been hunted and spurned rather than welcomed and celebrated. Ultimately, it didn¡¯t matter. In receiving the Class, he¡¯d been nothing but a pawn in a larger game, gods above slapping down those who had dared to reach higher than their allotted station.


    Yet perhaps, in the world after the empire had fallen, not all would be lost. Others, like his three students, could be raised up to hold the line against the monsters.


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    When he came to the ridge that looked down upon the rift once more, he didn¡¯t pause or hesitate, but continued on his march. Down he stepped, his skeletons marching alongside him as he gazed on the bridge between realms.


    The rift at Woodsedge was well developed, to the point it wasn¡¯t one single puncture anymore, but several, each of varying sizes. Like the tattering of a well-worn sock, the rift pulled at the threads in the dimensional weave, separating them, allowing more and more holes to appear. When the threads between those holes snapped completely, the individual openings would merge together, forming an ever larger, more destructive gap.


    There were half a dozen such openings here at Woodsedge, individual rifts that allowed the kin to pass from their own corrupted realm into this one. The local slayers were hard at work, fighting the kin as they emerged, patrolling the surroundings to catch any who slipped through the net. Yet more teams would be on the other side, pushing back the tide, hunting the largest and most powerful beasts lest they come to the rift and try to force their way through, opening the way even wider.


    ¡°Ho there, slayers!¡± Tyron called.


    ¡°Ho there, scary as fuck Necromancer!¡± came the reply, causing Tyron to chuckle.


    Adorned in his bone armour and surrounded by undead, he probably did look intimidating.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take this side!¡± he called, pointing to the area he would defend, and the other teams acknowledged him with a wave, shifting their own positions, reducing the area they needed to cover and allowing him his own space.


    For a single individual, he took a lot of space, covering almost a fifth of the circle around the rift by himself, but the others didn¡¯t seem to mind. It made their jobs significantly easier, after all. With the rift itself in front of him, Tyron laid out his troops, putting his mages and archers in good positions to fire, his guard pulled tight around him, and his revenants held in reserve. Yet this time, he put himself further forward than he normally would, his fingers twitching with anticipation as he prepared to unleash his new magicks.


    He didn¡¯t have to wait long, since the flow of kin through the rift was basically constant. Sometimes only a few would come through, five or six over the course of a minute, sometimes there would be dozens. As the monsters crept through, they seemed to hesitate, but only for a moment. Once they realised there was something to kill, something they could corrupt, they charged forward, hissing and clicking, long, bladed limbs cutting into the ground with every step.


    When some began to charge his way, Tyron raised his hands, eyes narrowing as he drew in a sharp breath. Words of power thundered into the air, hammering reality like the blows of a smith¡¯s hammer. His hands flashed from one sigil to the next, so quickly the transitions between them could barely be seen. In moments, his spell was prepared and he let it fly.


    The closest of the kin, a horse-sized, many-legged monstrosity, twitched and stumbled. A moment later, it screeched as its blood burst out of its body. In long streams, it flowed through the air towards Tyron until it reached a metre from his face. At that point, it flowed into a perfect sphere, widening the more blood was drained into it.


    Tyron watched it take shape with interest. The blood of the kin wasn¡¯t like his own. Rather, it was so dark it was barely red, and so thick he knew his own heart couldn¡¯t hope to pump it. He found he could use simple gestures, flicks of his fingers, to shift the blood, preventing it from blocking his view. It was more responsive than he expected, quick enough that he could feasibly move it on reaction if he saw something coming his way. But how durable was it?


    Under his orders, one of his closest guards withdrew their sword and slashed through the blood shield. Much to his chagrin, the blade slid directly through the blood, providing almost no resistance at all.


    Did he not have enough blood? Or was there something else? He needled his own mind, probing the hints and fragments placed there by the Unseen. His eye twitched when he found what he was looking for. He ordered the skeleton to strike again, but this time, his fingers flicked out just so, and the blood hardened, congealing instantly into a solid mass. The blade clanged off as if it had struck a rock, and he felt the draw on his magick as the blood used his strength to ward off the blow.


    His shield wasn¡¯t completely unharmed; a portion of the blood had been sheared off by the blade, turning into a bubbling pool of ichor on the ground. Tyron nodded slowly. Each aspect of the ability made sense. It was quite magick-intensive, but another barrier between him and his foes was more than welcome. With practice, and greater acknowledgement by the Unseen, he would become more efficient with the spell, and increase the amount of protection the shield offered.


    The spell itself hadn¡¯t been enough to kill the kin he had cast it on, but the loss of so much blood had certainly hampered the creature. Once it had regained its balance, the creature had continued its charge against his skeletons, only to fall, punctured by arrows of bone and Death Bolts without reaching the front line.


    It was a promising start.


    When the next wave charged at his portion of the perimeter, he took part in the fighting more directly, hurling Greater Death Bolts from both hands. More concentrated and impactful than the lesser version, Tyron believed he possibly could have created the spell on his own, but acknowledged he would never have devoted the time to do so. As it was, he was pleased to have a superior weapon he could wield from a safe distance, and would soon impart it to his skeletal mages.


    Drawing back his hands, he concentrated, and once again spoke the words of power. Death Magick congealed around him until he released the spell and sent the power undulating through the air, thicker and more potent than before.


    As with the Death¡¯s Grasp, the spell chased down his target, wrapping around it, burning it with death-aligned energy and holding it still. However, this upgraded version of the spell was more robust, more physical. Tyron clenched his fist, and the kin screamed in rage and pain as its shell slowly began to crack under the pressure. Before the spell exhausted its magick, the monster shattered, its guts exploding out over the battlefield.


    ¡°That¡¯s disgusting!¡± one of the slayers from an adjacent team called. ¡°But effective! Keep it up!¡±


    Tyron nodded in reply, surprised at the power of the spell he¡¯d unleashed. Death¡¯s Fist had proven itself to be significantly better than the original version of the spell, and he was pleased with the result. It used a much greater amount of magick, however, which meant it may not be practical to teach it to his skeletons.


    For several hours, he continued to hold his place in the perimeter, practising his new spells on the kin who charged toward his skeletons and directing the battle with his thoughts. When he was satisfied he understood these new abilities well enough, he called out to the surrounding slayers once again.


    ¡°In an hour, I¡¯m going to go through the rift! You¡¯ll need to cover this section for me!¡±


    ¡°By yourself?!¡±


    Tyron swept an arm to the skeletal horde around him.


    ¡°Not really!¡± he called back.

 B4C17 - Nagrythyn

    Tyron and his ¡®honour guard¡¯ were the first to go through the rift. He wasn¡¯t willing to send his skeletons into a fight he couldn¡¯t see and risk losing many of them. Who knew what monstrosity could be awaiting him on the other side?


    After holding his area of the defensive perimeter around the rift, he pushed forward and allowed the other slayer teams to cover the space behind him as he prepared himself to advance. It wouldn¡¯t be the first time he¡¯d crossed over a rift, but it was always a disorienting experience.


    The rifts themselves were¡­ difficult to describe. Rents in space, tears in the dimensional weave connecting two places which should never have touched. They weren¡¯t neat circles through which a person could peer and inspect the other side before they crossed. Instead, a rift was like a hazy, shimmering area without a defined edge. Peering into the centre of the rift before him, Tyron didn¡¯t see a warped view of the landscape on the other side, as if he were staring through a heat haze; instead, he caught fleeting glimpses of things he didn¡¯t truly understand. Light and time and space and magick, all overlaid in strange, twisted patterns that his mind struggled to grasp. People weren¡¯t supposed to see such things, the fundamental nature of the weave, of magick itself, as they interacted in the wrong space before him.


    Almost, he felt as if he could grasp something, but he knew better than to stare too long into a rift. His mother had warned him of the madness that gripped mages who fell into that trap.


    Some things our minds aren¡¯t made to understand, she¡¯d told him. Even if you gained something from the experience, you would be in no state to act upon it, your grasp of reality shattered forever.


    So, filled with resolution, he stepped forward, and once again set his feet upon an alien realm. Physically moving through a rift was wrenching. His guts clenched and his head pounded at the sudden shift, but then he was through, on the other side. He ordered his skeletons forward, and for the rest to pile through behind him, the connection between them still stable through the rift.


    There was too much to take in at once. Crossing was always dangerous, as the kin would gather most thickly around the rifts on this side. While only a few dozen might push through every minute, there could be hundreds here, waiting, circling, trying to push through.


    Despite knowing that several teams were on this side already, the possibility existed he could be jumped by a ravenous horde of monsters the moment he crossed over.


    Fortunately, that wasn¡¯t quite the case. There were dozens of kin still hovering around the rifts on this side. Clearly, one of the teams had swept through not long ago, for there to be so few. At his appearance, the insectile creatures chittered and hissed in rage before they charged toward him. In moments, his troops were under attack, and his hands were moving, weaving magick to ensure he could secure his foothold.


    The shivering curse slammed down, plunging the surroundings into freezing cold. His skeletons were unaffected, their bones untouched by the penetrating chill, but the kin were not so lucky. Many recoiled at its touch, but then plunged forward regardless, too maddened by the magick to resist the urge to fight and kill.


    The tables were flipped in an instant. The cursed kin were heavily affected, severely slowed by the curse, allowing his vanguard of revenants and skeletons to hold them back. All the while, the rest of his troops poured through the rift, setting upon the monsters and shifting the numbers advantage to his side. Soon enough, the kin in the area had been neutralised, and the full force of his undead horde had gathered around him.


    An easier crossing than he¡¯d expected, but he wouldn¡¯t look a gift horse in the mouth. Despite having killed the kin in the area, the danger had not passed. A rift this size would pull kin towards it like iron to a lodestone for hundreds of kilometres around. If he remained here, it was only a matter of time before he was overwhelmed, or something too large for him to handle arrived.


    Just like the other teams who¡¯d come across, he wouldn¡¯t remain here, but move some distance away and intercept the kin as they travelled towards the rift. In this way, he could cut down on the numbers reaching the other side in a safe manner, while gaining experience against the strongest that Nagrythyn could throw at them.


    With his immediate safety secured, Tyron hurried away from the cluster of rifts, his skeletons pulled into a tight formation around him. Only then did he finally allow himself to take in his surroundings, and immediately froze in his tracks.


    Whatever name would be given to the realm connected to Cragwhistle, it was an uninteresting place to look at. In fact, it was almost impossible to see any of it at all, as the entire place seemed gripped in a perpetual winter storm. Snow and sleet fell continuously, with fierce winds whipping up the ice that had fallen to the ground.


    Here, though¡­ he could see very clearly that he was in a different world.


    The sky burned an angry purple overhead. Boiling clouds wreathed with lightning only allowed glimpses of the dark light that struggled to break through. The landscape was¡­ a disaster. Spires of stone punched upwards, as if they were the tips of blades driven through the crust, and they were covered with hexagonal holes that formed a lattice pattern in the rock. Wisps of what appeared to be steam could be seen rising from them, and he struggled to imagine what was going on within, until he saw a pack of crawlers emerge, scuttling out of the holes and making a beeline toward the rift.


    Was it from those strange pillars that the kin emerged? How were they made down there? The exact nature of how kin were created was either not fully known, or a well kept secret, for he himself had never been told, nor found it written anywhere. Perhaps there were monstrous creatures spewing out the corrupted kin like termite queens deep below, or perhaps they were formed purely from magick. He had no idea, and though he would like to know such a secret, he had no intention of learning it now.


    No, what he needed to do was make sure he avoided those pillars at all costs as he headed away from the rift.


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    Altering his course, he led his skeletal army between the pillars, keeping as far from each as he could, but it wasn¡¯t easy. They were everywhere. The vegetation wasn¡¯t very thick close to the warping effect of the rift, but the further he travelled, the more he found blue and purple grasses popping up in thick clumps, along with other tangled bushes.


    It was nerve-wracking, and Tyron had never wished so much to have eyes in the back of his head. From any place around him, kin could spring up at any moment. They could be beneath his feet, separated by only a few metres of soil and stone, and he¡¯d never know. He tried to stay vigilant, to keep his focus as razor sharp as he could, but there was something else pulling at his mind. An insistent voice that prodded and poked him, an itch that he was desperate to scratch.


    The magick. The magick was so dense.


    Only within the Ossuary had he experienced anything like it, but even that could not compare to this. His magickal sense was drenched in power. Every rock, every pebble, every blade of grass vibrated in his senses, rich with energy to the point he felt they themselves would jump up and attack him. If he focused his eyes in just the right way, he was sure he¡¯d be able to see the power moving in great currents in the air, rolling over the land in wide rivers.


    He clenched his teeth.


    Once he allowed himself to look, to truly look, he wouldn¡¯t be able to stop, he could already tell. Until he got somewhere safe, it would be madness to indulge in such a thing.


    As if to prove his point, there was a rumbling to his right, followed by a pack of kin emerging from a pillar, squeezing themselves through the holes to emerge chittering into the open air. When they saw him, Tyron was already issuing orders to his skeletons. Arrows of bone flew through the air as his undead arranged themselves in ranks, his guard drawing tight around him.


    The moment they laid eyes on him, the kin were possessed by the urge to kill that typified their kind. Uttering their eerie, high-pitched screeches, they charged forward, their lithe, many-legged bodies carrying them across the ground at high speed.


    These weren¡¯t the little ankle biters, these creatures were the size of horses. With their bodies held low to the ground, they scuttled at absurd speeds and could slash out with their blade-like arms at jarring angles. He ordered his shield-bearing skeletons to ensure they stayed between the foe and his more vulnerable minions. These creatures could cut through half a dozen legs with one sweep of their arms, putting huge numbers of skeletons out of commission.


    With a sharp impact, one of his minions lowered his shield and caught the first strike well. Digging in its heels, the skeleton drew deep on Tyron¡¯s power to hold itself in place and absorb the blow as the surrounding undead leapt forward to strike with their longswords. Before they could reach, the kin had already scuttled away, chittering madly as it circled, looking for another opening.


    It was frustrating, but he needed to posture defensively against opponents such as these. Not for the first time, he wished he¡¯d had the time to create mounted skeletons. He could use Raise Dead on horse remains now, giving him access to faster, more mobile minions, but learning how to stitch an entirely new type of musculature was a daunting task. He hadn¡¯t even perfected his system for human remains yet! It was clearly too early for horses!


    With his current abilities, there were still things he could do.


    Once again, his hands flickered as he spoke the words of power. This time, he was aware enough to sense what was happening as he cast. His words caused the dense magick around him to almost visibly ripple, the arcane energy bending reality to his will in a way that manifested to the naked eye.


    He could almost feel the sigils take shape around his hands, his fingers trailing through the power in the air.


    When he unleashed the shivering curse, it burst out over a wider area than even he had expected. He¡¯d juiced the spell, needing it to cover his entire force and a little beyond to slow the monsters as they approached, but working with such dense magick had pushed the spell even further.


    Slightly intoxicated by the feeling, he began to weave another spell, shaping the magick, pushing the power he contained within himself out into the rich air of Nagrythyn.


    Shortly after, the blades of his skeletons became wreathed in dark energy as the Death Blades spell took effect. With both spells in play, his skeletons would be much more effective against their much faster and better armoured opponents.


    Empowered by his magick, the undead fought back against the kin. The moment the creatures entered the freezing field, they struggled to deal with the cold, recoiling, or rapidly slowing down. His minions pounced, plunging their blades deep into the monsters when they got the chance.


    Before Tyron could get too lost in the feeling of casting in this environment, another disturbance shook him from his reverie. Behind him this time, another spire began to resonate with the scritching-scratching sound. Soon enough, another pack emerged, hissing and chittering.


    The Necromancer cursed beneath his breath and made the mental adjustments necessary to shift his formation to accommodate this new threat. With more kin joining the fight, he suddenly felt his position was much more precarious. All the spires around him loomed much taller as he began to fear more kin emerging on all sides, surrounding him and his undead. There was no way to know how many there were, waiting to emerge, he could be a dead man already and simply not know it.


    ¡°Damn,¡± he muttered to himself, waking up to how dangerous of a position he¡¯d suddenly found himself in.


    With a mental command, he ordered his reserve skeletons to step forward and place down their burdens. Another thought, and the cauldrons were activated. Dense black smoke billowed upward and rolled over the field, blanketing his entire force in moments. His minions began to pull in the Death Magick contained in the cloud, replenishing their reserves and charging the arrays contained within each of them. Concealed in the darkness, his minions fought harder than before, empowered by the cauldrons.


    Tyron himself wove magick again, this time around his eyes. In the moment, he was most concerned about the unseen kin still lurking in the spires around him, or just below the ground. Kin contained potent concentrations of magick because of the cores within them. If he used the spell which allowed him to see that energy more clearly, perhaps he could catch a glimpse of just how many monsters were in the vicinity.


    Except, he¡¯d miscalculated. Although the spell filtered out the Death Magick, it still made him more sensitive to the rest of the ambient arcane energy around him, and there was a lot.


    The torrential flow of power around Tyron seized his awareness, sweeping him up and blinding him to all else. There were no skeletons, no kin; he couldn¡¯t see a thing except the vast, sweeping currents of magick all around him, in the sky, across the ground, beneath his feet.


    It was everywhere.


    As he stared, he felt something tickle at the edge of his mind. Something about the movement, the pattern, the way it interacted with itself. The way it flowed, winding around itself, spoke to him on some level, and the more he looked, the more he felt there was something he was missing, something he felt he should know.


    Meanwhile, more kin began to creep out of the spires, drawn to the surface by the disturbance.

 B4C18 - The Sight of Magic

    Tyron slumped against the wall of the ravine, gasping for breath.


    Holy fuck. That¡¯d been close!


    He raised a hand to brush the sweat from his eyes, only to find it shaking slightly. It wasn¡¯t surprising. For a moment there, he¡¯d truly felt that he would never see his home realm again.


    Once again, he checked his minions, looked through the eyes of his watching ghosts, just to ensure that he was secure. When he¡¯d confirmed there were no kin in the nearby vicinity, he finally allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.


    It had been a mistake to test his new eye-magick here in the rift. If he¡¯d been cognizant of how vulnerable it would make him to the ambient energy, he would never have used it and orchestrated the fight through the eyes of his undead, who were unaffected by the darkness. As it was, he¡¯d been lost in his reverie for far too long, leaving his minions to battle with their own primitive instincts as more kin had joined the battlefield.


    When the large beast had emerged, breaking up through the ground in an eruption of dirt and stone, the tremors had finally been enough to shock him out of his stupor. If he¡¯d come back to himself even a moment later, all may have been lost.


    The large monster had stunned him. It was as large as a merchant''s carriage, or perhaps a small house. Covered in thick, chitinous plates and propelled by twelve legs, each as thick as a man, it loomed large over his skeletons. With short, scythe-like forearms, it had reared back and cut down four of his undead in one slice. If left alone, it would likely have decimated his horde in a matter of minutes.


    As it was, he¡¯d lost more of his precious minions than he¡¯d wanted to. He groaned and leaned his head back against the rock. This rent in the ground created a good bit of cover. From the outside, it looked like a hill that had been cut in half by some monstrous creature, or mighty slayer, and perhaps that was exactly what it was.


    With a set of warding stones sitting at either entrance and all of his physically bodied undead pulled within the ravine, he was as hidden and protected as he could be in this realm.


    There were still spires nearby, but not as many, thankfully. They clustered most densely in the area around the rift before thinning out a bit further away.


    That massive beast¡­


    It had a name, he remembered that much, but couldn¡¯t quite recall what it was. A monster the local slayers ran into every now and again, it was one of the largest kin that could fit through the rift at Woodsedge, outside of a break.


    To bring it down as quickly as he could, Tyron had unleashed his full offensive array against it in a flurry of magick that had strained even his dexterity.


    He¡¯d used Blood Shield on it to rip away its ichor. He¡¯d used Sap Life to drain its vitality. Death¡¯s Fists and Greater Death Bolts had rained down on it as fast as he could cast them. Recklessly, he¡¯d rushed to be closer to the creature and began to cast Bone Lance, the hardened spears of bone extending from before his hand to pierce the creature in its side.


    He¡¯d been desperate to cast Suppress Mind, to hold the monstrous kin still, but it had resisted the spell somehow, his magick unable to latch onto its mind. Perhaps if he¡¯d been able to meet its eye, the spell would have taken hold, which was another reason he¡¯d rushed to close the distance, but the monster was so alien he couldn¡¯t tell if it even had eyes.


    With the aid of his spells and revenants, the kin had been brought down, but not before fifteen of his undead had been unmade.


    With more kin emerging from the spires, Tyron had realised it had been a mistake to stand and fight in such a location. What had followed was an extended, running battle over ten kilometres as he tried to shepherd his minions to safety while holding off the swarming kin at the same time.


    Now that it was over, he realised just how lucky he was to escape when he had. If another of those massive kin had emerged¡­ killing it would have taken too long, locking him in place perhaps long enough for kin to swarm out and surround him.


    Tyron shook his head. Despite all his preparation, he¡¯d still underestimated this place. A Necromancer he might be, a supremely talented mage he might be, but this was a realm that only full teams of silver slayers were allowed to enter. This was where Dove and his team had been pushing to level up and reach gold rank. That kin he¡¯d encountered wasn¡¯t even the largest and most deadly creature that could be found here, not by a long shot.


    Hopefully those monstrosities were still thin on the ground after such a large number of them had pushed through the rift during the break.


    In spite of all his advancements, he couldn¡¯t run around doing whatever he liked here. He had to be cautious, be smart, tackle challenges that were within his capabilities, mitigate his losses and maximise his gains.


    Already, he¡¯d lost more skeletons here than he had in all the time he spent beyond the rift at Cragwhistle. Luckily, he still had materials stashed away within the Ossuary. With some time, he could replace his losses, even grow his forces if he wanted to.


    This was the perfect environment for him to grow. The kin here were more powerful and more plentiful than what he could fight in the frozen wasteland at Cragwhistle. His time here would surely be rewarded by the Unseen, but only if he pushed himself to the limit.


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    With a sigh, he shook out his hands and arms before he pushed himself to his feet. An early setback, but it wasn¡¯t too bad, considering the worst-case scenario. He hadn¡¯t lost anything he couldn¡¯t replace, and he¡¯d secured a temporary refuge in the meantime.


    After adjusting his bone armour, he walked to one end of the ravine to check on the warding stones he¡¯d placed there. When he¡¯d first seen Dove¡¯s stones, he hadn¡¯t really understood how they worked, but these ones he¡¯d created himself. They were, effectively, a tool which enabled slayers to use a simplified ritual to shield themselves from the kin. Given that they drew in ambient magick to power themselves, they could be set and left alone, for weeks at a time if need be. By suppressing the magickal disturbance caused by all living things, it enabled slayers to hide from kin, even if they came quite close.


    The first set was reasonably placed, but not quite perfectly. Tyron adjusted them minutely then stood back to examine the warding again. Much better. Then he repeated the process at the other side. Clearly, he¡¯d been flustered when he put them down the first time, to make such blunders.


    Any kin approaching the ravine wouldn¡¯t have any sense he was here until they were right on top of him. Speaking of on top¡­


    He glanced upward. The ravine was perhaps a little shy of fifty metres deep, the sides so smooth it was clear this space hadn¡¯t formed naturally. Perhaps his father had cut this hill? It was possible. The thought warmed him slightly, even as he wryly dismissed it as a fancy of his imagination. Slicing a hill in half was certainly within the realm of the possible for the century slayer, the man who¡¯d killed a hundred kin with a single swing of his blade.


    If any kin were to approach from above, he had no way of preventing them from detecting him. There wasn¡¯t anything he could do about that for now. Without enough warding stones to line both sides of the entire ravine, there would always be a gap up there. If something happened, he¡¯d have to deal with it at the time. He was totally unwilling to find a cave or hole in the ground to use as his camp, considering that was where all the kin were coming from. Hiding below ground may as well have been a death sentence.


    With his security as robust as it was going to get in the short term, Tyron moved on to the next thing he needed to do. A little food and water, drawing on the supplies he¡¯d brought along, courtesy of his pack skeletons, hit the spot nicely. He needed to keep his energy up here; there could be no more slip-ups.


    After examining the ravine more closely, he chose a relatively flat spot where he could establish a small camp and ordered his skeletons to clear it. Of course, there were undead posted at both sides of the gash, and a strong guard around him at all times, just in case, but there were still enough spare minions for the menial labour.


    The absurdity of watching skeletons carrying rocks and setting up his tent had long worn off for Tyron, and he barely spared the undead a glance as they went about their tasks. Instead, his attention was elsewhere. With muttered words and flickered gestures, he cast the magick which would enhance his vision, enabling him to see the flow of power of this world.


    The moment the spell was completed, he found himself in the centre of a howling wind. For a moment he spun on the spot, disoriented, then realised just what he was seeing.


    Magick was flowing through the ravine, and incredibly quickly at that. In his own realm, the ambient magick was so weak, this spell wouldn¡¯t allow a mage to see it at all. He¡¯d used it as Dove had, to study the remnants of energy left behind by other mages, or to study areas and objects with concentrated power within, such as the rifts themselves.


    Here, in Nagrythyn, it was like¡­ like he¡¯d been beneath the ocean all along, but only now could he see the water.


    Perhaps the magick in his own realm was far from being enough to lead to the creation of local kin? Was the fall of his own world much further away than he¡¯d supposed?


    If that was so¡­ then why was the situation there so desperate? The Venerable had given him a glimpse of just how much had been lost to the rifts during his lifetime. Empires, kingdoms, all gone, consumed by the kin, to the point the people no longer remembered the name of their own realm.


    Only the Empire remained, with its five provinces, and the small satellite peoples along its borders, like the Dust Folk in the southern desert. It was possible other pockets of resistance remained, cut off from the Empire by wide swathes of lost territory, but it seemed unlikely.


    The Dark Ones, the three gods, were born of the realm at the time of its creation, so if anyone could see the whole thing, they could, and they seemed focused on the Empire. If he really wanted to, he could ask them if there were any other holdouts, but he doubted he could trust them to answer honestly.


    So why? Why was the damage so complete? Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer, or at least part of it.


    The slayers were the men and women of the Empire who Awakened combat classes and then trained to fight against the rifts. They were brave, effective, well-trained and dedicated to the mission of saving their homeland¡­ for the most part. But at every turn, they were hobbled and foiled by the Magisters. Branded, in order to control and limit their power. Cursed, to be unable to turn their abilities upon non-kin, and thus incapable of fighting back against their controllers.


    Tyron knew that the Magisters weren¡¯t to blame, they were simply the hand of something greater, themselves leashed by the Noble houses. And who controlled the Noble Houses?


    There was an intricate web of power and politics that bound the houses together, all leading back to the line of the Emperor in the central province. However, Tyron wasn¡¯t blind to the true authority in the Empire. The Five Divines spoke through their chosen mediums, and the Houses had no choice but to answer. Their power was based on the divine authority to rule granted to them by their gods. All the five would have to do is take away their blessing, preventing the heirs of the noble houses from inheriting their privileged Classes through the awakening stones. The Empire would crumble in a single generation.


    So¡­ did it somehow benefit or serve the Five Divines to have the realm fall so quickly into a perilous state? What did they hope to gain from it, with their own worshippers bearing the brunt of the suffering?


    He shook his head. That was a question for another time. With the magick still enhancing his eyes, he studied the vast flow of power around him.


    To cast a spell, mages drew out the arcane energy contained within themselves and gave it shape via the words of power and sigils formed with the hands. Yet that alone wasn¡¯t enough to power a spell. As Tyron himself had done, it was sometimes necessary to draw in or shape the magick in the area. It was a difficult skill that required a mage to impose their will upon the world around them in order to cast the most powerful spells.


    Watching the magick streaming past him, Tyron sat, his back pressed into the rock, and spoke a word of power.


    With keen interest, he watched as it blossomed into the dense energy around him, shaping it, moulding it ever so slightly to a new shape.


    Again, he spoke, and again, he watched.


    Then again.


    And again.


    So passed his first night in the realm of Nagrythyn.

 B4C19 - Surprising Faces

    He snatched a few hours of sleep, but only after thoroughly searching the surroundings with his ghosts. The ravine was still relatively close to the rift, and therefore still highly active. Packs of kin roamed past regularly, on their way to the broken land to try and push through to his home realm. Luckily, very few wanted to pass through the ravine he had settled in, and those that did were handled by his undead without making too much noise.


    When he awoke, blinking, for a moment, he was disoriented as he stared up at the purple clouds roiling overhead.


    Oh right, this really is another world.


    With that realisation came a sense of urgency, the need to be doing something, achieving his aims, but he slowed himself down. In a place as dangerous as this, he needed to be at his best at all times. As he drank and ate, his mind inevitably turned to the experiments he had conducted the night before. The words of power had acted¡­ so visibly in this realm. It was as if he could see his spell taking shape, whereas before, he could only feel it, in a vague sense. Perhaps nothing would come of such playing around, but he felt as though he were on the verge of grasping something meaningful.


    After refreshing himself, Tyron once again studied the landscape through the eyes of his ghosts. Even here, they appeared to be invisible to the kin, though he didn¡¯t eliminate the possibility that something out there might be able to sense them, perhaps even destroy them. For now, they made ideal sentries, and though their vision was poor, it was enough for him to feel safe stepping out of the ravine.


    Once again, he was exposed to the elements here on Nagrythyn, and he found it surprisingly pleasant. Compared to the frozen wasteland which was his only other experience beyond a rift, this was a paradise. The temperature was warm, and the winds were high, but the lack of snow and ice were welcome. Of course, the powerful kin lurking right beneath his feet put something of a dampener on his enjoyment.


    Ranks of skeletons formed around the Necromancer as he drew his minions into a tight formation. There had been losses yesterday, and though he could absorb losses, too many too soon would force him to return before he was ready, before he had achieved what he wanted to. He would have to fight intelligently, conserving his troops and ensuring he utilised every possible advantage to tilt the odds in his favour.


    Clad once more in his armour of bone, Tyron strode forward, leaving behind only a small guard to protect the campsite.


    He didn¡¯t want to go too far, the spires were far more common the closer to the rift he travelled, and he didn¡¯t want a repeat of the day before. So instead, he found an area where he could intercept most of the kin bypassing the ravine, as well as pick off those who emerged from the dozen or so spires he could see within a kilometre.


    Being where he was, it didn¡¯t take long to encounter his first kin. In fact, he hadn¡¯t even reached the spot he¡¯d decided was a likely hunting ground before a pack of roaming monsters spotted him and rushed forward, eager to tear him apart.


    Although there weren¡¯t many of them, only four of the ¡®regular¡¯ sized kin, Tyron went on the offensive, using his magick to devastating effect against the monsters.


    Blood shield inflicted damage and offered him an extra layer of protection, then he rained down Greater Death Bolts, Bone Spears and Death¡¯s Grasp. The kin were pummeled by his rapid-fire spells, allowing his undead to step forward and finish them off without difficulty.


    It wasn¡¯t the most efficient way for him to hunt. He wouldn¡¯t gain levels for fighting on his own, only his minions fighting for him would grant him experience from the Unseen, but he couldn¡¯t afford to allow even the smallest fight to extend unnecessarily. The feeling of getting bogged down and surrounded still haunted him, and Tyron was not keen to repeat the experience.


    Once he established his little hunting ground, things went a lot smoother. Kin would emerge from the spires nearby and attack the moment they spotted him¡ªsitting upon a small rise as he was, he was hard to miss. At regular intervals, packs travelling toward the rift would come close enough to spot him, and similarly would charge in a blind rage.


    The kin of Nagrythyn were terrifying creatures. The bulk of those he saw were large, horse-sized monsters, hunched over and scuttling about on sharp, insect legs. Some were swift, incredibly so, with scythe-like blade arms that could sweep through unprepared skeletons like they were made of paper, where others were heavier and slower, use their powerful jaws to snap at his undead, or trample them to the ground with sheer bulk.


    Swarms of the smaller ankle-biters were also fairly common, requiring his skeletons to spear them on the ground before they chomped through their shins. It was the mixed groups that caused him the most trouble. Swarms of little biters, arriving alongside groups of either kind of larger kin, or both. On those occasions, he had to unleash the full force of his magick, using curses and offensive spells to weaken the monsters and strengthen his undead. Fortunately, he was yet to see anything larger, like he had the day before.


    Except at one point¡­ where he had felt a tremor through the ground beneath his feet. At first, he¡¯d thought it might be caused by something below, and had been carefully considering getting the heck off the little rise, but then he¡¯d seen something in the distance.


    The light was dim on Nagrythyn, with the sky blocked by the perpetual storm, so he could only just make it out in the distance, but what he saw had been terrifying.


    Perhaps as tall as the wall around Woodsedge, the beast looked like a moving hill. Propelled on legs as thick as trees, it slowly heaved itself forward, heading toward the rift.


    As he¡¯d tracked the slow march of the creature, Tyron could only stare, eyes wide as he witnessed the passage of the kind of monster his parents had regularly been called on to fight. Indeed, judging by the size of it, that had been exactly the sort of monster which had knocked through the walls around Woodedge and bulldozed a path through the buildings inside. Multiple of them had come through the rift during the break, and now another was heading that way. Normally, they couldn¡¯t get through¡­ but that was before. Now? Perhaps it was possible¡­.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    But there wasn¡¯t anything he could do about it at the moment. He wasn¡¯t strong enough to fight something like that. Not yet.


    So he settled back down and returned his attention to the field around him. For the next few hours, Tyron maintained his vigil and the undead fought. Several times, he was forced to use the cauldrons, blanketing the area with dark fog in order to overwhelm the kin, and his skeletons were pressed many times.


    Learning to juggle commanding the undead and casting was perhaps the greatest challenge he faced. His undead possessed extremely simple minds, and when they weren¡¯t being directed by him personally, they acted in predictable ways, which left them open to getting overwhelmed or cut down. So he couldn¡¯t stop paying attention to the minions and focus solely on casting, but if he wasn¡¯t casting spells, then that also left his skeletons under threat.


    It revealed a troubling weakness that Tyron would need to overcome if he wanted to achieve the scale of undead horde that he wanted. If he were managing a thousand skeletons, or ten thousand, he couldn¡¯t afford to be directing all of them himself. Even if he focused all of his attention to the task, he still wouldn¡¯t be able to manage it, and couldn¡¯t cast any supporting magick at all.


    It was something he considered as the day continued to go by, filled with nigh-constant fighting.


    When he was starting to contemplate returning to the ravine for the day, he heard something unexpected, a human voice, calling out to him.


    ¡°Ho the slayer!¡±


    Tyron pricked up his ears and began to look around, not seeing anyone nearby.


    ¡°Ho the slayer!¡± he called back.


    He knew there were other teams here in Nagrythyn, but he hadn¡¯t really expected to run into one. Tyron continued to look around, but he didn¡¯t see anyone coming forward.


    ¡°Just to be sure,¡± the hidden voice called out again, ¡°you aren¡¯t a crazy illegal who¡¯s looking to murder us, are you?¡±


    ¡°No to the last part,¡± Tyron replied, cupping his hands around his mouth to help his voice carry further. ¡°But I am definitely crazy, and possess an illegal Class. What was the first clue?¡±


    ¡°The undead horde was a bit of a giveaway,¡± a man said wryly as he stepped out from behind a rocky outcrop.


    He was much closer than Tyron had thought he was. Perhaps he¡¯d used some trick to cast his voice? Or a skill?


    ¡°You¡¯re a scout?¡±


    ¡°Guilty,¡± the man replied with a smile that never touched his eyes. ¡°My team has been tracking a rather large beastie that seems to be heading toward the rift. I¡¯m going to assume you saw it.¡±


    Tyron grimaced.


    ¡°I did,¡± he replied, then pointed. ¡°I spotted it over there, heading that way.¡±


    The scout turned to look where he was indicating then nodded. ¡°You¡¯re lucky it wasn¡¯t any closer. Not sure how well your troops would have held up against it.¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Tyron replied honestly, then considered for a moment before he sighed. ¡°Look, I have a camp nearby, well supplied and sheltered. Obviously, it¡¯s not easy to trust the guy covered in human bones, but I¡¯m here to kill kin, the same as you, and if you need rest, I can provide it.¡±


    He wouldn¡¯t blame them for turning him down. Necromancers needed strong remains to grow their power, and a team of slayers beyond the rift¡­ If they went missing, who could possibly say what happened to them? He could slaughter them and reanimate their bones with no one being the wiser.


    As expected, the scout appeared somewhat leery of the suggestion.


    ¡°Well¡­ I won¡¯t say we don¡¯t need a rest¡­ but I think I¡¯d better consult with the team before agreeing to something like this.¡±


    Tyron could only shrug.


    ¡°I understand. If you need supplies, I have fresh water and food that I can bring back here and hand over in open ground.¡±


    That suggestion brightened up the scout¡¯s expression.


    ¡°Well, I think I can agree to that directly. Thanks very much. I¡¯ll be back in¡­ an hour with the rest of my team. Is that reasonable?¡±


    Tyron nodded. He could hold out for that long. In a blink, the scout was gone, vanishing before Tyron could even acknowledge that he¡¯d moved.


    Scouts. A combination of speed and stealth was frankly terrifying to contemplate. When he thought of what incredible feats the trained assassins of the empire might be capable of, because he was certain they must exist, he began to wonder if he might have to live under a permanent cloud of cauldron smoke, just so they couldn¡¯t see him.


    He sent a pack of twenty skeletons along with two of his revenants back to camp to retrieve supplies as he continued to maintain his position, thinning out the kin and practising his abilities.


    After a full day of fighting, he felt he was starting to get a handle on his new offensive spells. He could cast them with greater speed and precision, but his aim still needed a bit of work.


    It took thirty minutes for his minions to return with the supplies, but as the scout had said, Tyron didn¡¯t see the slayers arrive until just after the full hour had passed.


    There were six of them, and clearly they¡¯d been out in the rift for some time. Bedraggled and weary, each of them carried minor wounds and scrapes to show for their extended stay in the field.


    The scout raised a hand as they approached, and Tyron waved back. With a small group of skeletons around him, as well as some carrying the packs, he stepped forward and stopped twenty metres away.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got some food, water and basic medical supplies here. Bandages, poultices, nothing fancy,¡± he said, sending his skeletons forward to place the bags on the ground.


    He¡¯d brought more than he needed, and this sort of thing was expected beyond the rifts. His parents had told him many times of the camaraderie and shared mission of slayer teams battling in the harshest conditions in other realms. Tyron didn¡¯t expect to make any friends out here, but he would do his part to help others keep back the kin without complaint.


    ¡°Thank you, slayer,¡± the scout acknowledged, sounding genuinely grateful. ¡°My team appreciates it.¡±


    There was a chorus of muttered agreement as the rest of the team eyed the skeletons warily. Then one of them landed their gaze on Tyron himself.


    ¡°Wait¡­ Lukas. Is that you?¡±


    Tyron¡¯s head swivelled on his shoulders as he turned to stare at the young man who¡¯d spoken out. For a brief moment, he even wondered what face he was wearing, but he knew he didn¡¯t have a glamour up at the moment, so they should be seeing his normal appearance.


    ¡°Uh¡­ that¡¯s not my real name, but I have gone by Lukas. Can I ask who¡¯s speaking?¡±


    The young man stepped forward and planted his spear in the ground, spreading his hands so Tyron could see him more clearly. Something tickled at his memory, and the Necromancer gaped.


    ¡°Wait¡­ are you Rell?¡±


    The young man grinned.


    ¡°The very same.¡±

 B4C20 - Progress

    Richard ran a critical eye over his zombie. He wasn¡¯t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he knew his teacher had extremely high standards and was careful to iron out every flaw he could find in all that he did, so Richard aspired to do the same.


    The problem was¡­ he wasn¡¯t exactly sure what he was looking for.


    ¡°It looks like a zombie,¡± Georg said flatly. ¡°Why are you looking at it as if it were a cow you were thinking of taking to show?¡±


    The clerk¡¯s son frowned.


    ¡°What do you mean, ¡®take a cow to show¡¯? Show who?¡±


    Georg rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Richard, you aren¡¯t so city you¡¯ve never heard of a harvest festival.¡±


    ¡°Of course I have.¡±


    Briss also looked confused, so after looking back and forth between the two of them, Georg slumped his broad shoulders and shook his head.


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe this. Farmers hold contests at harvest festivals to see who has the best crops and animals. Some take it very seriously and breed their cattle for generations to try to get the best ones to rear and take to show. Richard was looking over his zombie as if it were a prized heifer.¡±


    The farmhand almost seemed embarrassed having to explain something so basic and rural, but the others merely nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been to a harvest festival before, but I only saw the veggies on display. I saw a pumpkin so big I could have used it as a table!¡±


    Briss giggled.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have to take your word for it, country boys. I¡¯ve never seen anything like that.¡±


    ¡°Getting back to the matter at hand,¡± Richard said, turning back to his minion. ¡°I was trying to see if there was anything wrong with this zombie. I¡¯m not sure if there¡¯s anything to see, though¡­¡±


    ¡°I fixed it up about as well as I know how,¡± Georg said, then looked down at the book of anatomy he¡¯d been studying, a gift from their teacher. ¡°I still don¡¯t understand half of this. I had no idea a person had so many muscles.¡±


    The others weren¡¯t sympathetic. They¡¯d been tasked with memorising the bones of the body as well as the muscles and ligaments. To create a proper skeleton, they would need to create their own musculature, after all.


    After looking over the undead a few more times, Richard eventually turned away with a sigh. There didn¡¯t seem to be much point staring at it any longer. Tyron could probably tell him a dozen flaws with a glance, but Richard just didn¡¯t know what he was looking for.


    ¡°You need to be more positive, Richard!¡± Briss tried to encourage him. ¡°You were able to cast the Raise Dead ritual! That¡¯s a massive step forward from where you were before.¡±


    ¡°This is only the basic version,¡± Richard downplayed his achievement, refusing to allow himself to celebrate. ¡°The full ritual is ten times as complicated. This is only the beginning.¡±


    ¡°Give up, Briss,¡± Georg said, head back down in his book. ¡°He¡¯s made up his mind to never feel good about anything he achieves ever. Leave him to it.¡±


    Briss rolled her eyes.


    ¡°He¡¯s the first of us to manage a successful cast; even Timothy was impressed at how quickly he managed to learn.¡±


    ¡°I think Mage Timothy was just looking down on us,¡± Georg said. ¡°He didn¡¯t appear to be all that pleased to be helping us.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s just busy,¡± Richard defended the gold slayer, though not really knowing why. ¡°Doing a favour for Tyron is probably low on his list of priorities.¡±


    After all, to the gold ranked slayers in charge of organising the rebellion here at Woodsedge, their teacher was not some major figure. In fact, the only reason he received the attention he did was due to his family name and not any merit he possessed himself.


    ¡°How are you finding the repair flesh spell, Georg?¡± Richard asked, turning his attention away from his unmoving zombie. ¡°Have you managed to level it up yet?¡±


    The large farmhand looked up from the medical text in front of him, a frustrated expression on his face.


    ¡°It¡¯s slow. No, I haven¡¯t levelled it. I need more¡­¡± Georg considered his words for a moment, then decided to lean into it, ¡°... bodies to work with.¡±


    Both Briss and Richard grimaced at his choice of words. His two fellow students had shown reluctance to engage with the more grisly realities of their Class, and he was growing tired of watching them dance around the subject.


    ¡°The spell is called Flesh Mending,¡± he told Richard, ¡°it fixes the meat on a dead person. I know we have some carcasses to work with, but I haven¡¯t gone around working on all of them behind your backs.¡±


    Richard looked a little green.


    ¡°Is it really necessary¡­¡± he started, but Georg cut him off.


    ¡°Yes. It is.¡± He pointed a finger at the motionless zombie in the room with them. ¡°Look at that. You remember that was a person at some point, right?¡±


    ¡°Of course I remember,¡± Richard said.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you keep it in your head enough,¡± Georg stated flatly. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if you¡¯re going to handle what¡¯s coming next.¡±


    Briss cleared her throat.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to be so hard on him, Georg. This isn¡¯t easy to get used to. Just because we became Necromancers doesn¡¯t mean we suddenly become comfortable working with dead people.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going to ¡®work with them¡¯. You¡¯re going to butcher them with your own two hands, like stripping meat from an animal. Do you have any idea how much blood is in a living creature? How much offal and sinew? I¡¯ve been elbow deep in cow guts, and that¡¯s bad enough, but doing it to a human? That¡¯s a whole new level.¡±


    Richard shifted on his feet, uncomfortable with the conversation, but Briss fell silent, her expression more sad than anything else.


    ¡°I know about all this. We all know about this. I felt we would be able to work on it gradually. Get used to it bit by bit. I hardly think Tyron would expect us to be¡­ removing waste from a corpse immediately.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± Georg asked, his voice tinged with humour.


    If anything, he felt it was more likely their teacher would demand exactly that, as opposed to handling them with kid gloves and taking them through the process in carefully managed stages. He could tell Richard had the same thought, as he imagined Tyron standing before them, holding out a knife and wondering why they were wasting time.


    ¡°You two both need to step up,¡± Georg told them. ¡°I¡¯m here working on what I need to improve my zombies. I¡¯ve gotten hands on with two of the corpses already, repairing them as best I can, and I¡¯m figuring out the Raise Dead ritual bit by bit.¡±


    His progress was slower than the other two, but he felt it wouldn¡¯t be long until he too could cast the simple version Tyron had written for them. Once he¡¯d mastered that, he could start learning the expanded list of words and gestures needed for the real thing.


    ¡°You two are both faster at learning magick than I am, but you haven¡¯t started preparing for your first skeleton.¡±


    He pointed a finger toward the cool room where the dead bodies Tyron had left them were stored.


    ¡°When are you planning to butcher and start working on your skeleton muscles?¡±


    Briss sighed and walked over to where Georg was sitting, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.


    ¡°All right,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯ve made your point. Come on, Richard.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Richard said. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we wait for Tyron to return, so he can teach us how to do this?¡±


    ¡°He already showed us the basics of getting a skeleton up and moving. I know you have the same reference sheets that I do. Grab a knife and let¡¯s do this.¡±


    She looked a little green, but clearly she was determined to go through with it. With hard eyes, she stared at Richard, overriding his spluttered complaints with her steely gaze.


    ¡°Georg is pushing us to move faster because he understands what¡¯s going to happen to us if we don¡¯t learn. We¡¯ll die, Richard. If we can¡¯t protect ourselves, we are going to fucking die. The magisters, the priests, the soldiers, maybe even slayers, they are going to come here, and they are going to fucking kill us. We can¡¯t afford to wait for Tyron. Who knows how long it¡¯s going to be until he gets back? We need to start figuring this out ourselves.¡±


    Richard listened to her speak, more words than they usually got out of the mousy girl in a day, with more anger than they usually got in a week. When she was done, he hung his head for a brief moment, then nodded.


    ¡°Alright,¡± he said. ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s¡­ let¡¯s do this. Come on, Georg, you¡¯re coming too.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what?¡± the former farmhand said, looking up in confusion. ¡°You need me to hold your hand?¡±


    ¡°In a sense, yes,¡± Richard said firmly. ¡°I¡¯ve never butchered anything, and neither has Briss. Who¡¯s going to teach us so we don¡¯t cut our own fingers off?¡±


    Although he didn¡¯t like it, Richard had a point. After thinking about it for a second, Georg pushed himself up to his feet with a sigh.


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll help you, but only for the first one. I¡¯m behind the two of you on casting. I need to practise.¡±


    With varying levels of reluctance, the three students approached the cool store, sharp knives in hand.


    Over the next two hours, each of them had run out in order to empty their stomachs, though Georg had only had to do so once. By the end, Richard had been on his hands and knees, dry heaving into the grass. When they were done, the three students emerged from the storeroom, blood up to their elbows and spattered over their clothes. Each of the three was pale, though the former farmhand had fared much better than the others in this respect as well.


    Richard was again, by far, the worst. White as fresh linen and trembling, he had struggled throughout the entire process, though he persisted to the end.


    ¡°I think¡­¡± he muttered, ¡°I think¡­ I¡¯m going to wash up.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll go after you,¡± Briss said softly as she stared into the distance.


    Georg chuckled as he looked down at himself.


    ¡°That was worse than I thought it was going to be,¡± he admitted. ¡°The smell¡­¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Richard said, holding up a hand, ¡°stop talking.¡±


    ¡°I was just going to say the smell I could deal with.¡±


    Richard turned resolutely away and began to walk toward the outside path.


    ¡°But the eyes,¡± Georg groaned. ¡°I didn¡¯t know they could pop like that.¡±


    Richard immediately heaved, clutching at his stomach as his guts spasmed in pain.


    ¡°You¡­ prick,¡± he managed to get out before staggering away, trying to control himself.


    ¡°That was evil,¡± she said.


    Georg scratched the back of his head, then remembered the state of his hands and grimaced.


    ¡°You¡¯re right, I¡¯ll tell him I¡¯m sorry when he gets back.¡±


    Briss nodded before she looked down at herself. For a moment, he thought she might run off to be sick again, but she only sighed and looked up at the sky.


    ¡°That was awful,¡± she admitted. ¡°I absolutely hated it. But I¡¯m glad you made us do it. Thanks for pushing us, Georg.¡±


    He shrugged a little awkwardly.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. You two are going to be much better than I am at this, you just need to¡­ be more serious about it.¡±


    Briss shook her head in silent disagreement.


    ¡°You have a much better temperament than us. You¡¯ve taken the most difficult aspects of Necromancy in stride. I feel like your attitude toward life and death is much more closely aligned to where it should be for this kind of work. I envy that about you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothin¡¯ special,¡± he said. ¡°When you grow up on a cattle farm, things are dying all the time. You get used to it.¡±


    She looked straight at him then, and for a moment, he felt as if she were looking through him.


    ¡°Richard and I will get used to it,¡± she corrected him. ¡°We¡¯ve never been around death, not like this, but we will get accustomed to it. You, on the other hand, you never had to get used to it, this is what life has always been like for you. It might not seem like much of a difference, but I think it¡¯s profound. The more we grow, the more I think you¡¯ll see.¡±


    He still didn¡¯t think it was that big of a deal, but he didn¡¯t have a way to articulate well what he thought on the matter, so he only shrugged again.


    ¡°Richard will be done soon. You go next and wash up.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    She left, and not long after, Richard returned, looking much better for having a chance to wash himself down.


    ¡°Get the taste of sick out of your mouth?¡± Georg asked him.


    Richard grimaced.


    ¡°Barely.¡±


    He was still shirtless and dripping from the well water he¡¯d used to clean himself. He wandered over to his pack and pulled out something clean to wear and pulled it on to stop himself from shivering.


    Georg stuck a thumb behind him.


    ¡°Richard¡­ when are you going to let that poor zombie die?¡±


    ¡°Oh shit!¡±

 B4C21 - Unlikely Reunion

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you survived all this time. You¡¯ve lived quite an interesting life, Rell.¡±


    The young man, still as stone-faced as he ever was, merely quirked up one corner of his mouth and smirked.


    ¡°I find it a little difficult to take that from you, Tyron Steelarm. To think I was standing next to slayer royalty on Victory Road.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me that.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t deny it. Look at how this lot changed their tune when they found out what your name was.¡±


    The Necromancer looked back at the rest of Rell¡¯s team, following behind the two of them, far more trusting now that they knew who he was. It had come out in bits and pieces after he¡¯d recognised the former rat, who¡¯d known him by ¡®Lukas.¡¯


    ¡°Feels like a lifetime ago we were sitting on the side of that road. Rats trying to get picked by slayer teams heading out to the rifts,¡± Tyron reflected. ¡°Cilla was there as well. I hadn¡¯t thought about her in a long time.¡±


    ¡°Cilla¡­¡± Rell shook his head. ¡°She was the only other rat I¡¯d seen with potential. I always wondered what happened to her. I assume she died on the rift, or during the break.¡±


    ¡°She¡­ she died. I found her and the rest of her team in the woods around the rift.¡±


    An unpleasant memory. The scene of the battle, the dead kin scattered around, a full team of fallen slayers, and their young, aspiring rat, torn apart.


    Rell breathed out.


    ¡°That¡¯s a shame. She was a bright spark surrounded by withered shadows in those days.¡±


    He grimaced and gestured with his head toward the skeletons around them.


    ¡°Is she¡­?¡±


    Tyron frowned, then realised what he meant.


    ¡°Oh. No. No, she isn¡¯t. I buried her.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t been able to bring himself to do it. The reason he¡¯d gone into those woods in the first place was exactly for that purpose, to hunt down the remains of fallen slayers so he could turn them into skeletons. In his head, he¡¯d imagined finding bodies weeks or more old, mostly rotted, even just skeletons with scraps of flesh clinging to them. Faced with the prospect of butchering a young woman he¡¯d known when she was alive, he¡¯d crumbled and thrown up everything in his stomach before burying her.


    If he found her today¡­ it would be different, a thought he didn¡¯t linger on for long.


    ¡°Sorry I asked,¡± Rell said. ¡°I understand, you need to make the most of your Class, and it isn¡¯t as though you asked to be a Necromancer. I don¡¯t begrudge you having to utilise the remains of the dead.¡±


    Tyron eyed the man next to him with a critical eye. When he¡¯d first met Rell, they¡¯d spent four days side by side on Victory Road, eating dust as slayer teams marched past, never so much as meeting their eye. It was only on the fourth day he¡¯d been picked up by Dove¡¯s team, though the Summoner hadn¡¯t been with them. At the time, Rell had been a simply dressed, serious and oddly disciplined young man. Where everyone else had sat, he¡¯d stood to attention, showing his grit and determination in the hopes it would help get picked.


    Obviously, it had worked. He¡¯d already been out and come back alive when Tyron had first met him, and now he was here.


    ¡°I hope you don¡¯t mind if I ask you a few questions,¡± he said.


    ¡°Ask away,¡± Rell nodded.


    Tyron considered for a moment.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t branded, are you?¡±


    Rell snorted and shook his head.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m not, Gods forbid.¡±


    ¡°So that means you¡¯re prepared¡­ to be part of a revolution?¡±


    He didn¡¯t answer for a time, measuring his words.


    ¡°When your parents¡­ Magnin and Beory died¡­ let¡¯s say that tempers were high. Many slayers threw down their weapons and pledged to make the magisters pay the same day they found out. I also wasn¡¯t happy with how your family had been treated, and nobody bought their lies about it for a moment, but more than that, I also have reasons to see things change in this realm.¡±


    ¡°Then you know what my next question is going to be.¡±


    ¡°I suppose so,¡± Rell sighed.


    ¡°Class and level?¡± Tyron grinned.


    ¡°It¡¯s rude to ask people their level,¡± Rell frowned, but a slight smile gave the game away. He¡¯d given Tyron this warning once before, many years ago. ¡°You might be surprised at how closely our paths aligned in those early days. I was also on the run, though not quite as hunted as you.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s brow went up.


    ¡°I find that quite surprising. Now I¡¯m even more curious.¡±


    ¡°Bard,¡± Rell replied shortly. ¡°I Awakened as a bard.¡±


    There was silence between them for a minute.


    ¡°Not going to run away?¡± Rell asked.


    ¡°What? No, I¡¯m just surprised,¡± Tyron replied honestly, then his thoughts caught up. ¡°Oh, the mental influence. It shouldn¡¯t work on me, I¡¯ve placed several layers of protection around my mind.¡±


    He¡¯d be foolish not to, considering everything he¡¯d been through.


    A bard, of all things. That was truly unexpected. It made Rell¡¯s story all the more remarkable. It was a minor miracle he¡¯d even made it to Woodsedge to start a new life as a rat. Combined with the added miracle of his surviving the break, his story was truly something remarkable.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t much favour living a life of luxury?¡± Tyron asked.


    Rell shot him a disgusted look and Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°Slayers have to reach gold before they get that kind of treatment. It isn¡¯t as if people who yearn for that treatment don¡¯t exist.¡±


    ¡°No thank you,¡± Rell said curtly. ¡°The thought of living my life with a chain around my neck didn¡¯t appeal. So I did the same thing I imagine you did, I ran.¡±


    ¡°And this team is fine with it? They don¡¯t mind having you around?¡±


    ¡°They trust me,¡± Rell said, grim-faced. ¡°I do everything I can to suppress my influence and focus my efforts on my sub-classes.¡±


    ¡°You could just give it up, relinquish the Bard Class.¡±


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    ¡°I¡¯ve thought about it. Many times. The stats are good, and it can be surprisingly easy to level. Some of the abilities are handy for a slayer to have. Even so, I would have thrown it away a long time ago, but the group persuaded me to keep it.¡±


    Tyron turned back to speak to the others.


    ¡°See that hill there? The one split in half? That¡¯s where my camp is.¡±


    ¡°Is it clear?¡± the scout asked him.


    Tyron concentrated for a moment.


    ¡°It is for the moment. Kin do try to run through it, but most go around. I¡¯ve got skeletons in position to kill the ones who get through the wards.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s pick up the pace, then. A little rest is just what we need.¡±


    Shortly after, the group stepped into the ravine, and just like that, there was a barrier between them and the danger of Nagrythyn. A paper-thin barrier, and some undead, but a barrier nonetheless. It was interesting to watch the change come over the group, the release of tension, the slight easing in their posture. A little of their wariness bled out of them and Tyron could only imagine how draining it was to be out in the field for so long.


    Slayers could spend weeks at a time beyond the rifts, though it wasn¡¯t recommended. Even Rell relaxed a little, though his iron self control didn¡¯t slip much.


    At least now Tyron knew why he kept himself on such a short leash.


    ¡°I¡¯ll try to keep the skeletons out of your way,¡± he told his guests, ¡°but keep in mind I¡¯m not controlling them directly all the time. They won¡¯t bother you; just step to the side if you see one walking towards you.¡±


    He gestured toward the middle of the ravine.


    ¡°My camp is there. Feel free to set yourselves up wherever you please, there¡¯s no pressure to join me. This side is much safer than the other, so I¡¯d recommend resting here.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll do that, then,¡± the scout nodded, grateful, yet still keeping his guard up.


    Tyron had no issue with that. Trusting a Necromancer you just met seemed like a quick way to get yourself murdered. He waved a hand to the group and left to head towards his own tent, leaving them to their business. To his surprise, after a moment''s hesitation, Rell followed him.


    Once he reached his modest camp, Tyron sat, his back against the wall of the ravine, pulled an apple from his pack, and waited until Rell, despite exhibiting some reluctance, sat alongside him.


    ¡°Hard to imagine Magnin and Beory¡¯s son turning out to be a Necromancer.¡±


    ¡°Imagine how I felt.¡±


    It was interesting talking to Rell. This was someone he¡¯d first met before everything had reached the point of no return. There wasn¡¯t anything remarkable about the time they¡¯d spent together, just idle conversation while waiting in the beating sun. Yet he felt as if a strange thread connected the two of them. To think they had both landed in Woodsedge under such similar circumstances, and now found themselves fighting on the same side.


    ¡°When my parents died, right in front of me, they told me why, and how, and who was responsible. Explained everything, so I didn¡¯t have to live my life guessing. They wanted me to live out a peaceful life, had made arrangements for me. I could hide from the magisters, take up a false identity, be protected by their friends, and just¡­ live out my days.¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°I refused. I refused then, and I refuse now. My mother and father didn¡¯t deserve to die that way, after everything they¡¯d done. They were heroes. I¡¯m going to kill every single person responsible, burn it all down to the ground. It won¡¯t stop when the western province falls. Once that happens, it only accelerates. The other provinces get involved, the emperor gets involved. Everything becomes harder at that point, but I won¡¯t stop then. I won¡¯t stop until it¡¯s all gone.¡±


    ¡°If you do that, a lot of people are going to suffer. Not just the ones you want to hurt, but everyone else. The people without a choice.¡±


    Tyron turned his head and looked Rell dead in the eye.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care,¡± he said, simply, and held up the red fruit in his hand. ¡°If the empire is an apple and the people are its flesh, I¡¯ll cut through as much as I have to until I get to the core. Nothing else matters to me.¡±


    He raised his hand and took a bite. The skin crunched under the force of his teeth, releasing juice which ran down his chin.


    ¡°And you have to do the same,¡± he said, while chewing. ¡°There¡¯s no other way out for you. Either you die, or you keep surviving until the empire no longer exists.¡±


    His companion sat in silence for a time, absorbing this, until he nodded.


    ¡°I know,¡± he said quietly, ¡°I¡¯ve always known that, but I suppose I¡¯ve never really believed it was possible. I wanted to live out my dream, to be helpful, and useful. I wanted to contribute, and save this realm from the kin. When it seemed as though the Awakening had stripped that chance from me, I was devastated.¡±


    ¡°Bards are helpful.¡±


    ¡°I refuse to live in chains, singing to distract the people from their plight.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to sing,¡± Tyron said. ¡°Some bards only talk.¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡±


    The Necromancer continued to eat, chewing thoughtfully as he considered what might happen next.


    ¡°How many others are there, like you?¡±


    ¡°Bards?¡±


    ¡°No. I mean unbranded slayers. People getting trained up to fight.¡±


    ¡°A few dozen. Why?¡±


    Tyron pulled a face.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to need a hell of a lot more than that.¡±


    ¡°There are more. There¡¯s others being trained in almost every keep in the province.¡±


    ¡°And how do you know that?¡±


    ¡°Slayers talk. They¡¯ve been networking for years, though not in an organised way.¡±


    ¡°And what are you going to do?¡± Tyron said directly. ¡°As an unbranded Bard, you¡¯re pretty much as illegal as I am. What¡¯s your plan?¡±


    Rell¡¯s face hardened.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to keep doing what I¡¯m doing. I¡¯m fighting, getting strong, killing kin. I¡¯ve got two sub-classes dedicated to fighting now, Marksman and Field Scout.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve already advanced them?¡± Tyron asked, surprised.


    ¡°I¡¯ve worked hard.¡±


    ¡°Have you figured out a third sub-class yet?¡±


    Rell eyed him.


    ¡°Not yet,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°It should be charisma-based.¡±


    This wasn¡¯t what Rell wanted to hear, but Tyron continued to speak before he could say anything.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got two agility-based Classes. Sure, you can shoot some arrows, throw some daggers, make yourself useful in the field, but you¡¯ll never be as good as someone who Awakened to a primary fighting Class. You already know that.


    ¡°But that¡¯s fine. You can fight, you can help, good. But taking another combat sub-class isn¡¯t going to make that much of a difference. You¡¯ll go from a mediocre slayer, to a reasonable one, after you manage to advance it. Instead, you need to lean into your strength and pick something that enhances the benefits of your primary Class.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to be a bard.¡±


    The words were spoken calmly, but there was a tightness to Rell that spoke to how distasteful he found the very idea. Tyron couldn¡¯t blame him. Bards were equally as feared as they were respected. Men and women with such magnetic charisma it bordered on mind control. For the safety of the people, they were escorted everywhere they went, considered a necessary evil. A song or story from a normal person was only that, but from the mouth of an experienced bard? A song could entrance an entire village, transport them from this dangerous world to another time and place. A story could shift their hearts in their chests, lift their spirits and fill them with pride of purpose, putting farmers out into fields with determination burning in their spirit.


    They could even quiet the flames of outrage in a gold ranked slayer, restless and angry about being locked up.


    Slayers weren¡¯t the only ones who lived in the birdcage.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you should be a bard,¡± Tyron said, ¡°I think you should be a weapon.¡±


    He pointed a finger at Rell.


    ¡°Get your main Class to gold rank, and you¡¯ll be the most effective member in the entire rebellion. Even more than me.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. How many skeletons can you support?¡±


    Tyron thought for a moment.


    ¡°Possibly a thousand.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a one man army. How is a bard supposed to match up to that?¡±


    ¡°Because you can talk your way into a fortress and walk out with the key. Because you could turn enemies into allies with just a few words. Because the magisters will certainly use people like you against us, and we need someone on our side who can counter that influence.¡±


    ¡°You want me to do that? Go around warping minds with just a few words, twisting people into something they weren¡¯t before? It¡¯s disgusting.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a lot of sympathy, Rell. You know what I have to do when I get a dead body? I butcher it. I cut the skin, muscle and tendons away with my own hands. Then and only then can I make them into a skeleton. Clearly, you don¡¯t like bards and what they can do. You probably have some experience in your life regarding them. Get over it. This is a war.¡±


    Rell turned his eyes on him, cold, with a low burning rage in them.


    ¡°You want me to convince people to work with us? Fine. Help me and my team, right here and now. We¡¯ve been tracking that massive kin for days, and if it isn¡¯t brought down, there¡¯s a chance it breaks through and wrecks Woodsedge all over again. Even if it doesn¡¯t¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll widen the rift again,¡± Tyron nodded, then sighed. ¡°I had a feeling it might come to this.¡±


    He stood and tossed the remains of his apple onto the ground.


    ¡°Better go and talk to the rest of the team, then.¡±

 B4C22 - The Bigger They Are

    ¡°Shame you can¡¯t raise it as a minion.¡±


    ¡°For whatever reason, the Unseen doesn¡¯t want me to raise anything other than humans. I¡¯m not sure why.¡±


    ¡°Seems like a bit of a waste.¡±


    ¡°Well, I can do horses as well.¡±


    ¡°Horses?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Horses.¡±


    ¡°Why horses? There aren¡¯t that many of them around.¡±


    ¡°Not on this side of the rift, at least.¡±


    ¡°True.¡±


    BOOM.


    In the distance, the giant kin put down another leg, and the ground rumbled with the force of the impact. It was almost unbelievable to think something so large, something so dense, could even move under its own power.


    Staring at the beast, Tyron could feel the immense amount of magick radiating off of it, enough to disturb the tempestuous winds of power that ran across the entire realm.


    ¡°Remember, I get the core,¡± Tyron said.


    Banner, the scout of the slayer team Burning Blade, rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, you get the core. I don¡¯t care about what happens after we kill it, so long as it¡¯s dead. What are you even going to do with the thing? Sell it?¡±


    ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t care.¡±


    ¡°Call me curious.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a trained Arcanist. I¡¯m going to use it to make something.¡±


    ¡°I thought you were a Necromancer.¡±


    ¡°Enchanter sub-class.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    Curiosity sated, Banner turned his attention back to the enormous kin. It wasn¡¯t moving quickly; perhaps something that large couldn¡¯t. Every now and again, it would pause, as if resting, or listening. It was eerie to see the thing, standing totally still while smaller kin ran past, sometimes directly under it, heading toward the rift.


    A number of these beasts had already punched through during the break, but if they started coming through outside of such dire events? Woodsedge would need many more, higher level slayers to fight them off. All the while, each and every one of these creatures that made it through would tear the rift that little bit wider.


    Which meant teams like Burning Blade had to come through and intercept them, every time.


    ¡°Are you sure about their weakness?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s the intelligence we have. If it''s wrong, then we won''t live long enough to complain to anyone back at the keep. You know what we call these things?¡±


    ¡°Ten-legged man eaters?¡±


    ¡°We might be slayers but we¡¯re a little more creative than that.¡±


    ¡°Slayer squashers.¡±


    ¡°Your naming sense is worse than mine. We call them rift smashers.¡±


    ¡°I think my names were better.¡±


    ¡°Not remotely. All right, I¡¯ll leave you here. Good luck managing the troops, try not to get yourself killed.¡±


    Tyron shot him a cold look.


    ¡°I¡¯m at far less risk than you and your team. Worry about yourself.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a deal.¡±


    So saying, Banner was gone, vanished like smoke as he crept his way back to the rest of his team, scattered around the intercept spot. Once he was alone, Tyron drew in a deep breath. He wasn¡¯t nervous for himself; he would be protected and able to fight from a distance. His concern was for the slayers, and for his precious undead.


    The kin was huge. With a single sweep of a leg, it could crush dozens of skeletons. If things went poorly, he could lose a hundred minions in a matter of moments. Such a loss would set him back weeks¡ªtime he couldn¡¯t afford to lose.


    Yet, he also didn¡¯t want to see Woodsedge lose one of their most promising teams at this early stage.


    Keen to avoid being detected, he hunched down lower into the vegetation, over twenty skeletons flattened into the ground alongside him. This close to the rift, there were many spires and a steady stream of kin moving toward the way between realms, so it was inevitable that some would be drawn into their battle against the giant monster, but getting sniffed out before they engaged the beast would be worse by far.


    Again, the massive kin began to walk forward, each ponderous step sending tremors deep into the ground. Looking at it move, he once again doubted that his skeletons, or a team of slayers, could do anything to harm it.


    Something like this was for gold ranks and higher. For Magnin and Beory, but here he was, hoping to kill one.


    Well, hoping to help kill one. He wasn¡¯t going to be the star of this show.


    BOOM.


    Another shuddering step, and a soft whistle carried over the air.


    The signal.


    Tyron hastily crawled forward, lifting himself out of the vegetation to get a better view as he ordered his packs of skeletons to act. Archers rose from hiding positions along the right flank of the beast, as did his skeletal mages. The undead silently took aim and fired, unleashing their barrage against the monster.


    Arrows forged of bone, death bolts, even the occasional death¡¯s hand, flew towards the monster, only for the majority of them to clatter harmlessly off the creature¡¯s shell. A small number actually found their mark. Tyron wished he could improve his minions¡¯ aim, but at least some of them managed to find the gaps in the kin¡¯s armour and sink into the soft flesh beneath.


    Not that they would be enough to do serious damage. It would only be enough to¡ª


    BOOM!


    ¡ªmake it angry.


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    The beast turned towards his undead horde, and towards him. For the first time, Tyron was given an unobstructed view of its face. It was dreadful. Huge, wide jaws that detached from its face lay under its beady eyes, so many he couldn¡¯t count them in the moment. Two smaller limbs protruded either side of its low hanging head, each longer than he was tall, tipped with sharp barbs which could likely skewer him to the ground with a single stab.


    To think his own parents, even his uncle, would regularly fight barn-sized monstrosities like this. It was absurd. Would any number of skeletons even make a difference against something like this?


    There are already plans in place for stronger undead. Focus!


    Tyron threw his distracting thoughts to the side and concentrated on the scene in front of him. As soon as the kin began to approach, he raised his body from the ground and began to cast. With his hands, words and sheer force of will, he began to bend reality, adding his own spells to those of his minions.


    The Shivering Curse sprang into existence, a wide zone between his own position and the kin. The creatures of Nagrythyn seemed poorly adapted to the cold, and even a kin this size may be slowed down by it.


    As soon as he finished one cast, he flowed smoothly into the next. Soon, the black aura of death magick began to glow around the weapons of his minions, and Tyron directed them forward to attack.


    Not many, though. He wasn¡¯t supposed to do most of the work, only to distract, which suited him just fine. Limiting the number of minions at risk was exactly what he wanted.


    Enraged by the needling attacks, the massive kin advanced steadily, moving faster than it had before. Much faster. He¡¯d been told it was more nimble than it appeared, but seeing it was another thing entirely. Obviously, if it was always as slow as before, it would hardly be a threat, but seeing it gather momentum as it charged toward him caused his heart to seize briefly in his chest.


    He expelled a breath and calmed himself, raising both hands once more to cast. This time, his two hands moved independently, each flicking from one sigil to the next in a flurry almost too fast for the human eye as he spoke the words of power with incredible speed.


    Double casting, slipping the words of one incantation into the gaps in another while forming two sets of sigils, one with each hand.


    The signature technique of his mother, a Battle Mage so accomplished at flinging out deadly elemental magick so quickly in the midst of battle that she became renowned for it across the province. Each hand performed half a sigil at a time, and normally those halfs would combine to form a whole, but not when double casting. Each hand needed to complete the sigil it had half-constructed, which meant he needed both hands to leap to the next form before the magick lost its shape. It wasn¡¯t twice as much work as normal casting, but four times.


    When it was done, he thrust his hands forward, unleashing both spells at the same time.


    Double Death¡¯s Fist.


    Dual clouds of formless, black magick streamed forward, twisting through the air toward the oncoming beast until they clashed against its left foreleg.


    Tyron clenched both his hands as the spells took form, clutching around a single joint, the crushing pressure trying to pull in different directions.


    Against the mighty creature¡¯s immense strength, Tyron felt as though even his strongest spells were like spitting into the wind, yet he was surprised to see the kin stumble, even if only slightly. Seemingly uncertain as to what had caused the problem, the monster turned its head slightly, which was when the slayers ran forward to strike.


    Powerful offensive magick burst from the cover they¡¯d been hidden in before they emerged. Banner was there, moving like the wind with a bared blade before he leapt and hackdown, aiming for the same joint Tyron had targeted.


    Rell was there also, bow at the ready, loosing arrows with a slow, deliberate pace, taking careful aim for each shot.


    The kin screeched in rage and continued to turn to deal with this new threat. Its legs stabbed down into the ground sharply, trying to flatten any slayer who drew too close. Everyone was careful not to move near the monster¡¯s face lest they fall victim to the deadly, sharp-tipped limbs flanking its head.


    Tyron lowered his hands and turned his mind back to his troops. His mages and archers continued to fire at the kin, hoping to land hits on its more vulnerable areas, but he pulled back his other minions in preparation for the next obstacle.


    They were already emerging, poking their heads out of the spires around the battlefield, clacking and scratching as they sought the source of the disturbance. With the massive kin slamming into the ground and screeching, every monster within a kilometre was certain to hear the battle taking place, and they would definitely come to investigate.


    The moment they laid eyes on the conflict, the kin became enraged, pulling themselves through the holes in the spires before skittering toward the fight.


    With a mental command, Tyron directed his minions to circle the field as best they could. He couldn¡¯t completely envelop it without spreading his undead too thin, but he could manage a little over half.


    The first of the reinforcing kin slammed into his lines and Tyron flinched as some of his skeletons were cut down before they could get into position. Every loss ate at him, but if things worked out well, it would be worth the price.


    With rapidly spoken words, he shaped his power and flung out Greater Death Bolts one at a time, knocking down some of the kin and giving his undead the time they needed. Soon, the ranks were properly formed, with shield-bearing skeletons in front and protecting the flanks of each group.


    Of course, Tyron ensured he had defenders, but he was still more exposed than he would have liked. The moment a kin came within range, he cast Blood Shield in order to gain another layer of protection.


    He¡¯d suggested using his domination abilities against the larger kin to the members of Burning Blade, but they had seemed convinced it would be resistant to any attempt at manipulation. Instead, they wanted to rely on the tried and true method used by the slayers at Woodsedge for many, many years.


    It was now Tyron¡¯s job to keep the surrounding kin off them so they could pull it off.


    In only a few minutes, the battlefield had become a scene of chaos. Everywhere Tyron looked, something was happening. His skeletons were engaged on multiple fronts, battling in squads with their backs to the enormous monster, who Tyron barely had time to think about.


    He still had mages and archers firing at it, but more and more, he was forced to pull those undead away to help relieve his melee skeletons as they became more pressed. He felt as though his brain were physically heating up as he flicked from one conflict to the next, issuing commands so quickly he didn¡¯t have time to consider or reflect on any of them.


    Trying to manage so many fights at the same time left him barely any time to cast magick, though he still slipped in the occasional spell.


    That skeleton needs to lower its shield! Those ones need to change their position to receive that charge! Those kin could be flanked by his sword wielders over there! Do it!


    Fuck! More kin have run into that fight! Ghosts can move over to help, archers can fire to support in the meantime. The ranks didn¡¯t reform fast enough to react to that charge and a kin got through! It¡¯s going to turn and cut down the shield skeletons from behind!


    Revenants, clean up the mess!


    ¡°Dammit.¡±


    With another command, he ordered his reserve skeletons to move forward, lower their cauldrons, and activate them.


    He hadn¡¯t wanted it to come to this. They were an immensely useful tool for empowering his undead, but they would effectively surround the main battle with impenetrable smoke. If any kin broke through his lines to attack the slayers, they would have no way of seeing it coming.


    It was necessary. If he hadn¡¯t done so, they would have broken through anyway, which was the one thing the slayers had feared most. Fighting the enormous kin was incredibly dangerous. Fighting while holding off hordes of swarming monsters trying to stab you in the back? Impossible.


    As the many fronts his skeletons were engaged in stabilised under the effect of the death magick¨Crich smoke, Tyron spared a glance for the massive kin.


    It was struggling, bleeding from many cuts and wounds that team Burning Blade had inflicted. As stated, they¡¯d aimed for the joints in its legs, hindering its mobility. With its incredible size and weight, the kin was starting to be unable to support itself on such injured limbs. It hissed and screamed with rage, but the slayers moved desperately to avoid giving it a chance to strike back as they continued to apply pressure.


    It wouldn¡¯t be long until they brought it down; all Tyron had to do was focus on his role.


    Convinced the slayers had the beast in hand, he pulled the remaining archers and mages away and had them support his desperately battling skeletons. Fallen kin were everywhere, but so were damaged or destroyed skeletons.


    Once more, he raised his hands to lend his magick to their aid. Though he wasn¡¯t too familiar with it yet, he cast Blessing of Bone upon his undead. A complicated spell that drew a great deal of his energy, but as the magick flowed out of him and into his undead, he could see just how effective it was.


    Empowered by the additional magick, his undead moved faster, reacted quicker, as if everything had slowed down around them. Tyron checked on his reserves, and discovered that he was doing surprisingly well. With the cauldrons in play, his skeletons were being empowered by the death magick they absorbed through the conduits he had built into all of them.


    A smile came unbidden to his face. It was working. His minions were so much more efficient, despite all of them fighting, drawing deeply on the magick they needed to function.


    It was working.


    He brought up his hands and once more began to mould a pair of Death¡¯s Fists.


    They were going to win.

 B4C23 - Thoughts Turning

    ¡°Is your man going to make it?¡±


    Rell stiffened and Banner glared at him sourly.


    ¡°If I said he wasn¡¯t, what would you say?¡±


    Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°Waste not, want not. I wouldn¡¯t take his spirit or anything, but the remains would be useless to everyone except me, right?¡±


    The scout looked as though he wanted to get angry, but was simply too exhausted. Ultimately, he settled on a disgruntled ¡°fuck¡± and spat to the side.


    ¡°I suppose I can¡¯t judge a Necromancer the same way I would anyone else. Sylan is going to make it, probably.¡±


    Considering how he¡¯d been wounded, it was a minor miracle and a testament to just how durable a slayer could become as they gained levels. When he¡¯d seen the man skewered straight through the gut, he was sure he was finished.


    ¡°He¡¯s a lucky man,¡± Tyron observed. ¡°I wish him all the best with his recovery.¡±


    Banner turned away from the remains of the rift-killer to stare towards the rift itself, not that far distant.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have to take him through for healing as soon as we can. Are you able to hold things here for a little while?¡±


    Tyron gestured toward the skeletons still hard at work digging into the remains of the giant kin. Forget about butchering, it looked more like mining. They¡¯d dug so deep into the monster with their blades, cutting away huge chunks of flesh, it looked more like they were tunnelling than anything else.


    ¡°I won¡¯t be going anywhere until I secure the core, so I may as well hold this side of the rift for you as well.¡±


    It had been a difficult battle, with several members of Burning Blade suffering wounds, though only one was dire. The longer the fight had drawn out, the more unstable the kin had become, almost pulling itself apart in its frantic thrashing.


    This was the weakness of such massive kin, apparently. They couldn¡¯t properly hold up under their own immense strength for long periods of time. Eventually, the slayers had worn it down, driven it to desperation, and it had begun to injure itself faster than they could with their blades.


    It wasn¡¯t pretty, but it was a reliable method for silver slayers to take on something they probably shouldn¡¯t.


    In its panic and desperation, the monster had gone into a frenzy, moving faster and more recklessly. At that point, it had managed to knock down one slayer, turn to face him and then skewer him with its forward-facing prongs.


    His armour had crumpled like paper, the spike punching straight through it, and his body, coming clean out the other side.


    Rell stepped forward and extended his hand, which Tyron took.


    ¡°Thanks for helping the team,¡± the young man said. ¡°We might not have been able to make it if not for you.¡±


    ¡°Have a good rest at Woodsedge, and get back into the field. You¡¯ve got a lot of levelling to do.¡±


    Of course, he wasn¡¯t referring to his slayer skills, which Rell immediately picked up on, and nodded.


    ¡°I won¡¯t forget,¡± he said, reluctance clear on his face, but he wouldn¡¯t go back on his word.


    Team Burning Blade departed a few minutes later, waving their goodbyes and moving warily toward the rift. Tyron held up his end of the bargain, spreading his undead wide to cover their approach while a small group of undead continued to hunt for the core.


    It took two hours to finally find it, buried deep in the centre of the creature. His undead were covered in gore and absolutely reeked, emerging from inside the kin like some sort of horrific undead-birth, one carrying a gem gripped tight in both its skeletal hands.


    When he saw it, Tyron was taken aback. The core itself was massive, almost the size of his head, but it was also surprisingly well formed. With great care, he turned it over in his hands, inspecting it from all angles. It would need to be properly cleaned before he could ascertain its true value, but he may have just gotten extremely lucky.


    Not wanting to be drawn in while still exposed in the open air, Tyron carefully stowed the gem in his pack and began to organise his undead. It took hours to fight his way back to camp, hounded by kin every step of the way. It was difficult, and he lost more skeletons in the battle. By the time he finally managed to safely cross his wards, he left a pile of almost two dozen dead kin at the entrance to the ravine.


    ¡°Fucking fuck,¡± he cursed, collapsing outside his tent.


    Doing everything himself was proving to be immensely draining. With a swift gesture, he allowed his bone armour to detach from his clothing. The hardened and reinforced plates of bone fell to the ground before being collected by a nearby skeleton and placed in storage.


    Seated on the ground, Tyron reached a hand for his pack, pulling out some food and his canteen. As he ate and drank, he turned his mind to the events of the day. Fighting so many kin, holding his own in the rift, without support things had gone as well as expected. The fight against the rift-killer had been unexpected, but not unwelcome, as things had gone. The fight had given him valuable experience, a rare core, and greater insight into what he was lacking.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    The larger his horde grew, the more attention Tyron needed to spend managing his individual skeletons. He¡¯d made many modifications to their simple, artificial consciousness, and his minions were leagues ahead of what the generic Raise Dead ritual would produce in terms of the actions they would take, but it still wasn¡¯t enough.


    No matter how well he polished their responses, they lacked the critical thinking skills only a fully developed consciousness possessed. Creating something with that level of complexity from scratch¡­ was probably impossible, even for him.


    Oh, with years of research, he could probably get somewhere close, but didn¡¯t have time for that. Things were rapidly coming to a head, and he needed to progress in so many areas. Conducting all of this research from scratch was simply taking too much time, he couldn¡¯t hope to advance in every area, developing entirely new branches of magick on the fly, and grow fast enough to take part in the coming conflict.


    That meant¡­ it was time to start taking some shortcuts.


    After all, there was no need to create a human consciousness from scratch when he could take ready-made souls. All he needed to do was give that soul the ability to command his skeletons the same way he did, then he could create his own ready-made skeleton commanders.


    Of course, the method to performing that particular trick would have to be spun from whole cloth, just like everything else he¡¯d had to do. Then there was the question of wights. The next step in skeleton evolution, so to speak, even stronger than a revenant, capable of more.


    He refused to sit and wait until the Unseen saw fit to give him access to the method. He would seek it out himself, and create something even greater than what it was willing to give.


    The longer the project was delayed, the more he could feel the burning hunger inside him grow. His mind and spirit craved that moment of breakthrough, that instant in which he felt the magick fall into place all around him and the Unseen itself was forced to bow.


    In the back of his mind, he had been teasing at the problem for weeks, but there was still a long way to go.


    His simple meal completed, Tyron looked to the left and right. It was dark here, within the ravine. The sun was weak overhead, obscured by near-permanent clouds, but here, with tall ridges looming on both sides, it was almost like a perpetual nighttime. To his left stood the majority of his skeletons, defending the entrance through which the kin entered.


    Their reserves of magick had nearly been exhausted by the time they¡¯d managed to return, but now they would be recharging, absorbing ambient energy and converting it into the death-aligned magick they needed. The proximity of so many undead only accelerated the recovery as they passed Death Magick between each other. The cauldrons had also been expended in the fighting. They too would need time to recharge before the well of power stored within had been fully restored.


    Perhaps in a day, everything would be back to full capacity.


    In the meantime¡­


    Tyron stood and tried to shake off his lethargy. He wasn¡¯t that physically tired, and his mental fatigue hadn¡¯t nearly approached his limit. Considering he was here beyond the rift, he may as well get to work. Even if he couldn¡¯t fight, this was a valuable opportunity. There were no distractions here to take away his focus. No students, or priestesses, or vampires, or gods, or abyssals, or even store attendants to distract him from his work.


    The more he pondered it, the more he realised what a rare opportunity this was. The magick was so thick here he could practically taste it, howling down the middle of the ravine in a silent and invisible torrent. What might he be able to learn working in such an environment?


    Suddenly he felt rejuvenated, a tingling excitement building in the back of his head. He eagerly shook his hands out, as if preparing to cast a spell, but having no idea what it was going to be.


    Slow down. Focus.


    That¡¯s right. It wouldn¡¯t do to waste such an opportunity. This moment had great potential, potential that would be wasted if he didn¡¯t go about things in a logical manner.


    The first thing¡­


    Tyron returned to his leather travel satchel and withdrew the core he¡¯d retrieved. It rested heavily in the palm of his hand, glittering with a dark light that seemed to be reflected from deep within.


    With a little water and a cloth, he was able to remove most of the grime and take a good look at it.


    Cores came in many grades, each considering two factors: the size, and shape of the core. Generally speaking, the larger the better, though density could also play a factor. Some cores were more concentrated than others, which meant more power with a smaller physical size, a very desirable trait.


    This core probably wasn¡¯t that dense, but on size alone, it would channel a great deal of power. These were the kinds of cores Master Willhem would pay bags of gold to possess. Due to their unwieldy size, such things were generally used in large-scale enchantments that remained in place. Doubtlessly, there were several such cores powering the myriad of defences woven into the Magisters¡¯ tower, for example.


    The other key factor was shape. The closer the core came to forming a perfect sphere, the better it would function. This also had the side benefit of being easier to work with, thanks to their uniform surface, but Tyron had long ceased to care about such things. He often engraved chips, slivers of core formed in the weakest monsters to possess a core at all. The theory went that cores could expand when a kin was created, as well as during its lifetime, but whatever might cause such a change was unknown. As a core grew, it did not do so in a uniform manner, but unevenly. In such a case, a core like the one in his hands would be created. It had been a perfect sphere at some point, but begun to expand. Smooth in some places, jagged in others, it would need a significant amount of work to bring out its full capacity, but done properly, it would channel a powerful amount of magick.


    And he had several ideas.


    As he considered his next steps, Tyron¡¯s eyes slowly began to lose focus as his thoughts began to accelerate.


    Yes¡­ yes he could do a great deal with such a thing. And perhaps he could get more? He knew the method now, and it wasn¡¯t inconceivable that he could pull it off himself. He would need more minions, of course he would, but he had a good number of bones stored away for just such an occasion.


    And of course, if he was going to create new minions, they would have to be the best.. The soldiers and marshalls he had killed at the Ortan estate were still preserved within the Ossuary, along with their captured souls. They would make fine revenants and skeletons. Exceptional ones.


    Not to forget, Filetta still waited. With more undead, he would need more coordination. More control. She would become the first of his awakened undead, a willing commander of his troops.


    All he had to do was figure out how¡­. It was a puzzle, but not one without an answer.


    Tyron was excellent at puzzles.

 B4C24 - Ascendant

    Within the Ossuary, Tyron worked at a feverish pace. The space within the pocket dimension he¡¯d created had seemed absurdly large at one point, but now, he didn¡¯t have enough room for all that he wanted to do.


    The equipment and tubs he had used in his study beneath Almsfield Enchantments had been installed here, as had a desk, comfortable seat and all the materials he would need for ritual casting. In addition, he had installed a glass and pliance to allow him to work on enchantments for his undead.


    Amidst all of this clutter, a slew of paper, notes, open books and piles of misshapen bone were strewn, products of his ongoing labour.


    How long had he been gripped by the frenzy this time? He genuinely didn¡¯t know, and he didn¡¯t allow himself to entertain the thought, lest it distract him.


    In his mind, sigils whorled and spun, combining, shifting, aligning, then breaking apart faster than he could write them down. He considered one angle to the problem, then allowed his mind to run like a river, trickling down into thousands of divergent pathways as he flicked from one combination of runes to another. When none showed promise, he would throw his half-formed work to the side and begin again, attempting to arrive at a solution from a new starting point.


    Exacerbating the problem was the fact he didn¡¯t know exactly what form the solution would take, but as he worked, as he attacked over and over again, he felt as if the thing he was trying to achieve was slowly taking shape.


    Several times, he¡¯d come across a method he¡¯d thought might work, might create the superior undead he was looking for, but each time, his method fell apart as he tried to implement it.


    What did he need to create a wight? It all came down to what he believed a wight was. What he wanted it to be was a commander type undead, one with a limited form of access to the Unseen. In other words, a form of semi-lich. A sentient undead that could continue to grow and gain levels in its new undead race, much like Dove did.


    But Tyron didn¡¯t intend to bleed every time he wanted his minion to check its status, which meant an entirely new method was needed to help his wights commune with the Unseen. He knew how to¡­ for want of a better word¡­ extract the status from a soul, but he needed a new medium which could take that information and act as a conduit between the dead spirit and the Unseen.


    At the same time, he needed to determine a method via which the wight could form a connection with his minions.


    This was infinitely more complex than it seemed. Not only did the connection need to be formed, so his wight could command the dead as he did, there were layers that needed to be considered as well. After all, he couldn¡¯t allow the wights¡¯ connection to override his own. If he ordered his minions, his commands should take precedence. But how to introduce a priority system to a system that existed largely as a form of magickally communicated thought?


    It was the conduit formed between Tyron and his undead that acted as the vehicle for his unspoken directions, and his first thought had been to modify the Raise Dead ritual to change the way this functioned. If he formed a conduit between himself and the wight, then from the wight to the skeletons under its command¡­ he would still be able to command the dead via their ¡®commander,¡¯ and the wight could issue instructions to the dead it was connected to.


    It should work, but this method carried with it a fatal flaw. If the wight were to die, so too would the skeletons under their command. Tyron hadn¡¯t been able to determine a method whereby the conduit would transfer back to him upon the death of the wight.


    Frustrated, he pushed his current sketch away and stood up. His body, toughened by the Unseen, suffered little from these extended periods of work, but his mind was fatigued. Then again, his eyes had achieved a familiar level of sandy irritation, to the point it almost hurt to blink. He¡¯d reached the limit again; it was time to rest.


    He emerged from the Ossuary and back into Nagrythyn. Little had changed in his absence. His minions remained in their places and the camp was undisturbed. To be safe, he took the time to sweep the surroundings with his ghosts, looking through their eyes to see if anything was amiss.


    Thankfully, nothing turned up, so he lay down on his bedroll and cast Sleep, instantly plunging himself into a deep state of rest.


    For some reason, he never felt much better when he awoke. His head still pounded, his thoughts were still sluggish, but he knew his condition would gradually improve over the next few hours. Food and water, some simple stretching, and he already had begun to feel the benefits. Still, his mind buzzed, eager to pick up where he had left off.


    Instead, Tyron forced himself to focus. He wasn¡¯t just here to work, but to gain vital experience by battling against the kin. Gaining levels would grow harder and harder as he progressed, so he knew he still needed to make the most of this opportunity.


    He checked the state of his minions and the cauldrons to ensure they were fully charged. He nodded with satisfaction upon confirming that they were, and began to organise his minions.


    Since the battle against the rift-killer and throwing himself into his studies, he¡¯d gone through this cycle three or four times; he couldn¡¯t quite remember which exactly. When his skeletal host was assembled, Tyron affixed his bone armour and ordered his minions to advance.


    The world of Nagrythyn hadn¡¯t changed in the time he had been here. It was still desolate, chaotic, and filled with a never-ending stream of rift kin, eager to invade and rampage through other worlds. Idly, he wondered if it would be possible to travel this realm and find another rift which connected to an entirely different place. How many alien realms did this one place connect to?


    It was the sort of question only someone like Magnin and Beory could answer. With their immense strength, those two could travel through Nagrythyn, if not in safety, at least with confidence. To hunt down another rift would likely take months, travelling hard every day, an impossible task for regular slayers.


    If Tyron grew strong enough, perhaps he could do it, but it was only an idle fancy. There was no reason to abandon his home¡­. He had business there yet.


    Summoning all his caution, he scanned the landscape for anything unexpected, but found nothing beyond the usual, which was horrifying enough.


    He didn¡¯t dare venture too far from the ravine anymore, not now that he knew there were giant rift-killers potentially on the loose. He was eager to secure more cores, but not before he¡¯d bulked up his forces.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    For three hours, Tyron engaged in relentless battle against the kin, harvesting cores when he could, but mostly fighting to maintain as many of his undead as possible. Many of his skeletons were overdue for maintenance, their bones cracked in places, their threading coming undone in others, but he couldn¡¯t afford the time, not yet.


    When they returned to the ravine, he once again ensured the perimeter remained secure, and the warding stones were functioning correctly, before he reentered the Ossuary and threw himself into his work. With every hour that passed, he crossed off another potential solution, but still he was haunted by the tantalising sensation of the correct method taking shape, just beyond his reach.


    Every time he reached a dead end, he felt as though a single point of light had been shone on the true form of the wight.


    Again, he shoved the page in front of him away, almost spilling his bottle of ink in the process. He reached out and placed the cap on it once more. Were he to lose his precious supply, he¡¯d probably end up having to write in his own blood because he wasn¡¯t going to stop until he achieved the breakthrough he sought.


    Frustration bubbled up, but he forced it down as he stood and began to pace back and forth. There was still something he was missing¡­ a technique or method that would provide the medium he sought.


    Something that would bring all the disparate, functional pieces in his mind together into a single, cohesive whole.


    Was it form? Or density? Or a combination of both? How could he test it? His idle thoughts on the matter of density caused his mind to turn to Nagrythyn. Out there, the magick was so thick it behaved in different ways. Just speaking the words of power had enabled him to see their effect with his own, unenhanced eyes. Perhaps¡­ he wasn¡¯t thinking about this the right way. He was trying to be clever, trying to find neat roads toward the solution. Perhaps it was time he attempted to use a battering ram.


    Suddenly inspired, he burst out of the Ossuary and looked around with wild eyes.


    There! That section of ground would be flat enough for his purpose. With a thought, he brought two dozen skeletons to his side and had them prepare the area, pulling the strange, alien grasses and shifting stones until it had been completely flattened. Then, he went to work.


    With the staff his mother had gifted him, he began to draw into the sandy dirt. Sigils rapidly took shape under his precise and expert hand, spiralling outwards from the centre in concentric circles, a whirlpool of arcane power.


    Several times he paused, frowning, then brushed over a section before rewriting it to his satisfaction. For six hours he worked, adding layer after layer to the increasingly intricate ritual circle. When it was finally done, he stood back, his eyes tracing over it carefully, inspecting every inch for even the slightest flaw. Finding none, he entered the Ossuary briefly, returning with a stone, which he placed within the exact centre of the circle.


    Contained in the stone was the soul of a random marshall, a sacrifice for the upcoming test.


    Next, he had his skeletons gather the four cauldrons and place them at precise intervals around the circle, which he then inspected himself.


    This will either work¡­ or blow up in my face. Or it could do both.


    He didn¡¯t care if it blew up, as long as it worked.


    When he was ready, he raised his hands and began to cast a spell he hadn¡¯t worked with yet, the Ossuary Vent. When completed, a small rent in space opened, and from it, a thick cloud of Death Magick began to pour.


    This spell allowed him to release the dense, concentrated Death Magick held within the Ossuary to the outside, and now he called upon it to help fuel his ritual. As the energy fell like black mist, it was captured in the circle, syphoning down toward the centre and growing ever more dense as it did.


    This continued until the Ossuary had emptied its store of power and he dismissed the Vent, staring at the plume of power held hostage in the circle he¡¯d created.


    It stood about as tall as he was and as thick as his arm, terminating at his eye level and starting just above the ground, just above the stone placed in the centre. So far, it appeared the containment was holding just fine, so he moved to the next step.


    With a thought, four skeletons activated the sigils on the cauldrons, which began to belch forth black smoke, rich with Death Magick, into the air. Rather than spread, this energy was also captured by the sigils, spiralling around the circles, growing richer, more concentrated, before it too was funnelled all the way to the middle.


    The plume had grown thicker and appeared more like a storm, pushing and roiling against the prison he had constructed for it. Still, it was holding.


    Here we go.


    Tyron raised his hands and began to speak. At the same time, he activated the outermost layer of the circle. Two things began to happen. First, his own power began to pour out of him and into the circle, spiralling down toward the centre. And second, the ambient energy that howled through the ravine began to be syphoned down as well. Not all of it, such a torrent of power would overwhelm the circle in moments, but a portion, providing a steady flow of power that added to his own.


    As the arcane energy moved through the layers of runes, it began to change, darkening, thickening, shifting to the alignment he desired before joining the shuddering spire of Death Magick held captive in the centre.


    Tyron eyed it fiercely, watching for any sign the power was on the verge of breaking its containment. Though it twisted and bulged in places, straining against the invisible bonds that held it, he was confident his sigils would hold.


    When he had emptied out half of his reserves, he ceased the flow of power from himself, but allowed the ambient magick to continue being absorbed. He observed with caution, sensitive to any fluctuations in power as the contained energy grew more and more dense. After a time, he judged the gathered magick was approaching the limits of what his circle could contain, so he moved swiftly, adjusting the outermost sigil to cancel the absorption of energy.


    In the centre of the circle, the incredibly dense plume of energy spun and wobbled. Pure, concentrated power like this was dangerous and unstable. Tyron was eager to succeed, but even in his manic state, he retained his sense of caution.


    Now to see if this gathered power would be useful in his experiment.


    Taking hold of the staff, he shifted to the nexus of the circle he¡¯d prepared and planted it firmly. He raised his hands on either side of the powerful artefact, and began to cast.


    This time, he wasn¡¯t quick, he didn¡¯t fire out the words of power at a rapid pace, but instead cast slowly and deliberately. One sigil followed the next at an even pace, and he spoke clearly, each word spaced from the next.


    This was the Spirit Binding ritual, which was used to create ghosts. The spell contained several components, but it wasn¡¯t overly complicated compared to his more potent rituals. First, the spell conjured forth the spirit.


    The soul trapped within the stone began to emerge, right into the middle of the dense pillar of Death Magick.


    Tyron watched intently, hyper-sensitive to anything abnormal.


    With a few quick gestures, he used the eye magick Dove had taught him, staring hard at any interaction between the spirit and the arcane power.


    He thought he saw¡­ something¡­ but what came next would be the key moment.


    The next stage of the spell required him to construct a ¡®shell¡¯ or container of magick for the spirit to inhabit. It was a wispy, half-formed thing, delicate and insubstantial, but that wasn¡¯t what Tyron was trying to make. He wanted something different.


    Again, step by step, he began the next stage of the spell. Surrounded by such an immense cloud of energy, the shell began to behave differently. It sucked in the energy, shifting and warping.


    Tyron ceased the ritual, carefully unbound the last few sigils, then redid them.


    Forward, and back. Forward, and back. Tyron¡¯s focus was absolute, as was his control of the magick. Slowly, piece by piece, he began to modify the spell, and watched the changes taking place inside the circle with growing glee.

 B4C25 - A Fine Line

    In such dense, concentrated Death Magick, every word he spoke, every sigil he formed, resonated, like hot metal struck by a hammer. He could see it react, shift and mould itself at the behest of his words, and he carefully studied it, eyes unblinking, lest he miss the key moment.


    Once more, he paused the ritual.


    Were his students to attempt such a thing, Tyron would tackle them to the ground to protect them from the blowback, but such was his control that he was able to control the magick, calm the volatility, and proceed unharmed. Having such a potent staff to act as a ritual focus certainly didn¡¯t hurt.


    His mother had truly gone all out in the construction of her gift. Tyron felt he was practically cheating when using it. As a focus, it was as solid as a mountain, acting as a bulwark between himself and the power he manipulated, containing it with ease.


    Step by step, he slowly unwound the last few sigils of the ritual. An even more difficult feat than simply pausing it in place. With a will of iron and an unwavering grip of his magick, Tyron was in perfect control at all times, never letting a single thread slip from his grasp.


    In the centre of the ritual circle, surrounded by the dense pillar of Death Magick, the hapless spirit wailed and roared, flinging itself around in an attempt to escape its binding. It can¡¯t have been pleasant, what he was putting this spirit through. In effect, he was holding it in the material world, half forming a shell for it, stuffing it partway in, then dragging it out again, over and over.


    It didn¡¯t matter. A soul couldn¡¯t feel pain, not from something like this, and Tyron spared no thought for the discomfort of a marshall¡¯s spirit. This was a necessary step, he needed to better understand this process, and it was working.


    Every time he restarted the ritual, he changed it, modifying it piece by piece as he searched for something better.


    The flimsy shell used to house a ghost wasn¡¯t sufficient to create a wight. It was the fusion of soul and skeleton that created a more powerful undead. For the revenants, he had learned to pour the spirit inside the bones, allowing the soul to bond to the threads contained within, giving it control over the body and letting them use their Skills in a limited way.


    That wasn¡¯t enough for a wight. This was the missing piece, he was certain of it. A new way to house the soul and bind it to the remains, something more powerful, more magick-intensive.


    Once again, he started to move the ritual forward. Testing, probing, he spoke the words and formed the sigils at a steady and even pace, guided by his instinct as much as his intellect.


    Suddenly, his eyes snapped to a point in the heart of the circle.


    He¡¯d seen something¡­ something had changed.


    His heart pounded in his chest as his face twisted into a wild grin, but his hands and voice remained perfectly steady as he watched, eager for another sign.


    There it was! A single spark, green, like a guttering flame had kindled within the plume of Death Magick. Carefully, he continued, feeling around this new manifestation, feeding it, letting it grow. Ever so slowly, the green flame began to expand, growing larger as it feasted on the dense power around it. So much energy began to flow to this new creation, Tyron moved to throttle it, unwilling to let it consume too much lest it go out of control.


    The larger it became, the more clear its nature was. It wasn¡¯t a flame, not exactly. More accurately, it seemed like a cross between a dense mist and fire. It drifted and floated with the slow, lazy movements of a mist, but flickered around the edges, shifting and warping as a crackling fire might. The colour, however, was consistent, a vivid, ethereal green.


    When he judged it was of sufficient size, he cut off the flow of power and moved to the final stage of the ritual. In a few short minutes, he bound the captured soul into this new substance and ended the spell.


    Tyron leaned forward, eager to see what would happen.


    With the ritual cut-off at last, the power sustaining it was allowed to collapse, dispersing around the circle, but still confined. In the centre, the strange, green substance¡­ collapsed to the ground. Frowning, Tyron watched, and slowly, his patience was rewarded.


    It was moving.


    At first, he wasn¡¯t sure if it was just the natural, ephemeral movement of the mist, but no, it was definitely shifting on its own. The spirit within was able to control it, whatever it was. However, not very well. Almost like a puddle of ooze, the trapped spirit nudged this way and that, unable to do much within this new form.


    After a time, Tyron entered the circle himself and reached down to physically touch the shifting green flame.


    It was cold, freakishly so. Much like a fire radiated heat, this flickering substance radiated cold, to the point he felt his finger was burned from the chill. Even so, he managed to touch it directly before pulling his hand away.


    It was¡­ odd. A mix of physical and¡­ not. Part magick, part material, it seemed to exist in a state between the two. And the ghost was able to inhabit it just fine, even interact with it¡­.


    This was perfect.


    It required an immense concentration of Death Magick to create, but of course it would, creating a wight was supposed to be difficult! With this, he had the final component he needed!


    Elated, he ordered two nearby skeletons to scoop up the ghost and carry it into the Ossuary. There was a lot he still needed to do before Filetta could be reborn!


    ~~~


    Tyron worked in a frenzy, no pause to rest, no time to eat. No matter how fast he went, he felt as if it was impossible for his body to keep up with his mind. The first breakthrough had put a crack in the dam wall, and it seemed everywhere he turned, new secrets were leaking through, so many he couldn¡¯t possibly hope to snatch them all.


    One moment he would be performing tests on what he had come to call Spirit Flesh, the next he would be perfecting a new structure of conduit magick, only to leap over to advanced threading techniques a few minutes later.


    Gradually, all the pieces were being assembled, everything he needed to finally take the next leap. Despite the unrelenting sense of urgency he felt like a spike through his chest, Tyron was meticulous in everything he did. No compromises could be allowed, everything would have to be perfect.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    After a period of days, he couldn¡¯t hope to say how many, he stood before the altar, bloodshot eyes moving from one component to the next, weighing and assessing. He nodded to himself, then leaned down to inspect the remains themselves.


    Filetta¡¯s bones had been as flawlessly prepared as he knew how. No expense had been spared, no steps had been avoided to ensure these bones were as strong as possible.


    He¡¯d used Bone Salt to remove even the tiniest scrap of flesh, reinforced the bones with mineral solutions, saturated them with dense Death Magick, bound and aligned them to ensure no particle of energy leaked out. They were easily the best bones he¡¯d produced.


    Then, he had gone a step beyond even that.


    The enchanting work he¡¯d performed had been¡­ excessive, some might say. With extreme attention to detail, he passed his gaze over every single bone. Sigils and arrays had been bound into almost all of them, from the toes right up to the individual vertebrae and of course, the skull. Inside and out, the skull was covered in sigils that had been carved ever so finely into the bone itself. Within, it housed an array of cores that dwarfed those the normal skeletons held.


    His best undead would be stronger, faster, and hold a greater reservoir of power than his revenants could dream of.


    When everything was prepared, he took a deep breath and went to fetch Filetta¡¯s soul from the recess it had been stored in. She didn¡¯t wake when he picked her up, but had begun to stir by the time he placed the stone down at the head of her skeleton.


    ¡°What¡­ what is happening? How long has it been?¡± she rasped.


    ¡°It¡¯s time. You¡¯re about to be reborn, Filetta.¡±


    The spirit fell silent as Tyron walked around the altar, making his final preparations.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± she asked.


    Perhaps she was still hesitant, unwilling to move forward with their agreement.


    ¡°It¡¯s this, or I release you back to wander until your spirit is drawn to the realm of the dead,¡± he reminded her.


    She had no physical presence, but even so, he could sense her shudder. She did not want to go back.


    ¡°Fine,¡± she breathed and fell silent.


    A good thing she¡¯d agreed. At this point, Tyron wouldn¡¯t have been able to prevent himself from going forward in the event she¡¯d refused.


    Raising his hands, Tyron took a deep breath, and began to speak.


    It was the Raise Dead ritual, but so heavily revised as to become almost an entirely different thing. Words of power thundered through the Ossuary as Tyron wove sigil after sigil, no hesitation in his voice or hands. Power roiled through the air before pouring into the bones before him.


    As the magick continued to flow, four skeletons stepped forward, each positioned at the corners of the altar, and activated the cauldrons there. From four points, the dense black mist boiled into the air, only to be captured by an invisible syphon, arcing overhead before being drawn down to the bones. Tyron kept going, his words slamming into the dense magick, giving it shape and purpose, even as he drew up and poured out the energy contained within himself.


    Eventually, that tiny spark ignited, deep with the rib cage, and Tyron fed it, unfettered this time, allowing it to feast on the dense energy he provided as it grew and expanded. While he didn¡¯t slow its growth, he did shape it, directing the Spirit Flesh to expand along the lines he had laid out for it, like pouring molten metal into a mould.


    The ghostly flesh grew, and where it met the bones, it clung to them, then expanded along them. From the ribs, it crept down the spine, up to the shoulders, then the neck and down to the pelvis. He fed it more and more power, never ceasing in his efforts. It took hours of laborious work to fill out the skeleton, but eventually he had succeeded, draining himself, the cauldrons and even the Ossuary dry of magick. Despite the cost, it was successful.


    The bones were now encased in a new body, one formed of shifting mist and icy green fire. He could still see the bones within, the skeletal grin and hollow sockets staring at him through the Spirit Flesh.


    When it was awake, it would be a frightening sight.


    Tyron was exhausted, but his work had only just begun. He gathered up the staff of his mother and planted it in the prepared spot, using it to hold the ritual in place, locking the magick in its current form.


    The next part would be¡­ difficult.


    Tyron gathered up the gloves he had prepared and activated the runes on them. He reached out toward the Spirit Flesh, and felt the cold bite at his fingers, but it was muted, warded off by the enchantments he had prepared. Hopefully, it would last.


    He plunged his fingers within the flesh and immediately felt as if he had stuffed his hands in ice. Without the gloves, he would likely lose his fingers in a matter of minutes. As it was, he would need to endure for hours.


    Concentrating, he drew his hand back slowly as he wove a sigil with the other.


    As his hand came out, threads of flesh came with it, bound to the tips of his fingers. So far so good. Carefully at first, then with growing confidence, he began to weave.


    First, he needed to thicken the threads he had, using the method he had developed after learning rope-making from Georg. Once that was done, he needed to weave the flesh into muscle and sinew. This was immensely more difficult than working with regular threads. The Spirit Flesh didn¡¯t like to be bound, didn¡¯t like to hold a shape, and trying to force it to sit exactly as he wanted wouldn¡¯t end in success.


    Instead, what was required was to weave the flesh into the suggestion of what he wanted. Too rigid, and it would shift back to mist, returning to formlessness. Too soft, and it would never take to the shape at all, remaining as mist.


    When done perfectly, it would remain as he had left it, sitting in place, tied to the bones, and ready to function.


    This process dragged on as he was forced to unbind and rework certain sections over and over again until he was satisfied they would function as intended.


    When it was done, he collapsed back from the altar, snatching his hands away from the cold. He desperately wanted to pull the gloves off, his hands felt as if they were shards of ice, but he knew they were better off being warmed by the enchantment inside than out. Even so, he shoved them into his armpits, only to yelp as the cold bit into his flesh.


    ¡°Holy fuck!¡± he cursed. ¡°If I lose my fingers¡­¡±


    Every mage¡¯s worst fear.


    However, over the next ten minutes, they slowly warmed up, and he eventually pulled his gloves off to reveal his fingers had turned purple, but at least weren¡¯t frostbitten. He thawed them for another ten minutes before he moved to the next stage of the process.


    He¡¯d prepared bone armour for the wight that was almost the equal of his own. More enchantments were carved into it, providing additional protection, resistance from harm and even a mini-cauldron that could produce a black fog of its own in a pinch. With care, he attached each piece in the correct place, affixing it to the remains. When that was done, he turned to a more complex issue.


    The conduit he would form between himself and this undead was going to be unlike anything he had made before. After all, the wight needed to act as a commander, but he refused to allow his undead to be tied to it directly. Allowing the skeletons bound to the wight to die when it did was unacceptable. Instead, he would turn himself into a conduit, allowing the wight to issue commands through him.


    It was exceptionally delicate work, with layer after layer of controls and safety mechanisms built into it. By the time this was done, he was well into the second day of the process. He was drained beyond belief, but it was impossible for him to stop now.


    With his magick recharged and a rich cloud of ambient energy in the Ossuary, Tyron lifted the staff and began the final stage.


    Sonorous words rolled from his tongue as he once again picked up the Raise Dead ritual, binding the undead to himself, and finally, lifting up the spirit of Filetta, taking her soul and placing it into the body he had prepared.


    As her soul nestled into the cavity in its chest, there was a bright flash of light that filled the Spirit Flesh and burst outward. As the ritual reached its crescendo, the mist and flame of the ghostly body moved with greater energy, as if coming alive as it bonded to the soul placed inside it.


    He spoke the final word, brought his hands together and cut off the flow of power.


    It was done.


    In the depths of the hollow sockets in the skull, purple light began to glow.

 B4C26 - Returning

    Georg lifted his head from the notes he¡¯d been poring over as he heard someone rush down the vacant street toward the half-collapsed house he¡¯d chosen to occupy. There were only a few people who came to this deserted part of town, and most of those didn¡¯t run, narrowing the list of subjects quite a bit.


    With a sigh, he pushed back his chair and ordered his zombie to pack away his things. Likely, he wouldn¡¯t be able to get back to studying any time soon, so it may as well be tidied while he dealt with this distraction.


    He reached the door just a moment before his surprise guest did and pulled it open to see Briss, out of breath and red-faced, reaching for the handle.


    ¡°Georg! Nice timing!¡± she wheezed.


    ¡°Morning, Briss. What brings you to my neck of the woods?¡±


    She pulled a face as she continued to suck in breath.


    ¡°This wouldn¡¯t be so difficult if you didn¡¯t move so far away,¡± she said.


    ¡°It¡¯s two streets, Briss.¡±


    She desperately needed excercise.


    ¡°Well, now we need to run back. Tyron is coming!¡±


    Georg blinked.


    It had been two months since Tyron disappeared into the rift. He¡¯d begun to wonder if the man was ever coming back, or indeed if he was still alive. He was powerful, of course, but powerful Slayers died beyond the rift all the time.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± he blinked. ¡°We haven¡¯t heard a peep about him in over a month.¡±


    Some Slayers had returned to the keep with word of the Necromancer, but none had seen him since.


    ¡°Someone saw a column of skeletons marching through the woods,¡± Briss told him impatiently, ¡°who else is it going to be? Rurin sent word herself. Richard is already waiting, so come on!¡¯


    She pulled at his arm and Georg allowed himself to be dragged out the door, feeling a little bemused. If Tyron really was coming back, how were things going to change?


    The three students had worked together and made decent progress in the time he¡¯d been away. Each of them had successfully created their first proper undead servant a few weeks ago, a moment worthy of celebration. Georg himself had reached level four, one away from his first Necromancer feat.


    Slowly and steadily, like making a fence, he¡¯d been going about the process of preparing himself to strike out on his own. Levelling the ground, digging out holes for the posts, making sure the timber was treated. Getting all of his ducks in a row to make sure he¡¯d be self-sufficient if he needed to be.


    Tyron had left behind extensive notes on Necromancy, all copied from the dense book of notes he kept with him at all times, along with pages filled with more general knowledge on magick, going over structure, techniques, common sigils and how they were used. It was a wealth of material that had kept the three of them more than busy in the intervening time. Would he help them further now that he was back? Or would there not be enough time?


    Briss was excited, he could see, and Richard would be doubly so. The two of them looked up to Tyron more than he did, almost hero-worshipped him in the case of Richard, and he wasn¡¯t sure how he felt about that. Tyron had been immensely helpful, more than he needed to be, but Georg was under no illusions that his three students were anything other than an additional burden to him, one that he hoped would bear fruit some day.


    When they returned to the main street, they found Richard standing outside the front of their first house, brushing his hair down with his palms nervously.


    ¡°I got him!¡± Briss called and Richard turned towards them as they jogged the last few metres.


    ¡°I told you he was going to come back,¡± Richard said, somewhat smugly, and Georg could only roll his eyes.


    ¡°You did,¡± the former farmhand allowed. ¡°Do we even know if he¡¯s coming here?¡±


    ¡°Where else would he go?¡± Richard frowned.


    Just about anywhere? Georg thought to himself.


    It was foolish to think the first thing the son of the Steelarms would think of when returning from the rift was three fledgeling Necromancers.


    Yet Georg was surprised when, half an hour later, a skeleton marched around the corner, wielding a shield and blade of black bone, followed by another, then another. It was almost strange to see them walking in the clear light of day, these undead servants, but in such great numbers, they were intimidating indeed. More than a hundred turned the corner before Tyron himself appeared, his bone armour still affixed in place.


    The Necromancer didn¡¯t wear a helmet, so his face was clear to see. He looked¡­ tired. Perhaps tired didn¡¯t go far enough. He looked exhausted. His features were drawn, his hair grown out and matted, yet he radiated the same sort of confidence he had before he¡¯d gone in.


    The very best always seemed to have this sort of air around them. His uncle Rickart had been a mild-mannered man, but he was an expert when it came to breaking in horses. Take that same, quiet individual, and put him in a field with horses, and he transformed into someone with utmost confidence, a presence, a weight of authority.


    Tyron always carried himself that way, except now¡­ more so.


    Whatever had happened in the rift had clearly had a positive effect on him. Georg experienced a sudden surge of¡­ ambition. He too wanted to have that quiet strength, walk on the other side of the rift by himself and return with levels and experience.


    He calmed himself. That was a long way off. You couldn¡¯t harvest before you sowed, that was just common sense.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Then behind Tyron came something different, something they hadn¡¯t seen before. Two skeletons, burning with a flickering green light and enveloped in thick plates of smoking black bone armour walked behind the Necromancer, one at each shoulder. Georg gaped at them. They were like nothing he¡¯d seen or heard about. How was it even possible to create undead of this level?


    Just what had Tyron done on the other side of that rift?


    When he finally stood in front of them, Tyron looked the three students up and down with a weary gaze.


    ¡°You¡¯ve gotten better,¡± he said, his voice a touch gravelly and raw.


    Richard stood straighter and Briss smiled at the compliment.


    ¡°We¡¯ve studied hard,¡± Richard said, trying to contain his pride.


    Georg tried to count the number of skeletons on the street, but stopped when he reached eighty. Why were there so many here and not stored away?


    ¡°Is there a reason the skeletons aren¡¯t stored in the Ossuary?¡± he asked.


    Briss and Richard turned to stare at him, but Tyron merely flicked his gaze to the minions around them.


    ¡°The Ossuary is full,¡± he said shortly. ¡°Now, let¡¯s sit down and have a discussion. We need to speak about what comes next.¡±


    Full? If this many skeletons were outside¡­ what was inside?


    Tyron brushed past the three of them and made his way inside the partially repaired building he¡¯d left them in. Immediately, he recognised the change and queried them as he removed his bone armour.


    ¡°The three of you aren¡¯t staying here anymore?¡±


    ¡°I am,¡± Richard said quickly, ¡°but we decided it would be better if we had more space to work. It¡¯s not like there¡¯s any shortage of it in this area. Briss is a few doors down and Georg is two streets over.¡±


    With his armour removed, it was clear to see how Tyron had been deprived. His clothes were filthy, streaked with sweat and grime. In places, his pants were tattered, stained with blood, and there were several cuts. The Necromancer looked down at himself, then sighed.


    ¡°I should have probably washed first,¡± he said, ¡°I apologise for the smell.¡±


    As Richard assured him no apologies were necessary, Tyron sat at the table, several of his skeletons entering behind the three students to perform tasks. Two of them gathered up his armour and carried it away, while others brought a heavy leather satchel and placed it on the ground by his chair.


    The students gathered some seats and sat at the table with their teacher, wondering what was going to happen next.


    Georg fully expected they were about to be abandoned. He didn¡¯t even feel aggrieved. At some point, a calf had no more need of its parents and struck out on its own. It was normal.


    He would quickly be proven right.


    ¡°I spent longer than I intended beyond the rift. As soon as I can, I need to return to Kenmor via the rift at Cragwhistle. It won¡¯t be possible to take you with me, in the event any of you wanted to come.¡±


    The words were delivered firmly, but without malice, he was simply stating the way it had to be. Briss and Richard appeared crestfallen, Georg simply nodded.


    ¡°The three of you should continue to work together either here or at Cragwhistle,¡± he went on. ¡°Hunting low level kin with your undead will be the best way for you to advance, and both places have an abundance of remains for you to work with.¡±


    Tyron reached down to the satchel by his side and removed three sheaves of paper. Placing them on the table, he pushed one in front of each student.


    ¡°These notes and exercises should cover everything you need to know to reach the level of a bronze ranked Slayer. Your advancement choices may well be different than mine, but I¡¯ve written what advice I can.


    ¡°There¡¯s more drills to help you work on your fundamentals and another glossary of words of power that should come in handy for you going forward.¡±


    Georg shifted through the pages with his brows raised. There was a lot here, all of it written in the neat, meticulous hand he¡¯d become familiar with. When had the man found the time to do any of this? Wasn¡¯t he fighting for his life against the kin? He certainly looked as if he had!


    This was far more than he¡¯d expected to get, and he felt a strong sense of gratitude towards the Necromancer. He had no idea why Tyron would go so far for them, but he was grateful nonetheless.


    ¡°This is¡­ amazing,¡± Richard said, hungrily flicking through the pages. ¡°Thank you, Tyron!¡±


    ¡°Unfortunately, I don¡¯t have the time I would like to help you through the next stage,¡± he sighed, ¡°so you¡¯ll be best served relying on each other for aid. For now, I have until nightfall to go through anything you don¡¯t understand and give advice. Who¡¯s first?¡±


    He looked at the three of them expectantly, they all stared back in confusion.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t¡­ aren¡¯t you going to rest? Or wash?¡± Briss asked.


    Their teacher scowled at them.


    ¡°Do you want me to be clean or do you want to learn magick?¡± he said irritably.


    ¡°Magick,¡± Georg said.


    The others shot him a look, but he only tilted his head toward Tyron, who was nodding approvingly.


    ¡°Exactly. Magick is far more important. Now, let¡¯s get started.¡±


    It was Georg, of course, who asked the first question. He¡¯d been struggling with certain sigil forms, his fingers still not able to transition from one to the next as smoothly as he liked. Tyron demonstrated the correct method, pointing out he¡¯d been misaligning his wrist.


    After that, Richard found the nerve to speak up and request Tyron inspect his first skeleton, at which point Briss also spoke. Their teacher spent the better part of an hour picking apart every mistake they¡¯d made with their threading technique, demonstrating the flaws in their undead¡¯s movement.


    ¡°It¡¯s not bad for a first attempt,¡± he mused, looking over their skeletons, ¡°but you can do a lot better than this.¡±


    He turned to Georg.


    ¡°You must have produced a zombie by now. Do you want me to take a look?¡±


    Zombies didn¡¯t have the fastest walking speed, but his undead made it eventually.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to repair its flesh daily,¡± he said, scratching at the back of his head, ¡°but I can¡¯t seem to prevent decay entirely.¡±


    Tyron wrinkled his nose as he approached the minion.


    ¡°Smells worse than me,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t my area of expertise,¡± he continued, ¡°but it seems the rot is accumulating despite your efforts to repair the damage. Either you haven¡¯t been able to fix the undead flesh properly, or the body is accelerating its rot the longer it stays undead.¡±


    ¡°That would mean¡­¡±


    That would mean it was impossible to keep a zombie alive for a protracted period of time, no matter how well he cared for it. Georg bit his lip. Had he chosen a dead end after all?


    ¡°There are two courses of action. Continue to diligently practise your flesh mending, raising its level, and create more zombies, so you can compare results. If it is true that the rot accelerates the longer they are dead, I am certain there will be measures to counteract the problem provided by the Unseen. Once you have a small number of zombies, go out and hunt smaller kin, but take others with you. If you run into a larger monster, the zombies won¡¯t be much help.¡±


    It was good advice, and somewhat set his mind at ease. He may have come across his first stumbling block, but he would overcome it.


    Tyron remained with the three students for hours, answering their questions, assisting them with the new exercises he¡¯d provided, and correcting their use of sigils and words of power. When the sun finally fell, he rose from the table.


    ¡°This is farewell for now,¡± he said. ¡°Work hard, stick together, and by the time I return, I expect all of you to have made great strides. Level twenty at least.¡±


    He shook each of their hands, bid them good luck, and then he was gone, his entourage of skeletons vanishing into the night.

 B4C27 - Giant Strides

    The wagon rattled over the uneven backcountry roads as Tyron slept. Twenty skeletons were hitched to the front, pulling it along while drawing on his magick, but he could maintain that sort of draw forever, even in his sleep.


    Walking alongside the wagon, two large, armoured figures, each burning with an inner, sickly green flame directed the lesser undead, ensuring they didn¡¯t stray from the path. After so long beyond the rift, pushing himself to his limits and beyond, Tyron was tired down to his very bones. After the journey back to Cragwhistle had begun, he¡¯d collapsed into the wagon, barely able to keep his eyes open long enough to lay out some crude bedding before he¡¯d lost consciousness.


    For eighteen hours, he slept like the dead, heedless of the chill or the constant jolting of the wooden wagon bed.


    When he finally awoke, he felt like death scraped over burnt toast. The first sensation to return was, of course, pain. Roused at last from his dreamless sleep, Tyron gradually became aware of throbbing pain through his head and back. He drew a sharp breath as his right hip twinged, only to start coughing and spluttering at the foul sensation of his bone-dry mouth and throat.


    A pounding headache soon followed, along with a rumbling stomach that felt as if it might chew through his skin and start working on his belt if he didn¡¯t eat soon.


    All things considered, he felt absolutely awful.


    ¡°Finally awake, princess?¡± a mocking voice called from alongside the wagon.


    It had several unique qualities to it, this voice. It was raspy, and somewhat¡­ hollow¡­ as if it were an echo reverberating out from the interior of a crypt. Even on first listening, nobody would ever think the words had come from a living being.


    ¡°F-Filetta?¡± Tyron groaned as he pulled himself upright.


    Despite his absurdly high Constitution, the repeated battering of the road had eventually gotten through to him. After a couple of hours, he¡¯d be as right as rain, but for now, he took some time to rub down his aching limbs, pushing the heel of his hand into the protesting muscles to help get the blood flowing.


    ¡°Is that still my name?¡± she mused.


    ¡°Call yourself whatever you want.¡±


    His pack wasn¡¯t far away and Tyron reached out to drag it to himself, undoing the strings and rummaging around inside. He hadn¡¯t stayed long enough in Woodsedge to eat and rest, despite Elsbeth offering to house him for a few days, but he¡¯d been sensible enough to grab some provisions before leaving. Elsbeth had packed a few meals for him, bundled up and tied in cloth.


    He withdrew and opened one to find some cheese, meat and fruits, which he began nibbling at. Eating too quickly would only make him sick. His diet had been¡­ poor, over the last month. It would take time to put the flesh back on his bones.


    But it was worth it. The progress he¡¯d made was so valuable, he was convinced it would propel him forward in his search for revenge.


    ¡°What sort of name would suit me now?¡± Filetta mused. ¡°Arabad the Black? Fiorahn the Unbound Spirit?¡±


    ¡°You are most definitely bound,¡± Tyron grumbled. ¡°Should an undead soldier be this whimsical? Does it matter what your name is?¡±


    ¡°I am not one of your nameless skeletons, Tyron,¡± Filetta retorted. ¡°I¡¯m helping you, but I¡¯m not a mindless slave.¡±


    ¡°So nice of you to help, out of the goodness of your heart. I¡¯m sure trying to avoid your fate as a wandering spirit doesn¡¯t have anything to do with it.¡±


    ¡°Hardly worth mentioning,¡± Filetta said, waving a skeletal hand, ¡°I just want to be helpful. Speaking honestly, being in this state isn¡¯t that much better than being a spirit.¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°That¡¯s nonsense. You have access to the Unseen, a new Race and Class, what more could you possibly want? I practically gave you a second life!¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t feel anything, Tyron! No warmth or cold or touch¡­ or anything!¡±


    That didn¡¯t sound so bad to him¡­. Goodness¡­ was he part lich already?


    ¡°It¡¯s not the worst way to go through unlife,¡± his second wight observed, ¡°but it¡¯s a long way from actually being alive.¡±


    ¡°From you of all people,¡± Tyron glared. ¡°I¡¯ll happily revoke your speaking privileges again, Laurel. I didn¡¯t turn you into a wight so you could provide your insights.¡±


    At the mention of being unable to speak again, the wight Laurel snapped to attention and continued to walk alongside the carriage silently.


    ¡°What did she do to piss you off, again?¡± Filetta asked.


    ¡°Tried to kill me for money,¡± Tyron growled, settling himself more comfortably. Already, he was starting to feel better. He continued to sip water to help ease the pounding headache in his temples, and nibbled slowly at the food to regain his strength.


    ¡°I did the same thing, though?¡± she pointed out.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t grow up with me.¡±


    ¡°I was fucking you, though.¡±


    ¡°Is it¡­ is it really necessary to point that out? Things didn¡¯t exactly turn out well between us, considering I murdered you, so why bring it up?¡±


    The wight chattered her teeth at him creepily.


    ¡°Because I still hate you for it.¡±


    Well, when she put it like that. Filetta was¡­ a little different from the rest of his undead in that she retained much more of her free will. She was even able to dislike him. More than that, she could think about harming him. She just couldn¡¯t act on it¡­.


    This was part of the agreement he¡¯d made when she had decided to become a wight, and he didn¡¯t want to betray that trust without good reason.


    As for Laurel, she had been much easier to persuade. As she¡¯d said herself, unlife as a wight wasn¡¯t the worst way to spend your time dead. Not even close.


    Even when alive, she¡¯d always acted in her own self interest, and this was no different. She would do anything Tyron asked to improve her situation even a little.


    Two wights, his finest creations. The amount of mana required to maintain them was staggering, possibly as much as a hundred skeletons, but with everything he had done to mitigate the drain on his power, he could create several more without overly taxing his magick.


    Even better, the spirit flesh had proven to be a medium capable of holding the status ritual. Filetta and Laurel had both been able to perform it and confirm their new Race and Class without having to use his blood.


    Speaking of the status ritual¡­


    ¡°Keep an eye out for a secluded spot close to the road,¡± he instructed his two commanders. ¡°We¡¯ll need to stop for a few minutes.¡±


    Laurel just nodded her skeletal head, but Filetta released an odd noise, as if she¡¯d tried to whistle. Without lips. Or air.


    ¡°Finally time for the status ritual, eh? You ought to get a few levels. I¡¯m surprised you managed to wait this long.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes. Of course he was impatient, but there was good reason for delaying this long.


    ¡°Performing the status ritual inside the rift is a bad idea. Every Slayer will tell you the same,¡± Tyron defended himself as he continued to nibble at some cheese. ¡°Changing the way your body feels, or gaining new abilities that change the way you fight, is a terrible idea while surrounded by enemies on all sides. Slayers will only do it if the situation is desperate.¡±


    In his case, it would have taken time for him to adjust to his new self, time he couldn¡¯t afford to waste. Between the research, work, and fighting he¡¯d been doing, he couldn¡¯t afford the luxury. Also, he¡­ hadn¡¯t exactly been in his best mind for the last few weeks. Making permanent decisions about one''s future in such a state wasn¡¯t something he would recommend.


    ¡°Let me know when you find a spot,¡± he told her, then settled in to finish his recovery, ignoring Filetta¡¯s muttered insults.


    Over the next hour, he gradually began to feel better. The headache retreated as he slowly rehydrated himself, and the hunger pangs faded with continued nibbles of cheese and smoked meat. The pain in his limbs faded away and he started stretching himself as best he could in the moving carriage, feeling the life return to his body.


    ¡°Found a spot,¡± Filetta announced. ¡°Give us a few minutes to get the carriage off the road.¡±


    Tyron felt his heart rate pick up as the moment of truth came closer. He¡¯d made incredible progress, and he was sure the Unseen would be generous with its rewards. He hoped to have at least one of his mysteries upgraded, but he didn¡¯t let himself to expect too much. Mysteries lived up to their name; nobody could say for certain when or how they would improve, or exactly what they would do.


    He could still recall, barely, pieces of the vision that had assailed him after Filetta had been raised. No sooner had he completed the ritual than his consciousness had been swept away. Flashes haunted his subconscious still, glimpses of death, vast fields of skulls, pillars of black smoke kilometres thick rising into a storm of power, words rumbling upward from the wormy earth.


    And spirits, so many spirits, wailing in agony and despair as they slowly melded into the darkness.


    The vision had shaken him, but even though he couldn¡¯t recall much of what he saw, he remembered his visceral reaction.


    That will never be me.


    By the time the carriage finally rattled to a stop, he had paper and a knife prepared.


    The moment the carriage bed was finally still below him, he cut a neat slice in his thumb, pressed it to the page, and held his breath, eyes wide as he stared at the page.


    Blood flowed, trailing across the paper, then curling into letters that soaked in, combining to create the words of the Unseen.


    Eager, Tyron¡¯s eyes raced down the page as things began to fall into place. There was a lot there. A lot. He didn¡¯t let himself dwell on the individual skill notifications, but homed in on what was most relevant.


    First, the levels. Lord of the Ossuary had reached level fifty-three, a gain of five. Considering how slow the levelling process became at this point, he was shocked and pleased with the result. Perhaps it was to be expected, considering most teams that travelled through the rifts would be teams of four or five. Splitting their gains between them, they¡¯d leave with a single level each. As a Necromancer, he¡¯d been able to take everything for himself.


    Two more ability choices and another feat to choose. That was excellent. Eager to see more, he continued to read.


    Perhaps unsurprisingly, he didn¡¯t gain nearly as many levels in his Forbidden One Sub-Class. The only way to improve it was to do the work of the Scarlet Court, Dark Ones and Abyss, and he hadn¡¯t done a whole lot to advance their schemes as of late.


    What he had done was apparently sufficient for another two levels.


    Death Mage had gained more than expected, but perhaps he shouldn¡¯t be surprised. It was still a low Level Sub-Class, and it would continue to grow rapidly until he advanced it. Still, another six levels was more than welcome.


    Then came the message he¡¯d most been looking forward to.


    Reaching for the unknown, refusing to settle for what is offered and daring to risk yourself for power are valuable characteristics. Your arcane prowess, mastery of magick and deep insight into the workings of Death are rare gifts. Continue on your path, and you will be rewarded. Mystery: Essence of Death, has grown to Emergent. Mystery: Soul Magick, has grown to Emergent. Mystery: Words of Power, has grown to Profound.


    Three?! Words of Power had grown?! Tyron boggled at the page. This would¡­ this would change many things! What sort of effect would this have on his spells? It was impossible to say. This level of support from the Unseen was extremely difficult to get.


    He was so shocked he almost didn¡¯t notice that he¡¯d gained a Race level as well. Perhaps spending time with and teaching the students had caused it? Was he more attached to them than he thought?


    Many of his Skills and Spells had improved over his stay in Nagrythyn, especially his new selections. The repeated experimentation and use in battle had been fruitful indeed. Enhanced Minion Commander had reached its max level of twenty, as had Bone Forging and Bone-Soul Melding.


    A new Skill had also appeared: Spirit Flesh Formation. A result of his breakthrough in creating a medium a soul could inhabit along with its skeleton.


    In addition, Spirit Binding had changed to Advanced Spirit Binding, its maximum level increasing by ten. Clearly, his control over spirits had warranted reward.


    Many of his Skills, and his Spells as well, were hitting their caps, which meant he would need to prioritise pushing those higher so he could continue to progress. An ability stuck at level ten wasn¡¯t nearly as useful as one that had reached twenty.


    Dimension Weaving had reached ten already, which made sense considering how much he¡¯d been messing with said weave lately. Several of his stubbornly stuck Enchanter Skills had also levelled, which was pleasing to see.


    He turned his attention to the Spells, going through them one by one.


    For his efforts, Raise Dead and Bone Animus had reached their max level, as had Black Miasma. His newer spells had increased in level, but even his frequent use of Greater Death Bolt and Death¡¯s Fist wasn¡¯t enough for them to reach the cap.


    Blessing of Bone and Blood Shield had seen a significant improvement as he¡¯d used them frequently during large engagements. His abilities had grown by leaps and bounds over the months-long period of intense combat and experimentation. Now he could select his new abilities and begin to exponentially expand his horde of undead.


    He felt almost giddy with excitement as he began to consider the possibilities. After everything he¡¯d done to allow himself to control more minions, the limiting factor had become his attention, rather than his magick. Oh, he could have utilised a thousand skeletons, but only crudely. To bring out the best of their abilities, he¡¯d needed to micromanage them. They weren¡¯t all that durable, after all. Left to their own devices, they would charge ahead blindly, or swing wildly, where caution was required.


    Splitting his attention in many ways would have meant his horde would be larger, but the losses would have added up very quickly.


    Now, he had his wights plugged into the horde. They could handle the minutiae while he focused on the big picture. Even so, he still wished he¡¯d taken the Undead Leader option when he¡¯d had the chance. Sharing the mental load would enable him to increase his skeletal army further and further. He could only hope the same option, or a similar one, would appear soon.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    Already pleased with his results, he turned his attention to his new selections, excited to see what the Unseen was offering him.


    He turned his attention to the Feats first. He had one to choose from Death Mage, and Lord of the Ossuary. Although there were several tempting options for Death Mage, one stood head and shoulders above the rest.


    Efficient Death had, in fact, reduced the cost of all his uses of Death Magick, including the drain of his minions. It was such an absurd bonus that he was unwilling to consider anything else in this slot.


    He placed a mark next to Efficient Death II and moved to Lord of the Ossuary.


    There were several choices here, but again, a few stood out. The feats that expanded or empowered the Ossuary in some way were interesting, but he believed he would be better served by stacking his existing feats to higher levels. In that department, he had two options: Bone Mastery II and Skeletal Focus IV.


    Likely, he would take both in time, but for now, he selected Bone Mastery. That would have a greater impact on his other project.


    Now for the ability selections. He moved to choose from his less important Classes first, leaving Lord of the Ossuary for last. Forbidden One offered two new abilities: Rot¡¯s Endurance, or Expert Suppress Mind.


    Rot¡¯s Endurance was tempting, if vague. By utilising the spell, he¡¯d suppress his ability to feel pain and discomfort? That was certainly useful, if a touch grisly. Suppress Mind had proven to be incredibly useful, and empowering it further wasn¡¯t something he could gloss over. As little as he liked employing the spell, it was extremely potent when used correctly.


    After hemming and hawing for a bit, he selected Expert Suppress Mind and moved on.


    For Death Mage, there were three selections to make. Quickly, he decided to take Expert Death Magick and the upgrade to Shivering Curse. That was a curse he used frequently, and improving Expert Death Magick, the fundamental of fundamentals, was something he¡¯d passed over last time, but not again. That left him with one choice to make. Curse of Pain was a new option, and one he didn¡¯t like that much. It wasn¡¯t that causing pain to his enemies bothered him, he just worried it wouldn¡¯t be that effective in killing them.


    Eyes of Death and Hand of Corruption were similarly unappealing. If his enemies were close enough for him to touch them, then he was probably dead already. Eyes of Death was a specific and probably more effective version of the Eye Magick Dove had taught him, but he didn¡¯t feel it was needed. He¡¯d invented his enchanted glass to be able to track minute traces of Death Magick; he could make something similar to do the same job on a larger scale.


    Instead, he selected the Curse Weaving Skill to empower his curses further. They were an effective way of levelling the playing field for his undead, and Death Mage was providing a significant number of curse-oriented bonuses so far, making it a prudent choice.


    Then, he turned his attention to the new offerings from Lord of the Ossuary. There were four new abilities to choose from, and he considered each of them in turn.


    Horde Conductor replaced Undead Control and raised the maximum level by twenty. Quite a potent option. Undead Control improved the finer aspects of control over his minions, such as making them move in specific ways. If he wanted a skeleton to angle its shield to deflect a blow, it was Undead Control that helped him form those instructions. Horde Conductor appeared to do the same thing, but applied on a wider scale. This was an interesting option, but he wasn¡¯t certain it was what he needed right now. Directly controlling his minions was something he was hoping to move away from, after all.


    Field of Death created an area that constantly drained life from the living. From the description, that would include himself if he was foolish enough to put himself within the effect. If it applied to a wide enough area, this could be effective, but how effective was it? If the drain was too slow, then would it have any effect at all? Did the spell only do damage, or did it heal him as well? He¡¯d be healed a little regardless, thanks to his Sap Life Feat.


    Death Nexus was another option. The description said it would ¡®create a lodestone that connects to all nearby undead, sharing its power with them¡¯. It sounded useful, but Tyron was close to creating something that essentially did the same thing. His cauldrons already fed Death Magick to his minions, empowering them, and came with the Black Miasma spell bound into them to boot. It was possible this spell would do something his constructs didn¡¯t, but he couldn¡¯t tell from the description, and he¡¯d hate to waste a selection.


    Speaking of Black Miasma, the next selection was an upgrade. Cursed Miasma would raise the level cap on the ability by twenty, which was excellent, and also would alter the Miasma to carry curses within it. At least, that¡¯s what the description seemed to suggest.


    If that were true¡­ he could spread his curses over an even wider area by pushing the miasma further out. Of course, this would come with limitations. If someone were able to counter the miasma, disperse or dispel it in some way, then his curse would go with it. Also, the effect carried by the miasma was sure to be weaker than the curse itself. Nonetheless, this could be a powerful effect if utilised correctly.


    He considered his options for a while, going back and forth until he eventually settled on Field of Death and Cursed Miasma.


    It was disappointing not to see anything more directly minion-related, but it was possible he¡¯d trumped the Unseen by creating wights on his own. Doubtless, the Lord of the Ossuary would offer him more skeleton-related abilities over the next four selections.


    Grinning widely, Tyron ended the ritual and felt the absurd rush of power flow into him. Once he got back to work, everything was going to change.


    Name: Tyron Steelarm.


    Age: 23


    Race: Human (Level 21)


    Class:


    Lord of the Ossuary (Level 53)


    Sub-Classes:


    <ul>


    <li>Forbidden One (Level 32) </li>


    <li>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</li>


    <li>Death Mage (Level 12)</li>


    </ul>


    Racial Feats:


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    Level 15: Well of Magick.


    Level 20: Arcane Renewal.


    Attributes:


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Strength:


    </td>


    <td>


    88


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Dexterity:


    </td>


    <td>


    145


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Constitution:


    </td>


    <td>


    216


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Intelligence:


    </td>


    <td>


    332


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Wisdom:


    </td>


    <td>


    247


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Willpower:


    </td>


    <td>


    192


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Charisma:


    </td>


    <td>


    101


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Manipulation:


    </td>


    <td>


    117


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Poise:


    </td>


    <td>


    145


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    General Skills:


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 4)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Engraving (Level 5)(Max)


    Sculpting (Level 5)(Max)


    Weaving (Level 5)(Max)


    Dodging (Level 3)


    Running (Level 3)


    Skill Selections Available: 1


    Necromancer Skills:


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 20)(Max)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Death Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    Enhanced Minion Commander (Level 20)(Max)


    Undead Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Minion Modification (Level 10)(Max)


    Bone-Soul Melding (Level 20)(Max)


    Death Infusion (Level 8)


    Bone Forging (Level 20)(Max)


    Spirit Flesh Formation (Level 3)


    Anathema Skills:


    Abyss Tongue (Level 6)


    Spell Concealment (Level 10)(Max)


    Dimension Weaving (Level 6)


    Arcanist Skills:


    Expert Magick Scripting (Level 30)(Max)


    Channelling (Level 10)(Max)


    Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 19)


    Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 19)


    Expert Network Formation (Level 30)(Max)


    Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Core Sense (Level 16)


    Expert Power Control (Level 28)


    General Spells:


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)


    Necromancer Spells:


    Raise Dead (Level 40)(Max)


    Bone Animus (Level 40)(Max)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 10)(Max)


    Shivering Curse (Level 10)(Max)


    Death Blades (Level 10)(Max)


    Empowered Bone Armour (Level 14)


    Minion Sight (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Spirit Binding (Level 14)


    Death Fist (Level 14)


    Anoint Dead (Level 9)


    Black Miasma (Level 10)(Max)


    Greater Death Bolt (Level 15)


    Summon the Ossuary (Level 7)


    Bone Lance (Level 7)


    Ossuary Vent (Level 4)


    Blessing of Bone (Level 6)


    Anathema Spells:


    Pierce the Veil (Level 10)(Max)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 5)


    Dark Communion (Level 3)


    Advanced Suppress Mind (Level 20)(Max)


    Repository (Level 10)(Max)


    Fear (Level 5)


    Glamour (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Invasive Persuasion (Level 12)


    Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 8)


    Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)


    Blood Shield (Level 6)


    Death Mage Spells:


    Sap Life (Level 6)


    Necromancer Feats:


    Skeleton Focus III


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery


    Spirit Mastery


    Undead Specialist


    Awaken the Altar


    Anathema Feats:


    Repository


    Wall of Thought II


    Drain Life


    Stormwise


    Bewitching Gaze


    Arcanist Feats


    Magick Thread Control II


    Compact Sigils II


    Conduit Seal II


    Core Networking II


    Death Mage Feats


    Efficient Death I


    Mysteries:


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Profound): WIS +50 CHA +50


    Essence of Death (Emergent): INT +8 WILL +8


    Soul Magick (Emergent): WIS+8 CHA +8


    Lord of the Ossuary has reached Level 53. Choose two additional Skills or Spells:


    Skills:


    Corpse Divining - Deepen your connection to the dead, allowing you to understand them more fully. Will replace Corpse Appraisal and raise its maximum level by 10.


    Corpse Singing - Enhance your ability to empower remains, cleansing and purifying them. Will replace Corpse Preparation and raise its maximum level by 10.


    Horde Conductor - Replaces Undead Control and raises the maximum level by 20.


    Spells:


    Skeletal Sacrifice - Detonate a skeleton to shower your foe in shards of bone.


    Field of Death - Create an area that constantly drains life from the living.


    Death Nexus - Create a lodestone that connects to all nearby undead, sharing its power with them.


    Cursed Miasma - Replaces Black Miasma and increases its maximum level by 20. Cursed Miasma will carry your curse magick within it.


    Forbidden One has reached level 32. Choose one additional Skills or Spells:


    Skills:


    Corrupting Presence - Subvert the Will to resist from those around you.


    Crone¡¯s Gaze - Sense the inner motives of another when meeting their gaze.


    Raven Speech - Communicate with the children of the Old God.


    Spells:


    Advanced Bewitch - Replaces Bewitch and increases the maximum level by 10.


    Flesh to Power - Sacrifice your own body, or the body of another, to generate magick.


    Rot¡¯s Endurance - Employ the unending hardiness of Rot, who feels no pain and suffers no injury to impede him.


    Expert Suppress Mind - This ability will replace Advanced Suppress Mind and increase its maximum level by 10.


    Death Mage has reached level 12. Choose three additional Skills or Spells:


    Skills:


    Curse Weaving - Enhance your capacity to manipulate curses.


    Expert Death Magick - Replaces Advanced Death Magick and raises the maximum level by 10.


    Life Draw - Improve your ability to steal the vitality of the living.


    Sense Living - Your senses are tuned to hunt the living.


    Spells:


    Wilting Curse - Weaken and enfeeble your foes.


    Advanced Shivering Curse - Replaces Shivering Curse and increases its maximum level by ten.


    Curse of Pain - Cause intense pain in an area to those who defy you.


    Eyes of Death - See the flow of Death Magick with the naked eye.


    Hand of Corruption - Cloak your hand in an aura of death that can harm those you touch.


    Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 50. Choose an additional Feat:


    Ossuary Extraction I - Increase the amount of Death Magick available to the Ossuary.


    Ossuary Expansion I - Increase the size of the Ossuary.


    Ossuary Infusion I - Increase the efficacy of the bone receptacles.


    Class Focus I - Choose two Class Skills or Spells and raise their cap by 10.


    Skeleton Focus IV - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.


    Bone Mastery II - Empower all Bone related Skills, Spells and Minions.


    Half-Dead - Allow your own bones to be infused with Death Magick.


    Bone Sculptor - Improve your ability to mould and shape bone.


    Bone Animator - Empower your constructs.


    Death Mage has reached level 10. Choose an additional Feat:


    Efficient Death II - Your mastery will allow you to achieve more with less.


    Empowered Death I - Your mastery will strengthen your spells to greater heights.


    Penetrating Death Bolt - Your Death Bolt will pierce.


    Death Conversion - You will be faster when converting normal magick to Death Aligned magick.


    Curse Tuner - You can apply curses to a wider area, or increase their effect.


    Death Sense - Detect nearby sources of Death Magick.


    Deaden Self - Your sense of pain will grow dull.


    Eyes of the Grave - You will see as the spirits see.


    Rot Claws - Your hands will generate Death Magick in your nails.


    Fallen Shadow - You may store Death aligned energy in your shadow.

 B4C28 - City of Darkness

    The great wall of Kenmor loomed in the distance, so wide it was difficult to see the curve as the carriage approached. Tyron sat, tense, eyes darting from his hands folded in his lap to the open window. Rain drizzled down, spattering through the opening and onto his cloak, but he paid it no mind.


    There was a pall over the land, a shadow that didn¡¯t seem to solely be due to the low-hanging clouds. The side of the Emperor¡¯s Way, the road that ran through the centre of the city, was lined with people. Some travelling in groups, moving away from the capital, others huddled in small tent gatherings, looking lost and hopeless.


    The purge was ongoing, and nowhere were the effects felt more strongly than here, in the beating heart of the province.


    Tyron could see it in the hollow expressions of the people as his carriage rolled past. These were people who had lost loved ones, lost homes, been driven out from their communities by fear and false accusations.


    In each and every one of them, Tyron saw a potential soldier. Right now, they were fearful, terrified, aimless. They had suffered at the hands of the empire, but couldn¡¯t imagine striking back against it. They sought to ride out the trouble, or endure it, as best they could.


    It wouldn¡¯t be long now until the word of rebellion spread across the province. What would happen to these people then? Would they continue to cower? Doubtless many would, but some, some would fight.


    ¡°Not much further to the checkpoint, Master Almsfield,¡± the carriage driver called back.


    ¡°Thank you, driver,¡± he said, and took a deep breath to steady himself. Getting back into the city wouldn¡¯t be easy, but he¡¯d expected that. Had planned for it.


    Nothing about his return had been easy. It had been a terrible risk to use the rift from Cragwhistle and return to the Oldan estate, but neither could he afford to travel for weeks across the province. Emerging from the ritual site had been nerve-wracking, but thankfully, he hadn¡¯t found any marshals, or a small army of priests waiting for him on the other side.


    Getting from the estate to a village where he could hire a carriage had been another thing entirely. The house was likely nothing but a smoking ruin at this point, and he wasn¡¯t so foolish as to try and see it. Instead, he¡¯d had to pick his way through the forest, for days, emerging to the south and finally managing to connect to a road.


    He heard the driver slowing the horses, pulling back on the reins and Tyron steadied himself. It wasn¡¯t long until there was a knock at the side of the carriage and as a lantern was held to the open window, shining a light inside.


    ¡°Mind stepping out of the carriage, sir?¡±


    ¡°Lukas Almsfield, Arcanist.¡±


    ¡°Master Almsfield, if you would.¡±


    Tyron nodded and the marshall stepped back, allowing him to emerge into the rain. The checkpoint straddled the highway, a series of hastily constructed buildings on both sides of the road. Teams of marshals, with priests mixed in amongst them, moved from carriage to carriage, inspecting every individual, every pack and every parcel.


    Interestingly, there were far more people moving out of the city than into it.


    There were four marshalls outside his carriage, each of them tense, hands never far from their weapons. Tyron noted their shaky nerves with interest. Something was driving these men and women, pushing them to the edge of their nerves.


    ¡°Status ritual please, sir.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    Masking his nerves, Tyron pulled back his cloak to reveal the knife sheathed at his waist. When it was indicated he could withdraw it, he did so and made a neat slice on his thumb.


    He was presented with a page pinned to a thin slate and noted how the water ran off the paper without soaking in. Enchanted, and in quite a clever way. As he pressed his thumb to the paper, he didn¡¯t bother trying to disguise his professional curiosity.


    ¡°Is the array on the back of the slate?¡± he asked as his blood flowed onto the paper.


    The marshal shrugged impatiently.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know anything about it except that it works, sir.¡±


    ¡°Can I take a look after?¡±


    ¡°No, we need to keep the line moving.¡±


    When his status was finalised, they withdrew the slate. Two marshals watched him as the other two took the sheet away and inspected it closely under a burning torch. After a few moments, they returned.


    ¡°Everything seems to be fine. Just wait here a moment and a priest will be along shortly.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°A priest,¡± the marshal repeated impatiently before waving over another officer to watch him as the four moved down the line to the next carriage waiting.


    Fighting to maintain his calm, Tyron stood in the rain, hands clasped inside his cloak as he watched the bustle around the checkpoint. Fires guttered in the drizzle, and he spotted a few arcane light sources here and there, bobbing through the dark as people walked with them attached to something or other.


    Soon, a white-robed figure approached, a Priestess of Lofis, judging by the leaves embroidered on her robes. With a staff in one hand, she trudged through the rain, a disgruntled look on her face.


    ¡°A good evening to you, Priestess,¡± Tyron said, bowing to hide his wary expression.


    ¡°Yes, blessings of Lofis be upon you. Let¡¯s get this done.¡±


    Without any further words, she raised her free hand, which began to glow softly as she closed her eyes, as if listening to something. Tyron tensed. He hadn¡¯t anticipated something like this. Were the Divines themselves inspecting every wagon heading into the city? Impossible. Whatever was happening, he hoped The Three were covering him. Otherwise, he might be in real trouble.


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Surreptitiously, he began to gather magick, forming sigils within his robes as he watched the Priestess.


    After ten seconds or so, she lowered her hand and the glow faded.


    ¡°You¡¯re fine to go through. Take this pass and show it to the guards further up. Go in the light of the Five.¡±


    No sooner had she handed him the pass and spoken her blessings than she was off, pulling her robe up out of the mud and striding to the next carriage.


    Unsure what had just happened, Tyron let his magick disperse as he looked down at the pass. It was a palm-sized metallic rectangle, stamped with an intricate pattern of interlocking circles and the symbols of The Five. Not sure what else to do, he climbed back into the carriage and signalled the driver to continue.


    Despite the majority of traffic flowing out of the city, there was still a significant line of people trying to get in. They waited an hour before they finally reached the outskirts of Shadetown, where a second checkpoint sat astride the road. Feeling nervous, Tyron handed over his pass, which the guard took from him, threw into a waiting box filled with others just like it, and waved them through.


    The carriage rolled on and he finally allowed himself to relax a little. He¡¯d been worried his pass would mark him as a heretic and the dozens of guards would jump him the moment he¡¯d handed it over.


    The rain continued to drip and drizzle as the carriage pushed into Shadetown, the wall looming high ahead. If the signs of despondency and fear were clear on the road, they were practically a shout here, just outside Kenmor.


    The streets, usually full of people, and traffic, and trade, were a shadow of their former selves. Not even the dismal weather could explain the small number of furtive people, making their way across the streets at a hurried pace. Every person he saw seemed to have their shoulders hunched, as if a weight had been placed on their back, or they sought to avoid the gaze of someone.


    Everyone, except the marshals, that is.


    Almost like gangs, there were groups on street corners, and others moving between the houses and storefronts, clearly with a target in mind. The tense atmosphere hung over the entire city like a blanket.


    Tyron kept his head down and tried not to stare at anyone as the streets rolled by. Eventually the carriage driver pulled to the side, and Tyron thanked the man before paying him. With his bag in hand, he made his way through the roads, making a beeline for his shop.


    Everywhere he looked, stores, inns and taverns that had thrived not long ago were boarded up, the occupants having been taken by the purge or fled the city in fear. When he approached the market, even that normally bustling part of Shadetown, filled with commerce, discussion and haggling was quiet, with barely anyone out of their homes. When he arrived at Almsfield Enchantments, to his shock, that too had been boarded up, the entrance dark and dusty.


    He fished his key out of his bag and opened the door to find the interior hadn¡¯t been disturbed, but a fine layer of dust told the story of neglect. Nobody had been here in weeks, perhaps longer. Wondering what had happened, Tyron locked the door behind him and cast a light orb, letting the soft glow of magick fill up the dark shop floor.


    The cabinets were undisturbed, the display pieces still in their places along with the descriptive cards alongside each of them. Moving behind the counter, he found the safe still intact, the coins stacked neatly inside. They hadn¡¯t been robbed, and there was no damage, or sign of struggle. So what had happened?


    Confused, Tyron continued to inspect the store, letting his light rest above his right palm as he checked the back rooms. The tools and equipment were still there, along with boxes of cores, already engraved and waiting to be set. More and more puzzled, he checked to make sure there was no sign the entrance to his study had been tampered with or discovered and found none.


    Even more baffled, he made his way upstairs. His feet heavy on the wooden steps, he thought he heard a muffled conversation cut off as he approached the door at the entrance to the second floor. Was there someone in his rooms?


    On guard now, he raised his hands and prepared a Death Bolt in one hand and the Dominate Mind spell in the other. Was someone lying in wait for him? Had Yor decided to push the issue?


    Anger pulsed in his temples and he forced it back down. He needed to be calm, in control. Making too much of a scene would give himself away, raise suspicion when he could least afford it.


    With smooth movements, he opened the door, took three strides down the corridor and flung open the entrance to the upstairs workshop.


    There was a scramble inside, a body dove under the worktable as Tyron flung his light glove into the room and hunted for a target.


    Raising his foot, he kicked over the table, sending it onto its side with a crash. A figure cowered below, but Tyron allowed them no time to recover, slamming his mind into the other¡¯s and crushing it in an instant.


    The figure went limp, rolling to the side, and only then did Tyron recognise who it was.


    ¡°Flynn? Bone and Blood, what are you doing?¡±


    His apprentice lay flopped onto his side, unable to move, and Tyron stared down at him in consternation.


    ¡°And where the hell are your pants?¡±


    ¡°M-m-master Almsfield?¡± a timid voice called from deeper into the room. ¡°Is that you?¡±


    ¡°Cerry?¡± Tyron asked, sending his globe higher.


    Wrapped in a blanket, his former store attendant saw him in the dim light and burst into tears, her loud sobs filling the workshop.


    Only then did Tyron notice the changes in the room. A pallet and bedding, a chamber pot, water and food tucked away in the corner. Clearly, something had happened here.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to my room,¡± he announced wearily as he released his grip on his apprentice. ¡°Flynn, put your dick away and make yourselves presentable. Then we can talk.¡±


    His own room was just as dusty as downstairs, and Tyron cursed as he resigned himself to tidying the place up. At least none of his possessions had been messed with. Since the place appeared abandoned, it was almost a miracle it was unrobbed. Even the reputable parts of Shadetown weren¡¯t above a little petty crime when the opportunity afforded itself.


    Ten minutes later, a clearly embarrassed Flynn and Cerry joined him just as he finished wiping down his small table and chairs. With a gesture, he invited them to join him as he sat with a sigh.


    ¡°Let¡¯s not waste time,¡± he stated. ¡°I can see that something has gone very wrong, which led you to close down the store and take up residence upstairs. Out with it. You wouldn¡¯t have hidden here if you didn¡¯t want me to help you.¡±


    Flynn, shame faced, looked down at his lap, and it was Cerry, barely holding back her tears, who spoke first.


    ¡°I-I-I¡¯m sorry, M-m-master Almsfield. I j-j-just d-didn¡¯t know where else to turn!¡±


    She broke down again, sobbing into her hands, and Tyron turned to Flynn impatiently.


    ¡°What happened, Flynn? Talk to me.¡±


    The young man gathered his courage and slowly brought his eyes up to meet his teacher¡¯s.


    ¡°It was¡­ ahem¡­ it was Cerry¡¯s¡­ ah¡­ Awakening. She¡­ She was g-given¡­ an illegal Class.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s eyes sharpened, then he sighed and softened his gaze. He brought up a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. This was his fault¡­ in a loose sense. The Old Gods had unleashed chaos when they¡¯d decided to interfere with the Awakening stones, right as a purge was under way. Clearly, Cerry had been caught up in the crossfire and Awakened something the Priests would not have wanted to see. So, they¡¯d closed the store and had been hiding her here ever since.


    ¡°I¡¯m amazed you weren¡¯t found. Hasn¡¯t anyone checked the store?¡±


    Flynn nodded.


    ¡°A few times, but we managed to hide Cerry in the supply crates.¡±


    ¡°Ah, they needed you for the keys. You knew when they were coming.¡±


    Again, his apprentice nodded.


    ¡°Well,¡± Tyron muttered, ¡°this is going to be a pain. Let me say this first, I¡¯m not going to turn you in, Cerry.¡±


    Both of them stared at him, hope and surprise warring on their faces.


    He smothered a wry smile.


    ¡°It would be difficult for me to do so, considering what I am.¡±


    He pushed himself up from the table.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make some tea. This might take a while.¡±

 B4C29 - Living in the Shadows

    Tyron sighed as he sat down on his bed. It had been a risk revealing himself to Cerry and Flynn, but it was a measured one. Who were they going to reveal him to? The moment Cerry popped her head above the parapet, she was going to get it taken off, and Flynn wanted to marry the girl, putting her at risk was not something he could handle. For better or worse, his apprentice had chosen his side the moment he¡¯d helped Cerry hide from the authorities.


    The Necromancer leaned back and pinched his brow. He was tired; the travel had been long and arduous, draining even his own formidable reserves of endurance. At times, he¡¯d felt he wouldn¡¯t make it back into the city at all, but now that he was here, he could feel the danger pressing in all around him.


    Here he was, in the seat of power for the Duke, the Divines, the Magisters, all of them. At any moment, they could break down his door and sweep through the store. If even the slightest trace of Death Magick was found, they¡¯d break through his floor and eventually find his study, with all the evidence of his activities.


    Adding Cerry and Flynn on top of his existing concerns wasn¡¯t something he wanted, and if her Class hadn¡¯t been so unique, perhaps he wouldn¡¯t have bothered.


    The ability to calm the spirits? A Spirit Speaker? What¡¯s more¡­ the Class description said she could grant them release from their suffering. Did that mean she could move them on from their aimless wandering on this plane after death? In that case¡­ where did they go?


    If he worked with her, it might be possible for him to finally locate the realm he had been searching for: the Land of the Dead.


    It had to exist. Dove was able to summon creatures from there; his Class description stated as much. Also, Tyron had long harboured suspicions as to the origin of the dense Death Magick that flooded the Ossuary. Where else would there exist a nigh endless source of such potent energy?


    This was the secret knowledge the Abyss had promised him, in exchange for a truly terrible price.


    If he were able to find it¡­ if he could go there¡­ the possibilities were endless. An infinite supply of spirits, powerful Slayers of old, heroes of legend, and an endless river of Death Magick with which he could empower his constructs.


    If he could tap the energy of that realm and siphon it into his minions, he could sustain an undead army of unprecedented size.


    And perhaps¡­ just perhaps¡­ he might be able to find the souls of Magnin and Beory.


    He had no idea where their souls had gone, just that they¡¯d made some sort of arrangement to ensure they were beyond the reach of their enemies, and beyond his own.


    No matter what deals he¡¯d offered any of his ¡®patrons¡¯, none were willing to give an inch when it came to his parents. The Abyss had rejected him despite the abundance of souls he¡¯d been willing to offer. The Scarlet Court had rebuffed him, despite the blood slaves and favours he had desperately proposed. He¡¯d done everything shy of offering himself to them on a platter, but they wouldn¡¯t budge. The Old Gods had refused to even hear his pleas, completely uninterested in anything he could give them.


    It was maddening. He¡¯d been driven into a wild rage, but now¡­ now he might have a way forward. There was no evidence their souls could be found in the Realm of the Dead, but at the very least he could rule it out.


    Thoughts and emotions swirling in his head, Tyron forced himself up. Rest wouldn¡¯t come easy in this state, and there was still so much to do. Before he allowed himself to sleep, he needed to make sure he was secure, which meant going down to the study and checking his wards.


    He took his time as he moved through the store and into the backrooms, inspecting every nook and cranny to ensure everything was exactly as he¡¯d left it. When he triggered the mechanism to reveal the hidden staircase, his eyes sought every rune and enchantment he¡¯d built into it to ensure it was neither found nor disturbed. Finding nothing wrong, he breathed a small sigh of relief and made his way down into the underground cellar.


    It had been months since he¡¯d been here, but as far as he could tell, there had been no change to the room at all. His wards were intact, the sigils engraved into the stone walls were functional, and not a trace of Death Magick remained in the air.


    Just as he began to allow himself to relax, he did notice one difference. On his desk sat a rolled up sheet of paper bound by a single thread of twine, placed exactly in the centre. Tyron stood and observed for several minutes, as if it were a deadly viper reared back to strike. Eventually he moved toward it, but didn¡¯t pick it up, instead subjecting it to every manner of magickal test he could think of or devise in the moment. Unable to find anything wrong with it, he finally picked up the paper, broke the string and unwound it.


    The page contained a short message, written in a neat, uncomplicated hand. Tyron scanned it once, twice, then placed it down, a contemplative look flitting across his face.


    This¡­ was another complication. What he needed to figure out was if it would tilt things in his favour, or against.


    ~~~


    Yor had not been having a good night.


    ¡°Get that undisciplined wretch below or I¡¯ll cut off her head myself,¡± she whispered harshly into the ear of her confidant.


    Her voice was filled with wrath, but she didn¡¯t allow it to touch her face; a serene, coy expression played across her exquisite features, leaving all who saw her thinking that slight smile was for them alone.


    ¡°I have no idea how she got up here, mistress,¡± Carlotta begged.


    The vampire tightened her grip around the thrall¡¯s arm until it was painfully tight.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care how it happened. Get. Her. Down. Now.¡±


    Finally, she managed to cut through the terror that gripped the useless woman. Carlotta nodded before stumbling toward the back room where the¡­ incident had taken place.


    For her part, Yor continued to play the room. A word here, a touch there, she kept everyone yearning for more, eager to stay, but ever so subtly, she made sure that none moved into the deeper rooms.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Oh no, please stay in your seat,¡± she purred to one gold Slayer, ¡°I¡¯ll have someone fetch you a drink. I couldn¡¯t bear to see you move out of my sight.¡±


    She signalled one of her staff, another thrall, of course, to tend to the man¡¯s needs before casting her gaze around the room. Everyone appeared settled, happy to remain where they were and indulge in their vices. Hopefully, they¡¯d remain so for at least a few minutes so she could attend to the¡­ situation herself.


    With a final glance, she turned her back on the darkened lounge and moved down the corridor. More of her people were here, standing nonchalantly, leaning against the walls, but in position to block access to any who would seek to walk through.


    In the back room, she could hear the disturbance. Someone was thrashing, limbs flailing and scraping against the floor. Yor growled under her breath as her fangs extended in response to the anger boiling up inside her.


    And because of the rich scent of blood that filled the air.


    In the back room, Carlotta was sobbing, attempting to pull a hunched figure off the ground, but could only watch as they slurped and sucked at the blood pooling on the floor. Still seated at the table sat what had not long ago been an esteemed customer, now missing his throat.


    With a blur of motion, Yor crossed the floor and sank her slippered foot into the side of the prone vampire with a sickening crunch. The creature tried to unleash a howl of outrage, but Yor was already there, her hand pressed around the throat too tight for air to pass through.


    She stared with blood red eyes into the gaze of the other, dominating the fledgeling with her superior will.


    With an almost animalistic whimper, her victim slumped in defeat, going completely limp in Yor¡¯s grasp.


    With contemptuous ease, she threw the defeated vampire to the side and turned her gaze on Carlotta, who cringed back from her mistress.


    ¡°She will be docile now,¡± Yor stated softly. ¡°Take her below before there is any further unpleasantness.¡±


    How had a fledgeling broken out of their rooms? It was not supposed to happen, not now of all times!


    A question for later; right now, she needed damage control.


    ¡°Someone fetch Vincent. Have him clean up this mess and find out who that was,¡± she said, gesturing toward the still-gushing corpse sitting at the table, a blissful smile still etched on his face. ¡°Ensure that none of our guests come back to this room for the rest of the night.¡±


    The nearby thralls nodded, and two of them dashed off to find her trusted right-hand man. At least there was someone competent she could rely on in moments of crises.


    ¡°If you¡¯re looking for Vincent, I think he¡¯s right here,¡± a voice said from the doorway.


    A familiar voice.


    Yor turned slowly to the entrance and saw Tyron Steelarm, smiling at her with dead eyes, one hand placed on the shoulder of a vacant-eyed Vincent.


    ¡°He¡¯s been very accommodating, haven¡¯t you Vincent?¡±


    No words were spoken as the vampire¡¯s glazed expression didn¡¯t shift. Tyron shook his shoulder a little, and other than causing Vincent to sway on his feet, nothing changed.


    Yor felt her temper flare, but she mastered herself quickly. She hadn¡¯t lived as long as she had in the Scarlet Court without learning how to control her mental state. In the Court, even blinking at the wrong time could lead to a gruesome death. By comparison, this realm was a child¡¯s playground.


    ¡°Tyron, how lovely to see you again,¡± she said, caressing every word in the way she knew caused his hackles to rise.


    As expected, disgust flickered over his features and Yor, not for the first time, wondered why he was so immune to her charms.


    ¡°I wish I could say the same,¡± he replied evenly, stepping around the dominated Vincent to enter the room. He took a close look at the deceased at the table, shaking his head.


    ¡°I hope this one wasn¡¯t a Priest. That could prove a little difficult for you to brush under the rug.¡±


    ¡°Are you worried about me, Tyron? How delightful. I take this to mean our relationship is fully mended?¡±


    ¡°Hardly,¡± he scoffed, taking care to step around the still growing pool of blood. ¡°Is someone going to take care of this? I don¡¯t suppose having your customers discussing the room filled with blood as they go home would go over well in the current environment?¡±


    Yor wanted to snarl, but only tilted her head toward one of her thralls. For once, one of the creatures proved capable of thinking for itself.


    ¡°I¡¯ll fetch Perior,¡± he stated before dashing off down the corridor.


    A good choice. Another of her coven, tasked with managing one of the upstairs lounges. He could leave that post for an hour or two without issue.


    She turned back to Tyron, who continued to examine the deceased with almost professional curiosity.


    ¡°Would you like to take our discussion to another room? One with a more pleasant atmosphere, perhaps?¡±


    A little edge crept into her voice. She hadn¡¯t called him out on his less than subtle threats, but she would only allow him to push her so far.


    He ignored her.


    ¡°I¡¯ve started to figure it out, you know.¡± He raised a finger and tapped it to the side of his head. ¡°What your mistress did to me. At first, I thought it was about anger. I was losing my temper more and more. A constant, bubbling rage, always there, just simmering under the surface. Quite distracting.¡±


    Yor listened silently as Tyron spoke. He didn¡¯t look at her, just continued to step around the deceased, picking at the dead man¡¯s clothes, his hands, even his pockets.


    ¡°But that¡¯s not all it was, was it? Of course, it had to be something more insidious, more subtle than that. It¡¯s a more complex manipulation of my emotions. Some have been deadened, but others heightened. More anger, less remorse. You tried to strip my compassion, my guilt from me. Turn me into something more like you.¡±


    The vampire allowed herself a small smile.


    ¡°Quite the gift the Mistress has allowed you. Do you not feel yourself to be more fit for the purpose you have laid out for yourself?¡±


    To her surprise, Tyron nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°Perhaps. There may be a grain of truth to what you say, but then, how might I have thought of it before that spider sunk her claws into my head?¡±


    Yor¡¯s gaze sharpened. Spider? Where had he heard that from? Perhaps it was a coincidence.


    ¡°At any rate, I didn¡¯t come here to go over my old grievances. I came to make an introduction.¡±


    ¡°An introduction?¡± Yor looked around the room mockingly. ¡°To whom?¡±


    In response, Tyron reached into the inner pocket of his cloak and removed a large, malformed rat.


    Seething anger exploded in Yor¡¯s chest as she glared at the hideous creature.


    A voice emanated from the rodent, amused and superior at her visible rage.


    ¡°Whore,¡± it said.


    ¡°Dog,¡± she replied.

 B4C30 - Coven to Coven

    ¡°Isn¡¯t this nice?¡± Tyron said with false joviality. ¡°Me, a humble Necromancer, bringing my betters together at the table. You must be so pleased to have a chance to talk together at last.¡±


    For a moment, he¡¯d thought Yor was just going to try and rip his head off. She may very well have succeeded too; he wasn¡¯t sure precisely what the vampire was capable of, or how much she could get away with. Fortunately, his head remained on his shoulders and the two of them¡­ or three of them, had retired to another room for more privacy.


    ¡°I warned you not to get involved with them,¡± Yor said, her entire demeanour ice cold. She didn¡¯t even look at the rat, focusing her attention on Tyron instead. ¡°You¡¯ve made it difficult to justify for my Mistress to offer you any more assistance.¡±


    He scoffed at her.


    ¡°Do I want more of your assistance? After our recent entanglements, I¡¯m no longer convinced. Besides, why should I choose your faction over theirs? Why should I have any position regarding vampire politics at all?¡±


    ¡°We have invested in you,¡± Yor said snippily.


    ¡°I¡¯ve paid you back many times over,¡± Tyron replied, blunt as a hammer.


    ¡°I¡¯m feeling wounded here. Are you really going to ignore me, bitch?¡±


    The voice emanating from the rat was¡­ strange. The rat¡¯s mouth and throat were moving, it literally was the rat speaking, but it was mimicking the speech of another. Hearing that guttural, at times animalistic voice coming from the small creature was off-putting, to say the least.


    Yor sneered.


    ¡°Crawl home with your tail between your legs before I rip you in half. Does that suit your needs?¡±


    The rat tsked.


    ¡°You thought you could keep a realm this juicy all to yourself? It¡¯s full of blood and just teetering on the edge of a full fucking collapse. That fat spider must have anticipated quite the haul when everything went to shit. Oh no, we are going to get a slice of this, bitch, and I don¡¯t care if I have to bite your hand off to get it.¡±


    Judging by the glint in her eye, Yor¡¯s Mistress had been expecting exactly that.


    ¡°Always, your appetite runs ahead of your ability, Valk. What can you do, skulking in the sewers and touching the rats? This realm will belong to my Mistress, not to the mutt you serve.¡±


    ¡°You were here first, and what do you have to show for it?¡± Valk replied with contempt. ¡°An infested den of depravity, just so you don¡¯t miss home. Yorin, you are going to fail here, and it won¡¯t be me your mistress hollows out when all is said and fucking done.¡±


    The vampire and the rat snarled at each other as Tyron watched, entirely bemused. So Yorin was her real name?


    ¡°You two seem to know each other very well. I didn¡¯t realise this would be a meeting of such old friends,¡± he drawled.


    Both turned hate-filled gazes upon him, and he irrationally felt the urge to burst out laughing.


    ¡°Valk¡­ I presume that¡¯s your name. Don¡¯t try to stare me down with the rat, I can¡¯t take it seriously.¡±


    ¡°If he had some courage, he would have come himself,¡± Yor sniffed.


    ¡°As if you would let me walk out alive. Treachery is your way of life.¡±


    Tyron brought his hands together sharply, cutting off both vampires before they could descend into bickering again.


    ¡°As fun as it is to listen to you two snipe at each other, I have other things to do with my time,¡± he stated. ¡°I imagine there is a purpose to this conversation other than insults, Valk; otherwise, you wouldn¡¯t have paid me so much.¡±


    ¡°If he wants to negotiate, you will need to leave, Tyron,¡± Yor said. ¡°You have no need to listen in on matters relating to the Court.¡±


    ¡°Except I do,¡± Tyron said, leaning over to rest his chin on one hand. ¡°That was my price for facilitating this get-together.¡±


    ¡°You¡­!¡± Yor turned her enraged glare down at the rat, who occupied itself with its whiskers. She sighed, the emotion draining out of her face and leaving only the emotionless monster behind. ¡°If you want to talk, then talk, Valk. What do you want?¡±


    ¡°Nothing too dramatic,¡± he replied easily. ¡°We have a great big city to operate in, plenty of space for both of us. I felt as if we should come to an in-principle agreement about which areas will belong to who.¡±


    ¡°I could hunt you down and drink your soul, Valk,¡± Yor said plainly, ¡°then I wouldn¡¯t have to share it at all.¡±


    ¡°You want to chase us down? You know better than most how hard it is to root us out once we get our claws into a realm. A disturbance like that would risk exposure, for all of us. Doesn¡¯t seem like that would be in your best interests.¡±


    ¡°It would hardly be the first time my Mistress burned everything to the ground to prevent your Master from touching something she wanted,¡± Yor countered, folding both hands in her lap.


    ¡°And it cost her dearly. For how long can she keep playing the game that way? Eventually, she needs a win.¡±


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    ¡°Underestimate the spider at your own peril.¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s going to be ¡®I win or we all lose¡¯, then we are all going to lose, Yorin. I only hope that when it all burns down, I get to mix your fucking ashes into the ruins.¡±


    They continued to bicker back and forth, threatening their lives, souls, and all they held dear almost every other sentence.


    Tyron wondered if this was how all negotiations between rival covens were conducted. If so, it was a wonder the Scarlet Court has risen to be as powerful as it had become. He¡¯d learned a little from Valk in their brief interaction after he¡¯d accepted the vampire¡¯s offer to meet, and from what he could gather, the Court was closer to a hell than a paradise, even for the deathless creatures who lived there.


    It was playing out right in front of his eyes. A lack of trust was one thing, but it went much deeper than that. Both parties in the negotiation knew, deep down, that the other would betray at the first opportunity. It was difficult for mutual cooperation to exist between two people who actively wanted to kill the other.


    The Court was divided into many factions, but there were a dozen major ones, each led by a truly powerful, truly ancient vampire. All they seemed to do with the eternity of time afforded to them was try and bring the others down and advance their own interests, trying to seize a throne that was impossible to hold.


    When Yor said her Mistress would gladly cut off her own nose to spite her face, she was deadly serious. The various factions would gladly light themselves on fire if the flames made the others vaguely uncomfortable.


    Such an exhausting way to live. Listening to them go back and forth, like two starving dogs in a fighting pit, taught Tyron a valuable lesson about their kind. Regardless how much they hated each other, there was an uneasy level of respect there. They recognised that the other had the capacity to hurt them, which was not something they believed about the humans they depended on for food. To the vampires, the people of Kenmor were like bottles of wine. Items that they wanted, but wouldn¡¯t be upset if a few of them broke. Or a lot of them broke.


    It didn¡¯t bother him, even if he recognised that they fundamentally thought of him in exactly the same way. He was food. Protected food, but food nonetheless. Which was why they were so surprised when he cleared his throat, cutting off their negotiations and bringing their attention to him.


    ¡°This has been very productive,¡± he said, ¡°but it''s clear you can¡¯t come to an agreement. Why don¡¯t we save some time and agree that both of you are going to work for me? For the near future, anyway.¡±


    There was a moment of total silence in the room as both Yor and the Valk-possessed-rat stared at him, a mild frown on their faces.


    ¡°Is this some sort of¡­ joke?¡± Yor asked, her voice as chilled as ice.


    ¡°No,¡± Tyron replied. ¡°I¡¯m not very funny.¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡± Valk laughed harshly. ¡°You could have fooled me.¡±


    It was interesting to note, now that they had a common enemy, how well they fell into line together.


    ¡°Let¡¯s stop wasting time,¡± Tyron said. ¡°The reason you are talking to each other at all is because of the purge. Both of you are at constant risk of exposure, and unless I miss my guess, the situation is fairly dire for both of you. Unless, of course, you have blood-starved vampires ripping the throats out of your customers every other night, Yor.¡±


    He let the unspoken question hang in the air, and accepted her silence as sufficient answer.


    ¡°And Valk, I haven¡¯t known you long, but I gather your coven would rather slit their own throats than cut a deal with Yor and her kind. So why exactly are you here?¡±


    He paused to take a deep breath of the musty, smoke-filled air.


    ¡°Smells like desperation in here. In fact, I can practically taste it.¡±


    ¡°You need to be very careful, Tyron,¡± Yor warned him, her face a flat mask. ¡°The Scarlet Court is not to be trifled with.¡±


    ¡°Unless your Mistress,¡± he turned to the rat, ¡°or your Master are going to come here, to this realm, then I don¡¯t think I have much to worry about. Until they do, and so long as the threat of the purge is hanging over your heads, it seems that both of you are going to have to do exactly what I tell you to.¡±


    ¡°I could kill you here and now,¡± Yor told him, leaning across the table, not bothering to conceal the animalistic hunger she felt burning in her veins. ¡°I could turn you into one of us, bound by blood. Is that what you want?¡±


    Tyron smiled and brought up one hand.


    ¡°Unless you want me to vent Death Magick into the ground floor of this establishment, I suggest you don¡¯t make the attempt. I can assure you, it would be so potent the Priests would sense it from their dorms in the cathedral.¡±


    ¡°You cast a spell inside my parlour? Are you insane?¡±


    ¡°Just a little ritual,¡± Tyron shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m almost certain nobody noticed, but it¡¯s difficult to be certain of anything in these trying times.¡±


    Yor stared at him, the beast within raging in her eyes, and Tyron looked coolly back, his hand held in the air.


    ¡°You might have her over a barrel,¡± Valk hissed, ¡°but not us. You have no idea where to find my coven and no way to threaten us.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have to,¡± Tyron said, still holding Yor¡¯s gaze. ¡°If I reveal them, what do you think is going to happen when the empire¡¯s done burning their way through this place?¡±


    He raised a brow at the rat, who remained silent.


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what will happen: they¡¯ll tear the city apart looking for more vampires. Brick by brick, they¡¯ll rip their way through every building and every sewer. Eventually they¡¯ll find me, and my little basement, and that will lead them straight to you.¡±


    He shrugged in an exaggerated manner.


    ¡°You can take the risk, obviously. Maybe you¡¯ll be able to avoid detection. Better yet, perhaps you can scurry back to the court with your tail between your legs.¡± He smirked. ¡°I presume your Master is more forgiving of failure than Yor¡¯s Mistress?¡±


    Unless he missed his guess, they would be ripped to pieces if they failed their tasks and returned empty-handed. The Court demanded blood and slaves, an ocean of both, and the empire could provide for a long time.


    Neither Yor nor Valk spoke into the silence that hung in the air; instead, they glared daggers at him. It was easy to imagine them thinking of tearing into his throat with their fangs and ripping out his soul.


    He placed his hands flat on the table and spoke clearly.


    ¡°So, for the duration of the purge, you will agree to do what I ask you to do, when I ask you to do it. It won¡¯t be anything too burdensome, a few chores here and there. In return, I¡¯ll help provide what you need to survive this period of heightened danger, and I won¡¯t reveal your presence and have you all painfully destroyed. Does that sound reasonable?¡±


    Yor glared at him, animalistic bloodlust seething in her eyes.


    ¡°We have a deal,¡± she said, her voice so low it was almost a growl, ¡°but you will die for this, Tyron. When the danger is passed and you can be safely disposed of, you¡¯ll be left to bleed out in an alley. The Court will demand it.¡±


    The rat nodded and bared its fangs at him. Clearly, Valk agreed.


    Tyron sighed as he pushed himself up from the table.


    ¡°That¡¯s the problem with you, Yor. You¡¯re always thinking three or four steps ahead, always calculating the next angle.¡±


    He brought up a thumb and tapped it to his chest.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have any more steps to make, or more angles to play. You want to kill me when the crisis is over? As long as my goals are achieved, why the fuck would I care?¡±

 B4C31 - Golden Wings

    ¡°Are you sure this fuckhead is any good, Fee?¡± MacReilly said doubtfully.


    ¡°You were full of confidence when we left the Birdcage,¡± she replied, not slowing her pace.


    ¡°I was just happy to be out,¡± he admitted. He cast a doubtful eye to the shabby buildings around them. ¡°Would a highly qualified Arcanist really be living in a place like this?¡±


    Feolin rolled her eyes.


    ¡°Is that snobbery I hear? From the great MacReilly? Hero of the people? Rough and tumble man''s-man from the great northern mountains? If the people living here aren¡¯t good enough for you, I suppose we can turn around and go back to the cage empty handed.¡±


    She made to turn around but her old friend grabbed her arm with a scowl.


    ¡°Are you trying to ruin my reputation, woman?¡± he growled. ¡°You know exactly what I¡¯m trying to say! No fancy pants Arcanist is going to be caught dead in a neighbourhood like this!¡±


    She shook his hand off, or, he let it go when she moved, and kept walking deeper into the tangle of narrow streets.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t heard of this guy either, but he was an apprentice of Master Willhem, so he can¡¯t be too bad.¡±


    ¡°We wouldn¡¯t even be here if they let us keep our old weapons,¡± MacReilly grumbled, not for the first time.


    As if they would let the golds keep their arms and armour inside the Birdcage, Feolin thought to herself bitterly. Surrendering their precious, hard won gear had been one of the conditions of entry. Feolin had sold hers, and MacReilly had sent his back to his family in the north, both common options for the gold ranked Slayers in the capital.


    After a few more twists and turns, Feolin grew frustrated and turned to the two handlers following in their wake.


    ¡°Are you sure the shop is around here? The streets grow more confusing the further out we go!¡±


    The two Magisters sneered almost in unison, and she was forced to stifle a surge of anger. Being around these¡­ people¡­ had always rubbed her the wrong way, and now that she was finally out of the cage, it grated having her leash be held in such a brazen manner.


    Hunting dogs set against the kin. That¡¯s all we¡¯ve ever been to them.


    ¡°You¡¯ll find Almsfield Enchantments near the market, as was explained to you before,¡± one of the Magisters said with naked contempt.


    ¡°Master Almsfield has done work at the Tower,¡± the other sniffed. ¡°If he is good enough for us, then he is certainly good enough for you.¡±


    ¡°That knocks him down a few fucking pegs in my estimation,¡± MacReilly muttered.


    Feolin warned him to silence with a glance before she returned to marching through the streets. It wouldn¡¯t do them any good to antagonise the Magisters, not when they were so close to having the first sniff of freedom in years.


    To think I fought so hard to escape the rifts, and now find myself so desperate to get back to them. I¡¯ve been such a fool. We are all fools.


    When they finally came upon the market, she was almost surprised. She¡¯d expected it to be loud, bustling, filled with people and noise. The reality was so startlingly different she almost didn¡¯t realise she¡¯d reached her destination when it was right in front of her. There were people, but far less than she expected to see at midday. Storekeepers still advertised their wares, and customers haggled over prices, but everything had an element of furtiveness, of fear.


    The terror inflicted by the purge hung over the entire district like a pungent scent, so thick it almost formed a vapour she could see with the naked eye.


    MacReilly sensed it just as she did. He snorted and curled his lip, his hands clenched into fists by his side. She¡¯d been so preoccupied thinking of escaping the cage she hadn¡¯t considered just what the purge had meant to the ordinary people in the province. After all, she almost never got to see them.


    For the first time, she got a sense of just how bad it was, and it shook her.


    ¡°The store is that way,¡± indicated one of the Magisters, bored.


    Again, she suppressed a flash of anger, and followed the directions down one of the side streets. A few doors down, on her left, she found an impressive-looking building, with a thin, blond haired man out front, sweeping the porch in front of the door.


    He was so focused on his cleaning, he didn¡¯t seem to notice them approach.


    ¡°Hello,¡± she called, and the young man startled, turning toward them with wide blinking eyes. ¡°Sorry to disturb you,¡± she said, ¡°my friend and I were hoping to speak to Master Almsfield. Is he in today?¡±


    The young man stared at them for a few moments, then beyond them, to the two Magisters several paces behind. She could practically hear the gears turning in his head.


    With a sigh, he turned toward the door and pushed it open.


    ¡°Come inside,¡± he said. ¡°Please don¡¯t mind the state of the store. We¡¯ve only just reopened.¡±


    So saying, he stepped through the threshold, and after a moment of hesitation, Feolin and MacReilly followed, their chaperones close behind.


    Once within, she could see exactly what he meant. The interior of the store was clearly unkempt, with a thin layer of dust coating many of the surfaces. She frowned as she looked around. The state of the place was one thing, but the contents of the display cabinets were another. Water purifiers, heating stones, filters, chillers. These were the sorts of trinkets and gadgets middling households purchased to make their lives more comfortable, not the kind of weapons and arms Slayers would carry into battle.


    Was this Arcanist really up to the task?


    ¡°Is Master Almsfield present? I would like to speak to him in person if at all possible,¡± she said.


    The young man turned toward her and blinked owlishly once more. After a moment, he seemed to come to a realisation.


    ¡°Oh! Yes of course you can speak to him. I mean¡­ you have spoken to him already¡­. That is to say. Ahem. I am Master Almsfield. It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you.¡±


    Feolin¡¯s face tightened, but she managed to keep her disappointment off her face. MacReilly was not so disciplined.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Fucking waste of time,¡± he barked and turned his back.


    A rude thing to say, though not incorrect.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Feolin said, and offered a short bow, ¡°I don¡¯t think you are quite what we are looking for.¡±


    She turned to leave irritated at wasting her precious time out of the cage, but the young man spoke before she got far.


    ¡°A pair of gold Slayers, out of the Birdcage with Magister chaperones, have decided to visit my store. It would be a shame if I let you leave just like that. Why not stay a little longer? I¡¯ll serve you some tea and we can discuss your needs. I promise it will be worth your time.¡±


    Feolin halted mid-turn. There was something different about his tone. She glanced back towards him, and for a moment, Master Almsfield appeared almost as a different person. The absent-minded expression on his face was gone, replaced by harsh lines and a cold, calculating look. Gone was the wide-eyed, blinking youth, replaced by a predatory, hard-edged veteran.


    Then it was gone, as swiftly as it had come, and once again the affable, bookish youth stood before her, smiling gently.


    She reached out a hand to tug on MacReilly¡¯s shirt.


    ¡°Come, old friend. Let¡¯s give him a chance.¡±


    The northerner snorted, but allowed himself to be pulled around. Seeing their acceptance, Almsfield beamed at them and gestured for them to sit at the sole clean table in the store. He ran to fetch refreshments for them, nattering the entire time.


    ¡°I apologise for the state of the place. I was travelling recently, and, well, with the roads being what they are at the moment, as well as¡­ you know¡­ it was quite difficult to get around. I found myself quite delayed and by the time I finally managed to return, well, you can see for yourself just how badly things have gotten out of hand. My apprentice appears to have disappeared along with the rest of my staff. At least they did me the courtesy of locking the store behind them and not robbing me blind. Would you like tea? Do you take sugar? I¡¯ve just started getting things back in order, but it''s quite difficult at the moment. Suppliers don¡¯t want to supply and customers don¡¯t want to buy.¡±


    He didn¡¯t stop talking until they were all seated with a steaming cup of tea in front of them. He even rustled up a few slices of cake, which he offered to the Magisters first, both of whom accepted before sitting on a bench to the side of the store floor, within earshot of the table.


    ¡°Now,¡± he said, sitting across from the two Slayers and folding his hands together, ¡°what can I do for you?¡±


    ¡°Weapons,¡± MacReilly grunted, out of patience. He squinted down at the tea distrustfully, sniffing at the herbal blend before pushing it away slowly. ¡°We want enchantment work done on gear for the field. Are you up for that, lad?¡±


    ¡°Call me Lukas,¡± the young Arcanist said, his smile never touching his eyes.


    ¡°You look like you''re barely old enough to be sweeping chips off the floor of a proper enchanter¡¯s store,¡± MacReilly said bluntly. ¡°I¡¯m not filled with confidence looking at you, to be frank.¡±


    Again, Feolin frowned. It was far more direct than she would have phrased things, but she didn¡¯t disagree with the sentiment. However, there was something¡­ unnerving about this young man.


    As if sensing her thoughts, Lukas Almsfield met her gaze, and for a fraction of a second, she was struck by just how cold those eyes were.


    There is something not right about this person.


    With a flick of the eyes, the Arcanist assessed the two Magisters, who were too busy drinking, eating and chatting with each other to pay much mind to what went on at the table. When he glanced back at the Slayers, his demeanour shifted again.


    ¡°Let¡¯s be honest. If you had options, you wouldn¡¯t be here. All the big names are either not doing business, or are booked solid working for the nobles. Right?¡±


    He waited impatiently until Feolin nodded. The change in him was so stark, it was almost as if she was sitting at the table with more than one person.


    ¡°So you ask around and find out there¡¯s a little store in Shadetown run by someone who apprenticed with Master Willhem. That¡¯s me. But I¡¯m younger than you expected and don¡¯t service Slayers, so you don¡¯t expect much. Fine.¡±


    He held up a single finger.


    ¡°This is the number of apprentices who¡¯ve had their store endorsed by Master Willhem personally.¡±


    He turned the finger until it was pointing back at himself.


    ¡°And this is him.¡±


    He allowed the hand to drop to the table with a soft thud and turned to stare at MacReilly.


    ¡°Good enough for you? If not, fuck off.¡±


    The grizzled northerner was silent for a moment, then barked a harsh laugh, causing the two Magisters to swivel their heads in his direction.


    ¡°I find myself liking this one, Fee. He¡¯s got a little dog in him.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a northern expression,¡± Feolin hurried to explain. ¡°They breed enormous mastiffs to help fight the kin and value them for their grit.¡±


    The Arcanist merely raised a brow.


    ¡°I¡¯m aware.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    After a moment of awkward silence, Master Almsfield placed his palms flat on the table.


    ¡°If I¡¯m to be completely candid with you, much as you suspected, the kind of enchanting you want done isn¡¯t the sort of thing I usually do. However, you wouldn¡¯t be here if you had access to the specialists. So if we temper our expectations, I believe we can reach a point where both of us can be satisfied with the outcome.¡±


    ¡°That sounds reasonable,¡± Feolin nodded cautiously, ¡°what sort of conditions did you have in mind?¡±


    The young man leaned back in his seat for a moment as he considered.


    ¡°First, I would need to know where you expect to be deployed.¡± He held up a hand to forestall them, and the Magisters behind from protesting. ¡°I¡¯m not good enough to make something that will perform well in any environment. Depending on the rift, they could be fighting completely different types of kin and be exposed to completely different environments.¡±


    ¡°It seems reasonable to me,¡± MacReilly stated, twisting in his seat to glare at the Magisters. ¡°Does it really matter if he knows we¡¯re going to Blackrift?¡±


    ¡°Shut your stupid mouth!¡± barked one of the mages.


    ¡°Oh, shit. Cat¡¯s out of the bag I guess,¡± MacReilly shrugged. ¡°My mistake.¡±


    Lukas appealed directly to the Magisters in an attempt to calm their anger.


    ¡°I have been cleared to work on the tower itself by the Noble Lady Recillia Erryn. Surely this won¡¯t be too much of a compromise.¡±


    At the mention of that name, the two settled back onto their bench, though neither looked pleased with this turn of events.


    ¡°We will have to report this when we return to the tower,¡± one stated, glaring at the unrepentant northerner.


    ¡°Of course,¡± the Arcanist nodded before he turned his attention back to the two Slayers. ¡°The only other thing I require is that you provide the base weaponry. I don¡¯t deal with Smiths or Forgers, so you¡¯ll have far better odds securing the kind of things you want than I will. Give me a list of what you want enchanted and the list of effects you want to see. We can negotiate over those items before you leave, since I may not be able to provide everything you want.¡±


    The two gold Slayers exchanged glances, then shrugged. It wasn¡¯t what they wanted, but it was better than nothing, which is what they¡¯d found everywhere else.


    They spent the next hour considering their requirements and discussing the possibilities with Master Almsfield, who proved surprisingly knowledgeable about the rifts, kin, and the needs of Slayers despite not selling to them. He wasn¡¯t afraid to tell them when he simply didn¡¯t know how to do something, or if he felt their requirements for a particular piece of gear were becoming more complex than he was confident of handling.


    After a great deal of compromise, negotiation and discussion, they had a finalised list in front of the Arcanist and he read through each item carefully. Finally, he nodded.


    ¡°This is doable,¡± he decreed. ¡°I have more than enough cores on hand for this, so I can begin the moment your selected items are delivered to the store.¡±


    ¡°Excellent,¡± Feolin clapped her hands and sprung up from the table. She hadn¡¯t had much hope when they¡¯d approached this store, but things were going to work out reasonably well in the end.


    Even the price was good, which was important. Gold Slayers in the cage generally had to take training jobs to earn money, and neither she nor MacReilly had ever had the appetite for it.


    They shook hands on the deal, and the young Arcanist smiled.


    ¡°If you know any others heading out on deployment who need some help securing enchantments, don¡¯t hesitate to send them my way. My usual clientele aren¡¯t buying at the moment, so I could really use the business.¡±


    ¡°Aye, I think we can do that,¡± MacReilly agreed easily before Feolin could say anything.


    Again, there was a momentary glint in the Arcanist¡¯s eyes before it was gone again, and he appeared as genial and affable as he had when they¡¯d first met.


    ¡°Until we meet again, then,¡± he said, and gestured for them to head outside.

 B4C32 - Waste Management

    Priest Balwyn Galloway had a headache coming on.


    ¡°You can¡¯t possibly be serious,¡± he groaned. ¡°How are they running out of capacity again?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re understaffed,¡± his useless aide, Crillian, told him, ¡°or at least, that¡¯s what they¡¯re claiming. Many of their workers have fled. Supposedly.¡±


    Galloway grit his teeth, anger and fury building within him until it eventually petered out, leaving him drained and trembling. Fatigue warred with fear in him as he slumped face first into his desk, the walls of his tiny office hemming in around him.


    ¡°A-are you all right, Priest Galloway?¡± Crillian hesitated to ask.


    ¡°Shut up,¡± the Priest groaned, ¡°I¡¯m trying to think.¡±


    The purge was, of course, a massive undertaking, logistically. So many moving parts were involved, so many people. The great machinery of the bureaucracy was screeching as it fought to shake off the rust that had built up over the centuries, pushing everything to breaking point.


    So it wasn¡¯t that surprising, all things considered, that some of the¡­ less glorious aspects of the Duke¡¯s crusade weren¡¯t run as well as perhaps they should have been. Galloway was grateful for the role he occupied, since it kept him tucked away in a small office in the capital, rather than trudging through villages looking for crones to abduct, but he truly hadn¡¯t expected it would be this difficult to dispose of the¡­ refuse.


    ¡°How is it possible that every crematorium in Kenmor is full?¡± he muttered into the solid wooden surface of his desk. ¡°All they do is burn people. That¡¯s it! How long can it possibly take?¡±


    ¡°Do you actually know what goes on in a crematorium, father?¡± his aide asked.


    The Priest frowned, still not bothering to raise his head.


    ¡°You know perfectly well I don¡¯t. After praying and applying the blessing, I don¡¯t have anything to do with a corpse in my role as a Priest. Is it really that complicated? They get wood, they stick them in an oven or something and¡­.¡± he shuddered¡­ ¡°cook them.¡±


    ¡°I would say roast rather than cook,¡± Crillian said, ¡°to be accurate. You have the right idea, but it''s a lot harder than it sounds. The amount of wood required is staggering, and the logging camps are also short of manpower. Then there¡¯s the difficulty of bringing the lumber into the city, which takes forever thanks to the checkpoints and inspections. Merchants and Wagoneers are in short supply as well, since most are unwilling to travel at the moment. Delivering the ashes to the families of the bereaved is another nightmare. Nobody can be found, and half the time, the bodies haven¡¯t been properly identified.¡±


    As his assistant ticked through the many issues Balwyn was facing in his attempts to put the dead to rest, the Priest slumped even further into the table, a feat which had seemed impossible only moments ago.


    ¡°Yes, thank you for reminding me of the many difficulties I face in the course of my work.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°I was being sarcastic.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    With immense effort, Father Balwyn picked himself up, his forehead noticeably red from being pressed into the table for so long. If he didn¡¯t come up with a solution, and soon, there was going to be a serious problem.


    ¡°How many¡­ uh¡­ ¡®clients¡¯ are we required to rehouse per day, Crillian?¡± he asked, attempting to centre himself and focus on the problem.


    ¡°It varies day to day,¡± the assistant hedged, fishing around on the desk for some papers the Priest had scattered. ¡°At worst, a thousand, at best, a few dozen.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not talk about the thousand,¡± Balwyn shuddered.


    He did not want to be reminded about that particular incident.


    ¡°And what is the current capacity of the city''s crematoriums?¡±


    ¡°Right now, it¡¯s dropped to¡­ about a hundred a day.¡±


    Which meant they were one bad day away from disaster. Bodies piling up in the streets. Foul Magick would begin to accumulate and the dead would begin to walk shortly after. If an infectious zombie got loose in a city of millions¡­


    It didn¡¯t bear thinking about.


    ¡°Has the palace responded to our requests for more expedited cremations?¡±


    That was the phrase he used to describe mass funeral pyres, which they had been forbidden to use on the city¡¯s citizens.


    ¡°The reply came in today, Father,¡± came the answer.


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°They refused. The potential for civil unrest is considered too high.¡±


    The same reasoning as before. The populace was terrified and angry. The poor and disaffected citizens had no recourse when it came to their lost family members. What were they going to do, come forward and ask for the remains? Outing themselves as relatives of cultists in the process?


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Those bodies could be safely tossed into the fire. It was the more well-to-do citizens where delicacy was required. If those wealthy, influential members of the city found out their cousin, or parent, or child, was dumped into a mass grave along with the ashes of a hundred others¡­ they wouldn¡¯t be pleased, to put it lightly.


    ¡°There is a possible solution¡­ father.¡±


    ¡°Your mysterious benefactor again?¡± the Priest scoffed. ¡°You want me to believe someone just stepped out of the shadows to help us out of the goodness of their heart? How did they even know we were in a pinch?¡±


    The young assistant shook his head.


    ¡°Madam Yor is a successful businesswoman in the city. She happened to hear of the difficulties the city was facing and offered a potential solution.¡±


    ¡°And just what type of business does this ¡®Madam Yor¡¯ run? Hmm?¡±


    Crillian blushed furiously and the Priests eyes narrowed.


    ¡°If you think I will turn over the hallowed dead of this city to some whore¨C¡±


    His aide flashed him a spirited glare, face set in a mask of defiance.


    ¡°Madam Yor is not a whore,¡± he declared hotly.


    Father Galloway raised his brows and his aide coughed, embarrassed by his passionate outburst.


    ¡°Besides,¡± the young man continued, trying to brush the moment under the carpet, ¡°she didn¡¯t offer to help us herself, but to introduce us to someone who could.¡±


    ¡°And who might that be?¡± Father Galloway sighed.


    To think he would ever find himself this desperate¡­


    ¡°I believe his name was¡­ Elten. Elten Priorus.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°That is indeed my name,¡± said the man, bowing at the waist as he swept back his cloak in a serviceable bow. ¡°Elten Priorus at your service.¡±


    ¡°A pleasure to meet you, sir,¡± Father Galloway said, taking a measure of the man before him.


    Elten presented as quietly wealthy, his clothes and cloak all made of fine materials, but fashioned in an understated style. Modest, almost to the point of severe, he was dressed largely in dark colours which matched the tousled head of black hair on his head and the deep grey of his eyes. Thin in the face, he appeared as a cautious and reserved person. The Priest was warming to him already.


    ¡°And this is?¡± he asked, turning to the figure that stood just behind Elten¡¯s right shoulder.


    ¡°My employee, Mr Ratly Underwood.¡±


    ¡°Ratly? That is an unfortunate name, sir.¡±


    ¡°As you can see, he was born with rather narrow features which, sadly, stayed with him into adulthood.¡±


    The man in question twitched slightly, which had the unfortunate effect of making him look even more rodent-like. He did indeed have a rather unusually shaped face.


    ¡°Well, I apologise if I caused any offence. Please, step inside and we can discuss the purpose of your visit.¡±


    Luckily, Crillian had remembered to book a more comfortable sitting room. If four people had tried to cram into his office, they would have been packed in like fish in a barrel.


    When they were comfortably seated and a young attendant had brought them refreshments, the conversation began to flow.


    ¡°I must confess, I was surprised to find you were not operating out of the cathedral,¡± Elten said. ¡°Considering the work you do¡­¡±


    ¡°It is precisely because of the work I do that I have been placed away from the rest of the Priesthood,¡± Galloway replied smoothly. ¡°It is best not to taint the sacred spaces with the less¡­ seemly consequences of the Duke¡¯s great mission.¡±


    ¡°As you say,¡± Elten bowed his head, ¡°I hope I have not overstepped.¡±


    ¡°Not at all. Now, as much as I would like to continue to chat, I¡¯m afraid our business is most pressing.¡±


    ¡°So I understood from the haste in which this meeting was arranged. I am at your service, and by extension, the Duke¡¯s, Father.¡±


    ¡°How soon would you be ready to begin processing?¡± the Priest asked bluntly.


    ¡°We can begin tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Balwyn asked, surprised.


    Elten smiled slightly.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t so surprising as that. I own several warehouses and facilities in the city and Shadetown that, due to the current state of the province, sit empty, my workers idling with nothing to do. As it just so happens, I also have a contract with some loggers north of the city. They¡¯ve recently come into the possession of some land and want to get started, but are having difficulty moving the processed lumber. If you allow us to assist, you will be helping to keep many people employed, Father.¡±


    The Priest frowned. Wood was almost impossible to come by right now, but this man had a surplus?


    ¡°Can you elaborate on your wood supply?¡± he invited the gentleman to speak.


    ¡°Of course. Though, I must speak in confidence, if that is alright?¡±


    ¡°Naturally.¡±


    ¡°You are aware of the scandal at the Oldan estate?¡±


    Almost involuntarily, Balwyn Galloway shuddered. There had not been a scandal, but a massacre.


    ¡°I am,¡± he said hurriedly.


    ¡°The land was naturally seized by the Empire in the wake of the incident, and, as I¡¯m sure you are aware, there is a large forest included in the estate. However, despite the desperate need for wood¡­¡±


    The Priest shared a look with his assistant and both of them grimaced. If the land was in the hands of the Empire, then it would take the officials forever and a day to get around to doing anything with it. With everything they had on their plates, logging rights were low on the list of priorities.


    ¡°It just so happens that I was able to make just the right connections to create some movement in this specific instance,¡± Elten said humbly, a satisfied expression on his face.


    ¡°You mean¡­?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, I was able to secure the logging rights and place them in the hands of a trusted subsidiary. Everything is in place so that we might give the hallowed dead of the Empire the respectful end they deserve and return their remains to their families. Heretics or not, it¡¯s the least we can do.¡±


    ¡°I assume you want the Duke to pay you the same rate as what we pay the other crematoriums in the city? Or should we reduce the rate in light of your patriotism?¡±


    A pained expression flickered across Elten¡¯s face.


    ¡°As much as I would love to cut the rate, I wouldn¡¯t be able to buy the wood or pay my workers. I¡¯m sure you understand, Father.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I do, very well.¡±


    He sighed. Making a snap decision, he stretched his hand across the table and Elten leaned forward to shake it.


    ¡°We can work out the exact numbers later, but whenever the crematoriums are at capacity, we will send the excess your way.¡±


    ¡°I am most grateful, Father Galloway. You will not regret this,¡± Elten smiled, then laughed.

 B4C33 - The Frozen Peak

    Brom Innson shivered. Even here, within the thick, stone walls of Skyice Keep, the cold was piercing. No matter how many layers he wrapped around himself, it seemed to stab deep into flesh, driving shards of unspeakable chill right into his bones.


    ¡°By the gods, I hate this place,¡± he muttered to himself.


    At least, he intended to keep it to himself.


    ¡°Stop whining, old man,¡± the fiery lass in front of him scowled, her green eyes stabbing him just as fiercely as the weather. ¡°Some of us have been here more than a few days, and we manage to put up with it just fine.¡±


    Not wanting to be impolite, Brom dipped his head to show his apology and wrapped his hands a little tighter around his steaming mug of tea. Even for the grizzled, gold ranked scout, there was something about Skyice that seemed to break right through his defences. Normally, he was fine in the cold. He¡¯d spent many a freezing night on watch, up a tree or knee deep in muck, and he¡¯d survived.


    It was magick, of course. The answer was always magick. Some people were more susceptible to it than others. Warmbloods, the local Slayers called them, those people who just couldn¡¯t seem to endure the relentless cold of the mountain.


    ¡°I don¡¯t mean any disrespect. It¡¯s just a little unnerving to feel this way after being a scout for so long. I¡¯ve endured terrible conditions beyond more than one rift. It¡¯s¡­ odd¡­ to be so vulnerable here.¡±


    Green eyes assessed him carefully as the lass turned his words over a few times before she found no fault with them.


    ¡°That¡¯s all well,¡± she said, taking a long sip of her tea.


    Even someone like her, well adapted to the local conditions, was rugged up, a thick, fur-lined outer layer over the top of her armour underneath. Judging from the sound she made as she moved, there was a full mail shirt under her coat, which seemed excessive to be wearing inside the keep.


    Little details. But put enough little details together, and they told a story. Every scout learned that early on, or they didn¡¯t survive long. After leaving Cragwhistle, having spoken to the Steelarm lad, he¡¯d continued his journey south to make contact with the Slayers stationed here, at Skyice.


    It was the furthest Keep from the capital in the entire province. High up the unnaturally formed mountain known as ¡®the Spear¡¯, it was also one of the largest Keeps in the province, a full garrison of Slayers stationed here at all times.


    Since he¡¯d arrived, things had been¡­ slow. The Slayers had been secretive, unwilling to talk much, despite the letters of introduction he¡¯d brought from Rurin and Timothy back at Woodsedge.


    One didn¡¯t need to be a gold ranked Slayer to see that something had happened in the Keep. The signs of tension were clear to see in the faces and posture of every one he¡¯d seen, and that hadn¡¯t been many people. They were keeping him isolated, tucked away in a small corridor with a couple of empty rooms, making sure he didn¡¯t see anything they didn¡¯t want him to.


    To make sure he wasn¡¯t sneaking off anywhere, he had company almost constantly. Thanks to his heightened senses, he knew they were keeping watch even at night. This level of caution told him just about everything he needed to know, but it was all for nothing if they didn¡¯t trust him.


    ¡°Sera, have you had any word when I might be able to speak to the leadership of the Keep?¡± he asked.


    He carefully didn¡¯t say ¡®Magister¡¯ when talking about the person in charge. Both he and the fiery woman in front of him knew they weren¡¯t running the show any more, but the Slayers of Skyice Keep were being exceptionally cautious.


    Sera put her rough, earthenware cup down, eyeing him over the low table that sat between them. All the furniture in Skyice was simple, almost crude. Stone for the most part, since a lot of wood couldn¡¯t stand up to the cold, and everything was covered in fur. Fur rugs, fur throws, fur lining on the chairs, fur bedding and fur clothing. Remarkable stuff, too, the local rift was the only source. Slayers could make a good living off of selling furs alone. Made killing the kin more difficult, which meant more dangerous, since killing the beasts without damaging the rich, dark fur was quite the challenge.


    ¡°It shouldn¡¯t be too much longer,¡± she demurred.


    He¡¯d heard the same thing several times before.


    ¡°I¡¯ve come from Woodsedge, where we¡¯ve overthrown the Magisters and entered a state of open rebellion. If there¡¯s a movement here to do the same¡­¡±


    He maintained the polite fiction that it hadn¡¯t already happened.


    ¡°... then you need to join hands with us as quickly as possible.¡±


    He remained patient as he laid out the obvious yet again. Scouts were nothing but patient. Sitting in a tree for two days waiting for a kin to twitch a leg was nothing to him.


    Sera opened her mouth, doubtless to give him the same sort of reply he¡¯d heard half a dozen times already, but she was cut off before she could even start. The heavy door banged open to reveal a heavy-set, fur-coated man with a shock of a beard and thunder-grey eyes.


    Brom stood up slowly, his hands folded over each other, showing no sign of aggression. He¡¯d heard the newcomer approaching, of course. His earlier words had been for this man¡¯s benefit more than Sera¡¯s, and judging by the flash of annoyance that flickered across her expression, she knew it too.


    ¡°Brom Innson, wasn¡¯t it?¡± the new arrival rumbled, though he didn¡¯t step forward and extend a hand. ¡°I¡¯m Darrious Hammerhand, but most folks call me Darry. Silver ranked Slayer.¡±


    Brom cocked his head to one side.


    ¡°Silver? I don¡¯t think so,¡± he said quietly.


    One could interpret his words in such a way that he was suggesting Darry was bronze, but everyone in the room knew that wasn¡¯t the case.


    ¡°Gold knows gold,¡± he followed, with a short wink.


    There was silence in the room for a beat, then Darry burst out with a guffaw.


    ¡°Aye, you aren¡¯t wrong. Gold knows gold. Just something else we¡¯re figuring out along the way.¡±


    The burly man grinned widely, revealing a few missing teeth before he finally approached and offered Brom a proper welcome.


    ¡°So your father was an innkeeper? Unlikely for you to wind up in the slaying business,¡± he noted as the two shook hands.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ¡°My grandfather,¡± Brom corrected. ¡°My da was a field medic. I grew up bouncing from keep to keep. I think I was bound to be a Slayer.¡±


    ¡°Aye, I can see that,¡± Darry said as he clapped a hand onto Brom¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Well, come along, then. We¡¯ve finally decided what we¡¯re going to do with you.¡±


    That doesn¡¯t half sound ominous.


    Even if he felt disquieted, Brom didn¡¯t allow it to show on his face. He simply smiled politely and allowed himself to be led by the other man, noting that Sera fell in easily behind him.


    Even for a Gold ranked scout, breaking out wouldn¡¯t be an option. Not that he intended to. As an illegal gold, he was a dead man already. He would see the rebellion through to the end, no matter what.


    For his part, Darry kept up a steady stream of light chatter as they moved through the narrow, icy corridors of the keep.


    ¡°How are you handling the cold?¡±


    ¡°Poorly. It seems I¡¯m a little warmblooded for the Spear.¡±


    ¡°Shame. I¡¯ve been here for years, and I swear there¡¯s no rhyme or reason to it. I¡¯ve seen some hardened killers from up north come here and just start shivering in their boots. They say it¡¯s like getting stabbed in the gut.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t feel that way to you?¡±


    ¡°It does, aye, but perhaps I¡¯m just crazy enough not to care all that much. You¡¯d have to be mad to stay in a place like this, after all,¡± he chuckled, the laugh rumbling low in his chest.


    ¡°This is the spot,¡± Darry announced, bringing them to a halt.


    Brom paused, confused. There was nothing here, only a long stretch of corridor, with a tall window beside them. It was for this window that they had come here, apparently, since his guide grabbed hold of the frosted metal handles with his bare hands and began to pull it open.


    Ah.


    Getting tossed out a window from atop the tallest mountain of the Empire wasn¡¯t how Brom had imagined he¡¯d go, but it was better than whatever the Magisters would do once they got ahold of him.


    Resigned to his fate, he squared up to the window as Darry pulled it open, blasting all three of them in the face with shockingly frozen air.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look so grim, you aren¡¯t going out there. Just want you to lean out and have a little look.¡±


    Brom cocked a brow at the man, who only grinned his gap-toothed grin back at him. With nothing to lose, he leaned out over the parapet and looked down.


    To say the drop was precipitous would be an understatement. This part of the keep must have sat right on the edge of the Spear, and Brom felt he must have been staring down into the Abyss. Dark clouds rolled beneath him like an ocean whipped into a storm. The wind was so cold and sharp it felt like razors against his skin.


    But that wasn¡¯t what they wanted to show him.


    Hanging from twenty feet of rope secured onto the ledge were five bodies, each wearing the distinctive robes of the Magisters.


    ¡°There was some discussion about how much we could trust you. People are jumpy, which I think is understandable. But the Priest said you¡¯re alright, and we decided there ain''t much point rebelling if we aren¡¯t going to take a few chances with it.¡±


    ¡°Well, I appreciate it,¡± Brom said wryly, pulling his head back in. ¡°I¡¯d also appreciate it if you could close that window, quickly.¡±


    He shivered.


    Darry rumbled his deep laugh again as he obliged, pushing it shut and snapping the steel locking mechanism into place.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad you decided to work together. If we don¡¯t support each other, then we will surely die in vain.¡±


    The bulky hammerman stroked his beard thoughtfully.


    ¡°I don¡¯t disagree, but there are many voices, with many opinions. We hate the Magisters, which is about the only thing we can agree on. How to fight back? Do we defend, hole ourselves here in the keep and die heroically, or attack, take the battle to the nobles? Trying to get a castle full of people who kill kin for a living to agree on anything is difficult.¡±


    ¡°What about the Priests? The clergy of The Three? Have they offered to organise and help?¡±


    Sera grumbled behind him, but Brom kept his eyes on Darry, who considered his words.


    ¡°I will take you to meet the Priest,¡± he said finally, and held up a hand to forestall the protest that had begun to burst out of Sera. ¡°I know what you want to say, sister. The others didn¡¯t agree to this, but until they are willing to show their faces, what can they say?¡±


    So there were at least a few more Gold ranked Slayers in the keep, but they were hesitant, to the point of refusing to be seen by outsiders, lest they be identified. A wise precaution, perhaps, but it wouldn¡¯t do anything to save them from the Magisters. They were branded, and that was the end of it.


    Without another word, Darry turned on his heel and began to set a brisk pace, which Brom kept up with easily, the two men gliding around corners with long, easy strides. A privilege of their advanced Status. Sera kept up with some effort, which she fought to conceal.


    Again, the corridors were curiously empty, and even to his superhuman hearing, too quiet. Just how far had they gone to ensure secrecy while Brom was walking the halls? A ban on speaking? They knew he was a scout, so it wasn¡¯t that surprising, but even so. Even now, after exposing their own rebellion, there remained a level of hesitance that was most surprising.


    Through the narrow, twisting passages they went, each colder than the last, until Darry turned toward another, thickset door, no different than any of the dozens they had passed.


    ¡°In here,¡± the hammerman said gruffly.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t¡­ coming in?¡±


    ¡°Nah. I don¡¯t much like the faith. Makes me uneasy.¡±


    ¡°Yet the gods have their eyes on you, Hammerhand,¡± a thin voice rattled from behind the door. A moment later, it swung open to reveal a surprisingly young man, though just as reedy as his voice had suggested. He glared at Darry, then snorted with wry humour before turning to Brom.


    ¡°Ah. I¡¯m so glad to see they didn¡¯t throw you out the window. Brom Innson, wasn¡¯t it? I¡¯m a Priest of The Three, as you expect. Of the Crone, to be specific.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re¡­¡±


    ¡°Older than I look? Oh, yes.¡±


    Figured. Brom wasn¡¯t fully comfortable with The Three himself, but not to the extent he avoided them. One of the most uncomfortable features of the clergy were the various ¡®blessings¡¯ they received, including extended life.


    Without showing his mixed feelings, Brom stepped into the Priest¡¯s room and sat at his host''s invitation.


    ¡°I apologise for your rough welcome here. The Slayers of Skyice aren¡¯t as timid as you might be thinking, they just can¡¯t agree on anything. Half of them want to rush down into the plains and start killing every Marshall they see, curse be damned, the other half want to hole up here and train brandless Slayers. Until they settle on a course of action, they¡¯re determined not to leak any word of the rebellion, hence the secrecy.¡±


    Put that way, the excessive caution made some sense. Even so, they were moving too slow, and Brom said so.


    ¡°I don¡¯t disagree. Oh, but I haven¡¯t introduced myself. Ender is my name, Father Ender, if you want to be technical.¡±


    ¡°Ender?¡± Brom raised a brow. ¡°Isn¡¯t that somewhat, ominous.¡±


    The Priest shrugged.


    ¡°My father had a strange sense of humour. Now, before we continue our discussion, I wanted to ask you something.¡±


    Brom shrugged.


    ¡°Ask away.¡±


    ¡°Fantastic. I believe you said you travelled down from Woodsedge? You did? Wonderful. Am I correct in understanding that you ran across a Tyron Steelarm in your travels?¡±


    Brom was so surprised, he twitched. How could this man know that?


    ¡°I did,¡± he replied, slowly. ¡°How is that relevant?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s very relevant,¡± Ender smiled. ¡°Not the man, so much, but his name, matters a great deal. The Slayers here are struggling to find unity. They need a banner, a rallying cry. We don¡¯t even need the person, but his name is enough. There is a great deal of power in a name like that.¡±


    Brom frowned, troubled.


    ¡°You want to use Tyron Steelarm as some sort of figurehead?¡±


    ¡°Of course. We need something to bring the Slayers together. Can you think of anything better than the child of Magnin and Beory?¡±


    He didn¡¯t like it one bit, but Brom couldn¡¯t disagree with the logic. When it came to the respect of Slayers in the Western Province, there was no name better than Steelarm.


    ¡°Tell me what you¡¯re thinking,¡± he said heavily.

 B4C34 - Terrible Alchemy

    ¡°He¡¯s moving too fast,¡± one voice hissed in the darkness. ¡°The mortal has been possessed by madness. No risk is too great for him and he puts us in danger at every turn. You need to rein him in.¡±


    ¡°Rein him in? You think he listens to me?¡± another replied, no less vexed. ¡°After I fulfilled the Mistress¡¯ demand and brought him to her, he hasn¡¯t trusted a single thing I¡¯ve had to say!¡±


    ¡°You have to try, you frozen bitch! He¡¯s going to get all of us staked out in the sun, if we¡¯re lucky.¡±


    ¡°He could do it anyway. If we fail in our work, he can burn both of our covens down to the ground in a matter of hours.¡±


    ¡°Are they really so capable?¡± the first voice sneered. ¡°How strong could they be, the dogs of this city? We could rip their fucking throats out if they came for us.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t underestimate them,¡± the second voice warned, the tone cold and stern, ¡°they are stronger than you think. We could kill dozens of them, sure, but there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of them. And even if we survived that, which we wouldn¡¯t, more would come, the real strength of this empire, jumping over the border from the central province, and they would hunt us down without fail.¡±


    Valk and Yor, the two leaders of rival vampire covens, stood in the dank sewer beneath Veil Street. The latter shuddered with revulsion as foetid water dripped from above and onto her midnight black sable coat.


    ¡°Is it really necessary for you to cower in these wretched sewers?¡± she snapped. ¡°Your coven is already exposed. The least you mutts could do is find a kennel above ground.¡±


    Valk flashed his fangs in a toothy grin, which failed to mask the anger and contempt burning in his eyes.


    ¡°We Hounds have our ways, bitch,¡± he said. ¡°While you indulge in unnecessary shit, we are hunting the only thing that matters: sustenance.¡±


    ¡°While smelling like shit,¡± Yor sniffed.


    ¡°You really want to bicker about this Court bullshit, now?¡± Valk growled. ¡°This little get-together was your idea!¡±


    Yor mastered herself with difficulty. Millennia of backstabbing and blood-soaked rivalry existed between every faction in the court. Every member was indoctrinated into the endless conflict upon joining, Valk and Yor were no exception. They had crossed blades more than once across the long decades. Being this close to the vampire was enough to make her fangs itch.


    Icy cold indifference took hold of her face and she forced herself to push her grudges aside.


    ¡°Both of us don¡¯t want this situation to continue, correct?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Valk snorted. ¡°You think I enjoy being under the thumb of an insane blood bag? I¡¯ve hardly seen him eat or sleep. I¡¯d suspect he was already a lich if he didn¡¯t stink like blood. All the while, he works us like servants. I hate every part of this fucking mess.¡±


    ¡°Are you in any position to contact the Court?¡±


    A heavy silence fell between the two as Valk eyed the other vampire with intense dislike.


    ¡°Are you trying to push the risk onto my coven? You think I would just nod my head and agree? Are you out of your fucking mind?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just asking the question,¡± Yor hissed. ¡°I know it¡¯s a risk, which is the only reason I haven¡¯t done so already. All I¡¯m asking is if you are in a better position to enact the ritual than we are.¡±


    ¡°Oh you¡¯d love that,¡± Valk growled. ¡°You think you can bat your sculpted eyelashes at me and I¡¯ll jump to do your bidding like a filthy mortal? Who do you think shaped that flesh of yours? It has no effect on our kind!¡±


    Yor closed her eyes as she rubbed the point between her eyes. Vampires didn¡¯t suffer from mortal ailments like headaches, but some habits took centuries to die.


    ¡°I should have known this would be a waste of time,¡± she sighed.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Valk agreed, ¡°you should have.¡±


    The only way either of them was going to be free of Tyron was if they killed him, but they couldn¡¯t. Both factions were still interested in recruiting the insane mage. Yor¡¯s Mistress had been interested in him for a long time, and likely wouldn¡¯t allow Yor to murder him. Valk¡¯s Master was most definitely interested in stealing a talent who another faction had shown interest in, but was more likely to permit his death.


    A clean and quiet death for the Necromancer would allow both covens to escape detection and ride out the rest of the purge in relative safety. However¡­ making contact with the Court was risky, very risky. With the heightened security and air of paranoia rife in the city, any meddling with the dimensional weave could be detected, and instantly spell doom to the vampires.


    Of course, neither one was willing to take the risk, preferring the other coven make the attempt.


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t matter who cast the ritual, you know,¡± a third voice echoed out down the tunnel, and both vampires flashed around, claws out and fangs extended.


    From the darkness, two purple eyes watched them from within the hollow sockets of a skull. Even in the dim light, the two undead could see the newcomer perfectly well.


    ¡°Wight,¡± Valk spat, ¡°what are you doing here?¡±


    His tone was aggressive, but Yor could read the underlying emotions of her fellow night dweller. He was rattled, and truth be told, so was she. How had Tyron known?


    ¡°If one of you performs the ritual and gets caught, all of us die. The city will be torn apart until they find all of you bloodsucking leeches.¡±


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    The wight stepped forward, revealing a lighter armour, with a midnight black dagger of bone on either hip. The skeletal undead raised a hand and snapped its fingers. On that totally unnecessary signal, more than a dozen undead rose up out of the sewerage, their purple eyes blazing in the darkness.


    ¡°You think you can meet down here and he won¡¯t know?¡± the wight mocked. ¡°How many centuries have you been alive? This level of intrigue is almost¡­ childish.¡±


    ¡°How about I rip you apart with my bare hands and drink your soul?¡± Valk growled, eyes burning a deep crimson as he drew on the blood. ¡°Will your master really throw his revenge away over you? I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s find out,¡± the wight replied, spreading their arms wide. ¡°Come and get me. I¡¯m delicious.¡±


    Tension hung heavy in the air, and Yor silently hoped that Valk would go for it. It would be valuable to learn how far they could push Tyron, and it would be to her benefit if the other vampire was the one to take the chance.


    Valk seemed to sense this, and hesitated.


    Cold, humourless laughter rattled out of the wight. When she spoke, her eerie voice, that seemed to come from halfway beyond the veil, echoed in the narrow sewer tunnel.


    ¡°Something interesting I¡¯ve noticed about your kind is just how timid you are. When you have eternity to live, risking your life takes on that much more weight, I suppose.¡±


    With a wave of her hand, the skeletons pulled themselves out of the sewerage and up onto the stone walkway on either side of the channel.


    ¡°That¡¯s why Tyron was able to control you so easily. He threatened the only thing you will never compromise on: your endless lives. And you can¡¯t really threaten him back because, in his mind, he¡¯s already dead. He doesn¡¯t give a flying fuck about his life. The only thing he cares about is his vengeance, and if you put the tiniest, teeniest little dent in those plans, he will burn you to the fucking ground and dance on the ashes. And you know it.¡±


    ¡°When I am free of his control, you will suffer torment beyond your imagination, slave,¡± Valk promised. ¡°A spirit can be kept in perpetual pain for an eternity. Your screams will be my music for a thousand years.¡±


    ¡°I look forward to it,¡± the wight said. ¡°But only when you are free of his control, right?¡±


    Along with her lesser undead, the wight marched off into the darkness of the sewer network, but not without leaving one final parting shot.


    ¡°What makes you think you will ever be free?¡±


    ~~~


    Tyron felt as if his mind was on fire. The weakness of his flesh was a distant thought, a sorrowful wail that he no longer heeded. How could he when he was so close?


    The anger and hate and pain that he had tried to suppress for so long were held back no longer and formed a raging conflagration in his heart. It drove him forward, fuelled him, as he pushed and pushed and pushed towards the day his vengeance would be realised.


    Things had moved quickly once he¡¯d secured the vampires¡¯ help. Yor and her unparalleled ability to manipulate mortalkind were invaluable, opening doors and putting Tyron in touch with the people he needed. Valk and his coven preferred to act in the shadows, and their mastery of the sewer network and stealth had enabled Tyron to bring his full undead horde into the city.


    With every step he took, his revenge drew closer, but the risk became greater.


    There was another powerful emotion that rattled through every fibre of his being: fear. One mistake, one slip, and everything he¡¯d worked toward would be ripped out of his grasp. The thought of the world continuing to exist with the killers of his family unpunished was intolerable. Inexcusable!


    It couldn¡¯t be allowed to happen, it just couldn¡¯t.


    Inside his mind, a terrible alchemy held sway, a fusion and mixture of powerful, rampaging emotions that left him swaying like a leaf on the inside, but as cold and implacable as a glacier outside.


    Another set of skeletons was done. The bones were perfectly prepared, the weaving of their spectral sinews completed. All that remained was to cast the ritual that would raise them to unlife, but Tyron chose not to perform it immediately.


    Even if he did, the next set of remains wasn¡¯t ready to come into the Ossuary, so there wasn¡¯t any rush. Instead, he ordered the undead he kept with him to tidy up the Altar and the rest of his workspace before he turned and exited the pocket space, returning to his study beneath Almsfield Enchantments.


    The rat was there, as it always was. Communicating with Valk was as simple as speaking to the warped rodent, but again, he chose not to do so. He¡¯d been pushing the vampires hard, and they had achieved a lot for him in a short span of time, but he had to be prudent. The storm within urged him to push harder, move faster, but today, temperance was the victor, and he stayed his hand.


    He wasn¡¯t ready, yet. The time wasn¡¯t right. It was coming, though; he could almost feel it in the air.


    Upstairs, within the store, he found his apprentice hard at work, Cerry sitting with him. Both were downcast, subdued, but he didn¡¯t fail to notice the closeness between them. Despite the terrible things around the two, they took comfort from one another. That was good. They would need it.


    ¡°How did your work in the workshop go, Cerry?¡± he asked, his voice rough from disuse.


    ¡°Oh, Master Almsfield! I didn¡¯t hear you come in.¡±


    He turned and looked back toward the empty shop floor. It was night, and the store was closed, not that they were getting many customers off the street anyway. Almost all of the work being done was on commission.


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to call me Master Almsfield, Cerry. There isn¡¯t anyone here.¡±


    The young woman hesitated for a long moment.


    ¡°Master Steelarm, then,¡± she said at last.


    She carefully avoided looking at him as she spoke, and he sighed. Cerry was clearly terrified of him, and had been ever since he¡¯d revealed the truth of himself. Ultimately, it didn¡¯t matter if she was afraid of him, only that she trusted him.


    ¡°Your work, Cerry. How did it go?¡±


    She blinked, her hand sought out Flynn¡¯s, and he held it gently.


    ¡°It was¡­ it went well, I think. The spirits are¡­¡± she paused and took a long, shaky breath, ¡°... they are very angry. Not that I¡­ not that I can blame them¡­ I suppose.¡±


    There were many spirits in the city, but some clung to their remains, which meant they showed up when Tyron¡¯s ¡®workers¡¯ collected them from the Church.


    To learn more about her Class and gain levels, it was Cerry¡¯s job to soothe the angry ghosts. To employ her Skills and help them leave this realm. With more levels would come more ability selections, and a clearer picture of just what her Class was capable of.


    ¡°Uh, Master¡­ Steelarm,¡± Flynn spoke up, his voice quiet, and nervous. ¡°Would it be possible for Cerry to stay here tomorrow? I know¡­ I know she said she wanted to train her Class, and help the ghosts if she could, but I think it¡¯s been¡­ wearing on her nerves.¡±


    Tyron turned his eyes to the young apprentice, who wilted before his stare like a delicate flower. Tyron willed the storm in his mind to slow.


    ¡°That¡¯s fine. Of course it¡¯s fine. If you want to stop going, Cerry, just say the word. You don¡¯t have to do anything for me to keep sheltering you here.¡±


    He tried to speak gently, but the words came out dead and cold anyway.


    Without looking at him, she nodded into Flynn¡¯s chest.


    ¡°Thank you, Master¡­ Steelarm.¡±


    Already pushing the discussion from his thoughts, Tyron turned and moved to trudge up the stairs to his rooms.


    How long since he¡¯d eaten and slept? He couldn¡¯t remember. A few hours now wouldn¡¯t hurt, but then he¡¯d have to get back to work. There was just so much to do.


    And that terrible alchemy¡­ it just never stopped.

 B4C35 - Plotting Gods

    The Duke of the Western Province, Lion of the River Gate and hand of the Emperor, Raugrave Kenmor, strode the halls of his castle with dignity befitting his station.


    As the Oracles had commanded, he had obeyed. Leveraging all the power of his station, the entirety of the province had been mobilised to hunt down and eliminate that which had displeased the gods. So far, things had been going well, yet the ramifications of failure were ever on his mind.


    Trailing in his wake, a train of Servants, Attendants, Priests and Nobles followed, their muttered conversations reaching his ears easily. The usual mix of petty machinations, dutiful toil and ignorant gossip. Even in this state of danger, there were some fools who still refused to see the noose slipping around everyone¡¯s neck.


    Should they fail¡­ the wrath of the Emperor would be swift, and final. Even the ruler of the Empire could do nothing but bow before the will of The Five.


    Ahead of him, two vast doors were pushed open by the golden-armoured guards who stood on either side to reveal the lavish room lying beyond. The Duke did not spare a glance or thought for the details, only leading the procession of his court within as he walked around the long, gleaming table to take his place upon the lower throne.


    He would have sat in the exact centre of the table, opposite the grand doorway he had entered through, were it not for the high throne to his right. In every province, a seat was maintained for the Emperor, even if the ruler of the Empire was almost never seen outside of the Central Province. Indeed, the favoured child of the gods was seldom seen outside the Divine Palace.


    The various nobles and functionaries filed into the room, each finding their name-plates in short order and taking their places around the table. Without being obvious, the Duke kept an eye on these people, his people, nominally, but he would be foolish to believe there weren¡¯t any manoeuvres being made in the shadows. Even under the eyes of the gods, their descendants would bicker and fight for power.


    Normally, such machinations were in his favour, since it kept the various houses divided, squabbling amongst themselves. In the present circumstances, their bickering threatened his house and security, and so it could not be tolerated.


    On his left, the Seneschal, a loyalist from the house of Chirn, rose to begin the meeting.


    ¡°The gods are watching,¡± he intoned, and gestured to the delegation from the Church of the Divines, who bowed solemnly. ¡°We are gathered by the will of the rightfully appointed Duke Raugrave Kenmor to discuss progress regarding the revelation of the Oracles. Let all speak and listen with open minds and open hearts.¡±


    His words hung, ringing in the air and sinking deep into the minds of all who heard them. Powerful oratory abilities such as these could have a miraculous effect on the unguarded, but none in attendance were so vulnerable. Still, the man¡¯s voice was extremely pleasant.


    ¡°Let us begin,¡± the Duke said. All eyes turned to him at once, and he acknowledged their gaze with a raised hand. ¡°Much has been done since the revelation of the gods, and I thank all of you for lending your full and unflinching support to the cause.¡±


    His eyes may have lingered on a few minor nobles who had been less than unflinching in their support, but the cowards would not meet his gaze.


    ¡°Despite our bright beginning, our work has only just begun. The rot has gone deep into this province, deeper than any expected, and it must be rooted out. I invite Mother Larily Chirn, the ranking member of the Church in the room, to speak.¡±


    At one end of the long, rectangular table, the various members of the church sat together, their long, coloured robes accentuating the symbols of one god or another. Among them were several Cardinals, each with a five striped robe that honoured each Divine equally, one of whom rose to speak.


    ¡°I thank the Duke for his invitation and for the dedication he has shown to the words of the Oracles and his unwavering service to the will of the Divines.¡±


    The Duke inclined his head, pleased with the statement.


    That¡¯s right, you snivelling curs, he thought savagely toward the other nobles, though his face remained serene, now is not the time for your fucking games!


    ¡°Yesterday, the Oracles gave a new pronouncement,¡± Mother Larily said gravely.


    This caused a ripple of unease to pass down the table, but the Duke remained calm. He had heard this news already.


    ¡°The Western Province remains clouded by unholy influences,¡± the Cardinal continued, ¡°blocking the eyes of The Divines from looking upon their children.¡±


    There were audible gasps around the table at these words. That the Divines themselves would admit to weakness was¡­ unprecedented. It was like the ground was shifting beneath their feet.


    ¡°Until it is fully excised, the Divines are unable to bring their influence fully to bear within the province.¡±


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The Duke allowed these words to hang in the air, weighing down upon the Nobles and officials in attendance. When he spoke, his deep voice echoed throughout the room.


    A handy bit of enchanting work, not too heavy-handed, that helped reverberate any words spoken at his section of the table.


    ¡°I am permitted to reveal that the eyes of the Emperor are upon us,¡± he said gravely.


    Faces grew pale, others openly blanched. Nobody wanted to fall under the gaze of the Emperor.


    ¡°The Empire is giving this threat its full attention. At this moment, we have not invited the Emperor to send the Imperial Blades to our aid, but I have been assured that such a request would be welcomed.¡±


    Not welcomed by anyone sitting at this table. If the Emperor''s soldiers came, they would flatten half the province, and the Truth Seekers would come with them. Every drop of corruption and disloyalty would be squeezed out, and the Duke himself would not be able to avoid their wrath.


    This statement was a warning to all assembled.


    If we don¡¯t handle this ourselves, then the Emperor will do it for us, and we will not survive the aftermath.


    Unable to contain themselves, muttered conversations broke out around the table as the attendees absorbed this information. He could already see the changes coming over so many faces around him, and he silently cursed them again.


    The noble houses had held themselves back, each one eyeing the other, trying to position for advantage, and all the while the sword of the Emperor was dangling over their necks! Short-sighted fools, the lot of them!


    ¡°I hope you now see the full gravity of the situation,¡± he said, taking no small amount of pleasure in the fear that had clearly gripped several of the more obstinate nobles. ¡°What we are called to face is not something so small that we can afford to be divided, or fail to put forward anything less than our best efforts.


    ¡°Despite everything you have given so far, we need to do more to achieve the aims of our Divine Ancestors. Now, it is important that we have a frank and open conversation about our progress and capacities. Failure is not an option.¡±


    Imperiously, he scanned the faces around the table, and there were several who refused to meet his eye. Those were the cowards, the incompetent, and the pawns. The real power brokers in his court all met eyes coolly, calm and in control, like butter wouldn¡¯t melt in their mouths.


    ¡°Our Duke is wholly correct. When the Divines themselves have placed a task before us, it would be nothing short of blasphemy to hold anything in reserve.¡±


    It was Contentia Shan who spoke into the silence around the table, offering her support. Not everything was as it seemed, however. Raugrave knew house Shan had withheld their Soldiers and kept them in reserve at their estate. Far from committing all they had, they¡¯d been afraid another house would take advantage of the chaos to launch an assault, and so had moved to defend their ancestral lands.


    The Lady of House Shan looked around the table, full of icy confidence before she turned her gaze toward the Duke.


    ¡°Duke Kenmor. In your wisdom, you have gathered us here to ensure everyone was as committed to the work of The Divines as they should be, which is only proper. But perhaps some among us would be more comfortable speaking in a more private setting? Lest they be too ashamed to reveal their lack of commitment.¡±


    She was so brazen, staring contemptuously around the table, that the Duke almost laughed.


    ¡°The time when we could accommodate delicate feelings has passed us by, I¡¯m afraid,¡± Duke Kenmor replied wryly. ¡°I am sure you would much rather we didn¡¯t discuss the loyal Soldiers of House Shan, and how they have remained at post within your estate, in such an open forum. However, I find under the eyes of the Emperor, my care for the dignity of my loyal Houses is less important than perhaps it was before.¡±


    In other words, you have nobody but yourself to blame. With the threat of death hanging over the entire province, including the Duke himself, he would humiliate every Lord and Lady personally if that was what it took to stave off disaster.


    ¡°Before we fully embrace this open spirit of cooperation and lay all our cards on the table. I believe it would be in the interests of the court, and the Duke, to give my niece an opportunity to speak.¡±


    Alastor Erryn bowed in his seat as he finished speaking. The Lord of house Erryn was seldom one to put himself forward at a gathering like this. Raugrave wasn¡¯t sure if he should be worried or intrigued by this development.


    ¡°Your niece has been the court liaison to the Magister¡¯s Tower, has she not? The Lady Recillia Erryn?¡±


    ¡°You are quite correct, my Duke.¡±


    Yes, he remembered her. A driven woman, and sharp.


    ¡°She may speak. I trust she is present?¡±


    ¡°I am, your grace.¡±


    Her voice came from somewhere behind her uncle, as she wasn¡¯t considered important enough to warrant a seat. The Duke would have to discipline his staff. She was the liaison to the Magisters! During a crisis such as this, how could she not be seated at the table?!


    ¡°Please step forward.¡±


    The Lady did so, and again he was taken aback by the hard edges she made no effort to hide.


    ¡°As you know, your grace, the Magisters have been lending their support to the teams in the field, sending mages to assist the Priests, Marshals and Soldiers making arrests.¡±


    ¡°Of course. The assistance of the Tower has been of great importance.¡±


    Lady Erryn bowed her head to acknowledge his praise.


    ¡°However, it has come to my attention that the lack of personnel in the Tower has placed strain on several other duties the Magisters are expected to perform. In particular, monitoring the holy seals.¡±


    The holy seals. Another name for the brands placed on the Slayers. The Duke began to feel the first stirrings of concern.


    ¡°Has there been any problem with the seals?¡±


    She nodded, and he felt his stomach drop.


    ¡°It was brought to my attention only last night, and our investigation is underway, but there is reason to believe several Magisters may have been murdered. The possibility exists that there are unsanctioned Gold Slayers fomenting open rebellion in the far reaches of the province.¡±


    The Duke raised his fist and smashed it down onto the table.

 B4C36 - Momentum

    Elsbeth was marching down the corridor of Woodsedge Keep with apparent confidence. Internally, she was very stressed, but it wouldn¡¯t do any good to show that on the surface.


    ¡°What do I know about managing Slayers?¡± she muttered to herself. ¡°I¡¯m a Priestess, I¡¯m supposed to help people connect with their gods, not order human death machines about.¡±


    ¡°You need to be a little more careful what you say around us ¡®human death machines¡¯,¡± a voice said wryly from around the corner, followed a moment later by the form of Rurin Wilkin. The Gold ranked Slayer smiled, a little sadly as she continued: ¡°We tend to have excellent hearing, even the non-scouts. After enough time in the rifts, moving quietly and listening carefully are something that everyone cultivates. If they survive long enough.¡±


    Elsbeth flushed with embarrassment.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Ms Wilkin¨C¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me that, for the love of life. Call me Rurin, please.¡±


    Elsbeth took a breath to steady herself.


    ¡°I apologise, Rurin. I didn¡¯t mean to cause offence¡­ I just¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. I understand what you wanted to say. Come, walk with me.¡±


    Feeling abashed, the Priestess fell into step alongside the older woman as they strode down the hall together. Night was falling and the shadows had lengthened as the sun sank below the horizon. Not twenty minutes ago, the light had dyed everything she saw a bright, russet red, but already it was fading and the darkness was creeping in.


    It was at this time that Raven was said to be at his strongest, when day gave way to night. The origin of this belief supposedly came from ancient legends, before the time of the Five Divines, before even the rifts, and magick and the Unseen.


    They said the coming of night was merely Raven¡¯s flock taking flight and covering the sky, putting the entire world under his gaze.


    Elsbeth shivered despite herself. She had felt the touch of the god¡¯s mind, and it had been alien, strange, and so, so overwhelming. It wasn¡¯t something she ever wanted to repeat.


    ¡°Are you cold?¡± Rurin asked. ¡°I sometimes forget you are more vulnerable to the cold than we are. Unless you are a higher Level than I¡¯m guessing?¡±


    ¡°Ah, no,¡± Elsbeth shook her head, a little embarrassed. ¡°I¡¯m almost a Silver. It won¡¯t be long until I reach Level forty.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Congratulations are in order, then,¡± Rurin smiled. ¡°I¡¯m not exactly sure what¡¯s involved when a Priestess advances in her Class, is it much different than it is for us Slayers?¡±


    It was a genuine question, and Elsbeth could see the curiosity in the other woman, so she decided to answer.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like for Priests of the Five. For us, we are offered a blessing, a gift, from the Three. Depending on whose gift you take, the changes to your Class can change to better suit the god you favoured.¡±


    ¡°This means you already accepted a blessing? When you reached level twenty?¡±


    Elsbeth nodded.


    ¡°Nothing major,¡± she hastened to say. ¡°The blessings get stronger the more levels you achieve.¡±


    ¡°Hmm,¡± Rurin hummed as she processed this information.


    For a short time, they walked in silence. The Woodsedge Keep certainly wasn¡¯t the largest in the province, but it wasn¡¯t the smallest either. These days, it was a hive of activity. Raising new, unbranded Slayers wasn¡¯t an easy task, and everyone had their own opinion on the best way to get it done.


    If it weren¡¯t for Rurin and Timothy, Elsbeth, Munhilde and the other clergy would have had no hope at all of getting the unruly Slayers to work together.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ for what I said before. That¡¯s not how I think of you. Or the others.¡±


    Rurin looked at her with a brow raised, then scoffed.


    ¡°I know you don¡¯t. Of all the people I¡¯ve met, you have more sympathy for Slayers than most. Probably something to do with the folk you grew up with. We all get frustrated sometimes. I¡¯ve said plenty of things I didn¡¯t mean, and that¡¯s the truth.¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t have been that bad,¡± Elsbeth smiled, ¡°you always seem so in control of yourself.¡±


    ¡°Hah! Let me tell you a little secret. Behind every well put together old timer is a snotty brat who somehow lived long enough to learn from their mistakes. Experience teaches everyone to mind their tongue, eventually.¡±


    They both came to a stop outside a plain wooden door.


    ¡°Thank you for walking with me,¡± Elsbeth said. ¡°I came to speak to Munhilde, so I hope you¡¯ll excuse me.¡±


    Rurin¡¯s eyes twinkled.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to speak to her as well. I didn¡¯t ask you to walk with me just for the lecture, we were going to the same place.¡±


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    How many times was Elsbeth going to embarrass herself in front of this woman in the same day? In the same hour!


    Refusing to let it show on her face, she gestured to the door and stepped back.


    ¡°After you, then.¡±


    Not believing it, Rurin chuckled audibly, causing Elsbeth to blush, then knocked on the door.


    ¡°Come in.¡±


    Munhilde, much as she had been for the last few weeks, was seated behind a desk, going through seemingly endless lists. Everytime a team went out to the rifts, they were required to file paperwork upon their return. This was always the case, but now the clergy were handling those documents, rather than the Magisters, and for quite a different reason.


    ¡°Good evening, Munhilde,¡± Rurin said, ¡°mind if I sit down?¡±


    ¡°Not at all.¡±


    The Gold ranked Slayer pulled a spare chair over and plonked herself down in it as the older Priestess continued to sift through the stack of papers.


    ¡°How goes our fledgling army? Any progress?¡±


    Munhilde scoffed.


    ¡°Army? Rabble, more like.¡± She put down the pages with a huff and looked the rebel leader in the eye. ¡°There¡¯s progress, of course. Every time a kin is killed, we make progress. The problem is, it isn¡¯t fast enough. We don¡¯t have enough fighters, and they aren¡¯t high enough Level. Considering what¡¯s going to be brought against us, we need to move faster.¡±


    ¡°The more we push them, the more of them will die,¡± Rurin explained patiently. ¡°A dead rebel is a fuck ton less useful than a live one.¡±


    It was a conversation they¡¯d had many times before, and would continue to have in the future. In truth, the Slayers and their unbranded recruits were pushing hard, harder than they should. As a result, there had been accidents, casualties. Inevitable losses when dealing with a rift, but every dead Slayer hurt them that much more when they were trying to fight the Empire.


    ¡°Well, I can finally shed some light on our situation. I received two messages via ro¡¯klaw this morning. Would you like the good news, or the bad news?¡±


    Rurin leaned back in her chair, surprised.


    ¡°News, finally? Let¡¯s start with the good news.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve heard from Brom. Skyice rebelled a little after you did, and have agreed to work together.¡±


    This was incredible news, and Elsbeth could see the fire roar to life in the Slayer¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Thank fuck!¡± she exclaimed, filled with relief. ¡°That¡¯s going to help a ton. Is Brom coming back?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s already on his way,¡± Munhilde nodded.


    ¡°The bad news must be absolutely tragic if it''s going to balance this out,¡± Rurin observed, not bothering to smother the grin on her face.


    Elsbeth was much in the same mind. The only chance the Slayers had of achieving anything at all was if they banded together, and this was a major first step.


    ¡°On to the bad news, then,¡± Munhilde stated dryly. ¡°Our source in the city has been in touch.¡±


    Tyron. Elsbeth was sure it was him.


    ¡°The Magisters have sounded the alarm about the rebellion. Someone over there finally woke up and started doing their job, realised there were dozens of the bastards that had died out in the far reaches. The Duke has already started mobilising.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Rurin said, ¡°that is bad news.¡±


    Munhilde shrugged.


    ¡°We had more time to prepare than we should have gotten. It was nothing but dumb luck that kept them ignorant for this long.¡±


    ¡°When will they be able to reach us?¡± Elsbeth wondered. ¡°Will they come straight for the Keeps?¡±


    Rurin frowned as she considered the question.


    ¡°They might,¡± she said eventually. ¡°If they take away the rifts, they make it harder for us to get stronger. At the same time, they tie up a heap of people who need to stay in place and kill kin.¡±


    ¡°You can stay in the Keep and try to fight them here, but I wouldn¡¯t recommend it,¡± Munhilde said as she started picking through the papers on her desk again. ¡°It would be wiser to abandon the Keeps and head into the countryside. Meet up with the Slayers from the other rifts.¡±


    Elsbeth might not have been a fighter, but she could see the wisdom in what Munhilde was saying. Holed up in the Keeps, the rebels were easy to track down. Once they were found, it was only a matter of time until the Empire brought enough soldiers to bring them down. However, she also knew of the odd sense of responsibility that bound the Slayers together.


    ¡°We won¡¯t abandon the Keep until the last possible second,¡± Rurin said as she shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t even need to talk to my people to figure that out. We can¡¯t just abandon the rift and allow the kin to run wild. The last thing the people of the Western Province need is another break.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s dangerous. It won¡¯t be easy to just slip out and go into hiding when the Duke''s forces are right on the doorstep,¡± Munhilde pointed out. ¡°If you want to achieve this, you need to start planning now, and whatever ideas you have, they¡¯d better be good.¡±


    A feeling of sadness welled up in Elsbeth. She thought she¡¯d resigned herself to the conflict that was coming, but now that it was so close, she found herself unexpectedly morose. The people of the Western Province were supposed to work together. The whole empire was supposed to work together, to try and keep their world in one piece and hold off the rifts. However, in a few short weeks, they¡¯d be killing each other. Outright fighting would break out across the province and many would die.


    ¡°Elsbeth,¡± Munhilde¡¯s voice broke into her thoughts. ¡°They¡¯ve been killing us for weeks now. The bodies are piling up in the cities, entire families get vanished, never to be heard from again. Even devout believers of The Five are living in terror.¡±


    ¡°I know that,¡± Elsbeth replied, trying to firm her resolve. ¡°The people need to be protected.¡±


    ¡°No. They need to rise up and protect themselves,¡± Munhilde disagreed.


    Rurin watched the exchange and shrugged.


    ¡°Much of a muchness, really. If someone is stepping up to defend their neighbour, they¡¯re protecting another, and themselves at the same time.¡±


    With a sigh, the old Slayer rose from her seat and stretched out her back.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s been nice talking to you, my lady Priestesses, but I suppose I¡¯d better go and start kicking a few Slayers right in the arse. We need to pick up the pace and plan our withdrawal. Good evening to you both.¡±


    With a wink and wave, Rurin was off, closing the door behind her and leaving Munhilde and Elsbeth alone.


    ¡°You can¡¯t hold it off any more,¡± Munhilde said to her former pupil. ¡°I know you¡¯ve reached the required level. It¡¯s time to deepen your relationship with the gods and Advance your Class.¡±


    Elsbeth drew in a shuddering breath.


    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right,¡± she replied. ¡°I just¡­¡±


    ¡°Am afraid of what blessings they may offer,¡± Munhilde nodded. ¡°I know. There are some which can change you in a fundamental way, but those aren¡¯t likely to appear at your level.


    ¡°Besides, putting it off any longer is going to be dangerous. You need all the strength you can get for what¡¯s to come. We all do.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Elsbeth nodded sadly. ¡°I know.¡±

 B4C37 - Endless Remains

    A thick aura of Death Magick permeated the Ossuary as Tyron continued his work. Words of power flowed from his lips and his hands weaved the arcane sigils required to give shape to the magick, each a necessary component of the intricate structure he was attempting to build.


    On one side of the Ossuary, recesses filled with bones writhed with energy as they mirrored the ritual he cast upon the bones resting on the altar. Power flowed from Tyron, from the hidden reservoir within himself, and into the remains before him as he continued the ritual. On and on it went, his focus never wavering in the slightest, until at last it was done.


    Faintly at first, then with growing strength, Tyron watched as the purple light within the eyes of the skull came alight. The ritual was a success; a new skeletal minion had been completed.


    But not just one. From the recesses along the wall of the Ossuary, a full twenty more skeletons rose, all created to the same exacting standard as the anchor minion in front of him.


    Taking a breath, Tyron stepped back from the altar and turned to the table he kept within this sanctum. Upon the rough wooden surface sat a large mug filled with water and a small plate of cheese and dried meat. He¡¯d been working for hours, and having something to soothe his throat after a particularly exacting ritual had proven to be a godsend.


    Feeling a little better, he turned and ordered his latest minions to assemble before him. Freshly crafted, the link that bound them to him was clear and fluid, a pathway of crystal and gossamer thread compared to what he used to make. Using his enchanted glass, he looked over every inch of each minion, making sure they met his exacting standards.


    No errors were expected, but Tyron wouldn¡¯t feel satisfied unless he ensured they were flawless. Well, as flawless as he could make them. For all the progress he had made and all the lessons he had learned, he knew there was still a lot of improvement left in this process.


    Where it might be, he couldn¡¯t say. He¡¯d incorporated everything he knew about conduit magick. In fact, given his particular expertise and benefits regarding that branch of magick, he was confident nobody in the entire province could make them better. The bones were meticulously prepared, treated with expensive agents to cleanse, seal and harden the remains. Every corpse had been studied in depth to best determine its strengths and weaknesses, its conductivity with Death Magick assessed.


    With their similarly proportioned frames, these twenty skeletons were all suited to the same purpose,  and they had been linked together, sharing the magick that each generated with the rest. The enchantments he had bound into each, using an array socketed within its skull, functioned perfectly, gathering and storing energy, converting it to death-aligned magick.


    Everything was perfect. With a thought, he directed the skeletons to gather their arms, already prepared from the wealth of bones he had in store. Who would have thought working with the Church of the Five Divines could have proven so profitable for a Necromancer?


    Shields and swords equipped, his minions looked fierce indeed. Each would be a capable soldier in his growing legion.


    ¡°Are they ready to go now?¡± a hollow voice called from the entrance.


    A slight frown came over Tyron¡¯s face, but he smoothed it away.


    ¡°Yes, they are. I¡¯ll bring them out.¡±


    He directed the undead towards the door of the Ossuary and followed after them as they made their way out. Entering his humble study beneath the shop, Tyron took a deep breath of the air. It may have been stagnant, foul air, but somehow it was better than what was within the Ossuary itself. That place seemed to reek of death, even when there were no remains present.


    ¡°Where do you want these ones to go?¡±


    Laurel¡¯s voice was dull, flat and emotionless, and the wight carefully avoided looking at Tyron as he emerged from the Ossuary.


    Even so, she managed to irritate him. It had probably been a mistake to bring her back, but she was at least someone he could tolerate and interact with. At least, he trusted her with the post of one of his wights. She would do anything to avoid going back to the silent drudgery of being a revenant. Even worse, he had threatened to turn her into a ghost, without even a physical form to interact with the world.


    ¡°When the next group is done, you can take all of them to Filetta. She knows what to do with them.¡±


    There was a moment of silence before Laurel spoke again.


    ¡°Is there a reason I¡¯m not being given the details of the undead deployment?¡± she asked softly.


    Her words only served to spark Tyron¡¯s anger, which he worked to tamp down. Yor had as much as confirmed that his anger was a result of the Court¡¯s manipulations, and he was doing his best not to let it influence his decisions. Even if Laurel was particularly deserving of his ire, he shouldn¡¯t let his emotions take control of his thoughts.


    ¡°Because there is no need for you to know at this point,¡± he replied, his tone curt. ¡°You are acting as a go-between for me and the other wights. When I have something else for you to do, I will tell you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like feeling purposeless,¡± she stated in that same, dead voice.


    ¡°Your purpose is whatever I damn well say it is,¡± he growled, before he managed to take hold of himself again. ¡°I¡¯m not interested in your complaints,¡± he said finally. ¡°The moment you wish to return to a spectre without form or function, let me know. Until then, follow orders.¡±


    Laurel¡¯s form as a wight had changed significantly from when she was a revenant. Not only did she now possess the spirit flesh that housed her soul, but her armour and weaponry had been improved significantly. With her bow of moulded, black bone, its string formed of woven Death Magick, she looked fearsome indeed.


    Her Class had changed upon her reawakening as a wight. She was now an Undead Ranger, her abilities infused with Death Magick and a greater emphasis on shadow and curses. So far, she had been loyal, doing as she was told, but the resentment Tyron felt toward her would never go away. Luckily for Laurel, she had proven to be useful, competent even, and he desperately needed his wights to perform, now more than ever.


    For someone who had desired freedom almost to the same extent as his parents had, being an undead minion must have been unbearable to Laurel, but Tyron didn¡¯t care. In truth, none of his wights were delighted to have become the generals in his growing legion, but such was their fate.


    ¡°You have a guest waiting for you,¡± Laurel said. ¡°I believe one of the Vampires has come.¡±


    Fantastic, someone else he had to work with that he couldn¡¯t stand being around.


    ¡°Is it Yor or Valk?¡±


    ¡°Technically neither. It¡¯s a rat.¡±


    Valk, then.


    ¡°Fine. Can you bring in the rodent, then take these skeletons where they need to go?¡±


    Weariness poked at Tyron, but no matter how his body protested, his mind refused to listen. Things were moving too quickly right now, and the work that needed to be done was endless. There would be a time for sleep, but not yet. Not quite yet.


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    A few moments later, Laurel returned, a large, flesh-formed rat held in one ghostly palm. After depositing the creature on the table, she turned and left, taking the skeletons with her.


    ¡°What is it, Valk?¡± Tyron asked, flicking the rat on its nose. ¡°More whining?¡±


    ¡°I look forward to ripping out your throat. Your soul will be so sweet as it slides down my throat.¡±


    Even through the rodent, Tyron could hear the rage boiling within the undead. Valk seemed to struggle with being as cold and unfeeling as Yor; anger always simmered underneath the surface, much as with Tyron himself.


    ¡°Yes, the threats, always the threats. I¡¯m busy, Valk, what do you want?¡±


    There was a moment of silence, no doubt as the vampire struggled to maintain his temper so as to avoid yelling something truly regrettable through his puppet. While the vampires were still fearful for their safety, they would fall in line, but that didn¡¯t mean they wouldn¡¯t push boundaries.


    Both Yor and Valk had quickly learned that there were consequences for pushing boundaries. After he had dropped several breadcrumbs leading toward their respective lairs, both covens had yielded, and now lived under an even greater level of scrutiny than before.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been told there are problems at the crematorium. Too much Death Magick is accumulating in the tunnels below the building. If it continues, your operation is going to get fucking rumbled for sure.¡±


    This wasn¡¯t what Tyron wanted to hear.


    ¡°I worked on the enchantments there myself. Any Death Magick should be passively dissipated.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just the fucking messenger,¡± Valk snarled. ¡°Message delivered, so fuck off.¡±


    So saying, the rat turned and leapt off the table before it scurried off into the darkness. The Necromancer folded his hands together and pondered what might have gone wrong. Were the vampires sabotaging his efforts? Surely they wouldn¡¯t be so foolish. Exposing his little bone harvesting operation would only put themselves in even greater danger.


    There had to be something else¡­ but what?


    He would have to go and inspect the tunnels himself, which could open him up to an ambush in the sewers. Killing him quietly and efficiently was still a decent way out of the trap for the vampires, even if Tyron put measures in place to expose them if he died.


    Frustrated at the wasted time this would cost, he used his mind to tug on one of the hundreds of threads that connected him to his minions. It would take time for them to arrive, so he busied himself with a few necessities. He washed, changed his clothes, ate and drank before he performed some perfunctory grooming.


    Judging he¡¯d done more than enough, he returned to the study and waited impatiently until Filetta arrived.


    ¡°What?¡± she demanded, emerging from the sewer entrance.


    ¡°I need an escort. We¡¯re going to the tunnels under the crematorium.¡±


    ¡°Really¡­. If I knew I was going to spend my unlife crawling through the sewers even more than I did before I died¡­¡±


    ¡°You would have what, Filetta?¡±


    ¡°Complained about it more, I suppose.¡±


    It was odd, hearing such flippant comments coming from such an obvious undead being. Much like Laurel, Filetta looked dangerous, her moulded black armour and helmet covering the spirit flesh protected within. On her hips sat two black knives, each as long as a forearm. What was interesting, though, was that Tyron felt he had detected a¡­ deadening of her character, for want of a better term. Just as Laurel grew a little more wooden and emotionless as time went on, so too did Filetta.


    Was there something about being a wight in particular that weakened someone¡¯s personality or emotions over time? It was an interesting thought, but not one he had time to investigate.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get going,¡± he said, pulling a cloak around his shoulders.


    It was a long journey, from Shadetown outside the walls to the temporary crematorium Tyron had established in the north side of the city. Likely, the officials who saw to the administration of Kenmor and its sewer network didn¡¯t even realise the network inside the walls had been extended to the market district of Shadetown at one point in history.


    The way was labyrinthine, and several sections of the sewer had collapsed, requiring hundreds of hours of work by tireless skeletons to clear a path. Now there was unobstructed connection from outside the city wall to within, but it wasn¡¯t exactly what Tyron would describe as smooth travel.


    Patrols of Marshals and other officials did come into the sewer, in fact, with increasing regularity since the purge had begun. Dodging them was paramount, so it was necessary to be cautious at all times. The tunnels under Kenmor were so much better maintained than those under Shadetown, which meant frequent trips from workers as well. Too much noise risked attracting notice from the streets above, and Tyron could never rule out that he would be attacked by his unwilling allies while moving through the darkness.


    All in all, it made for an uncomfortable journey.


    It took three hours to get there in the end, and by the time they¡¯d arrived, Tyron was regretting not going over the surface and taking a carriage. He was determined not to show his face around the crematorium, even under his various guises, to avoid risking exposure, but the commute from Almsfield Enchantments was hellish.


    The warehouses he¡¯d rented had their own sewer channel, a narrow walkway that branched off the main tunnel for about thirty metres. It was the entire reason he¡¯d chosen these warehouses in the first place. Expanding the sewer by digging out an underground room without the city realising had been the real challenge. He¡¯d spared no expense to ensure that no hint of vibration or whiff of construction would be found.


    The result was a relatively cramped, ten by ten metre chamber in which the ¡®work¡¯ was performed.


    In short, it was a charnel house where bodies were brought down from the warehouses above, stripped of their flesh and their bones removed. The meat and juice of the corpse, putting it crudely, were returned aboveground and fed into the furnace, along with a scattering of animal bones.


    So far, it had worked well. The church was satisfied that excess corpses were being thoroughly processed, and Tyron ensured his people went out of their way to return the ashes to their loved ones.


    As usual, the butchery room was a horrific sight. If his three students were to witness such a thing, they would undoubtedly puke up their guts for a week straight, but Tyron barely blinked. Four of his corpse preparation staff were in attendance, hard at work, their knives flashing in the well-lit chamber. These were newly Awakened individuals the Priests and Priestesses of The Three had tracked down for him. Each had a corpse preparation Class and were willing participants in the rebellion.


    His foreman was also there, a Priest of Rot, who stood twisting his hands as he sweated nervously.


    ¡°Master Steelarm, I¡¯m so pleased that you are here,¡± he said.


    ¡°Priest Inoss. What¡¯s this I¡¯ve been told about Death Magick accumulating? Such a thing shouldn¡¯t be possible.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ as you can see¡­¡± the Priest gestured somewhat feebly behind him, not quite willing to turn and face the grisly scene. ¡°We are¡­ processing more¡­ individuals¡­ than we anticipated. I believe the measures you put in place may not be up to the task.¡±


    Tyron took a moment to withdraw his enchanted glass from his robe and look around the room. Indeed, it was slight, but there was Death Magick accumulating. It would be extremely difficult to detect it right now, even from nearby, but over time, even just a few days, it would become significantly easier to sense.


    ¡°You asked me to let you know the moment something was found¡­¡± the Priest said, still visibly anxious.


    How this man had lived as a heretic right under the nose of the Church was a mystery to the Necromancer. He seemed trapped in an almost constant state of anxiety. It was the last thing he would have expected from a follower of Rot, the most equanimous of The Three.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have to work on the arrays built into the walls,¡± Tyron said, calculating as he scanned the rooms with his eyes. It wasn¡¯t that difficult, but it had to be perfect. Making a cage wasn¡¯t hard; making one that not even a hint of air could escape was harder.


    This was going to take an entire day. Time he couldn¡¯t afford to lose.


    ¡°There¡¯s no choice,¡± he said, mostly to himself. ¡°I¡¯ll go back to the workshop and start preparing after I take a few measurements. I¡¯ll be back here in¡­¡± he thought for a moment, ¡°... twelve hours.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s cutting it a little close¡­ isn¡¯t it?¡± Inos fretted.


    ¡°I can¡¯t afford mistakes. Rushing the work will only lead to more trouble down the line. In the meantime,¡± he reached into his cloak and withdrew several small devices, each with a solid core embedded in the middle. ¡°Use these dampeners. They should absorb the ambient magick, but they won¡¯t be able to process it. If they take in too much, they¡¯ll act like a beacon to the mages, which isn¡¯t what we want. Place one in the room and swap them over every two hours. Store them in the sewers at least thirty metres apart, you understand?¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡±


    Tyron handed the small devices over to the Priest and turned on his heel without another word.


    There was work to be done.

 B4C38 - Frontier

    The kin was a small, chittering thing, the size of a dog much like the ones he¡¯d grown up around on the farm. Except this was no dog. Its face was covered in little claws, at least eight of them, each designed to hook into flesh so the little horror could go to work with its razor-sharp fangs. With six insect-like legs, the creature was fast and mobile, not easy to pin down.


    Difficult prey for a zombie, but Georg had found a few methods that worked.


    The kin advanced in stop-start motions, sensing the air and hunting for life to destroy. It smelled him, faintly, and it would come towards him in time. All he had to do was be patient.


    Working as a farm hand was boring work. Back-breaking at times, mind numbingly repetitive almost always, so it was little wonder he and other young boys had sought out other pastimes in the little free time they¡¯d had. Jom Dream had been the first to really push them to compete with the sling. His name hadn¡¯t really been Dream, of course, that was his nickname. Ma Gonnel called him an archer¡¯s dream, thanks to his fat head, and the name had stuck.


    All the boys would get together and challenge each other to various difficult shots with the sling. Hit a horseshoe from ten metres. Twenty metres. Knock a mug off a fence post around the cows.


    Georg had never been the best, but he wasn¡¯t the worst, either. Now he put that Skill to good use.


    Quietly, he lowered the sling by his side and fit the nice, egg-shaped stone he¡¯d found the previous day into the cup. Gripping it tight once more, he checked to make sure he had room, and started to whirl it. Slowly at first, but with growing momentum, he spun it until the sound of it cutting through the air became more and more audible.


    The kin heard it just a moment before he sprang up from behind the bushes and released the stone. It wasn¡¯t that difficult a shot, and his rock flew true, striking the creature hard in the side and knocking it over.


    From behind him, Georg¡¯s minions lurched forward, eerie moans emanating from their throats. The zombies certainly weren¡¯t quick, and the kin had managed to right itself by the time they reached it.


    The little beast threw itself at the nearest undead and latched onto the zombie¡¯s leg, hooking in with its claws and shredding the flesh as it swung wildly with its two bladed arms.


    Unfeeling, Georg¡¯s zombie merely reached back with one arm before delivering a clumsy, stilted blow with the crude club he¡¯d given it. Not to be outdone, the other zombies crowded around, smacking the kin, and each other, with wild, disjointed swings until at last the kin was dead.


    Georg watched the whole fight from a safe distance, remaining in the spot he¡¯d thrown the stone, and couldn¡¯t quite keep the frown from his face.


    ¡°It was fine,¡± Richard said from a few metres away. ¡°There¡¯s no need to look like that.¡±


    ¡°I know it was fine. The kin is dead, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°If you think it¡¯s fine, then why do you look like you stepped in cow shit?¡±


    Georg raised a brow and turned toward his fellow student. Realising his mistake, Richard grimaced.


    ¡°Right, sorry. Farmhands probably don¡¯t care about stepping in cow shit.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not ideal,¡± Georg shrugged, ¡°but sometimes it can¡¯t be avoided. Why do you think we wear such tall, thick boots?¡±


    He stomped his feet for emphasis, which caused Richard to look down appraisingly. Now that he was no longer working on a farm, Georg could wear more practical, comfortable shoes, but old habits died hard. Also, his current work was still quite messy, so the boots were quite appropriate as far as he was concerned. Judging by the thoughtful look on his face, Richard agreed.


    ¡°I just wish they wouldn¡¯t hit each other so much,¡± Georg eventually sighed, looking back toward his minions. ¡°It looks like they did more damage to themselves than the kin did!¡±


    Richard held up a hand and wobbled it back and forth.


    ¡°It¡¯s close, but I think the kin takes it.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, I feel so much better.¡±


    The studious young Necromancer wasn¡¯t very good at being sociable, or offering support, but he stepped up and clapped Georg on the shoulder, and the former farmhand appreciated the gesture.


    ¡°Look, your control over the zombies and your ability to repair their flesh is only going to improve over time. They¡¯re already better than they were when you started, right?¡±


    ¡°They sure are.¡±


    Georg almost shuddered recalling how ungainly his first minion had been. It was a miracle the poor thing could walk at all. He¡¯d been reminded of a newborn foal, staggering and flopping about as it tried to figure out how to walk.


    ¡°But your zombies have something that separates them from skeletons. I don¡¯t think they¡¯ll ever move as well as our teacher¡¯s minions, but they can certainly take a heck of a beating. Way more than my minions can.¡±


    The two walked through the low bushes and approached the undead, who still stood over the unmoving form of the defeated kin. With a thought, Georg ordered them to line up, and watched, dissatisfied, as they staggered into position.


    ¡°Look at how badly this one got chewed up,¡± Richard exclaimed, gesturing towards its leg, ¡°and it''s still moving around, perfectly ready to fight. If this was a skeleton, it would be hopping to the next battle.¡±


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    ¡°It isn¡¯t much better,¡± Georg observed. ¡°It¡¯s not moving very well at all.¡±


    The kin had made a complete mess of the leg, ripping the calf muscle to shreds and taking chunks out of the bone. The zombie could still walk, but it wasn¡¯t pretty.


    ¡°But you can fix it. A hell of a lot easier than I can fix a skeleton. Can you imagine how much Briss and I would love to be able to heal damaged bone with a single spell?¡±


    ¡°You probably can, eventually,¡± Georg told him. ¡°And look there. You aren¡¯t the only ones who need a spell to repair bones.¡±


    Richard hummed in thought as he inspected the wound. ¡°I see what you mean. But even so, you can make do without it a lot better than we can,¡± the bookish young man replied seriously.


    ¡°Alright, fine, you¡¯ve made your point. Thanks, Richard, I appreciate your kind words.¡±


    His fellow student looked pleased and abashed at the compliment, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly as Georg knelt down and concentrated.


    Of all the magick he¡¯d learned, this was the one he was most proficient with: Flesh Mending. He spoke the words of power, performed the sigils, then maintained focus as the power began to flow.


    The process was slow at first, the damaged muscle barely moving. Then, slowly, it began to twitch, as strands of new dead flesh began to emerge, knitting themselves together. Sweat began to bead on Georg¡¯s brow as he maintained the flow of energy until the muscle was actively writhing, pulling itself back together and closing over the hideous wound that had appeared only moments before.


    ¡°It¡¯s so useful, but it looks¡­¡±


    ¡°Creepy as shit,¡± Georg finished the thought as he stood back up with a sigh.


    Ordering the repaired zombie to walk, he watched its performance and judged his repair had done enough to keep it in the fight, for now. All of his minions had various bits of damage, chipped bone and torn flesh, from where they¡¯d beaten the heck out of each other, but none of it was enough to render them unable to kill kin.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to keep hunting for a bit,¡± Georg said. ¡°Hopefully I can find one or two more of these before I head back.¡±


    He moved over to the kin, pulling his carving knife from its sheath on his hip as he went.


    ¡°What are you planning to do with the core?¡± Richard asked.


    ¡°Sell it.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t planning on¡ª¡±


    ¡°Learning enchanting like Master Steelarm? No chance of that, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    Georg butchered the monster with casual efficiency, extracting the core with a wet pop. He polished it on his pants leg before tucking it into a pouch attached to his belt.


    ¡°My hands have gotten nimble enough to cast spells, but doing that sort of thing is just beyond me. I¡¯ll be focusing my efforts in another direction. Besides, if one of you two can figure it out, I can just pay you to do it for me, right?¡±


    ¡°You think we¡¯ll just ¡®figure it out¡¯?¡± Richard asked, taken aback.


    ¡°Tyron did, right?¡±


    ¡°One, Tyron Steelarm is a genius, and two, he studied enchanting under the best Arcanist in Kenmor!¡±


    ¡°So you need lessons. It¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    Georg chuckled as he checked to make sure he had everything he needed to keep hunting. He¡¯d learned quickly just how bad things could go close to the rifts, and being careless was the fastest way to end up dead. He was willing to work with the dead, not be one.


    ¡°What level are you, by the way?¡± he asked Richard in passing.


    ¡°Level seven. Why?¡±


    ¡°You prick. I¡¯m level six. When did you Level up?¡±


    ¡°Yesterday, after I raised my newest minion.¡±


    ¡°Damn you. How many is that now?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ six in total, but only three are still¡­ alive?¡±


    ¡°Probably not the right choice of word.¡±


    ¡°Probably not, no.¡±


    Georg himself had raised four zombies, three of which were still in fighting shape. He still couldn¡¯t handle more than that. As much as he would dearly like to try and make more, he needed more levels and more magick first.


    ¡°I might leave you to it, then. I take it you don¡¯t need more of my stellar advice?¡± Richard asked.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. I appreciate you coming out, and your words of encouragement. I mean it. Thanks.¡±


    Richard waved off the compliments, clearly embarrassed.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. We need to help each other, right?¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Georg nodded. ¡°But you should make sure you don¡¯t give up too much of your time. We all need to get stronger.¡±


    ¡°Says the guy with the lowest level.¡±


    ¡°Oi.¡±


    With a smile and a wave Richard retreated, heading back towards Woodsedge, his own undead emerging from the trees to protect him on the journey.


    It was easy to be jealous of Richard. The young man seemed so well suited to magick, with his studious and meticulous nature, but he was such a self-effacing and humble person that it was almost impossible to dislike him. Also, he was wound so tight it was extremely easy to make fun of him.


    Georg shook his head and pushed all such distractions from his mind. Out here, close to the rift, kin could appear at any moment. Any of the larger monsters would be more than capable of slicing his zombies apart in seconds, and then doing the same to him. He had to be cautious at all times.


    One more time, he looked over the zombies to ensure they were in fighting shape, then ordered them forward. Shambling, poorly balanced and still emitting those uncomfortable groaning noises, the zombies were far from the ideal travelling companions.


    Also, they stank, but Georg was more than used to working with a poor smell filling his nostrils. It didn¡¯t bother him at all, but both Briss and Richard had complained and insisted his poor zombies be kept far from their homes.


    Which he felt was a bit rich coming from people who were up to their elbows in human remains every other day. Did they really think they didn¡¯t smell?


    Senses alive to the slightest sound or hint of movement in the woods around him, Georg continued his hunt. He was on a wide sweep around the perimeter of the broken lands, and there were many teams between him and the rift itself. It would be unlikely for anything too large to get through, but there was always a chance.


    It was far more likely for small critters like the one he¡¯d found before to get this far out. They were perfect for young Slayers like himself to practise their Skills on.


    It wouldn¡¯t be long until he was ready to fight something bigger. Georg was ambitious. With every level, he grew stronger, his control improved and his reservoir of magick increased. With more minions, he would be able to fight more often, increasing the speed at which he gained levels. The cycle would feed into itself, and it wouldn¡¯t be long until he reached the level twenty threshold and became a bronze ranked Slayer.


    But that would only be the beginning. For him, for Richard and for Briss, they would rocket up in power so much faster than most Classes could ever hope to achieve.


    He could only imagine just what his teacher, Tyron Steelarm was now capable of¡­.

 B4C39 - The Grand Design

    Lady Recillia Erryn sat, hands folded in her lap, her posture unthreatening and cooperative, yet the look in her eyes revealed fire and ambition raging out of control within. The very picture of what a Noble should be, a child of The Five Divines and ruler of the lands.


    She would never win any beauty contests, and had lost the allure of youth some time ago, yet that wasn¡¯t what was compelling about her. Dressed simply, almost plainly, in a green dress with little lace or decoration, and only a few, well chosen pieces of jewellery that matched her striking ice-blue eyes, she still managed to command attention with the force of her personality and her almost palpable iron will.


    The Duke regretted that she had never come into his eye before. Placing someone with her ability and ambition in charge of the Magisters had been a mistake. Such a position was usually a dead end appointment, something thrown to one of the houses as a sop that nobody truly cared about. Yet in this current emergency, the position had risen precipitously to a station of incredible value and power.


    Now this woman with eyes like a dragon sat in his council chamber, and he depended on her to survive this crisis. He wasn¡¯t happy about it.


    ¡°Is there anything else the Magisters can do to influence the rogue Slayers?¡± Duke Raugrave demanded. ¡°We curse each and every one of them, the expense of which is astronomical, mind you, yet you tell me you¡¯ve done all that you can?¡±


    The most senior Magister in the province stroked his beard nervously. Grand Magister Tommat Baln had never wished to live in such important times, and he was keenly aware of the fact he was failing to live up to them.


    ¡°It is difficult for us to determine which Slayers are responsible for the deaths of our brothers,¡± he said nervously.


    ¡°So activate all of them,¡± the Duke demanded impatiently. Lady Recillia nodded to show her agreement.


    The Grand Magister blanched, almost yanking the beard from his chin as he was in the process of stroking it to calm himself.


    ¡°Every Slayer in the province?¡± he gasped.


    ¡°Of course not, don¡¯t be daft, man,¡± the Duke declared impatiently. ¡°All of those who were recorded as present in the Slayer Keeps where Magisters died.¡±


    ¡°Well, their curses would have activated automatically, your grace,¡± the old mage said haltingly. ¡°The moment they enacted violence against a Magister, they would have been in excruciating pain. In some cases, it can be fatal. It¡¯s possible many of the perpetrators are already dead.¡±


    The Duke absorbed this in silence, staring daggers at the Grand Master sitting opposite him. In this moment of unparalleled danger, with the Emperor staring down at him, this was the most senior Magister in the province?


    ¡°Tell him what would have happened if the Slayers had reached gold rank before they killed the Magisters, Tommat,¡± Lady Erryn spoke up, her voice as cold and calculating as her gaze.


    The Grand Magister swallowed, and the Duke braced himself for further bad news.


    ¡°If¡­ if the Slayers increased their rank unofficially, then the curse would have a significantly weaker effect on them. As you know¡­ the brand needs to be reinforced every time they rank up.¡±


    ¡°What are the odds they didn¡¯t increase their rank to gold before they killed your brothers, Grand Magister Tommat?¡± the Duke asked, his patience hanging by a thread.


    ¡°I would say¡­ they are¡­ low.¡±


    ¡°Then why in the name of The Five are you wasting my time suggesting the culprits are dead?¡± the Duke demanded, glaring across the table as if he wanted to throttle the old man using his own long beard. ¡°They aren¡¯t dead, they are unsanctioned golds, unaffected by the curse, and you are helpless to stop them! They¡¯ve had weeks. Weeks! To raise others into footsoldiers who¡¯ve never been touched by the brand at all! Weeks while monopolising the rifts!¡±


    ¡°The Magisters have been lax in their duties, blind in their watch over their charges and incompetent beyond belief, your grace,¡± Lady Recillia stated evenly and without emotion.


    Every accusation caused Tommat to twitch in his seat, though there was nothing he could say to refute the claims.


    ¡°However dull a tool they have proven themselves to be, they are the tool we have available, and thus we must put them to use,¡± she continued.


    ¡°Doing what?¡± the Duke rumbled. ¡°We already know they¡¯ll be less than fully effective against the rebels. What use are they?¡±


    ¡°They are not as useful against the rebels, though the brands will still have a serious effect, but there are many, many Slayers in this province who are not yet rebels.¡±


    That was true. According to the report in front of him, only those keeps furthest from Kenmor had erupted into open revolt. The ones closest to the capital were still operating as normal, though signs of tension were reported everywhere.


    Signs that had gone completely unnoticed by the Tower, apparently.


    ¡°What are you proposing, Lady Erryn?¡± the Duke said, his tone flat. ¡°You are the one who has been responsible for the Magisters during this period of, as you say, catastrophic failure. So I suggest you make your suggestion a good one.¡±


    This threat was only partially real, and they both knew it. As the liaison, Lady Recillia Erryn was responsible for the Magisters, but the Nobles would always lay the blame at the feet of the mages. No matter how hard he tried to pin the blame on her, she would be able to wriggle out by directing the ire toward Grand Magister Tommat and his Council. Doubtless her uncle, Lord and head of the house of Erryn, would assist.


    ¡°Of course, I bear some responsibility for what has occurred during my tenure,¡± Recillia said, then continued. ¡°However, I believe it will be trivial to show the rot set in long before I arrived at the Tower.¡±


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    Doubtless she had already gathered a wealth of evidence in order to secure her escape route against exactly these accusations.


    ¡°It¡¯s necessary that we look with clarity at what is going to transpire in the Western Province of the Empire. Slayers will fight against us, gold ranked Slayers. Marshals and Priests are going to be of limited use in a fight like that.¡±


    This was self-evident. Marshals were excellent at sniffing out the guilty and suppressing civilians. They had abilities that allowed them to take away the strengths of their opponents and counter attempts to avoid them. When fighting criminals and thugs, they performed extremely well, and that was what they were trained to do.


    Against Slayers, who fought against the beasts of the rifts? The Marshals would be little better than bags of Levels that their opponents would puncture with ease.


    ¡°Against the Slayers, it would be foolish to send anyone other than the professional soldiers of the houses. Getting them to work together will be a challenge that I don¡¯t envy, your grace.¡±


    The Duke permitted himself a small smile.


    ¡°You don¡¯t believe the threat of ¡®support¡¯ from the Emperor is enough to sway them into genuine support?¡±


    Recillia Erryn raised a brow and remained silent, which said everything that needed to be said.


    ¡°So you have another idea for securing an advantage against the Slayers? What is it?¡±


    The Noble Lady of house Erryn reached out with one hand and placed it on the shoulder of the Grand Magister sitting next to her. For his part, Tommat looked as though he had hoped the two had forgotten he was present.


    ¡°As I said, the Magisters are a flawed tool, but they still have a use. We¡¯ve used them for generations to keep the Slayers in line and ensure they didn¡¯t rise against us. The brand is an effective method of control, this has been proven time and time again. I suggest we allow the Tower to perform its function to our benefit in this fight.¡±


    She smiled thinly, but there was no joy in her eyes, only the all-consuming fire of ambition.


    ¡°Who better to fight against gold ranked Slayers, than gold ranked Slayers? We have a ready supply of them here in the capital, after all.¡±


    Even the Duke was taken aback by this suggestion. Grand Magister Tommat didn¡¯t look surprised, so she must have spoken to him in advance, but he looked physically ill. Clearly, the man wasn¡¯t enthused by this plan.


    ¡°You want to use the brand to force Slayers to fight against their own? What if they refuse?¡±


    ¡°Then we have successfully identified rogue elements living right in the shadow of the Castle. They would be killed, of course, as is only right.¡±


    ¡°Are they likely to refuse?¡±


    Recillia allowed herself a slight smirk.


    ¡°I have tested this theory before bringing the idea before you, your grace. Be assured, the brand proved to be most persuasive in overcoming any objections.¡±


    So she had already tortured a gold. Technically, the Slayers residing in the capital were privileged citizens, under the protection of the Duke himself. However, these were desperate times.


    He looked toward Tommat.


    ¡°Can you confirm this?¡± he asked.


    Almost against his will, the mage nodded.


    ¡°By supplying a specific magickal signature, we can activate the brand if we are close to the individual. It took¡­ a day, before the¡­ subject agreed to our terms. It is a draining and difficult process for the Magisters, requiring a great deal of power, so it would be necessary to pull my mages from¡­ other duties.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t you do it anywhere?¡± the Duke asked.


    ¡°For gold rank and above, yes, but that is a different process that requires the sympathetic arrays in the Tower, and a great deal more energy.¡±


    Talking about his craft, the Grand Magister was much more comfortable, but any confidence he gained quickly leaked out of him the moment he finished speaking.


    The Duke considered for a moment.


    ¡°What about Magnin and Beory?¡± he asked.


    At the mention of the two legendary Slayers, both Grand Magister Tommat and Recillia Erryn stiffened in their seats. That had been a trial for everyone involved, and not something they wished to relive.


    Lady Erryn nodded to the Magister, indicating he should be the one to field this question, and the old man swallowed, clearly unhappy with the situation.


    ¡°They were¡­ exceptional individuals who put a great deal of time and effort into circumventing the brand. Despite our efforts to strengthen the curse on them, they proved to be more resistant than we anticipated. I¡­ I don¡¯t believe anyone else in the province could hope to do as they did.¡±


    Duke Raugrave grunted. He certainly hoped not. A rotating line of Magisters had been required to pour every drop of magick in their bodies into the curse for weeks before the two heretics had made any move at all. If the golds were capable of a fraction of that kind of resistance, this process would be impossible to manage.


    ¡°We¡¯ve already sent gold Slayers out of the city to reinforce the nearby keeps. Isn¡¯t that right?¡±


    Lady Erryn answered this time.


    ¡°That is true, but only two dozen or so individuals have accepted our offer at this stage. Many remain in the capital that we can work on.¡±


    ¡°And you really believe you can torture them into obedience? Keep them loyal? I worry that they¡¯ll turn and run the first chance they get. Any Slayer you use this way will never be peaceful again.¡±


    ¡°That may be true, but their role in the province is fairly limited right now, and they won¡¯t be much missed. There are other Slayers who will be more than happy to provide the children we need. If the golds we choose need to be silenced when all is said and done, isn¡¯t that a small price to pay, considering what is on the line?¡±


    What was on the line was the Duke¡¯s own head. He would pay much more than that to secure it.


    ¡°In terms of securing obedience, I believe judicious use of the brand will be required. When they have been well and truly broken to the leash, only then can we risk allowing them into the field.¡±


    A brutal, inhumane strategy, but it would put to use two resources that were otherwise useless to the Duke. If the houses held back and didn¡¯t provide enough soldiers, then he had to find something else to use in the fight, something capable of defeating battle-hardened Slayers.


    The Magisters had been nothing but a disappointment, and after the rebellion was shut down, the Tower would be culled down to the bone before being built back up. Every ounce of rot would have to be excised, and he had no doubt Recillia Erryn would gladly wield the knife.


    Gold rank Slayers served no purpose other than to soak up the Duke¡¯s money and bear the children who would replace them in the rifts. The children of Slayers were far more likely to Awaken a combat Class, after all. Even now, with the Western Province on the brink of collapse, all they did was drink and rut like dogs.


    His upper lip curled.


    ¡°You have my permission to pursue this,¡± he said, pushing himself up and glaring at the two across the table. Grand Magister Tommat shrank back from his eyes, but Recillia Erryn met them coolly. She was built of sterner stuff. One to watch in the future, certainly. Perhaps she even saw herself as Lady Recillia Kenmor one day, stepping into the role over Raugrave¡¯s dead body.


    For now, he would have to rely on her. She could be quietly disposed of later. An opportunity would come. One always did.


    ¡°How many will you allow us to take?¡± she asked, rising also.


    Noticing the mage hadn¡¯t moved, she nudged him in the side, and the old man started like he¡¯d been hit with an arrow before leaping awkwardly to his feet.


    ¡°As many as you wish,¡± the Duke said, waving a hand. ¡°But bear in mind, if anything goes wrong with this scheme, it will be you who bears the blame.¡±


    ¡°Of course, your grace,¡± the Lady bowed at the waist. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have it any other way.¡±

 B4C40 - Commune

    ¡°Tyron, lad,¡± Magnin said, shaking his head while his mother, sat nearby atop the stone fence, shook with silent laughter. ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    Flushed with equal parts embarrassment and anger, Tyron waved his sword through the air.


    ¡°I¡¯m doing the exercise you showed me. What does it look like I¡¯m doing?¡±


    They hadn¡¯t been out long, but already his shoulders ached and sweat ran down his brow. How his father was able to do this for hours and hours at a time, he couldn¡¯t imagine.


    In truth, he hated it. But when his father was home, he would always agree to practise the sword as much as he was asked. After all, it wouldn¡¯t be long until Magnin and Beory were gone again. They couldn¡¯t stay longer than a month at a time if they tried. And they had tried.


    ¡°The exercise I showed you is a precise set of movements that require grace, balance and power to achieve. What you just did was stab and slash the air like it owed you money. Look, here, watch me.¡±


    No matter how upset he was, he would always turn, immediately, whenever either of his parents spoke those words.


    Watch me.


    He knew that he would be about to watch something incredible. Something very few were ever lucky enough to see.


    Magnin drew his blade in one smooth motion, gripped it tight in both hands, and assumed the first stance. Side-on, the hilt held up toward his back shoulder, the blade perfectly horizontal, unwavering.


    With unspeakable grace, Magnin stepped, pivoted and swung, the sword flashing in the light as it described a perfect, glimmering arc, the swing seeming to hang in the air long after the edge had passed, as if the space itself had been cut. Another flawless pivot, another fast cut, another trail of glittering light.


    Tyron watched, mesmerised. In his ten years of life, perhaps his favourite thing was watching Magnin swing his sword.  He loved his mother¡¯s magick, but that made sense to him in a way his father¡¯s sword just didn¡¯t. The way he moved, the way he cut, made his father seem like a different type of being, as if something truly wondrous was taking place.


    His father went through the movements of the drill with a lazy smile on his face, as if this level of skill and precision was nothing to him. It probably was.


    When he was done, he sheathed his sword easily and smiled down at his son.


    ¡°That is what I want you to do.¡±


    Hands on his hips, he watched Tyron expectantly. The young boy looked down at his own sword, far too well made for his purposes, perfectly balanced, forged by masters of their craft in the Slayer Keeps. He picked it up in his hands, then looked at his father.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever be able to do that in my entire life.¡±


    Magnin¡¯s grin slipped and Beory burst out laughing, doubling over on her perch atop the fence.


    ¡°Now, now, lad. Don¡¯t say that. Little bit of practice is all it takes. A few lessons with your old man and you¡¯ll have it in no time.¡±


    Tyron furrowed his brow, looked down at the sword, then up at his father again.


    ¡°No,¡± he said slowly, ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    It just didn¡¯t seem possible. He couldn¡¯t move that way, had no idea how to begin. Even if he watched his father do it a hundred times, which he would happily do, he was confident it would make no more sense to him than it did in this moment. Thinking logically, anyone should be able to move a certain way, swing the sword, then go into the next motion. Yet, it just wasn¡¯t possible to do it like Magnin. He knew it as well as he knew his own name.


    Magick though, magick was easy.


    ¡°Come on, child,¡± Beory called, hopping down to the ground with a small grin. ¡°Let¡¯s leave this buffoon to swing his club and go work on something serious.¡±


    ¡°Club?!¡± Magnin roared, pretending outrage. ¡°How dare you, woman?¡±


    He turned to Tyron.


    ¡°I am going to chase your mother around the village for an hour. Magick lessons are postponed until later in the afternoon.¡±


    It was hard not to smile as, with a mighty bellow, Magnin charged, sword in hand, after Beory while she giggled and flitted away, carried by the wind like a fairy.


    What could he do other than shrug, collect his sword, and head back to the empty house and wait for his parents to come home. That¡¯s what he always did.


    ~~~


    Tyron woke with a start, snapping alert in bed. For one terrifying moment, he wasn¡¯t sure where he was, wasn¡¯t sure who he was. The dream had been so vivid, he felt that, if he stretched out his hand, he could still reach his father, still call him with his voice.


    Then the moment was gone, and reality snapped into place around him. Tyron drew in a shuddering breath as he felt the cold truths reassert themselves.


    His father was dead. His mother was dead.


    The people responsible still lived.


    And just like that, the anger came roaring back. No, not anger, all-encompassing rage. It burned so hot in his chest, he struggled to breathe, struggled to think. A conflagration so all-consuming it would ignite his flesh and turn his very bones to ash.


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    The sight of his father, dagger in his heart, looking so fondly at the corpse of his mother seared itself into his retinae anew.


    When the anger finally passed, Tyron was left drenched in sweat and trembling. He felt there was a hollow void in his chest where his heart had been, as if his emotions had been burned out of him.


    Slowly, he drew a deep breath, then another. Gradually, his shaking stopped, and the sweat on his body dried. He raised a hand to push the hair out of his eyes and felt a flash of pain in his head. He needed water, most likely. When was the last time he¡¯d drunk anything?


    That dream had felt so real. A memory he hadn¡¯t recalled for a long time. Magnin had been so desperate to teach Tyron the sword by the end, hoping his son would take some interest in the blade. Eventually he¡¯d managed to earn the Swordsmanship Skill, and his father had acted as if he¡¯d won a prestigious tournament.


    They¡¯d feasted at Uncle Worthy¡¯s Inn, his father¡¯s face was filled with pride and he¡¯d boasted endlessly of ¡®his son''s incredible talent¡¯.


    Perhaps the memory should have brought a smile to his face, but instead, he only felt cold. The taste of that feast had turned to ashes in his mouth, and all that was left was the relentless drive to bring down those responsible for creating this world, this worthless place that didn¡¯t have Magnin and Beory in it.


    When he felt like himself once more, Tyron stepped out of bed and began to prepare himself for the day. He ate a simple meal and drank his fill of water from the jug in his room before he washed himself. After scrubbing himself from head to toe, he dressed in comfortable clothing with a well-made robe over the top.


    It would be some time before he slept again, so he was determined to take care of himself while he could.


    When he descended the stairs, he found Flynn and Cerry also readying themselves for the day. The sun was barely creeping above the horizon, so it was safe for them to be out together, and the two often made the most of this time.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± Tyron called as he reached the ground floor.


    Both jumped in their seats before relaxing once more.


    ¡°Sorry, Master Alms¨CSteelarm. You scared the life out of me,¡± Flynn said, placing a hand on his chest to ease his hammering heart.


    Cerry smiled, but her eyes were always clouded when they looked at him now. Gone was the innocent, trusting young woman he¡¯d known prior to her Awakening. She was much like himself, in that way. The Tyron who had existed before that moment was not the same person as the one who went on afterward. They had different dreams, different expectations, different futures. They didn¡¯t think the same way, didn¡¯t value the same things.


    It was like a small death, followed by a minor rebirth. Cerry too, was no longer the person she had been before. Yet, at least in her case, she was able to bring something with her into this new life.


    ¡°When are you two planning on getting married?¡± Tyron asked bluntly as he made his way over the counter.


    The safe was still ensconced in its place, and he knelt to draw the pattern which would open the door. Behind him, Cerry and Flynn choked on their breakfast before stuttering out half-responses and protestations.


    ¡°I suppose it would be difficult right now,¡± Tyron mused as he fiddled with the safe. What was the symbol again? Ah, yes. With a soft snap, the lock opened and he pulled on the metal door, retrieving a few coins before he snapped it shut again. It was always sensible to carry a reserve of currency as he went about his business; this much should be more than enough for a week or two.


    He turned around to see Cerry and Flynn sitting red-faced at the table.


    ¡°What happened to you two?¡± he asked, frowning. ¡°It¡¯s a bit late to start thinking about marriage now. Surely it¡¯s come up before.¡±


    ¡°Of course it has!¡± Cerry burst out, her face going an even deeper crimson. ¡°But things aren¡¯t safe right now. How would we even get married, I can¡¯t show my face in public.¡± By the time she finished her outburst, her voice had faded to almost nothing, and Flynn reached across the table to clasp her hand.


    ¡°Just get a Priest of the Three to do it. I can bring one here if you want,¡± Tyron suggested with a shrug.


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be proper,¡± Flynn said, then blinked as he realised the hypocrisy of the statement. ¡°I mean¡­¡± he ploughed on doggedly, ¡°... I mean it would be better to wait until Cerry¡¯s family can attend. I don¡¯t want her to have a secret wedding, as if she had something to be ashamed of.¡±


    It was a good sentiment, and honourable, in its way. Tyron would have let it go, but his mind went back to the dream he¡¯d had the night before.


    ¡°This may sound odd coming from me, but don¡¯t take time for granted. You¡¯re right, things are dangerous right now. Uncertain. Either of you could die tomorrow, and the chance to wed will be gone forever. I know¡­ it isn¡¯t exactly a cheery thought, but you shouldn¡¯t assume you will have a chance later.¡±


    The young couple turned their gaze toward him, Flynn looking thoughtful, Cerry sad.


    ¡°I¡¯m off to work. You know where to find me if you need me.¡±


    He gave them a perfunctory nod before he went into the back room and opened the underground stair. Soon enough, the interaction with the two young folk had left his thoughts entirely. His world shrank down to the lists, the experiments, the sheets of paper with half-formed thoughts and partly-constructed spellforms.


    It wouldn¡¯t be long now. He just had to keep pushing, keep pushing, keep pushing. More remains awaited his attention. His constructs needed work. Repairs on existing minions were long overdue. Bones to process. Enchanting work for the gold Slayers had to be finished. New methods brought to his attention by the Corpse Moulders needed to be tested. An endless amount of Bone Forging needed to be done, swords, shields, arrows, to supply his growing horde.


    A whirlwind of activity surrounded Tyron, hundreds of moving pieces tugging him in a thousand different directions, yet he sat in the middle of it all, ice-cold and focused. With precision, he moved from one task to the next, powering through more spellwork than seemed possible. Minions were raised. Bones were moulded and formed. Experiments conducted, results marked, and tests reset. Arrays were examined, evaluated, modified or discarded. Constructs continued to take shape, piece by piece. Tyron worked relentlessly, long past the point where exhaustion had set in, long past the point his head pounded and his throat was raw and dry.


    If he paused, even for a second, the dream would bubble up in his thoughts, and the pain would come with it, so he didn¡¯t allow it to happen. He worked and worked until his eyes burned red and his vision swam, until his hands ached and his stomach howled.


    How long had he been at it this time? It was hard to tell.


    Surely it hadn¡¯t been a week already. It couldn¡¯t have been, he had orders due¡­ someone would have told him.


    When he reached this point, it was time to give up, he knew that. Pushing beyond this point wouldn¡¯t be productive. He let the pliance drop from his trembling hands to the table and raised his filthy hands to rub at his eyes. Even blinking hurt.


    The walk up the steps had never seemed so long, or so difficult. When he reached the ground floor and hid the entrance to the study, he staggered around in the dark until he stood at the base of the second flight of stairs, and almost gave up on the spot.


    Somehow, he forced his way up, head already drifting in a haze of half-sleep. Though he wouldn¡¯t remember when he woke, he took the time to wash himself, eat and drink. Someone had replenished the water in his chamber and laid out a platter of preserved food. Cerry¡­ probably.


    When he was done, and couldn¡¯t stand any longer, Tyron fell face first into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, his last thought still ringing in his head.


    Please, he begged, please don¡¯t let me dream.

 B4C41 - Dark Roads

    This wasn¡¯t the sort of assignment Leon had anticipated when his Commander at House Greyling had called him in. As was his habit after years of hard training, he scanned the surrounds, using his enhanced senses to search for any sign of danger, but found none. He hadn¡¯t expected any, not this close to the capital, but he was a professional Soldier, a warrior of the Noble Houses, and he would do his job.


    Not that he could trust the rest of the group to do the same. The Priests muttered amongst themselves, making unnecessary noise, while the Magisters¡¯ sour expressions and disinterest were plain to see even in the dim twilight.


    At least the Marshals were on the job, clear-eyed and alert, but Leon trusted them in a fight as far as he could throw them. Weak. All of them were weak. He¡¯d trade the lot of them for another Soldier from his brigade.


    ¡°Is there a problem, Ser Leon?¡± a voice enquired, and he turned to his right to find Marshal Grady watching from a few metres away.


    ¡°Not at all, Marshal,¡± Leon replied, his voice low so as not to carry, ¡°I was merely considering how we might be best deployed to handle an emergency, should one arise.¡±


    Grady nodded in such a way that led the Soldier to believe he knew exactly what he¡¯d really been thinking.


    ¡°We aren¡¯t on par with what you might be used to, but I, at least, am truly grateful to have someone of your calibre along, Ser Leon,¡± the old Marshal said, knuckling at his thick grey moustache. ¡°We¡¯ve been heading out on these patrols for over a month now, and it''s reassuring to have someone of your particular skill set along.¡±


    Someone trained to fight and kill people, is what he meant.


    Hearing someone say it made Leon feel a little better about his assignment. He might not be happy to be here, but at least others were glad of his presence, which meant it wasn¡¯t a complete waste of his time.


    ¡°Whose responsibility is it to tell those Priests to shut up?¡± he asked.


    Grady blinked before he hid a slight smile behind his hand.


    ¡°Yours if you want it, Ser,¡± came the reply.


    Leon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hierarchy. What a pain in the backside. Of course ranks existed amongst the Soldiery, but they were earned, and every foot soldier knew he could trust the people in charge not to fuck up. Naturally, a Marshal couldn¡¯t give orders to an ordained Priest, but Leon sure as hell could.


    He gave Grady a quick nod and got a salute in return, before walking back to the gaggle of robed figures engaged in an aggressive whispered argument in the middle of the North Road.


    ¡°Begging your pardon,¡± Leon cut into their conversation cleanly, stepping right into their midst, ¡°I need all of you to shut the fuck up.¡±


    Outrage flashed across the faces of several of the Priests and Priestesses, consternation and irritation at being interrupted by others, but when they looked to see who had spoken, their protests died in their mouths. He was a Soldier; he answered to House Greyling, the Duke, and nobody else.


    ¡°We are trying to move quietly down this road tonight, and if some heretics are trying to sneak up and cut our throats, I would like to be able to hear it. Does that sound reasonable to any of you?¡±


    If his words were not enough to impress upon them his desires, then his glare said what his mouth hadn¡¯t.


    Be quiet, or I will make you be quiet.


    ¡°Of course, Ser Leon, we will refrain from speaking as we move down the road,¡± one of the robed figures, Father Astin, by the sound of his voice, spoke up before anyone else could.


    A smart one, Father Astin. While Ser Leon did not technically outrank anyone on this patrol, being a mere footsoldier in the service of Greyling, he also wasn¡¯t required to answer to anyone here. If he decided to enforce compliance by beating everyone senseless, they could certainly complain, but couldn¡¯t punish him.


    It was good to establish this in their minds early. He and his fellow Soldiers had been assigned to protect these patrols as they went about their duties, and he¡¯d be damned if he wouldn¡¯t do his job to the best of his abilities. That meant keeping these idiots alive, even if they were doing their best to sabotage that effort.


    Satisfied that there was now sufficient quiet, Leon returned to the head of the patrol and began to lead them once more. Claurichard Road, named after a famed general of House Baln, or more commonly as North Road, was unusually quiet, even for this late time in the day. It connected the capital to Northwatch, the largest city in the region, and to the Slayer Keeps, Blackrift and Undermist, beyond it. This patrol was headed to Broadmeadows, a middling town just below the massive Fallwood Forest. It would take many hours of walking, but they should arrive close to dawn, ready to begin their investigations.


    The Priests had been whining about not being provided a carriage for the journey, as they seemed to consider walking beneath their station. However, they had also been charged with questioning individuals they met on the road, which was difficult to do from a speeding conveyance.


    Without that constant noise in his ears, the Soldier was now better able to use his superior senses. For now, he heard very little, which was good. Regardless, he didn¡¯t allow himself to relax; he drew his blade and kept it out, held loosely in his hand as he walked. The enchantments bound into the weapon would protect it from the cold and damp, and he wanted to be ready if anything happened.


    Conditions were cold and miserable, but after his earlier warning, there were no complaints. Considering everyone along for this patrol was at least bronze-ranked, they should be resistant to the temperature and fatigue anyway.


    Two hours away from the city, and night had truly fallen. There was no traffic at all now, reduced from the mere trickle they¡¯d seen at dusk. Leon remained at alert, though the same couldn¡¯t be said for the others. At least they were quiet.


    Suddenly, Leon¡¯s ears pricked, and he held up a hand, bringing the patrol to a halt.


    ¡°What is it now?¡± a Priestess groaned, but the Soldier ignored her.


    He could have sworn he¡¯d heard a footfall off the road, somewhere to their right, but it had been light, very light. They¡¯d moved beyond the well-fenced and organised farmholds that lined the road closer to the city, and now trees and bushes pushed right up to the edge of the cobbles in places. Much better for an ambush.


    ¡°Light,¡± he barked, tense as he continued to sweep his eyes around their surroundings.


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    His vision was vastly superior to most in the dark, but that didn¡¯t mean it wasn¡¯t better in the light.


    After some grumbling, a sphere appeared over the heads of the patrol, casting back the darkness around them. Leon frowned, still listening.


    ¡°Brighter,¡± he barked, ¡°get some globes around us. Hurry up!¡±


    Perhaps warned by his tone, the two Magisters with the patrol rushed to throw up more globes, lighting up their surroundings for dozens of metres in every direction.


    There was nothing there.


    For several tense moments, they stood in silence. Leon slowly unlimbered the shield from his back and slipped his left arm through the loops before he tightened them. Just as he finished, another sound caught his ear, and he flashed around to face further down the road. Footsteps, but different. These were normal.


    ¡°Ho, the light,¡± a voice called from the darkness.


    Some of the patrol relaxed at the voice, but Leon did not.


    ¡°Approach so we can see you, then state your purpose, traveller,¡± he ordered, his tone unyielding.


    Moments later a cloaked figure stepped into the edges of the light, both hands held up to show empty palms.


    ¡°Hello¡­ Marshals? And Priests¡­ and Magisters? Oh shit.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re a patrol under official business. Answer our questions and you¡¯ll have no problem.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± the figure replied. Moving slowly, he pulled back his hood to reveal a young man with dark hair, and deep, fierce eyes.


    ¡°Are you well, traveller?¡± Leon enquired.


    The last thing he wanted was some pox to start spreading. The young man was pale, and thin, but didn¡¯t look sick, per se. Better to be careful.


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m fine,¡± came the reply. ¡°Just weary. I¡¯ve been on the road for days, heading to the capital from Undermist.¡±


    The traveller took a few steps closer, but stopped when Leon raised his weapon.


    ¡°That¡¯s close enough. Give me your name.¡±


    ¡°My name? Well, let me think for a moment,¡± the traveller replied with a weak, lopsided smile. Leon wasn¡¯t impressed, and the young man raised his hands again. ¡°Just a little joke. I must be more tired than I thought. My name is Tyron. Tyron Steelarm.¡±


    It only took Leon a second to process the name before he was charging, a blur in the light. A voice called behind him: ¡°Magick! He¡¯s¨C¡±


    But it was already too late. With that same lopsided little smile, the figure''s hands flashed with impossible speed, and then a word was spoken.


    Leon felt that word in his gut, as reality itself seemed to vibrate with the impact. Darkness bloomed, boiling outward from the figure, but not before the Soldier reached his target. With cold precision born from thousands of hours of training, he thrust his sword forward, the blade gleaming with energy.


    There was no change in the traveller¡¯s expression, in Tyron¡¯s expression¡ªif anything, he seemed faintly amused.


    A slight sound was the only warning Leon had. The moment it reached his ears, he acted on instinct, spinning his body and bringing around his shield to cover his head and chest.


    The impact was heavy, heavy enough to throw him off balance and send him rolling in the dirt. He righted himself in an instant, back to his feet and running to rejoin the patrol.


    ¡°Father Astin! Talk to me,¡± Leon barked.


    He couldn¡¯t see a damned thing. The darkness was pervasive, filling his ears and muffling sound.The globes of light were still there, hovering overhead, but they were muted, barely illuminating at all.


    ¡°It¡¯s a magickal cloud of some kind,¡± the Priest replied, a note of panic in his voice. ¡°It will take us a moment to cleanse it.¡±


    ¡°We need a barrier,¡± Leon ordered.


    ¡°Why?¡± one of the Magisters replied, shaken.


    ¡°Because there are fucking archers out there,¡± Leon roared, ¡°why the fuck are you asking me why?! Do it, now!¡±


    The two mages blanched and began to cast immediately.


    It was too late. He heard the sound again, not quite the familiar twang of bowstrings, but similar enough that he knew what it was. With a kick of one foot, Leon became a blur, flashing through the air to come before the mages, shield raised.


    He was braced this time, and the impacts weren¡¯t enough to make him budge. Spooked by their brush with death, the mages continued to cast, wild-eyed as they stared out into the darkness.


    It took them five seconds to erect the barrier, and another ten seconds after that for the Priests to finally dispel the darkness.


    When they did, several cried out in fear at what they saw.


    The cloaked figure, Tyron Steelarm, was still there, but there was now so much more.


    Undead, hundreds of them. Blades as black as night were gripped in their skeletal hands, each one smoking with a dark energy. They were surrounded, completely, yet Leon did not concede defeat. He wasn¡¯t going to be intimidated by skeletons, regardless how many there were.


    ¡°Surrender yourself,¡± Leon called. ¡°I can still make it painless.¡±


    There were no smiles from the traveller now, just a cold, dead stare.


    ¡°I can¡¯t make you the same offer,¡± he said. ¡°Fight, struggle and suffer. I need to know how well my servants will perform.¡±


    From the edge of the light, more figures emerged. Clad in black armour, covered in ghost-like flesh, their purple eyes blazed through the gaps in their helmets.


    ¡°Are you a Soldier?¡± the traveller enquired.


    ¡°Ser Leon,¡± he replied, ¡°of the House Greyling. That is who you make an enemy of today.¡±


    ¡°They became my enemy long ago,¡± the traveller waved a dismissive hand. ¡°Now. We may as well begin. Put up a good fight, I need the data.¡±


    No sooner had he finished speaking than his hands rose and began to flash through sigils once more, words of power slamming into the air with the force of a hammer. This was no normal mage.


    The Marshals stepped forward, expressions grim, but the Priests and Magisters were white-faced and staring.


    ¡°Retaliate!¡± Leon roared. ¡°Cast or die!¡±


    He turned to the Marshals beside him.


    ¡°We charge the mage. If he goes down, the undead are useless. Can you bind his magick?¡±


    ¡°If we get close enough,¡± Grady replied from his left.


    ¡°I will get you there. Go!¡±


    No sooner had he started his charge than a flash of light speared out of the darkness towards him. Leon angled his shield, deflecting the projectile upward, but he felt the impact rattle his shoulder even so. Some sort of bone projectile? It hadn¡¯t sounded like metal on his shield.


    The Marshals were beside him, but the strange undead loomed ahead, weapons drawn. Spells were being exchanged behind him, and arrows continued to fly, spearing out of the darkness. Several were hit, but Leon pressed forward.


    His blade was like a snake, twisting in the air as it slashed and stabbed, seeking weakness in the armour as he bulldogged his way forward. This was what he was trained for, to get up close and personal, to dance in close quarters and use his short sword to best effect. With his shield, he battered away any blade that drew near even as he lashed out again and again, always pushing forward, no matter how the undead tried to press in around him. He roared with defiance, his voice tinged with his unyielding will, rallying his allies and driving back their fears.


    He twisted to the right, cut to the left, and then he was through. The Necromancer, for what else could he be, stood before him.


    His blade slashed through the air, but this time, it extended, a bar of gleaming light growing from the tip of the blade. His sword bit into flesh, but in that exact moment, he felt an unstoppable force crash into his mind, halting all of his momentum.


    ¡°Impressive,¡± the Necromancer murmured. ¡°Silver rank, not bad at all.¡±


    He gestured, and Leon stepped back, against his own will. Another gesture, and he crashed to his knees on the cobbled road.


    ¡°What have you done?¡± Leon ground out.


    ¡°Preserved you,¡± the Necromancer stated, staring down at him with those cold, cold eyes. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want to risk any damage to those bones.¡±


    With every fibre of his being, Leon fought against the hold on his mind, trying to move, trying to take up his weapon and stab it through the eye socket of the man before him.


    ¡°Over my dead body will I serve the likes of you,¡± the Soldier spat.


    Tyron frowned and looked down at him.


    ¡°Of course. That¡¯s how it works.¡±

 B4C42 - Clash of Steel

    A ro¡¯klaw was, at its best, an ill-tempered brute of a semi-monstrous bird. It had a beak capable of cutting through steel mesh, claws that could shred a human''s flesh with casual ease, and tough, layered feathers that could stop an arrow. Combined with their surly attitude, they were a nightmare to train and keep. Workers in the rookeries were frequently injured, and it wasn¡¯t uncommon for there to be deaths, especially among the younger trainees.


    Yet, the beasts had many undeniable benefits. They were smart, very smart, and could be taught to deliver messages to several locations, making them extremely flexible. Due to their size and fearsome weapons, they were menaces to the predators of regular birds and would almost never be killed by hawks or falcons. Furthermore, they were fast and enduring. Once they reached maturity, a ro¡¯klaw could fly for a week without rest, and was fast enough to reach Kenmor from anywhere in the province in that time.


    Despite their usefulness, Rurin just wasn¡¯t a fan. They were noisy, bit everyone they could get their beaks on, and unleashed an unspeakable amount of foul-smelling shit. It smelled so acidic she swore it would melt through a sword given a little time. Alchemists went mad for the stuff, but they were just as useless in her eyes.


    ¡°All right, Meesha, I¡¯m here,¡± she announced, striding into the rookery. ¡°And why couldn¡¯t you just send it to me like usual?¡±


    ¡°Because,¡± the old woman''s voice echoed out from deeper in the rookery, ¡°all the runners decided to try and be Slayers, and because you asked me to send for you if a black ringed message came in.¡±


    The acrid stink of the rookery was enough to wrinkle Rurin¡¯s nose just at the entrance, but she knew damn well Meesha wasn¡¯t going to meet her at the door. With a powerful sigh, she stepped further in, holding her breath.


    The Keeper of the Rookery was a wrinkled old woman who¡¯d worked there since before she was Awakened. She looked about two hundred years old and sounded like she breathed in smoke every day on waking. In short, she was as tough as leather boots and took less shit than Beory Steelarm, despite being ankle deep in it.


    ¡°I¡¯ve entered your palace of bird crap, just as you wished. Can I have the message now?¡±


    Meesha reached out and went to drop the long, thin message-tube into her open palm, but pulled back at the last minute.


    ¡°Have you idiots approved my request for more help yet?¡± she demanded querulously.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going to give it to me, are you,¡± Rurin stated, her eyes narrowed.


    ¡°Answer the damned question first.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t easy to keep something from a gold Slayer if they really wanted to grab it, and this proved to be the case now. In a blink of an eye, Rurin slipped around the Keeper and snatched the message.


    ¡°Like taking candy from a baby,¡± she grinned.


    Meesha graced her with a thunderous scowl.


    ¡°If you morons think you can run a rebellion out of this keep without a well functioning rookery, then you¡¯re even dumber than I thought you were, which would be the first impressive thing about you.¡±


    Rurin¡¯s smile slipped and she rubbed at the back of her head with the leather tube.


    ¡°Sorry, Meesha. Look, I know you¡¯re right, but we don¡¯t have enough people for anything right now, and working in the rookery isn¡¯t¡­ desirable?¡±


    ¡°What does desirable matter?¡± Meesha spat, pouring every ounce of scorn into the word it could possibly hold. ¡°It¡¯s necessary. Besides, I¡¯d take the company of these prick birds over most people any day.¡±


    As if to take issue with her words, a nearby cage shook as the ro¡¯klaw inside decided to slam against the bars, clawing and shrieking like a mad thing.


    The Keeper just chuckled before she reached into a pocket in her filthy robe and withdrew a slice of dried meat, which she tossed into the cage. The bird inside dove on the treat like a starved beast, tearing the tough morsel to shreds in seconds.


    ¡°They get irritable when they¡¯re hungry,¡± Meesha stated, ¡°and irritable ro¡¯klaw cause a lot more problems than happy ones.¡±


    ¡°I take your point, Meesh. I¡¯ll make sure to get people in here to help, even if they end up rotating through.¡±


    ¡°Better than nothing,¡± the old woman snorted, then turned to look at Rurin more carefully. ¡°Are you still holding your breath?¡±


    The Slayer nodded.


    ¡°Weak as piss,¡± the Keeper snorted, turning away and heading deeper into the rookery.


    Finally freed, Rurin happily took herself away, breathing deep of the sweet, non-shit-filled air outside. Despite the relieving breath, she still felt the weight of responsibility press down on her shoulders. Another task that needed seeing to, another thing she needed to take care of.


    Only now that she was the person in charge did she finally realise how nice it was to have someone else to push all the responsibility onto.


    ¡°The things I do for you, Beory,¡± she muttered, looking up to the sky. ¡°Things you would have never done yourself.¡±


    Take responsibility? Beory, the war witch, had run from it at every opportunity. She and Magnin had been a perfect pair in that regard. It was what made them so impossibly compelling, how free they were, but also so endlessly infuriating.


    In her hand, the leather tube, with a solid black line painted around one end, rested heavy. She needed to find Tim. Surprisingly, he was in his office working, which shocked her deeply. He looked up as she poked her head in the door and eyed him suspiciously.


    ¡°What?¡± he sighed.


    ¡°Are you doing your paperwork?¡± she demanded.


    ¡°Just because you don¡¯t see me do it doesn¡¯t mean it doesn¡¯t get done,¡± he said, his voice flat. ¡°As a matter of fact, my work is usually done well in advance of yours, because I am efficient.¡±


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    ¡°And here I was thinking you were just slacking off all the time.¡±


    ¡°Perish the thought. Now, can I ask what brings you to my office, dear leader?¡±


    ¡°Oh, no, do not call me that,¡± Rurin shuddered.


    ¡°Fine. Why are you here?¡±


    She held up the message tube, and a serious expression settled on the mage¡¯s features.


    ¡°Have you read it yet?¡±


    ¡°I was hoping we could share the moment.¡±


    ¡°Well, get to it.¡±


    Timothy leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if bracing himself. Rurin rolled her eyes and popped the cap off the end of the tube, sliding out the rolled paper within. Without any ceremony, she scanned over the page, rolled the paper up again, and fell into thought.


    ¡°Rurin¡­¡± Tim asked.


    ¡°Hmm?¡± she grunted, still thinking.


    ¡°You know you were supposed to read that out loud, right?¡±


    ¡°Mmhmm.¡±


    ¡°Why are you like this?¡±


    She threw the paper onto the table and the mage snatched it up, running his eyes over it quickly. There wasn¡¯t much there, only a few sentences, and he was through it in an instant.


    ¡°Is this source trustworthy?¡± he asked, frowning.


    Rurin looked up from her reverie, a hint of fire in her eyes.


    ¡°Never ask me that again,¡± she warned.


    Tim held up his hands.


    ¡°Alright, noted. So they¡¯ve reached Foxbridge.¡±


    ¡°They haven¡¯t just reached Foxbridge. We have people in that town. There¡¯s been fighting in Foxbridge.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    He knew. She could see that he knew. Even more obvious was the fact that he knew she knew that he knew. He was being a pain, as usual.


    ¡°It¡¯s the first direct conflict of the war,¡± she sighed, hands on her hips. ¡°Our people against the law. Against the Magisters.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a little late to be reflecting on that now, don¡¯t you think?¡± Tim observed dryly.


    ¡°It just makes everything final,¡± she said, and shook her head. ¡°There¡¯s no going back now.¡¯


    ¡°There was never any going back,¡± Tim disagreed. ¡°The moment we advanced in secret, everything was set in motion. Our own deaths, and the deaths of every Slayer in Woodsedge.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t try and put too cheerful a spin on it,¡± she laughed, but didn¡¯t contradict him. ¡°I know you¡¯re right, but even so, this feels like it¡¯s changed something to me.¡±


    ¡°Well, if this was the first battle of the rebellion, at least we won,¡± Timothy noted, tapping the page with his hand.


    ¡°Of course we won,¡± Rurin scoffed. ¡°Do you have any idea who they were messing with in Foxbridge?¡±


    ¡°Obviously not,¡± Tim drawled, ¡°but they must be impressive to inspire such confidence.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s Worthy Steelarm,¡± she grinned.


    Tim¡¯s eyes widened.


    ¡°Magnin¡¯s brother?¡±


    ¡°The very same.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t he only Silver?¡±


    ¡°Not anymore.¡±


    The mage whistled appreciatively.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not a small thing.¡±


    Worthy had been working with them for weeks. Supplies coming to Woodsedge always went through Foxbridge. The docks on the river handled almost all of the goods that travelled from the west to the capital, and everything coming the other way as well. It would have been impossible to keep the Slayer Keep running without someone helping to access the market. Teams of people had been going to and from Foxbridge in a steady stream, and Worthy had helped to coordinate everything.


    However, that arrangement would likely come to an end now. The Slayers in town had been caught in a conflict with the patrol who¡¯d just arrived, and Worthy had involved himself to resolve it.


    ¡°It won¡¯t be long until Foxbridge is swarming with Priests, Magisters, Soldiers¡­ the works,¡± Rurin muttered.


    ¡°Which means our easy access to supplies is gone,¡± Tim confirmed.


    Which meant they were reliant on locals and what they could secure for themselves.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have to abandon the keep soon anyway,¡± Rurin muttered. ¡°We should make sure we pile up all the supplies we can, tighten our belts. It¡¯ll be hard to get what we need once we¡¯re on the run.¡±


    ¡°We should notify the other rebel Keeps of this development,¡± Tim stated. ¡°Things are going to move fast now. We should arrange a place to meet our allies once we abandon this place and share whatever information we can.¡±


    Rurin nodded, then stiffened.


    ¡°Does this mean I have to go back to the rookery?¡±


    Timothy nodded solemnly.


    ¡°It means you have to go back to the rookery.¡±


    ~~~


    Tyron groaned as he staggered, not for the first time, and clutched at his side. He¡¯d bound the wound as best he could, but he wasn¡¯t capable of treating it with any level of skill. Also, he probably should have cleaned it before he¡¯d come into the sewers.


    Blood and bone, that bastard had been fast. Who knew what abilities and Skill levels a Silver ranked footsoldier had, but that speed, strength, and strange sword Skill had been greater than Tyron had expected. His wights had been completely outmatched, but that was to be expected. They were still untested, in need of experience and levels.


    Without his armour, he likely would have been disembowelled. If he¡¯d been any slower with his spell, he might have lost his guts anyway.


    With his absurd Constitution, he was capable of absorbing inhuman amounts of punishment. Despite the deepness of the cut, it had already stopped bleeding, but he would need to have it stitched to ensure it healed properly.


    It was almost morning now, and the light was starting to creep through the grated drains overhead. His undead were already below ground, slipping through the water intake in the river to enter the sewer under the cover of darkness. Tyron himself had needed to find a different entrance, but he¡¯d been able to slip into Shadetown and find a sewer opening there.


    He kept walking forward. Once he got back to the store, he could patch himself up and rest after a successful outing. One hand on the wall to help his balance, Tyron extended the other hand in front of him, a globe of light balanced above his palm.


    Which is how he saw the vampire waiting for him.


    ¡°You¡¯re taking too many risks,¡± Valk growled.


    Tyron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Despite their power, the bloodsuckers were remarkably risk-averse.


    ¡°That¡¯s for me to decide,¡± he said.


    The vampire narrowed his eyes, a deep, burning hatred blazing within. Tyron¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change, but he summoned his minions with a thought and prepared himself to cast at a moment''s notice.


    ¡°If exposure is guaranteed anyway, then killing you is no longer a risk,¡± Valk warned him. ¡°How many patrols did you hit?¡±


    ¡°Two,¡± Tyron answered honestly.


    Valk grunted.


    ¡°With any luck, you¡¯ll go out again and get yourself killed,¡± he inhaled deeply through his nose. ¡°Smells like you almost succeeded this time.¡±


    ¡°What doesn¡¯t kill you makes you stronger,¡± Tyron shrugged. ¡°Now, if you aren¡¯t going to try and kill me, then I suggest you get the hell out of my way.¡±


    Valk glared at him hatefully, his hands flexing into fists, before he stepped back and faded into the darkness, vanishing from the sewer, leaving Tyron to his thoughts.


    Doubtless, there would be a reaction to his outing; the roads near the capital would be swarming with troops. It would be a while before he was able to step out again, but he would have to. It was imperative that he give his wights opportunities to gain strength.


    Not to mention all the precious materials he¡¯d been able to gather¡­. No, he would have to go out again.

 B4C43 - Golden Glow

    ¡°Ah, that sweet, Undermist scent. Did you miss it as much as I did?¡± MacReilly asked.


    Feolin wanted to scowl and curse, but she was so pleased to see the Keep again she couldn¡¯t keep the smile off her face.


    ¡°I never thought I¡¯d be happy to see this place,¡± she said. ¡°I mean, really, never.¡±


    ¡°I know what yeh mean,¡± MacReilly grinned. ¡°I was so happy to get away from this place, I drank until I couldn¡¯t stand up.¡¯


    ¡°You drank like that every damn day.¡±


    ¡°Aye, but that was drinks of commiseration. When we left, they were drinks of celebration! Very different.¡±


    Undermist Keep and the town that bore the same name were much the same as every Keep and settlement around the empire, walled bulwarks against the kin. They were designed to house, equip and stitch together the Slayers as they went about their duties. However, this rift, and this town, were a little different from the others, for one very specific reason.


    The two approached the Grave gate on the south side of the wall, so named for the cemetery they passed on their right. The two Slayers bowed at the waist toward the memorial, paying respect to the friends whose names had been carved into the gravestones within, even if their bodies did not lie in the soil beneath them.


    Security on the gate was tight, as was to be expected, given the current circumstances. No less than a dozen guards, with an attending Magister and Priest, occupied the guard house, and every single one of them stepped out as Feolin and MacReilly approached.


    ¡°Present your papers and prepare to be searched,¡± the ranking Marshal declared, holding up a hand to halt them on the spot.


    MacReilly rolled his eyes. He¡¯d never been good at dealing with the authorities, but that was fine. They¡¯d both agreed Feolin would be the one to handle these situations for the two of them.


    ¡°Hello, officers. I am Feolin Brightshield, and this is my associate, MacReilly.¡±


    The Marshal flicked his eyes to the Slayer with a slight frown.


    ¡°Is that it? No second name?¡±


    ¡°Clan name is all you get unless you want to be wed,¡± MacReilly drawled, waggling his thick eyebrows at the man.


    ¡°Northerner, then. You have identification on your papers?¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± the officer grunted, holding out his hand. ¡°I¡¯ll go through the documents while you report to Magister Deol over there for a status check.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    Feolin handed over her papers along with MacReilly¡¯s but waited rather than walking off at once. When the Marshal looked up to see what the delay was, she smiled ingratiatingly.


    ¡°I just wanted to check that you knew we were coming before we submit to the check, just so there aren''t any¡­ surprises.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± the officer asked warily.


    ¡°My associate and I have come from the capital, with special dispensation from the tower, to come and help here in the Keep. Have you been told of this?¡±


    The officer frowned for a moment, then his eyes widened in alarm.


    ¡°Wait¡­ so you two?¡±


    The two Slayers nodded, being careful not to appear threatening, keeping their hands away from their weapons.


    ¡°Yes. The two of us are gold ranked. I just wanted to ensure there was no confusion on that front.¡±


    ¡°G-good decision.¡±


    The Marshal kept himself together, but he was clearly rattled at being in their presence. Not all of the guards were as controlled, with some staring at the two, fear written plainly on their faces. Even the Magister looked uneasy at being in the presence of two golds, his hand wrapped white-knuckle tight around his stave.


    Feolin kept the smile plastered to her face as if her life depended on it, desperate to appear unthreatening. The last thing she wanted was for some idiot guard to panic and cause an incident which would get her and MacReilly sent back to the cage, never to escape.


    ¡°So, can we get that status check done now?¡± she said.


    ¡°Y-yes. Of course. Magister Deol?¡±


    Grimacing, the Magister stepped forward, tense as a coiled spring, eyes flicking from one to the other.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get to the guard post. N-no funny business. M-Move.¡±


    MacReilly sniggered at the¡­ admittedly pathetic attempt to sound commanding, but Feolin silenced him with a glare. Ten of the guards accompanied them back to the post, each one with their hands on their weapons, ready to fight at a moment''s notice.


    All very unnecessary, of course. The brand placed on golds was so much more potent than what the silvers put up with. Could Feolin kill these guards? Maybe, but the pain would incapacitate her for hours, if not kill her outright.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Offering no resistance and smiling gently the whole time, she didn¡¯t even complain when her arm was seized with far more force than necessary before being placed on the page. At least they were gentle enough with the needle.


    Status ritual complete, the Magister stared down at the page as if it might leap off the table and bite him in the neck.


    ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± he muttered. ¡°She really is gold.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s not the only one,¡± MacReilly said, walking forward and sticking his hand forward. ¡°Come on now, lads. Let¡¯s get this done, I¡¯ve got shit to kill.¡±


    The process was repeated with him, and his status sheet elicited the same reaction. It was almost comical how the guards ringed around them and shuffled the two Slayers back to the middle of the road.


    ¡°Everything appears to be in order,¡± the Marshal said, handing them back their papers. ¡°The two of you are required to report to Magister Theolodis in the Keep before you can undertake any Slayer activities, as per your orders. Do you require any¡­ uh¡­ directions?¡±


    He¡¯d done so well, but faltered at the end, looking at the two of them.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be fine, thank you,¡± Feolin said.


    ¡°Been here before, lads,¡± MacReilly grinned.


    And just like that, they were back inside. The sights, the scents, the sounds. It brought back a flood of memories, not all of them pleasant, from their time in the field. Compared to the carefully tended gardens and immaculate streets of the Gold District, this place was rotten, covered in filth and grime, with the unshaven masses rubbing shoulders with their betters.


    Feolin found herself unable to explain why she had ever given it up. That gilded cage may have glittered brightly, but inside it was suffocating. Out here, she could breathe easy for what felt like the first time in years.


    ¡°Brose was so right,¡± she said sadly.


    ¡°Aye. That he was,¡± MacReilly agreed.


    The two moved away and headed toward the looming Keep that towered over the town, built atop a hill on the north side of the settlement.


    When they arrived at the gate, they saw a few Slayers heading out to the field and a few others coming back. Feolin didn¡¯t recognise any of them, but that was probably logical. Anyone who¡¯d been active in their day but hadn¡¯t reached gold was probably dead by now.


    How many could have remained as silver and survived for years in the rifts? Not many, surely. She hoped there were at least a few. There had to be some out there.


    For their part, the Slayers eyed them a little suspiciously, as if wondering just what these strangers were doing here. Too calm and confident to be rookies, but not properly equipped like veterans.


    The entrance to the Keep was a repeat of what they had experienced at the gate. Feolin was able to grin and bear it a second time, though MacReilly was visibly struggling by the end.


    ¡°Come on. You know security around the keeps was always strict. Given the current situation, did you think there would be less?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± he growled, ¡°I just don¡¯t have the patience for it like I used to.¡±


    Feolin choked out a strangled laugh.


    ¡°Wh-what?! Since when did you ever have patience¡­ for anything?!¡±


    ¡°In my youth, I was far more tolerant,¡± MacReilly said, nodding sagely.


    ¡°In your youth you made it a point to get into a fist fight every day.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s true.¡±


    The inside of Undermist Keep was a tangled warren, much like all of the Keeps. Barracks layered on armouries layered on supply storehouses and an endless knot of chokepoints and defensible corridors. The two of them navigated it easily, finding themselves in the administration section, waiting to see the Magister responsible for the whole keep: Theolodis.


    ¡°How long until Gen and the others are allowed out to join us?¡± MacReilly asked as they waited in the surprisingly comfortable seats outside the office.


    ¡°You think they¡¯ll come just because you suggested they should?¡±


    ¡°No, I think they¡¯ll come because they¡¯re right on the edge and need hope,¡± MacReilly said quietly.


    ¡°Really? I thought Gen was alright?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s better at hiding it than most.¡±


    ¡°Warra had been looking pretty rough. I thought she was down because Nora had¡­ died.¡±


    ¡°You know how it goes,¡± MacReilly stated heavily. ¡°Eventually you go down and just can¡¯t quite pick yourself back up again. I think that¡¯s pretty much where that crew had gotten to.¡±


    ¡°Well, now I really am hoping they took you up on your offer.¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡±


    The two fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, but thankfully they didn¡¯t have to wait long before they were allowed inside to see the Magister.


    Within the comfortably furnished office, they found not one, but three Magisters, each working behind their own desk, each wearing the official robes of their order.


    Of course, being Magisters, one of the desks was much larger and more elaborate than the others, so the two Slayers directed their attention to the mage sitting behind it.


    ¡°Magister Theolodis?¡± Feolin asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s me,¡± the Magister said, looking up.


    Theolodis was an older man, with a long grey beard that he¡¯d combed to the point it flowed down his chest in a silver wave. Combined with his kindly eyes and gentle demeanour, he looked like a friendly grandfather who snuck treats to his younger family members.


    ¡°Ah, yes. Our new gold ranked Slayers, I presume?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. I¡¯m Feolin, and this is MacReilly.¡±


    ¡°From the north! Men of the Clans aren¡¯t that common in the west. It¡¯s assuring to have you with us.¡±


    ¡°Not many appreciate the unique talents of my people,¡± MacReilly grinned.


    ¡°Nothing of the sort here, I assure you.¡±


    Theolodis turned back to Feolin and smiled.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you are eager to get to work. There are only a few things we need to get through before I can give you clearance to head out to the rift. I hope you can indulge me?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Feolin said, put off balance by meeting a polite Magister for perhaps the first time in her life.


    Theolodis went through their documents, confirmed their details, had them perform another status ritual to confirm their papers were accurate, signed off on copies to be sent back to Kenmor and checked their equipment to ensure they were sufficiently armed and armoured to be effective.


    Through it all, he maintained his affable, elderly charm. Which made it even more shocking when they came to the end of their conversation.


    ¡°Last item on the list,¡± the Magister said, then without changing expression, he stated: ¡°we just have to check your brands to ensure they¡¯re working.¡±


    Feolin, caught off guard, blinked rapidly.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± she said.


    ¡°Won¡¯t take but a moment,¡± Theolodis said, still smiling. ¡°I¡¯ll ask Magistier Thirn and Magister Alder to perform the test. I do suggest you sit down.¡±


    ¡°Why would you need ta test the brand?¡± MacReilly growled. ¡°You Magisters are the ones who put them on us. Are you doubting your own work?!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s very unusual for golds such as yourself to be outside the capital like this. It¡¯s only sensible that we take every precaution. Now, brothers, if you would begin.¡±


    Feolin opened her mouth to protest once more, but her thoughts were obliterated in an instant by the pain. It was all-consuming, wracking every inch of her body, though it didn¡¯t originate from her flesh, but from her very soul.


    She had no idea how long it went on, or whether or not she was screaming. She couldn¡¯t think at all. Wasn¡¯t aware of anything except for the pain.


    When it finally faded, she found she was face down on the floor, sobbing, her voice hoarse and her fingernails bloody.


    She was dimly aware of MacReilly groaning and cursing behind her, his voice shaky and uneven.


    ¡°Well, that seems to be in working order,¡± Theolodis said in his gentle way. ¡°You are all clear to begin work. Congratulations.¡±

 B4C44 - Kinks in the System

    ¡°Are you sure about this?¡± he asked for the third time.


    Yor glared at him, her fingers flexing into claws.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said, her voice tight. ¡°Yes, I am sure.¡±


    ¡°I knew they were letting the golds out, but why are they taking them to the Tower? And how did you learn about this?¡±


    ¡°Via the usual methods,¡± she said flatly.


    The issue with using the vampires as a source of information wasn¡¯t how well they were suited to the task. Yor and her coven were exceptional at getting into places they weren¡¯t meant to go and extracting secrets they weren¡¯t meant to know.


    The issue was how far he was willing to trust what they chose to tell him. Naturally, they held things back, and it was almost impossible for him to realise it at the time, and difficult to prove what they¡¯d done afterwards.


    ¡°And there isn¡¯t more to tell? You aren¡¯t engaging in more of your risk mitigation?¡±


    Bare fangs were the only reply he got, so Tyron sank into thought. There weren¡¯t enough Slayers to manage the rifts at the best of times, but now there were even fewer, after the disaster at Woodsedge wiped out so many. Magnin and Beory had been plugging gaps and pulling rifts back from the edge of disaster for years, but they were gone too. It stood to reason that the Duke would be forced to loosen his grip on the most powerful Slayers, letting a select few out to fight in the Keeps.


    But sending them to the Tower was something else entirely. Tyron had worked with several of the golds, crafting equipment for them to take to the rifts, and none had mentioned being detained by the Magisters for any length of time. Yet now five golds had been taken in and not released for over a week.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like it,¡± Tyron muttered to himself.


    ¡°Too bad,¡± Yor snapped, and Tyron turned a glare on her.


    ¡°Not you, the Magisters,¡± he said. ¡°A change from their usual patterns means they¡¯re up to something. Messing with Slayers is what they do professionally, but messing with golds is¡­ risky.¡±


    Those few who managed to achieve gold rank and retire into the luxury of the cage were highly regarded by the citizenry. They were heroes, valiant warriors who had triumphed against the kin and formed the last line of defence inside the capital.


    ¡°If people find out they¡¯re abusing the golds¡­¡±


    ¡°The key word, as always, is if,¡± Yor drawled. ¡°The Tower is one of the places my people and I cannot penetrate, and no, we won¡¯t even try, no matter what you threaten me with.¡±


    Tyron raised his brows. He hadn¡¯t said anything of the sort. The vampire just glared daggers before continuing.


    ¡°If you think about it, there aren¡¯t that many reasons for the Tower to take them in.¡±


    ¡°Which are?¡± Tyron prompted when she didn¡¯t continue.


    ¡°I said if you think about it,¡± she replied.


    Typical.


    ¡°You¡¯re being a little too uncooperative, don¡¯t you think? Are you sure there won¡¯t be consequences if you get in the way of my purpose?¡±


    Tyron gathered his magick to himself as he stared, eyes cold as ice, at the undead before him. Yor met his gaze with one just as frozen as his own.


    ¡°My coven has already drawn far too much attention in order to appease your demands,¡± she hissed. ¡°I won¡¯t die for your revenge.¡±


    Silence hung heavy in the air between them for a long moment. Tyron was the one to break the stalemate.


    ¡°Very well,¡± he allowed.


    It was a delicate balance, the push and pull between himself and the vampires. With the threat of exposure hanging over their heads, they were compliant, to a point. Were he to push them too far, then the calculation would flip against him. The moment Yor decided she would be safer with Tyron dead, he would come under immediate attack, likely ambushed in the sewer, or killed in his sleep.


    Resolving not to push any further, he bid farewell to Yor and returned to his study. The sewers had become so familiar to Tyron at this point he was almost able to make his way in complete darkness. He¡¯d never thought he would come to rely on the capital¡¯s waste management so heavily, yet here he was.


    Using them had become even easier recently. The staff charged with maintaining the subterranean tunnel network had become lax in their duties in recent weeks. To Tyron, it was another sign of the disintegrating conditions within the city.


    Shadetown had lost so many people as a result of the purge. Only a fraction had been taken by the authorities, but that had been enough to spread fear through the populace like a wildfire. In a tight-knit community such as this, everyone knew someone who had been taken away and hadn¡¯t come back. They¡¯d fled in droves, seeking safety elsewhere in the province, further away from the seat of power.


    If Shadetown had suffered, then Kenmor itself was significantly worse.


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    Within the walls of the capital, the stench of fear was palpable. Traffic though the gates was heavily policed, so people couldn¡¯t flee, even if they wanted to. Fanatical believers of The Five Divines had taken to roaming the streets in packs at night, seeking heretics they could hand over to the Marshals, or deal with themselves.


    With so many of the Duke¡¯s resources now outside of the capital, moving town by town, village by village through the countryside, order in the city had been stretched to breaking point.


    Once the fighting broke out in earnest, tensions would ratchet even higher. How would the gold ranked Slayers feel, knowing that their comrades were locked in a battle to the death outside the city? Many of them would have family members who were active in the Keeps, especially since combat Classes often seemed to run in families.


    Tyron stopped dead, one hand on the dank stone wall of the sewer as an awful thought struck him. The gold Slayers would have family members and friends fighting against the Duke. It was an enormous risk to have them sitting in the city, brand or no brand. After all, the curse only took effect after they did something they shouldn¡¯t. How much damage could a gold ranked Slayer do in a single strike?


    A great deal.


    All of a sudden, he realised why the Slayers were being taken to the Tower. It was brutally elegant, in a sick sort of way. Why wouldn¡¯t the Duke want to solve two problems at the same time? They were lacking manpower, already having to release retired Slayers out to the rifts, why not recruit a few more to fight?  Naturally, they¡¯d have to be ¡®persuaded¡¯, but the magisters were experts at that sort of work. They¡¯d been doing it for thousands of years.


    The Duke was planning to turn the gold ranked Slayers against their own comrades.


    Disgusting, but also brilliant, in its own way.


    Tyron resumed his journey as his thoughts raced. He had to be careful of his footing out here. The sewer tunnels beneath Shadetown were not only smaller than those beneath the city, but less well-maintained. In places, the grating that covered the sludge below had degraded, or fallen away completely. A slip on the slimy edge would put him in a very regrettable situation, but his mind was fully occupied with this new thought.


    If there were golds in The Tower, being tortured at this very moment, what did that mean? Was there a way he could take advantage of them?


    If he¡¯d been cognisant of it, he might have felt a twinge of regret at the callousness of that thought. Magnin and Beory hadn¡¯t just been exemplary Slayers, but had truly believed in the profession and the people who undertook it. They were so respected and beloved by their peers for exactly this reason.


    Their son had once felt the same way, but circumstances had burned that sentiment from him. The only thing he cared about was his vengeance; everything else was just a means to that end.


    If the people were to find out what was being done to their heroes, then they would be furious, so would it be possible to destabilise the Duke further by spreading this information around?


    He considered it, but dismissed the idea. There was too much fear. The populace, especially within Kenmor itself, were completely cowed. If the Magisters, Priests, Marshalls and Soldiers hadn¡¯t been enough, the gangs of fanatics had been the last nail in the coffin.


    It would take something extraordinary to bring the people of the city to the point of open rebellion.


    He could leak word to the other gold ranks within the birdcage. That would surely rattle a few feathers. But would they even believe it? Even if they did, would they be willing to do anything about it?


    Although they were powerful, the golds were under the thumb of the Nobles. With their comfortable, indolent lifestyles, how many would risk that existence for rebellion and near certain death?


    Probably not many. Even though the Duke had called for volunteers to head back out to the rifts, disappointingly few had taken up the call.


    Well, what could he do with a handful of Slayers who, in the present moment, probably wished they were dead?


    The answer was so obvious he almost smacked himself in the head.


    If they¡¯d rather be dead, then he could certainly do them a favour. In return, he would ask a little favour from them. His skeletal horde was growing very rapidly at present, and he needed capable commanders to take on the burden of leadership.


    Getting to them would be impossible, at least for now. Doubtless they were being held deep in the heart of the Tower and under incredible levels of security. Being objective, there was almost no chance he would be able to access the Slayers being held right now, but when they were eventually sent out into the field, the Magisters would bring in more of them, and then another group after that. So long as he eventually managed to get inside The Tower, which he had to do, somehow, to achieve his goals, there would be golds waiting for him.


    Still deep in thought, Tyron finally made it back to his study, pushed past the many constructs and projects scattered throughout the space and sat at his desk.


    He pulled his book of notes towards him and began to flick through the pages.


    Souls. That was the issue that arose to his mind. He¡¯d learned so much about them, but there was still a great deal that remained a mystery. Some souls were stronger than others, that was just a fact. Dove¡¯s soul had been totally unlike the farmers and brigands he turned into spirits.


    Was it merely related to levels, or did something else contribute to the strength of a soul? The possibility existed that it was an inherent trait people were born with, but somehow he doubted it. He¡¯d already proven that the Unseen, for better or worse, had wormed its way into the souls of everyone in the realm, Tyron¡¯s included, so it made perfect sense that as it invested more and more strength into an individual, levelling them, ranking them up, the soul would receive more of its power as well.


    Or perhaps¡­ the Unseen was tied more closely to souls than even he had considered¡­.


    Yet another thing for him to ponder. More immediately, he had to think about turning gold ranked Slayers into minions. How powerful would their spirits be? Would he even be capable of binding such powerful individuals to his service? As far as he knew, there was no way for someone to resist the limitations he placed upon them when turning them into undead, but he was hardly an expert on all of the possibilities. After all, he was self-taught! Everything he knew about Necromancy had come directly from the Unseen, or he¡¯d figured it out himself. He couldn¡¯t say with any sort of certainty what would happen as he tried to create more and more powerful servants.


    No matter how he tried to twist it, there was only one way for him to ensure any complications were minimised: he had to reach gold rank himself.


    He¡¯d been creating so many minions lately, and his efforts at hunting down patrols had been extremely fruitful, in experience as well as materials.


    However, would it be enough? It had been some time since he¡¯d last performed the status ritual. He was attempting to push himself as far forward with his current abilities as he could, and achieving his next advancement seemed so far away that he hadn¡¯t felt the need to push for it.


    Now¡­ things might have changed.


    To get that many levels¡­ creating undead simply wasn¡¯t going to be enough, and he didn¡¯t have access to a rift. That left him with only one option. He would have to find people to kill.


    A lot of people.

 B4C45 - Unfortunate Souls

    ¡°I had no idea it was going to be so cold up here,¡± Timothy shivered.


    Rurin eyed her fellow rebel leader with disbelief.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t think it was going to be cold? In the Barrier Mountain range? These things scrape the fucking sky and you can see them from Woodsedge on a clear day. Are you out of your mind?¡±


    The Mage glowered at her, which didn¡¯t appear all that fearsome since he tugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders at the same time.


    ¡°I said I had no idea it would be this cold, not that it would be cold,¡± he corrected her.


    ¡°Oh, this is nothing,¡± Georg assured them from nearby, ¡°it¡¯s going to get a heck of a lot colder than this.¡±


    The young man was striding along, covering the rocky and uneven terrain with ease while wearing a short sleeve shirt and a pair of rough trousers. This was essentially what he always wore, come rain or shine.


    ¡°How much colder?¡± Timothy asked, eyeing Georg carefully.


    ¡°Much. Up on Cragwhistle, the locals recommend you never piss at night if you can help it.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°It freezes.¡±


    ¡°After you¡¯re done¡­ right?¡±


    Georg just stared at him.


    ¡°I cannot believe a gold ranked Slayer is whining about the cold,¡± Rurin said, shaking her head. ¡°Compared to an unawakened person, you¡¯re practically immune to the cold! I don¡¯t even feel it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a brute with a constitution measured in the hundreds,¡± Timothy pointed out, ¡°and for the last time, it isn¡¯t that I¡¯m incapable of enduring the cold, I simply don¡¯t like it. It can¡¯t be so surprising that someone prefers to be warm.¡±


    He looked around and then pointed at Munhilde, who also wore a thick cloak, along with a shawl.


    ¡°See, I¡¯m not the only one, the Priestess clearly prefers warmth over this,¡± he waved a hand irritably through the air, ¡°chilly nonsense.¡±


    Munhilde glared at him, unhappy at being singled out.


    ¡°The cold is bad for my joints,¡± she snapped.


    ¡°You sound like my mother,¡± Rurin chuckled, ¡°but she¡¯s like¡­ eighty.¡±


    Walking beside her fellow Priestess, Elsbeth blanched and quickly looked away, not wanting to be drawn in. Munhilde was¡­ prickly¡­ when it came to her age.


    ¡°For some of us, eighty years is still considered quite young,¡± Munhilde said flatly, pulling her shawl a little tighter about herself.


    Rurin absorbed this in silence, then nodded.


    ¡°Fair enough. I will say no more.¡±


    Elsbeth breathed a sigh of relief and looked back over her shoulder. They were only in the foothills of the Barrier Mountains, but already they were able to look out over the flatter land laid out before them like a tapestry of farms and woodland. For the Slayers, it wasn¡¯t so difficult to cover the rough terrain, they walked up and down the hills all day long without trouble, but it was a bit more difficult for her and the other Priests and Priestesses to keep up.


    Which was probably why they hadn¡¯t been asked to carry any of the supplies.


    ¡°Are they really going to be able to defend against the rift with the things we left them?¡± she asked, not for the first time.


    ¡°What things?¡± Rurin laughed. ¡°We cleaned that place out!¡±


    It was Timothy, as usual, who answered her.


    ¡°We aren¡¯t convinced they¡¯re going to police the rift at all. The Duke doesn¡¯t care about protecting the people, and the Magisters certainly don¡¯t. Rather than dedicate resources to it, they may simply ignore Woodsedge and hope they can deal with us before another break occurs. Even left completely unattended, it will take months for the rift to build up to that point.¡±


    She could only shake her head. Deep down, Elsbeth didn¡¯t want to believe they would be so callous. Sure, there wouldn¡¯t be a break any time soon, but without Slayers killing the kin who emerged, there was only one place for the monsters to go: further into the province.


    Many families had only just begun to resettle the homes they¡¯d abandoned because of the break, or only just finished burying their dead. The people who lived in the far west couldn¡¯t afford to absorb another tragedy.


    By her side, Munhilde could read her thoughts.


    ¡°If they protect the people or not is up to them to decide,¡± she stated, ¡°it isn¡¯t our responsibility to govern properly. This rebellion wouldn¡¯t even be happening if they could be trusted to work in the best interests of the citizens. Even The Three haven¡¯t turned away so thoroughly.¡±


    That statement brought a frown to Elsbeth¡¯s face. Before she could say anything, Munhilde cut her off.


    ¡°It¡¯s undeniable that Raven, Rot and Crone turned their backs on us to some extent, girl. Not even they would argue about that. At least now, they¡¯re paying attention again.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re doing a bit more than that,¡± Elsbeth muttered.


    It was difficult sometimes for Elsbeth to fully understand where the others who served the Old Gods were coming from. In her experience, The Three were very present and engaged, moving their believers and shaping events with an active hand. She had heard them speak, in some cases, directly to her!


    For the others, this simply wasn¡¯t the case. They could remember decades where prayers went unanswered, where the Gods were silent. Their followers had been praying to be liberated from the Empire and the false divines for thousands of years, and not once had The Three bothered to intervene. To say their experiences differed was an understatement.


    ¡°Oh, did I tell you, Elsbeth?¡± Rurin called over her shoulder from her place at the head of the procession. ¡°Worthy Steelarm and his wife are going to meet us at Cragwhistle. He sent word just before we left.¡±


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    That had been days ago¡­. The absent-minded nature of the rebel leader had struck again. Still, the news was too exciting for her to be mad about it.


    ¡°That¡¯s great news,¡± she beamed, genuinely happy to hear it. Worthy and Meg had been Tyron¡¯s aunt and uncle, but they¡¯d all but been the same for her as well. When she¡¯d finally left her parents¡¯ house and her father¡¯s judgement, Worthy and Meg had taken her in. She couldn¡¯t wait to see them again.


    ¡°Do they know¡­ about Tyron?¡± she asked hesitantly.


    Rurin snorted. ¡°Hell if I know, but probably. Be a bit difficult for our people not to talk about it with him.¡±


    Elsbeth felt saddened. Doubtless, both Tyron¡¯s Aunt and Uncle had been deeply hurt by the fact their nephew was still alive and had chosen not to let them know. Knowing Worthy, she wouldn¡¯t want to be in Tyron¡¯s shoes when they finally met each other again.


    ¡°So how far is it to Cragwhistle?¡± Rurin asked, again.


    ¡°A long way,¡± Timothy replied, frustrated. ¡°We only left Woodsedge four days ago. It¡¯ll be at least another week before we get there.¡±


    ¡°Even at this pace?¡± Rurin asked, surprised.


    They were setting a good pace, with the higher ranked Slayers carrying the supplies. These weren¡¯t exactly normal humans, for the most part, and they were able to move faster, and for longer, than most.


    ¡°These mountains really are enormous,¡± Rurin muttered, staring up at the towering peaks of the Barrier Mountain range. They were colossal, literally scraping the sky, as she had said earlier, a wall of jagged cliffs, ice and snow. ¡°Wait¡­ is someone waving to us from over there?¡± she asked, and pointed.


    Elsbeth and the others turned to look as well, but couldn¡¯t make out what she was seeing. Not surprising, given that their eyes weren¡¯t as good as hers. Whatever she saw seemed to be coming their way, however, and a few minutes later, Timothy was able to pick them out.


    ¡°I see them,¡± he confirmed. ¡°Looks like someone¡­ wearing a robe or cloak. They¡¯re definitely waving. And they¡¯re definitely on the thin side. Have they been ranging around up here since the break? They must be starving.¡±


    ¡°Not sure about that?¡± Rurin refuted. ¡°Whoever this is, they seem full of beans. Look at them hop about.¡±


    ¡°Should we stop and wait for them?¡± Elsbeth asked.


    ¡°Of course not! We don¡¯t stop for random vagabonds. The march goes on!¡±


    And it did, but the cloaked figure continued to approach, hopping down the treacherous slope, stumbling frequently and drawing ever closer.


    Eventually they were close enough to call out.


    ¡°Hey!¡± a thin voice reached them. ¡°Wait a fucking minute!¡±


    ¡°Rude,¡± Rurin huffed, not bothering to turn around.


    ¡°Oh, fuck you,¡± the figure called again when they saw the group hadn¡¯t slowed.


    Angry now, the figure doubled its efforts to reach them, running dangerously across the slope as Elsbeth watched, heart in mouth.


    ¡°I think they might really hurt themself,¡± she said, worried.


    ¡°Sounds like their problem,¡± Rurin shrugged, still looking ahead. ¡°We¡¯ve got a rebellion to fight and I¡¯m not slowing down because of some vagabond. When they catch up, we can talk.¡±


    ¡°If they can keep up,¡± Elsbeth pointed out.


    ¡°If they can keep up,¡± Rurin agreed with a wolfish grin.


    For the next twenty minutes, the Priestess couldn¡¯t stop herself from turning her head to look at the distant stranger as they continued to risk life and limb in their headlong rush down the cliff. Every now and again, she saw they were about to fall, crashing face first into a rock and splitting their skull, or breaking a limb. She was on edge, expecting to hear a shout or scream at any moment, but that moment never came.


    Whoever they were, this person was shockingly light on their feet. Perhaps not especially graceful¡­ or coordinated¡­ but they were able to correct their balance and continue the plunge from almost any situation, no matter how dire it appeared.


    It was honestly impressive.


    Finally, the robed figure arrived just a few dozen metres away. They stood, shrouded by tattered cloth, with the hood pulled low to cover their features. It was a mysterious, vaguely threatening scene, which had the tension drained out of it the moment they spoke.


    ¡°Rurin, you gods-cursed bitch. I should have known!¡±


    Even now, the Slayer didn¡¯t break stride, walking past the mystery person with nothing more than a roll of her eyes.


    ¡°I recognise that voice,¡± she called over her shoulder, ¡°I wish I didn¡¯t, but I do. Keep up if you want to talk, otherwise go jump off a cliff.¡±


    Somewhat deflated, the mystery figure slumped for a moment, then straightened and sprinted to get ahead of them again, posing dramatically atop a rock.


    ¡°You might know who I am, but were you aware of this?!¡±


    With a dramatic flourish, the figure threw off their robe, revealing a completely black skeleton wearing simple yet battered armour formed of bones. Spreading bony legs wide, the stranger struck a pose that seemed to emphasise the¡­ modifications they had made to the armour covering the pelvis.


    Again, Rurin marched past with barely a blink.


    ¡°Dove,¡± she said, ¡°did you really attach a snake skeleton to act as a pretend dick?¡±


    ¡°I did!¡± he declared, full of pride. ¡°My python has never been healthier! In a certain sense.¡±


    Many of those gathered had never met this person before, but to Elsbeth¡¯s surprise, quite a few of the Slayers did. There were calls from behind her, some of greeting, some curses and insults. Dove gave all of them a rude gesture then waggled his snake bones at them suggestively.


    ¡°For some reason, I¡¯m not surprised being dead has only made you worse,¡± Rurin noted with a wry grin. ¡°Tyron told me a little of your story.¡±


    ¡°He left out the best bits, I don¡¯t doubt,¡± the skeleton declared, rushing to catch up to Rurin so he could walk alongside her. ¡°Elsbeth, how are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m well,¡± she replied.


    ¡°Still looking ravishing. Gods I wish I¡¯d had blonde hair like that. Yours looks like golden silk while mine looked like mouse piss.¡±


    ¡°You never washed it,¡± Timothy noted, sounding weary.


    ¡°Tim, you fucking pansy. I¡¯m shocked to see you¡¯re still alive! How¡¯s things?¡±


    ¡°Better a few moments ago.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s life. Or unlife.¡±


    ¡°I was wondering if you were going to show up,¡± Rurin said. ¡°Tyron said you parted ways in Cragwhistle. Have you just been hanging around there this whole time? Doing what? Levelling your new Class?¡±


    ¡°He even told you about that, did he?¡± Dove mused, rubbing at his chin. ¡°I was there for a while, but then I got bored and desired a greater challenge! I¡¯ve been up there,¡± he gestured to their right.


    They all turned, but there was nothing up there except the forbidding mountains.


    ¡°Up where?¡± Timothy asked.


    ¡°Up there! In the fucking mountains! Where did you think I was pointing?¡± Dove demanded waving his skeletal arms in the air.


    ¡°Why would you go there?¡± Rurin asked. ¡°As far as I know, there¡¯s nothing, hardly even any kin. Did you want some time to yourself?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Dove retorted, somehow managing to look offended. ¡°I would never deprive others of my presence without good reason. No, I was interested in finding something that nobody else had ever found.¡±


    ¡°Your dignity?¡± Tim asked.


    ¡°A way through to Granin,¡± Dove declared.


    He emphasised the statement by grabbing the dangling snake skeleton and throwing it around his neck like a scarf, even though it was still attached to his pelvis.


    ¡°Did you actually find one?¡± Munhilde asked, sounding interested.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to hear about my tales of adventure? My daring acts of bravery and skill? The incredible highs. The terrifying lows? It¡¯s incredibly good shit!¡±


    ¡°Not really,¡± Rurin shrugged, ¡°but I¡¯d love to know if you managed to get through.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no way he did,¡± Timothy groaned. ¡°Dove is just wasting our time.¡±


    ¡°Hey, did I shit in your breakfast or something, Tim? Don¡¯t be so negative,¡± Dove huffed.


    ¡°Well?¡± Rurin asked, somehow remaining unruffled. ¡°Did you find a way?¡±


    ¡°As a matter of fact, I did.¡± Dove threw his arms up once again. ¡°Behold me! The first sort-of person to lay eyes on the fallen kingdom of Granin in five hundred years!¡±

 B4C46 - Engineering

    Tyron had never expected that choosing to specialise in skeletons would require him to become such an expert in physiology. It was entirely possible there were medical professionals out there who knew less about muscles and ligaments than he did. Bleary eyed, he stared at the diagram in front of him, covered in intersecting lines, each representing a thread of magick of a specific thickness and tension. For the extreme levels of force these magickal joints would need to bear, his measurements couldn¡¯t be off by a hair. It had taken a great deal of iteration to arrive at this design, and his initial tests had been promising, but would they really stand up under the weight? He was still sceptical.


    ¡°Is it really necessary to go to these lengths?¡± Filetta said from over his shoulder. The wight leaned forward to inspect the sheet, shaking her head as she beheld the complexity of it. ¡°Just looks like nonsense to me.¡±


    The Necromancer frowned, irritated at the interruption.


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s necessary. Without all of the work I¡¯d put into learning these things, you wouldn¡¯t be able to move half as well as you do now. If I want to create something better, then I need to push the design further.¡±


    ¡°So why do you have all of this¡­ meat?¡± she asked, gesturing with one skeletal hand toward the rest of his table.


    On the stone surface was a scattered assortment of bloody remnants, chunks of meat and bone that wouldn¡¯t look out of place in a butcher¡¯s shop.


    ¡°They¡¯re joints from various animals. Horse, cow, bull¡­ I think that one was a tiger.¡±


    ¡°Where did you get that from?¡±


    ¡°Trader from the south.¡±


    ¡°What. They were selling tiger parts?¡±


    ¡°No. They were selling a tiger.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    Filetta absorbed that in silence for a moment.


    ¡°You¡¯re a sick pup, Tyron. You know that?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not out here cutting up animals for no purpose. I am attempting to learn.¡±


    ¡°About what? Bodies? Didn¡¯t I teach you everything you need to know about those?¡±


    It wasn¡¯t possible for a skeleton to smirk, but her tone managed to convey everything it needed to.


    ¡°Taught me a lot of things I didn¡¯t need to know,¡± Tyron muttered.


    ¡°What was that?¡±


    ¡°Nothing. Look, all of these animals put more force through their joints than a person does. I wanted to see what structural differences there might be in the hopes I could learn something that could be applied to my project.¡±


    ¡°And were there?¡± Filetta asked idly, poking about the various detritus on the table.


    ¡°Do you care what the answer is?¡± Tyron said, exasperated, finally leaning back. Clearly, Filetta wasn¡¯t going to let him work until she¡¯d said whatever she wanted to say. He may as well get through it quickly. ¡°Yes. These might be four-legged creatures, unlike us who are bipedal, but their musculature in particular was an interesting study. None of it was directly applicable, but useful nonetheless.¡±


    ¡°Huh,¡± the wight grunted, and he couldn¡¯t help rolling his eyes.


    ¡°Filetta. I need to work. What is the problem? Are you bored? Do you need something to do? A new purpose in life? If so, go find it on your own, I have things to do.¡±


    ¡°Very charming. Very helpful,¡± Filetta drawled. ¡°That¡¯s your solution to a possible existential crisis? Deal with it?¡±


    ¡°Filetta, you were a thief,¡± Tyron said, pinching his brow. ¡°I am not trying to be offensive, but questioning the meaning of living, or unliving, and any sort of moral quandary involved therein would be profoundly out of character for you.¡±


    ¡°I may have grown a conscience with all this free time I have on my hands now.¡±


    There it was.


    ¡°So you¡¯re bored. What do you expect me to do about it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not bored, you ice-cold prick! I¡¯m worried about you!¡±


    Tyron blinked. Then blinked again. For a moment, he worried that he may have misheard. Perhaps he¡¯d been working too hard.


    ¡°You¡¯re wondering if you misheard me. Aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Tyron deflected, brow creased. ¡°I was¡­ just thinking why in the world you would be worried about me.¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re killing yourself! You¡¯re working yourself to death. I understand you¡¯re determined to annihilate your enemies, I guess, and achieve vengeance, but does it matter if you achieve all that if you die in the process?¡±


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    She walked over and after an awkward pause, placed a hand on his shoulder. It was no comfort, given how cold and dead her bony fingers were. Tyron sat, feeling like a hostage in a moment he desperately didn¡¯t want to be a part of. There were so many layers here that he didn¡¯t understand that made it almost impossible for his head to get ahold of it. He felt as if he were grasping after a spell from a discipline he wasn¡¯t familiar with. The structure of it was there, but the specifics were completely blank.


    ¡°By the Gods, you¡¯re awful at being human,¡± Filetta said. ¡°It¡¯s almost a miracle that you reached human level twenty at all. I can see you running a bunch of nonsense through your head. Look, just stand up. Turn around and face me.¡±


    Tyron considered resisting, but didn¡¯t bother in the end, and was pulled to his feet and spun around. He found himself facing Filetta, the wight, in all her undead glory, spirit flesh and all, with one hand on either shoulder. There was no human emotion left to see in her face or eyes, there was nothing but the bone of skull, and nothing but the light of magick in her hollow sockets.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t that complicated. I might be dead, but you aren¡¯t, and even though you killed me, I kind of hope that you might have a happy ending. In a non-sexual way. That¡¯s not too hard to grasp, is it?¡±


    ¡°It is a bit.¡±


    ¡°Shut up. I just want to know what¡¯s going to happen when this is done. Let¡¯s say you kill the Duke, you destroy the Magisters. The whole province falls into chaos and despair. What happens to you afterwards? Is that the end of your story?¡±


    It was difficult to process this, but one thought struck Tyron immediately. He shook his head.


    ¡°Filetta. You are a lot nicer than I thought you were.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you.¡±


    Was he some sort of failure of a Necromancer, being pitied by his own minions? What was he even supposed to say? That he planned to live a long, happy life after bringing the Empire to its knees and putting the entire realm on the brink of extinction? Or that his own survival was any sort of priority?


    He had the option to pretend he intended to survive his vengeance on the Western Province, because he did, but only so he could continue to the rotten core of the Empire and bring down the seat of power of the Five Divines themselves.


    Instead, he decided to be honest.


    ¡°I have no idea,¡± he replied, not bothering to conceal his bone-deep weariness. ¡°How this will end, and whether or not I¡¯ll survive, I have no idea. We¡¯ll find out when we get there. At the very least, I know it¡¯s not uncommon for people in my particular line of Magick to wind up as some sort of lich, but I have no plans in that direction.¡±


    Filetta observed him through the burning orbs of purple light that were her eyes.


    ¡°That was a more honest answer than I expected.¡± She patted him on the shoulders with each hand. ¡°Good job.¡±


    She turned back to contemplate his handiwork.


    ¡°So¡­ when are these things going to get moving?¡±


    I really need to go to sleep.


    The change of topic was too quick for his brain, it took him a moment to catch up.


    ¡°As soon as I figure out how to properly form their leg joints, they should be ready.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you done?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure¡­ there are a few elements¨C¡±


    ¡°Bah. You¡¯ve been scribbling away at those pages for days. Have some confidence! I thought you were good at this stuff.¡±


    It was awfully tempting to point out that developing entirely new magick in just a few days was quite a remarkable feat, but there wouldn¡¯t be any point. In a sense, she was right. He was ninety-five percent of the way there, but pushing to achieve that final little smidge of improvement would take him just as long as he¡¯d spent on the project already.


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll get started on it, then. If it stops you from nattering at me.¡±


    ¡°Nattering? How dare you? I didn¡¯t live long enough to become old enough to properly natter. Thanks to you.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. I¡¯m awful. Now be quiet.¡±


    He¡¯d been working on this particular construct for months, off and on. His darkness cauldrons had been the pinnacle of his achievements in the field of creating Death Magick constructs so far, but they were relatively simple in the grand scheme of things. What he was attempting to make now was immensely more complex, to the point he had probably been too ambitious for his second project in this field.


    So far, his testing had consumed an unfathomable amount of bones, but thankfully only those which had performed poorly on quality testing.


    It almost felt strange to be in a position where he had so many materials coming in he could afford to reject some. An incredible amount of wealth, from a Necromancer¡¯s perspective.


    All the pieces needed to assemble the construct had been built and lay about the study on the floor. Each was as refined as he could make them, and fully enchanted, the arrays and cores embedded on each. That had been the easy part, relatively speaking.


    Throwing the last of his concerns away, Tyron grasped two components and brought them to his work area. He stared hard at the two pieces, constructing the image of what he needed to accomplish in his mind.


    ¡°What happens now?¡± Filetta asked in a hushed voice.


    ¡°What happens, is that you be quiet, so I can concentrate,¡± Tyron stated, his gaze unwavering.


    A moment later, he brought up his hands, ghostly threads dangling from the tips of his fingers, and he began to weave.


    The patterns required a wide variety of threads, some thicker, some thinner, each bound together in an intricate knot that would form a functional connection. His hands danced and spun for over an hour as Filetta watched from the side, occasionally offering a snide comment that he didn¡¯t even hear.


    When it was done, he cut off the threads, lowered his hands, and leaned forward to inspect his work.


    ¡°Is it¡­ is it finished?¡±


    ¡°I think so,¡± Tyron replied, frowning as he tried to pick out as many details as he could. It looked as if he¡¯d been successful in replicating his design, and there weren¡¯t any obvious errors that he could detect. Hopefully it worked as well as his tests indicated it would.


    ¡°So, what does it do?¡±


    The Necromancer turned to her, puzzled.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ you¡¯ve been working on this for a long time, right? Now that it¡¯s done¡­ what does it do?¡±


    He looked back down at the surface in front of him.


    ¡°It bends,¡± he said.


    Filetta looked shocked.


    ¡°That¡¯s it? It bends?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a knee,¡± he said, exasperated, ¡°what else is it going to do?¡±


    The wight cocked her head to one side then looked down again.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that a bit big for a knee? If those are leg bones, then this thing would be¡­¡±


    ¡°Large,¡± Tyron confirmed. ¡°Very, very large.¡±


    He turned and took in the rest of the components scattered around the study, then sighed.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to take a long time to put this thing together.¡±

 B4C47 - Great Changes

    Trenan Ebert, leader of the Hooligans Slayer team and bronze ranked Hammerman, was not quite sure how to react to the scene in front of his eyes.


    It could have been the skeleton with the snake bones dangling from his pelvis that had him so off-balance, but likely not. After all, he¡¯d met Dove before, in a limited capacity. Perhaps it was the large gathering of heretical priests and their followers, openly praying to their three dreadful gods on the outskirts of the town. He¡¯d never been overly devout, but such open disregard for the Divines still made him uncomfortable.


    Or was it the massive number of Slayers, many of whom were silver rank, some even gold ranked, more than he¡¯d ever seen in one place at one time? They¡¯d arrived early in the morning and were still in the process of erecting a massive camp outside the town walls. It was organised chaos down there, with friendly and not so friendly bickering in equal measure as Slayers jockeyed for position amongst themselves, trying to get the best spots for themselves and their teammates.


    Beside him, Brigette appeared to be going through the same emotions as he was, looking out at the scene with a complicated expression.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never been to a Slayer keep,¡± she said. ¡°Is this what it¡¯s like inside? So many of us all gathered in one place?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know,¡± he replied. ¡°I¡¯ve never been inside one either.¡±


    That was it. The reason he felt so odd. He was used to being a minority, with only a few others who shared his purpose nearby. Going from that, to suddenly being surrounded by people who, more or less, understood him and his work was¡­ odd, yet comforting.


    Ortan approached from behind them and Trenan turned to greet him.


    ¡°Leadership wants to see you,¡± the large man stated.


    There was a level of resignation on the man¡¯s face that Trenan had grown accustomed to. So many strangers appearing in his sleepy little village, week after week, month after month, and now this.


    ¡°So when is the keep going to be finished?¡± Trenan joked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. ¡°You¡¯re going need somewhere for all these killing machines to go.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t even start,¡± Ortan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. ¡°I¡¯ve got priests and priestesses chasing me asking when we¡¯re going to build a place of worship devoted to The Three already. Are we really expected to house all these Slayers as well?¡±


    ¡°When are you going to build them a church?¡± Trenan asked out of curiosity.


    ¡°Probably after everyone living here has an actual roof to sleep under,¡± Ortan replied, scowling.


    ¡°Seems fair,¡± Trenan nodded. ¡°Where are we meeting these people?¡±


    ¡°And who are we meeting?¡± Brigette cut in, stepping up beside him. ¡°Who¡¯s even in charge of this mess now?¡±


    Now that she mentioned it, that was a good point. Trenan hadn¡¯t even considered that. For so long, the leadership of Cragwhistle had meant the local council, Ortan himself, or the priesthood. It hadn¡¯t mattered much to Trenan and the others; as long as they were able to deal with the rift on their own terms, what did they care for city administration?


    ¡°You think anyone in town is going to argue with whoever brought the army of monster slayers to our doorstep? Whoever is running that mess is in charge as far as I¡¯m concerned,¡± Ortan grunted. ¡°I¡¯m sure as shit not going to argue with them. They¡¯re waiting for you just outside the gate.¡±


    Trenan turned and looked down again, only to find the skeleton looking up at him, swinging his snake bones in a slow circle with one hand.


    It took a few minutes to get down from the wall and head to the gate, where he was met by a group of a dozen mixed figures. Unfortunately, Dove was amongst them.


    He did his best to ignore the¡­ person¡­ as he tried to work out who was in charge, but that quickly became apparent. An older woman with shoulder length hair, more grey than brunette, and warm eyes approached him hand extended, which he grasped in greeting.


    ¡°Slayer Trenan, is it? I¡¯m Rurin, Rurin Wilkin. Nice to meet you. I hear you¡¯ve been having fun battling a brand new rift up here? How¡¯ve the kin been treating you?¡±


    ¡°Poorly,¡± he replied dryly. ¡°It¡¯s cold as death up there and the monsters are endless.¡±


    Rurin laughed and clapped him on the shoulder and he tried not to wince. Holy hells, this woman was strong!


    ¡°That¡¯s how it goes,¡± she grinned. ¡°As for cold, the delegation from Skyice should be here in a few days, you can compare notes with them. Between you and me, I think they¡¯ve had the worst of it. It''s cold enough up there to rattle your bones.¡±


    ¡°Did someone say bones?¡± Dove declared, stepping forward dramatically.


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    ¡°No, they didn¡¯t,¡± Rurin replied, not bothering to turn her head. ¡°So, there are three teams here on the mountain, right? All bronze ranked?¡±


    He and his team were close to silver now, only a few levels away. Hopefully they¡¯d still get a shot at the rift, but he couldn¡¯t help but doubt it. With this many slayers here, there would be enough wanting to keep their skills sharp that access would be hard to come by.


    ¡°Uh¡­ yes, that¡¯s right. My team, the Hooligans, team Starfire, and team Weaver. Well, what¡¯s left of them.¡±


    ¡°I heard about that,¡± Rurin shook her head. ¡°Foolishness.¡±


    That was one way to describe it.


    ¡°Are you really going to ignore me?¡± Dove demanded.


    ¡°As much as I can,¡± came the reply.


    ¡°Bah! Why do I bother helping you people? I should go where my talents are more appreciated!¡±


    ¡°Hell?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not even sure there is one. I¡¯m about thirty percent convinced that there¡¯s a heaven, so long as you¡¯re willing to pay the price of admission.¡±


    The skeleton leaned towards Trenan and followed up with a loud stage whisper.


    ¡°It¡¯s really fucking expensive.¡±


    Unsure what to say, Trenan just turned back toward Rurin.


    ¡°Can I ask, ma¡¯am¨C¡±


    ¡°Holy shit. Call me Rurin, please.¡±


    ¡°Rurin, then. Can I ask what your plan is for the rift?¡±


    ¡°Always mindful of your duty,¡± she said, smiling. ¡°This is a real Slayer right here. There¡¯s going to be a lot of Slayers going through the rift over the next few days. It¡¯s important that everyone who fights is a higher rank than they were when receiving their brand. Since you¡¯re still bronze, that includes you and your team.¡±


    A welcome surprise. The others would be pleased, especially Samantha. She¡¯d been desperate to get her team to silver before anything happened, so they¡¯d be in a better position to protect themselves.


    ¡°Does ranking up really negate the effect of the brand?¡± he asked.


    He¡¯d heard it did, but he hadn¡¯t really believed it all that much.


    ¡°Hah! I wish. It helps, I¡¯ll say that much. At the very least, you¡¯ll be able to fight against the enemy without collapsing into a writhing heap on the ground.¡±


    ¡°And afterwards? The town needs to be protected.¡±


    ¡°We will have Slayers here at all times,¡± she assured him, ¡°have no fear about that.¡±


    She looked around at the camp still coming together behind them.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be here for a few days, a week at most. Once the Skyice Slayers have arrived, we can finalise the camp as a semi-permanent base of operations and figure out what our next moves are going to be. Tim¡¯s going over the maps right now, trying to figure out our best way to kick off this war, think about where the Magisters are likely to try and hit us.


    ¡°Until then, we¡¯ll be sending teams through the rift a few times a day. You¡¯re welcome to be a part of that rotation, we can even pair you up with a few silvers to help accelerate your growth, if you want. I know better than most the cost of messing with team dynamics, so think it over before you accept. After that, you need to prepare to go into battle. It¡¯s going to get messy, and soon.¡±


    ¡°Is that really it?¡± Brigette asked. ¡°Are we really expected to just fight and die against the Nobles and Marshals?¡±


    ¡°This is Brigette,¡± Trenan quickly introduced her, ¡±she¡¯s a member of my team.¡±


    Rurin nodded and gave the blonde swordswoman a direct look.


    ¡°As matters stand, you have two options going forward. You can fight and die against the Nobles and Marshals, or you can just die. They¡¯re coming here, and they will kill everyone, and I do mean everyone, here in Cragwhistle. The men, the women, the children, the babes in their cribs, all of them. When they¡¯re done, not one stone will rest upon another, and your memory will be erased from this realm, as if you were never born.


    ¡°Now me, I¡¯m not the sort of person who would let that happen without a fight. Let me know what sort of person you are after you¡¯ve had a think about it.¡±


    A heavy silence hung over the gathering when she finished speaking, each person contemplating her words and the inevitable end that awaited them when their struggle was done. Brigette stood with her fists clenched and jaw set, eyes hardening by the second.


    Of course, it was Dove who broke out a bout of insane sounding laughter.


    ¡°You lot are hilarious. I can¡¯t get enough of it, the passion, the grim acceptance of death. I¡¯m so glad to be back among the living. Well, the non-monstrous living. Are kin alive? Technically?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s so funny, Dove?¡± Rurin asked flatly. ¡°Enlighten us.¡±


    ¡°Two things,¡± the skeleton said, putting his hands on his hips and deliberately chattering his onyx jaw at them. ¡°First, you talk as if the outcome of this war is already decided, when it is anything but. Unlike the last few times the Slayers have tried this sort of nonsense, we actually have something going for us.


    ¡°In case you didn¡¯t know, Tyron Steelarm is really good at magick, like, super good. I¡¯m fairly confident he¡¯s going to find a way to bust into the Magisters¡¯ tower and break the brands. If that happens, we instantly win. The gold ranks rotting in the city will tear the place down around them in a fit of rage and general angst.¡±


    ¡°You think he¡¯s good enough to do something that no one has done in thousands of years? Actually figure out a way to counteract the brands?¡± Rurin asked, her brow raised.


    ¡°No! Of course not. He¡¯ll just find a way to break them. Much easier. Besides, that¡¯s only the first thing that¡¯s hilarious about you.¡±


    ¡°Alright then. What¡¯s the second?¡±


    ¡°The second is the most important of the two!¡± the skeleton proclaimed, gesticulating wildly. ¡°It points to your fundamental misunderstanding of the reality in which you live.¡±


    He pointed a single bony digit at them accusingly.


    ¡°Too blinded by your own experiences to see the truth.¡±


    ¡°Out with it, Dove,¡± Rurin snapped, finally losing patience. ¡°Say your piece or shut up.¡±


    The skeleton grinned at them, the light burning within his hollow sockets.


    ¡°You are still caught in the delusion that your death is in some way meaningful, or important.¡±


    He raised a hand, turned it around and pointed a finger directly at himself.


    ¡°Do you really think death would be the end for you?¡± he asked, then cackled madly at the look on their faces.

 B4C48 - Guard Duty

    Not for the first time, Preston wished he were out fighting. He turned his head away from the empty road in front of them toward the Soldier beside him, a footman named Rylat, with the tanned complexion of someone from further south.


    Probably explained his odd name.


    ¡°Do you think the heretics will attack us here?¡± he asked.


    Not for the first time, Rylat scowled behind the visor of his helmet and gripped the haft of his spear tight.


    ¡°Preston, you are on duty at the Jorlin family estate. You¡¯re a professional Soldier, so act like it, or I will tell the sergeant how distractible you are. I assume he¡¯ll have even less patience for your whining than I do!¡±


    With a mighty thud, he slammed the butt of his spear into the cobbled road, putting an end to the conversation. For his part, Preston merely rolled his eyes, which luckily his fellow Soldier couldn¡¯t see, and returned to the task at hand: watching the empty road and field.


    Putting up with guard duty was painful at the best of times, but he¡¯d always managed it in the past. He was, after all, a professional warrior in service of the Noble Houses, the descendants of divinity. He trained hard, diligently worked on his Skills and abilities, and was good at what he did.


    But things were different now. Most of the Soldiers were absent, taken out of the estate and sent into the field to fight against the heretics, while he was made to remain here and perform even more mind-numbing guard duty than before!


    Why? Was he not worthy? Preston had placed in the top half of all Soldiers in the last dueling competition, he knew he was good enough! The thought of being left out grated at him, but the thought that he might have been considered not good enough grated at him even more.


    ¡°Is that Theo¡¯s wagon?¡± Rylat asked.


    Keen for something to do, Preston turned his Unseen-blessed eyes upon the road to see the distant smudge rolling toward the gates.


    ¡°I think so. He¡¯s late,¡± Preston said.


    The estate ran on a strict schedule, even more so during the current troubles, and deliveries were supposed to be done before lunch. Morning shifts were much more entertaining for this reason. Dozens of deliveries, each needing to be inspected, lots to do, plenty of back and forth. The second shift, literally nothing happened. But, Theo was running well behind, it was mid-afternoon, and it would still take the better part of an hour for the wagon to arrive.


    ¡°Theo¡¯s never late,¡± Rylat stated.


    ¡°Could have just broken an axle or something,¡± Preston reasoned.


    ¡°We¡¯ll play it safe. I¡¯ll notify the sergeant.¡±


    ¡°About a late delivery?¡±


    The protest fell on deaf ears since Rylat was already moving. He turned and marched to the gatehouse just inside the wall, entering a moment later. With his enhanced senses, Preston could hear the muffled conversation taking place inside, but he merely shook his head. He wished something nefarious would happen; at least then he¡¯d have something to do.


    There were a hundred things that could have caused the grizzled wagoneer to be late on his delivery, each more dull and uninteresting than the last. The casks hadn¡¯t been loaded on time. The roads were degraded. The vineyard had been behind preparing the wine and cheese. A minute later, Rylat returned to his post and resumed his silent contemplation of the road and fields. When the wagon had covered half the distance toward the estate, Preston was surprised to find the sergeant had emerged from the gate house to join them, peering into the distance.


    ¡°That¡¯s not Theo,¡± the sergeant observed.


    ¡°What?¡± Preston said, and looked again, closer this time.


    Theo made a delivery every week, so he was familiar to almost every Soldier who served on the estate. Where Preston expected to see an old, ginger-haired man with a bristling moustache, he instead saw a wiry, pale-faced youth with sandy blond hair inexpertly guiding the horses before him down the road.


    ¡°That¡¯s definitely Theo¡¯s wagon, though, right?¡± Preston asked, holding a hand over his eyes to block the sun to get a better view.


    ¡°It is,¡± Sergeant Keens agreed. ¡°We¡¯ll need to do a full inspection when they arrive, along with a truth reading.¡±


    ¡°A truth reading? Is that necessary?¡±


    Surely, that was excessive for a delivery of wine and cheese for the family.


    ¡°Protocol, Footman Preston. Unless any of you recognise this individual, then this is their first visit to the estate. We go by the book. I¡¯ll get the Priest.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll be happy.¡±


    ¡°Father Olthis serves the Children of Divinity. I¡¯m sure he will be pious enough to fulfil his duty.¡±


    Unlikely.


    Not only did Father Olthis serve the Jorlin¡¯s, he was a Jorlin. Because of course, what Noble family would trust some random Priest with the protection of their estate? None, of course. Better to keep such matters within the family.


    It was an open secret that second and third children sent off to the Priesthood tended to have mixed feelings about the post, at best. They went from being the Hand of the Gods, to the Servants of the Gods.


    Quite the demotion.


    As it was, Father Olthis arrived looking none too pleased about being pulled from his chapel, but nevertheless, he waited patiently alongside the rest of them as they watched the wagon cover the last few kilometres.


    When it finally arrived, the young man holding the reigns drew the wagon inexpertly to a stop, already apologising before the wheels had finished turning.


    ¡°Sorry about being late, my lords. There¡¯s been some unexpected difficulties today.¡±


    ¡°So I see,¡± Sergeant Keens grunted from behind his visor. ¡°Hop down from there so we can speak eye to eye.¡±


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    ¡°Oh, of course!¡±


    Clearly nervous, the young man climbed down from the driver''s seat and landed heavily in front of them, wincing a little as his boots met the stone road.


    ¡°Do you have your documents?¡± Keens asked, holding out a hand.


    ¡°Yes, absolutely. One moment¡­¡±


    The wagon driver reached into his worn, brown coat and started rummaging through his pockets.


    ¡°Ah, here is a letter from Wagoneer Theo Fetterman, explaining his absence today. Broke his foot, poor man. Here¡¯s the letter of receipt from the Baln Brooks Vineyard and¡­ I¡¯m sure I have them here somewhere¡­ ah! Here are my papers.¡±


    The sergeant accepted each of these, running his eyes down each page rapidly while Preston put himself in position to rush the young man should the need arise, trying to look nonchalant as he did so.


    ¡°Mister¡­ Booker?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my lord. Frederick Booker. I keep the ledgers for Mr. Theo, driving wagons isn¡¯t exactly one of my Skills, but there was nobody else, and Mr Theo wouldn¡¯t dream of missing this delivery.¡±


    ¡°I imagine not,¡± Keens grunted.


    Not with the rates the houses paid.


    The sergeant finished reading, folded the pages up and tucked them inside his armour.


    ¡°Rylat, inspect the wagon. Father Olthis, if you please.¡±


    With a scowl, the Priest stepped forward, raised one hand, and began to chant. Soon, his hand emitted a soft, ethereal light that he held towards the wagon driver, who looked at it apprehensively.


    ¡°Answer my questions, that the gods might judge your answers to be true,¡± the Priest intoned. ¡°What is your name?¡±


    ¡°M-my name? Ah! My name is Frederick Booker, my lord. Father.¡±


    ¡°Did Theo Fetterman break his foot?¡±


    ¡°Y-yes. His ankle. This morning.¡±


    ¡°Did you collect these casks from the Jaln Brook vineyard?¡±


    ¡°I did. Father.¡±


    The Priest turned to the sergeant, his hand still held aloft.


    ¡°I trust that is sufficient?¡±


    ¡°Does he speak the truth?¡±


    ¡°I would have told you if he did not,¡± the Priest said, his tone clipped.


    ¡°Thank you for your time, Father Olthis,¡± sergeant Keens bowed. ¡°We are grateful for your assistance.¡±


    With a scoff, the Priest lowered his hand, letting the glow fade, and strode away, robes fluttering in the breeze. Meanwhile, Rylat was carefully moving among the casks loaded onto the back of the wagon, a crystal array held in his hand.


    ¡°What does the crystal do?¡± the wagon driver asked, eyes wide with curiosity.


    Keens didn¡¯t bother to answer, but Preston chuckled at the young man¡¯s naive attitude.


    ¡°The array emits a light that breaks illusions. Making sure some nasty mage isn¡¯t sneaking something into the estate that they shouldn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Frederick said, though it was clear he did not.


    ¡°Come with me,¡± sergeant Keens said. ¡°We will perform a routine status inspection in the guardhouse, then you¡¯ll be clear to enter the estate.¡±


    ¡°Oh, thank you.¡±


    Rylat inspected every inch of the wagon, going above and beyond what was expected while Preston watched from the ground. Dedication was one thing, but this was becoming excessive. Still, he said nothing as the inspection was finished and the sergeant returned with the clerk turned wagoneer in tow. By this time, the sun had begun to dip over the horizon, and even if his fellow Soldiers weren¡¯t, Preston was quite eager for the shift to end.


    ¡°Ah, quick question, if you don¡¯t mind,¡± Frederick said, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his head. ¡°Is there any chance you could put me up in the stable overnight? I¡¯m not all that good at steering the horses, as you¡¯ve seen. It¡¯ll be pitch black long before I make it back to the city.¡±


    An unorthodox request, but not unheard of.


    ¡°There¡¯s spare rooms in the barracks,¡± sergeant Keens told him. ¡°No need to use the stable.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s very generous of you,¡± Frederick smiled. ¡°I¡¯ll get this wagon unloaded and make my way back here once the horses are stabled. Will you still be on duty?¡±


    ¡°For two hours,¡± Keens confirmed.


    ¡°Again, thank you. I was terrified I¡¯d be caught out there in the dark,¡± Frederick laughed nervously. ¡°It¡¯s rather dangerous to be alone on the roads these days.¡±


    With another awkward laugh, the young man climbed back into the driver''s seat of the wagon and began to guide the horses forward. There would be further inspections and questioning once he reached the storehouse, then more again at the stable.


    Preston shrugged his shoulders and returned to his duty, staring out once again to the darkening field of nothing before the gate. Shortly before their shift ended, a flustered-looking Frederick appeared, bowing and apologising until Keens grew irritated and told him to stop. They took him over to the barracks and had the housekeepers put him up in one of the empty rooms.


    His shift finally over, Preston headed straight to the drill yard, hoping to work out his frustration. After a few drills and several duels, three of which he won, two which he lost, he went straight for the bathhouse to soak his cares away before he retired to prepare for another day.


    Just because night had fallen didn¡¯t mean nothing was happening in the barracks, however. There would be two shifts overnight, the guardhouses, walls and watchposts manned at all hours of the day and night. For now, that was someone else¡¯s problem, and by the time he finally found his bunk and rolled in, Preston was already half asleep.


    Frederick Booker, however, was not asleep. He stood, alone in his room, arms pressed into the wall on either side of the mirror, gaze fixated on the reflection staring back at him.


    A subtle light flicked in his eyes, and he blinked feverishly. Gradually, his expression began to shift and his gaze hardened, until, finally, he drew a deep, shuddering breath.


    ¡°That was¡­ unpleasant,¡± he muttered to himself, running a hand across his face as he shuddered.


    He had learned just enough about magick from his mind-affecting spells to get himself into trouble. It had seemed like a trivial thing, to manipulate his own mental state, but he hadn¡¯t appreciated just how¡­ disturbing it would be. He had honestly believed that he had been Frederick Booker. If his construct hadn¡¯t timed out correctly, would he have lived the rest of his life that way?


    Eventually what he¡¯d done to Theo would have come undone, and the man would have realised he had never met Frederick Booker and had handled his own finances his entire life.


    After another deep, steadying breath, he passed his hand over his face and watched as the false face wavered, then dissolved, revealing his true features beneath. It was not an improvement. He looked gaunt, almost haggard, and he¡¯d probably lost weight, again. Thankfully, the staff had been friendly and fed him a full meal. A kindness they would soon doubtlessly regret.


    As the night deepened, Tyron went to work. He withdrew a stick of chalk and bag of sand from his pack, innocuous enough items they would pass unremarked, but were capable of being used as a ritual medium. As quietly as he could, he used the chalk to draw arrays of runes around the room. Starting in the corners, he then moved to the centre of each wall, then the floor and ceiling. He worked at a smooth and steady pace, his hand never wavering as each intricate pattern and design was completed flawlessly on the first attempt. When it was done, he took the small knife from his pack and drew the blade in a long, shallow line down his arm.


    It wasn¡¯t easy to cut into his hardened flesh, but he managed it eventually, though the process was more messy than he would have liked. Using his fingers, he felt around until he located what he was looking for, withdrawing the slivers of crystal from within the wound. These he cleaned in the washbasin before drying them and binding them into his arrays.


    Slowly, they began to absorb scraps of ambient magick, emitting a soft glow while Tyron bound his wound. He watched the cores carefully, assessing the strength of the light they gave off, until at last he was satisfied. Taking the sand, he began to draw the ritual circle on the floor.


    He¡¯d stepped out of the space, and though it was close, there would be enough room for his purposes. Dove had once called him a madman for performing a ritual in conditions similar to these, but what choice did he have? Attempting to bring even the simplest of magickal tools or ritual aids would have given him away instantly.


    Besides, it was in conditions like this that he truly thrived.


    With a confident hand, he swept from rune to rune, widening the circle as he went. Sigil after sigil, array after array, until finally, it was done.


    Within the Jorlin estate, surrounded by deadly foes, Tyron Steelarm raised his hands, and began to speak.

 B4C49 - Nothing Runs Rampant

    Herath Jorlin stirred in his sleep. Something tickled at the edge of his awareness, a touch as light as the fluttering wings of a butterfly brushing against his cheek. He would never have noticed at all, left to his wine-induced slumber, if only it hadn¡¯t persisted.


    His brow furrowed in his sleep as the subtle feeling of wrongness continued to grow, to poke against his magickally sensitive mind.


    Restless, he began to toss and turn, until finally he started awake, bolting upright in his bed, silk sheets spilling loose.


    ¡°What in the Divines¡¯¡­¡± he mumbled as he blearily grasped at the strange feeling that had roused him.


    His head hurt, his mouth was dry as a bone and he felt vaguely ill. Just how much had he drunk before bed? Fumbling for the nightstand, he conjured a globe of soft light with a flick of his wrist and took hold of the glass of chilled water the staff had left for him.


    Halfway to his lips, the glass slipped from suddenly numb fingers as the Magister realised just what he was sensing.


    ¡°No!¡± he cried, leaping from the bed, all thought of his poor condition driven from his head.


    He barely had the presence of mind to throw on his night robe before he burst out into the corridor, wild-eyed and shouting.


    ¡°Attack! We¡¯re under attack! Someone is casting a ritual in the estate!¡±


    Where were the family wards? They should be screaming right about now!


    As if conjured by his thoughts, light bloomed throughout the manor house and the wider estate, followed by a loud, sustained trumpet call. What had taken them so long?


    The previously dark and deserted corridor of the family wing transformed in a matter of seconds. Doors flew open as cousins, aunts and uncles burst from their rooms, each demanding answers or shouting for help. The staff arrived moments later, followed by the guards, who stormed in, weapons drawn, only relaxing a hair when they saw the Jorlins were unharmed.


    ¡°What is the danger?¡± the officer, easily identified by the red plume rising from their helmet, demanded.


    ¡°You tell us!¡± Aunt Patricia shrieked, white-faced, her two young children clutched in her grasp. His two young cousins managed to hold themselves together, though both appeared on the edge of tears.


    ¡°There¡¯s a ritual being conducted on the grounds!¡± Herath exclaimed.


    ¡°Impossible! The wards¨C¡±


    ¡°Well they aren¡¯t bloody working,¡± Herath said. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ that way!¡±


    ¡°Do you know the form of the spell?¡± the officer demanded even as he directed his troops to rush toward the ritual site.


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s¡ª¡±


    Like scissors snapping shut on a thread, Herath could hear the moment the veil was torn open, and he could sense the endless hunger that dwelt upon the other side.


    ¡°¡ªtoo late¡­¡± he groaned. ¡°They tore the veil. An abyssal is going to come through!¡±


    He had to give it to the officers, they were calm under pressure. A slight widening of the eyes was the only sign he had that this Soldier knew exactly what Herath was talking about.


    ¡°How long?¡± the officer demanded.


    ¡°No time,¡± Herath shook his head, ¡°it¡¯s already coming through.¡±


    Expression grim, the Soldier turned and rattled off more orders, his followers racing off to get their tasks done, then he turned back to Herath.


    ¡°Are you able to reassure the family and get them moving to the bunker, my lord?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a high level mage, you need me,¡± Herath refused. ¡°Let me grab my items and I¡¯ll be back.¡±


    ¡°We have our own mages, my lord. My lord!¡±


    But Herath wasn¡¯t listening. He raced back to his rooms and ripped into his wardrobe, flinging the various shirts and state-robes onto the floor until he found his enchanted Magister robes and staff, pulling them on as quickly as he could. It took a little longer to get his jewellery on. Insidious, unintelligible whispers had started to nibble at the edge of his awareness, and his hands were shaking by the time he managed to get his rings and amulet in place.


    When he emerged again, the family was beginning to fall into some sort of order. Guards were busy escorting them out of the corridor and down into the secure bunker using the emergency staircase concealed in this wing. They tried to get him to go as well, but he refused, pushing his way past and then took off running toward the site of the ritual.


    That¡¯s when he heard it. An Abyssal didn¡¯t make sound, not really, they weren¡¯t made in a way that let them interact with the world the way even the kin were. Even so, he heard it.


    A scream of utter wrongness reverberated through the estate, shivering in the air and twisting in Herath¡¯s gut. He staggered, but quickly righted himself, and continued to run.


    The scream didn¡¯t end. It merely grew more intense, along with the whispers.


    With his enchantments in place alongside his mental training, Herath was able to resist the worst of the effects, but many in his family weren¡¯t. If the children didn¡¯t make it to the bunker soon...


    He grit his teeth and forced such considerations out of mind. If the creature wasn''t contained, and soon, it could do unbelievable damage.


    It¡¯s in the barracks!


    How in the world had someone managed to summon an abyssal while surrounded by the Jorlin family Soldiers?! It beggared belief! Adjusting course, he rounded a corner, and there it was.


    The room in which it had been summoned was no more, the walls, the roof, even chunks of the stone foundation had been unmade, eaten out of existence by the abyssal. The creature itself was a nightmare vision, despite there being nothing to look at. Despite the grounds being fully illuminated by the wards, the abyssal was a creature of pure darkness, like ink. It pooled and writhed, lashing out with thousands upon thousands of limbs, some as thick as a tree trunk, others as thin as a wire. The scream rang out as the creature tried to consume the hated stuff that surrounded it, even as it was unmade in the act.


    Soldiers had already begun to form ranks around it, combining their Skills to form a wall of light that tried to ward off the abyssal and keep it back. Orders were being barked, men shouted and screamed, some had already collapsed to their knees, blood streaming from their noses, while others clawed at their ears, wailing as the whispers drove into their minds.


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    Armoured mages had gathered two dozen metres from the beast, chanting in unison as they launched fire and bolts of magickal energy at the writhing monstrosity.


    Herath rushed towards them.


    ¡°Spread out!¡± he yelled. ¡°Spread out now! It can sense your magick!¡±


    Some turned to stare at him, clearly unsure as to who he was, while others recognised him immediately and began to put some distance between each other.


    Not a moment too soon, as a blotch of darkness arced overhead and stabbed down amongst them. One mage, too slow to react, was caught as thin limbs spidered out from the blotch and latched onto his leg. He barely had time to scream before the black stuff of unreality raced up his body and wrapped itself around him. In moments, he was unmade, armour and all, vanished from the face of the realm.


    ¡°Cast and move! Cast and move!¡± Herath shouted at the other mages. ¡°If it touches you, cut off the limb immediately. You have a second or two maximum.¡±


    Then he turned and raised his staff, uttering the words of power. Red light manifested at the tip of his staff before he thrust it forward, sending a sizzling beam of dark light into the abyssal. Sticking to his own advice, he immediately ran to a new location, ignoring the screams all around him.


    The thing continued to chew through the barracks, latching globs of itself on the walls and dissolving them, but more and more it was reaching out, trying to find the people around it in order to consume them. The Soldiers had formed a half-circle, hemming the creature in and trying to press it into the barracks, content to let it eat the stone building and keep it away from the manor, but the footmen and women, despite their exhaustive training, were still more vulnerable to the mental attacks of an abyssal than the mages were.


    As he blasted the monster with his next spell, he saw one soldier go down, screaming and holding her hands to her ears. For a moment, the wall of light flickered in that area as a gap was formed in the line. A moment was all the abyssal needed, stabbing out with a limb and catching a few soldiers around their arms.


    One was fast enough, bringing their blade around in a glittering arc and severing their hand at the wrist; the other was not.


    More and more of the remaining Soldiers arrived, throwing themselves into the battle against the creature. If only the full garrison still remained, they would have been able to deal with this so much more easily.


    Herath cursed the summoner, cursed the heretics and cursed the Duke while he was at it. They must have known that the best of their Soldiers had been sent out of the estate, why else would they attack now?


    Gritting his teeth, he took a risk and planted his feet, raising his hands and beginning a longer cast. He watched closely as the magick built, each word giving shape and purpose to the power that dwelt within him. An orb of ominous, dark red light began to form above his head, growing brighter with each passing moment.


    Sweat poured down his face as he continued the spell, expecting a lance of pure darkness to stab out towards him at any moment. As he reached the final words, he was almost shouting, his voice shaking from the strain.


    He directed the orb forward before he turned and dove to the side. Springing up, he broke into a sprint, looking over his shoulder to see a puddle of darkness connected by the finest of strings back to the main body. The orb floated forward, coming to a stop just above the writhing monster and discharging a beam of destruction straight down.


    If possible, the scream emanating from the unthing grew more intense, rattling against Herath¡¯s mind. Dozens of soldiers cried out in pain, and several were lost as they slipped in the deployment of their Skills.


    ¡°Wear it down!¡± Herath shouted above the fray, using magick to enhance his voice. ¡°It can¡¯t be injured, only diminished! Keep striking until there is nothing left!¡±


    An Abyssal would rampage until it was no longer able to hold itself together, at which point it would collapse and dissolve, its body eaten away by the material realm.


    All they could do was hasten the process by battering it with whatever they had. More mages were starting to follow Herath¡¯s lead. Moving further away from the creature and taking time to launch more powerful spells.


    Time and time again, the abyssal hurled itself at the shield wall, trying to get closer to the mages and the magick it could sense coming off them, but was repelled. In rage, it struck and screamed, lashing against the wall of light, which flared and rippled with power every time it was struck.


    ¡°Hold the line, damn you!¡± their officer bellowed. ¡°Fall back and let someone else take your place if you can no longer stand!¡±


    That was someone Herath recognised: Janus, co-captain of the Soldiers and the highest ranking officer left in the estate. At least he was still alive. As one of the highest levelled soldiers, he projected an aura of surety and confidence. Everywhere he walked, the troops stood taller, their minds hardening against the whispers.


    At least the break in the weave was no longer of their concern. The Abyssal had obliterated the remains of the ritual in the act of coming through, removing the magick that had opened a path for it in the first place.


    When he judged it to be safe, Herath measured his distance and raised his hands again. Though it tried, the Abyssal wasn¡¯t able to get to him before he completed the spell. Once again, the orb flew forward and discharged its light directly into the inky centre of the creature.


    With a shuddering scream, the creature shrank in on itself before once more starting to lash out.


    ¡°It¡¯s starting to break apart!¡± Herath yelled. ¡°Don¡¯t relent!¡±


    His words rallied the Soldiers, and a rain of magick began to arc overhead before pouring down on the beast, who railed and writhed, smashing itself into the shield wall again and again but failed to break through.


    In desperation, the Abyssal whipped its limbs around, slipping past the edges of the shield wall and catching the outer footmen off guard. Several were lost in a few seconds, but that was all it took before Captain Janus was in position, planting his tower shield and bellowing defiance at the beast.


    With one final barrage, the Abyssal collapsed yet again. It gave one final screeching wail, forcing Herath to clench his teeth against the pain, then began to dissolve, drifting into the sky like ash from a bonfire.


    The moment it no longer held itself together, the scream and the whispers finally ceased, causing many to collapse from sheer relief. All around the courtyard, Soldiers stood, knelt or had collapsed entirely. Herath took a deep breath, then another, letting his jangled nerves settle a little.


    Captain Janus strode through his men, offering a word of encouragement here, a tap on the shoulder there, but quickly found his way to Herath.


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have been out here, my lord,¡± the Captain groused.


    ¡°I¡¯m a Magister, Janus. I can fight a nightmare creature from beyond the veil if I want to. If my brother Nostas were out here, then you¡¯d have something to complain about.¡±


    ¡°We are here to protect the Jorlins, not let them fight alongside us,¡± Janus said, eyes steady. ¡°You are not to risk yourself unnecessarily.¡±


    ¡°Alright, fine,¡± Herath said, holding up his hands. ¡°I¡¯ll head to the bunker like a good little lord. I¡¯ll leave the glory of catching the villian to you.¡±


    ¡°As it should be,¡± the Captain grunted. ¡°Though we may need your help afterwards. The family wards should have blocked any ritual taking place within the estate.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right, they should have,¡± Herath nodded, looking up to the peak of the manor.


    A dome atop the house contained the many powerful arrays that could be deployed in the defence of the estate. The magick suppression should have kicked into effect the moment the ritual had begun.


    He opened his mouth to say something, then froze halfway.


    ¡°Another ritual,¡± he whispered.


    ¡°What? Where?¡± barked the Captain.


    ¡°Inside the manor! Follow me!¡± Herath yelled, taking off at a sprint.


    ¡°Get in the bunker, you fool!¡± Janus shouted from behind, but quickly turned to roar at his troops.


    Much faster than he, the Soldiers were on his heels in an instant, but all Herath could think of was how. How had someone managed to defeat the wards, not once, but twice? Even he had barely managed to sense the rituals until they were almost completed!


    Inside the building, past weeping maids and white-faced pageboys, Herath ran until he came to a skidding halt just outside the ballroom.


    Janus and another officer crashed into the grand doorway with their shoulders lowered.


    The doors blasted open to reveal an arch of bone occupying the centre of the floor, a door lodged in the middle.


    And a man, lowering his hands.


    ¡°Herath Jorlin?¡± the unknown mage said, turning towards them. ¡°Your friend Poranus told me about you. I¡¯ve been wanting to speak with you for some time.¡±


    Then he reached out and opened the door.


    From within emerged a skeleton, but not just any skeleton. It was enormous, as if the bones of a giant had been used to craft it. Twice as tall as a man, it had to hunch low to squeeze itself through the door. Silent as a tomb, it stepped toward the soldiers, a black blade that trailed dark smoke clutched in one hand.


    ¡°Let¡¯s chat, shall we?¡± the mage said.

 B4C50 - The Tide of Death

    Following the bone giant, a horde of smaller skeletons emerged, some bearing cauldrons of bone that they planted on the ground and began to activate.


    ¡°Charge!¡± bellowed Captain Janus. ¡°Don¡¯t give them time!¡±


    Following his own words, the high level Soldier blasted forwards, sword aglow with bright light, but even he wasn¡¯t fast enough. Clouds of darkness boiled out of the cauldrons and filled the ballroom in moments. Herath, frozen in place at being called by name, and by the mention of his colleague, blinked as he became enveloped in the cloud.


    ¡°It¡¯s magick,¡± he said on instinct. ¡°It probably doesn¡¯t affect the undead.¡±


    ¡°Dispel it!¡± Janus roared. ¡°Advance into the darkness and fight, they¡¯re only skeletons!¡±


    But how many were there? Within the cloud, it was impossible to tell, Herath could barely see his hands in front of his face, but he began to work on a counterspell, as did several other mages. The footmen once again formed their line, walking step by step into the unknown with their shields up.


    A spear of bone glowing with an ethereal purple light flashed past Herath¡¯s head and smashed into the wall behind him, sending shards flying in all directions. The spell died on his lips and he frantically recovered before the magick could collapse, but began to hunch down lower.


    Bolts of darkness began to fly, along with more spears, until it became obvious that there were far too many spells to be cast by a single man. An odd creaking noise filled the room before a massive blade emerged from the darkness to crash down on the shield wall, which flared with light and bounced back the strike.


    Then it came again. Then another massive blade, but from a different direction. Each time, the wall held, but Herath was nervous. They had just finished battling against an Abyssal. Would the Soldiers be able to hold?


    He finished his counterspell and thrust his staff forward, directing the magick into the cloud that surrounded them.


    Immediately, it began to disperse in the area around himself, but stubbornly persisted elsewhere. The spell contained too much magick to be eliminated by his spell alone, but thankfully Herath wasn¡¯t by himself. Other mages completed their own spells, and the cloud was driven back, revealing the still advancing Soldiers, but also the wall of skeletons arrayed before them.


    Amongst them stood a strange figure, covered in green, ghostly flesh and bedecked in dark armour. Holding a blade and shield, it took its place amongst the undead.


    ¡°Come,¡± it said, ¡°bring me a final death.¡±


    With a roar, Janus lunged forward and the two shield lines crashed into each other. Herath expected to see the skeletons crumple before the strength of the house Soldiers, but to his shock, though they were driven back, they held. Again, the two giants stepped forward, swinging their enormous blades down from behind the line of skeletons and slamming them into the shield wall.


    Several Soldiers staggered as they gave their all to maintain the barrier, but still, the light held, and the footmen began to exchange blows against the skeletons at the front. The more they traded blows, the clearer it became just how outclassed the skeletons were. Against the polished and high levelled sword Skills of the Soldiers, the undead were wholly inadequate, but each time one fell, another would step forward to take its place.


    Then came the words of power.


    Herath had never heard anything like it. Each syllable resounded in the air like a hammerblow. He could feel it in his chest! It was difficult to cast, difficult to think. Just what was happening?


    The answer came in the form of a cold that pierced straight to the bone. In seconds, the Magister began to shiver, his breath a dense mist every time he exhaled.


    ¡°Dispel? Mages, are you awake?!¡± Janus roared.


    The Captain had cut down a dozen skeletons and pressed his way to the front where he¡¯d now locked blades with the strange, speaking undead. Even in the face of Janus¡¯ Skills, the strange creature held its ground, aided by the magickal frost.


    Snapping back to himself, Herath frowned, gathered his thoughts and ran back to the other mages.


    ¡°Form a shield!¡± he yelled. ¡°We need cover from the spells. Three mages on counterspell. The rest of us cast offensive magick. Alright?¡±


    The mages, still rattled from their harrowing experience against the Abyssal, nodded and gripped their staves. At that moment, an arrow whistled through the air and smashed against the wall just above their heads.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get that shield up,¡± he urged the others.


    In the freezing cold, it was difficult for the mages to form sigils, but they endured. It took a precious few minutes before they were finally able to stand against the hail of spells and arrows being sent their way. Two minutes in which the Soldiers fought against the undead while the cold sunk into their flesh and pierced their bones.


    When the frost was finally dispersed, the battle in the dining hall had ground to a halt. Herath was dipping deep into his pool of magick, conjuring the destruction beams and globes, trying to snipe the ghostly skeleton or bring down the giants. His attempts were frequently thwarted, the spells crumbling before they were halfway to their targets or shot out of the air with counter-magick.


    More Soldiers had arrived to bolster the lines, but there didn¡¯t seem to be any shortage of skeletons either.


    Then that voice rang out again. Herath could feel his blood pounding in his ears along with the rapid beat of the words of power.


    ¡°Prepare counter-magick!¡± Herath yelled, clutching his staff.


    But the spell wasn¡¯t aimed at them. Towards the edge of the shield wall, the skeletons pounced on the outermost soldier, six of them raining blows upon him. They forced him out of the wall, and then the spell completed.


    At once, the Soldier collapsed, screaming, as a stream of bright red blood streamed through the air and deep into the ranks of the undead. When it reached its destination, it began to pool and spread, as if it had touched an invisible, spherical barrier.


    Except there wasn¡¯t, Herath realised, the blood was the barrier.


    Surrounded by the shifting sphere of blood, he could finally pick out the mage from amongst the crowd. At some point, he¡¯d donned armour, the same black bone-like material the undead wore, a helm covering his features.


    ¡°Bring down the mage!¡± Janus roared. ¡°He¡¯s controlling all of them!¡±


    In response, the Necromancer, for that is what he had to be, raised a staff and began to speak once more.


    Words of power thundered, and reality bent.


    Dark power began to emanate from the blades of the undead.


    Words of power thundered, and reality bent.


    The skeletons became empowered, infused with black magick, moving faster, striking harder.


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    Words of power thundered, and reality bent.


    Once more, the cloud of darkness bloomed, filling the hall in moments and blinding the mages and footsoldiers alike.


    ¡°Counterspell!¡± Herath demanded. ¡°We need an anti-magick field in place!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re trying!¡± one of the armoured mages called back.


    ¡°Try harder,¡± someone said.


    Herath turned to the source of the voice, and came face to face with a ghostly face masked in bone armour. He lashed out with his staff, but the undead spun away, and then the skeletons were amongst them. The Magister roared in defiance and blasted the undead in front of him, scattering the bones with a bolt of magick, but another took its place. Soon, the gathered mages were fighting desperately to hold off the waves of grinning skeletons who slashed at them with their smoking blades.


    How had they even gotten here, Herath wondered. The answer came to him almost immediately, and he cursed himself for not thinking about it earlier. There were two entrances to the ballroom, one on either end. The Necromancer had simply sent his servants out the other door and looped them around to hit them in the back, using the cloud of darkness to cover their approach.


    Desperate, Herath lashed out with all the power he had left, trying to force the undead away, or at least destroy as many as he could. Every now and again, he would catch glimpses of the strange, speaking undead as it darted in and out of the fight, striking at the mages through the gaps in their armour, slashing their limbs or trying to slice their arteries before spinning back into the darkness, laughing all the while.


    He¡¯d only been in this close quarters fight for a few minutes, but it felt like hours. His breath came in desperate heaves as he conjured up the dregs of his magick, trying to force more power through his body for just one more spell. He¡¯d just used a beam of destruction to obliterate the skull of one skeleton when suddenly, captain Janus was by his side, emerging from the dark cloud, bleeding from a gash on his temple.


    ¡°You need to get out of here, now!¡± the captain bellowed, shoving at his side.


    ¡°What? We are fighting here!¡±


    ¡°We are losing! Your safety isn¡¯t guaranteed. Retreat to the family bunker, now.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t!¡± Herath replied hotly, his frayed nerves pushing his temper to the limit.


    Janus span, catching an attack that slipped out of the shadows square on the face of his shield as if he¡¯d known it was coming all along. The captain slashed out, too fast for Herath''s eyes to see, and another undead crumpled.


    ¡°You bloody will,¡± Janus said grimly. ¡°Our duty is to the family above everything else.¡±


    Without any further argument, the powerful Soldier grabbed hold of Herath and tossed the protesting mage over his shoulder. No matter how the Magister cursed, kicked or threatened, Janus ignored him, cutting his way through every undead who tried to bar his way, finally bursting out of the ballroom, out of the dark cloud and leaving the desperate sounds of fighting behind.


    ¡°We have to go back!¡± Herath shouted. ¡°Those are your people fighting back there!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re doing their duty,¡± Janus replied. ¡°As am I.¡±


    ¡°My brother will hear of this!¡± Herath railed, still trying to break himself free. It was hopeless, but he had to try. Physically, he was no match for the veteran Soldier, and unless he was willing to attack with magick, there was no way for him to free himself.


    ¡°Good. He¡¯ll agree with me.¡±


    Janus found the hidden entrance and began running down the stairs, causing Herath to jostle painfully against his armour. When they reached the bottom, the Magister was finally set on his feet.


    ¡°Down this corridor. The door will be closed, but they¡¯ll open it for you. Go, now,¡± Janus demanded.


    Before he could complain, the captain turned and raced back up the stairs, his grim expression causing the final words of protest to die on Herath¡¯s lips. Head spinning, unable to process what had happened, and how quickly, he staggered down the narrow corridor, clutching his staff.


    There were several entrances to this underground network of tunnels, but they all eventually converged on the bunker, the refuge for the family when the manor was under attack. The great doors were reinforced and enchanted to withstand just about anything, the space behind stocked with enough supplies and comforts to abide the Jorlins for several days if need be.


    Shaking and defeated, Herath staggered forward before he raised a hand to hammer on the door.


    ¡°It¡¯s Herath!¡± he called. ¡°Let me in!¡±


    He hung his head and waited, a thousand questions swirling through his head. Who was this mysterious mage? How had they gotten access to the estate? How in the realm had they managed to subvert the wards? None of it seemed possible. Was this the doing of another of the houses?


    That was possible. Certainly more plausible than a rogue Necromancer overthrowing the estate single-handedly. After a while, he emerged from his thoughts and realised the door hadn¡¯t opened. Once again, he pounded on the surface with one fist.


    ¡°Hello? It¡¯s me, Herath Jorlin! They¡¯re still fighting out there, let me in!¡±


    Again, stony silence was all he got in return. Could they really not hear him from inside? That shouldn¡¯t be possible.


    A cold realisation began to grow in his heart.


    ¡°Now that, I didn¡¯t expect,¡± a voice said from behind him.


    Herath spun and found the mage standing a dozen metres behind him. With his gaunt, pale face, and clad in his armour of black bone, the invader looked like a spectre of death itself.


    Before he could raise his staff to cast, Herath became engulfed in a cloud of black magick that resolved itself into a fist, crushing him within its grasp. He cried out in pain as he felt his bones grinding against each other. Everywhere the spell touched him burned, as if it were eating his flesh away.


    ¡°Herath Jorlin,¡± the Necromancer stated. ¡°I¡¯m very pleased to make your acquaintance.¡±


    ¡°I wish I could say the same,¡± the Magister grated through clenched teeth, trying to hold himself against the pain.


    The Necromancer placed his staff to one side, then raised his hands to lift the helmet from his head. Dark haired, and much younger than Herath had expected, the mage watched Herath struggle with infinitely cold eyes.


    ¡°I had the opportunity to spend some time with your colleague, Poranus. I spent an enlightening afternoon rummaging through his memory.¡±


    ¡°Impossible!¡± Herath ground out.


    ¡°Not so. For instance, I learned that you were one of the Magisters who was tasked with bringing Magnin and Beory Steelarm to heel. Isn¡¯t that right?¡±


    The Steelarms? Why would this mage even bother asking him about the Steelarms?


    In his chaotic state of mind, it took some time for the realisation to finally break through.


    ¡°What¡­ is your name?¡±


    The mage watched him with icy, glittering eyes.


    ¡°I am Tyron Steelarm. That was my mother and father you tortured to death.¡±


    In that moment, Herath realised that he was dead. No, that wouldn¡¯t even be the end of it. Death would only be the beginning of his suffering. Divines only knew what the Necromancer was capable of doing to his soul. Eventually, the bastard would be caught and defeated, allowing Herath to find his final rest, but until then¡­


    ¡°You have me,¡± Herath said, ¡°you don¡¯t need the rest. Take me, and leave. If you don¡¯t run soon, you¡¯ll be caught. Leave the rest and go.¡±


    Tyron cocked his head to the side, as if puzzled by what he was seeing.


    ¡°Why would you think I would ever leave them? They are just as guilty as you are.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s children in there!¡± Herath spat, incredulous. ¡°In what way are they guilty?¡±


    If this maniac wanted to take out his anger against his aunts and uncles, fine. But the children? What would be the point?!


    ¡°They are Nobles,¡± Tyron shrugged. ¡°Born with the blood of the Divines running through their veins.¡±


    ¡°So they were born guilty? That¡¯s insane!¡±


    At that, Tyron finally laughed, a wry chuckle as he shook his head. Caught in the grip of the fist, Herath could do nothing but tremble with rage. He couldn¡¯t even hear fighting coming from above, which meant everyone was already dead.


    ¡°How many thousands of children have been purged in the last few months? Or better yet, let¡¯s think bigger. How many millions have been slaughtered over the centuries for the crime of not worshipping The Five? You¡¯re outraged at the death of a handful hiding beneath their family estate? Why? Because they¡¯re related to you?¡±


    Tyron tsked.


    ¡°Bit late to find your empathy, isn¡¯t it, Magister?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re mad,¡± Herath spat. ¡°It won¡¯t be long until you¡¯re put down like a dog. When word of this spreads, the entire Nobility will hunt you down and crush you beneath their boots.¡±


    The Necromancer stepped forward and began to examine the door, running a hand along the reinforced steel surface.


    ¡°Well¡­ who¡¯s going to tell them what they saw? I¡¯m sure there will be many traces of the Abyssal, and signs of death magick all over the place, but sadly, they¡¯re going to struggle to find any witnesses. This really is quite the door.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean no witnesses?¡± Herath said.


    ¡°I mean everyone on this estate, excluding you and whoever is behind this door, is already dead.¡±


    The staff? The maids? The gardeners and cooks and page boys and their families?


    ¡°Are you even human?¡± Herath whispered, slumped in defeat.


    For the first time, Tyron stepped forward and touched him, taking a fistful of Herath¡¯s long, blonde hair and yanking up his head so he could stare him in the face.


    ¡°You helped torture my parents to death. You tell me.¡±

 B4C51 - Walk in the Dark

    Tyron took one last glance behind him at the Jorlin manor. There was little he could do to fully conceal his presence there. The signs of the Abyss, the ritual magick he¡¯d performed, and the stench of death magick would remain, hanging thick in the air for any mage to find. The better ones might even be able to discern the types of spells he¡¯d used in the fighting, at least in a general sense.


    But there were no witnesses remaining, none that remained alive, at any rate.


    He¡¯d gathered up and stored every spirit he could find, but something had happened which he hadn¡¯t quite expected. Some of the souls, notably, those of the noble descendants, though not all of them, had vanished after he¡¯d killed them. It appeared the idea that a heaven of some sorts may actually exist for the followers of The Five Divines may actually be true. Those souls had gone somewhere, and he doubted they¡¯d been able to cross over to the realm of the dead so quickly.


    It had been grating to miss out on those spirits, but he had the ones he¡¯d really wanted, and more than enough to pay his tolls.


    The skeletons had been stored away safely in the Ossuary, though it was a good thing they didn¡¯t care too much about being comfortable, along with all the materials he could bring with him. It was time to go. He turned back to face forward and, just as the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, Tyron stepped through the whispering hole in the Veil and vanished from his home realm.


    The moment he was through, he ended the ritual and allowed the entrance to close behind him, leaving himself surrounded by the endless dark.


    Creatures of the Abyss already surrounded him, their whispers tugging at the threads of his sanity, trying to pick them loose and worm themselves into the gaps. He could understand them so much better now, but he wasn¡¯t sure that it helped. The secrets they offered were dark, twisted things, knowledge that mortals were not meant to possess. If he allowed himself to listen, to be tempted by what they offered, they would infect him with their madness that way, and claim him all the same.


    Extending a hand before him, Tyron ignited a globe of unlight, and the voices retreated, unwilling to be touched by its rays. It didn¡¯t illuminate much, if that was even the right word, but it showed enough that Tyron had finally realised the Abyss was not nearly as empty as it first appeared. He didn¡¯t understand this place as much as he would have liked, he was always short on time. It was his most precious resource by a considerable distance.


    Studying the Abyss and trying to extract, safely, whatever was useful to him could have been the pursuit of a lifetime, decades at the least, but that was time he couldn¡¯t afford.


    He strode forward, the globe held above his upward-facing palm. The whispers were quieter now, but not gone. The denizens of this place were endlessly hungry for any taste of the material realms they could get. It was likely there was nothing he could ever do to chase them away entirely.


    That didn¡¯t mean there weren¡¯t other things that could drive them back.


    The deeper he walked into the Abyss, treading the strange and un-real paths of that place, the softer the whispers became, as he drew nearer and nearer to something the Abyssals were not willing to approach.


    Its presence was so impossibly vast, it wasn¡¯t possible for Tyron to grasp the sheer scale of it. If the Abyssal who had attacked the estate had been a river fish, then this creature was the Empire. Were they even the same species at that point? Did they share the same origins at all? He didn¡¯t know. What he did know was that this entity was truly ancient, older than Rot, Raven and Crone, who had been born when his realm came into existence, and immeasurably powerful. Should this creature find a way to breach the Veil and enter his realm, it would be snuffed out in moments.


    A wall of darkness shifted before him as the being became aware of his presence. To avoid angering it, he snuffed out the light and quickly rummaged through his robes for what he had promised.


    As he grasped hold of the stones and held them out, the entity focused its attention on him, and he felt it reach out.


    An instant later, Tyron fell to his knees, screaming as blood poured from his ears and eyes. His hands rose to claw at his face, to try and dig the crawling whispers out from under his skin, but he stopped himself just in time.


    The presence retreated, leaving Tyron to heave and shudder in the darkness as he tried to still his thoughts.


    I heard nothing I know nothing I heard nothing I know nothing I heard nothing I know nothing.


    He repeated the mantra on a loop until his mind had stilled, allowing him to gently push the memory of what he had felt in that moment away into the recesses of his mind. If he wanted to remain sane, he needed to avoid ever analysing those thoughts too closely.


    When he believed he had control of himself again, he stood, only to flinch back when the presence drew closer once more. However, this time it had managed to calibrate itself more appropriately to his tolerance.


    Void Speech wasn¡¯t truly language, not the way that Tyron understood it, anyway. It was thoughts, bent around themselves into shapes that conveyed meaning to the recipient. The Abyssals couldn¡¯t talk, but they were able to reach into each other''s minds and weave elaborate chains of thought and memory that allowed them to communicate. He wasn¡¯t especially proficient at it, but if the entity wanted to speak to him, there was nothing he could do to prevent it from placing its thoughts into his head.


    The entity expressed frustration.


    ¡°I¡¯m a fragile little mortal,¡± Tyron told it, ¡°too delicate to engage with you on almost any level at all.¡±


    Had it tried to communicate with him when he¡¯d been at level one, even this, squeezing its thoughts down to the smallest and simplest form it could manage, would have boiled his brain inside his head. He¡¯d grown many, many times stronger since then, but it was nothing in the face of this creature.


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    The entity demanded the payment that had been agreed on, and Tyron held out the stones.


    ¡°Take these, and then I will fetch the rest.¡±


    He still didn¡¯t know why this being craved souls the way it did. As far as he knew, Abyssal¡¯s didn¡¯t need to eat, so it wasn¡¯t consuming them for sustenance. There was a great deal he¡¯d managed to learn about souls, that they could be containers and conduits for magick, for example. A suspicion had grown within him that this was the exact reason the being desired them. Souls were not stuff, so they were able to exist within the Abyss, but they could contain things: thoughts, memories, magick, perhaps more. It was possible he was smuggling something to this creature that it couldn¡¯t get any other way via the medium of souls.


    As his offerings were drawn away, screaming into the void, Tyron carefully avoided listening to their horrified pleas and withdrew the next batch of stones. Those souls too, were drawn away, vanishing within the entity, never to be heard from again.


    The creature wasn¡¯t satisfied, it could never be satisfied, but it understood that Tyron had upheld his end of their bargain. To his surprise, it did not withdraw itself immediately, but remained, a tiny filament of its mind connected to his own.


    The entity was curious if the sacrifice had been successful.


    ¡°Yes. Your¡­ child¡­ performed admirably. It killed many and consumed much before it was destroyed.¡±


    The entity withdrew for a moment, but not before Tyron had sensed the edges of the bottomless hunger that had surged upward at his words.


    It hadn¡¯t been easy to negotiate with the creature to obtain exactly what he¡¯d wanted, but somehow they¡¯d been able to reach an agreement. The Abyssal that had attacked the estate hadn¡¯t actually been a ¡®child¡¯ of this being, Tyron had no idea how or if they reproduced, but that was the closest word to approximate how they felt about it. He¡¯d needed a weak Abyssal to cross over, as a regular one could have possibly torn the entire estate to shreds, especially given the majority of the House''s Soldiers, and their strongest, were absent from the estate.


    Such a weak Abyssal would never have a chance to cross over under normal circumstances, pushed away from the tear in the Veil by those stronger than it. The entity had intervened to ensure the weaker creature made it through, and guaranteed Tyron would not be harmed by it.


    The presence returned once more, and the entity expressed curiosity.


    ¡°I am willing to trade,¡± Tyron said, ¡°should the right cause arise.¡±


    This had become a pattern with the entity. It was unwilling to let him leave without extracting a promise to return with more souls, and Tyron wasn¡¯t in any position to deny it. If he tried, he felt he may be consumed on the spot, his own soul ripped from his body and devoured by the impossible creature before him.


    Flickers of thought came to Tyron, glimpses, whispers, hints of secrets and knowledge that tempted him sorely. Mysteries of life, death, access to distant realms, ways to breach the planes, the nature of magick itself and even the hidden nature of the Unseen, all were offered to him, if only he were willing to pay the staggering price.


    Tyron could feed this creature millions upon millions of souls and still not scratch the surface of what it knew.


    By the realm, how he wanted to.


    The Abyss was the only place that was equidistant from every point of reality. It was as close to Tyron¡¯s realm as it was to every other, and the creature before him had the power to peer through the Veil and see all of it, though it could never cross over.


    With enough souls, he could learn the secrets held by The Divines themselves, find the way to bring them down from wherever they dwelt and wring the immortal life from their bodies.


    Almost choking with desire for all that was offered, Tyron shook his head slowly.


    ¡°I am not in a position to pay,¡± he said. ¡°Perhaps something smaller?¡±


    The entity wasn¡¯t angered by this. It was ancient beyond comprehension, and knew exactly what it was doing. Tyron could not, or would not, pay such a price now. But later? When he¡¯d been driven to a corner and exhausted his other options? When he¡¯d tried again and again to find his own way and failed every time?


    Perhaps then, the temptation would grow too great.


    So instead, Tyron listened as the being offered trinkets instead of the diamonds it had shown him before. Slivers of knowledge, individual runes of power, a sigil he might find useful, a piece of a spell, the cost would only be dozens of souls, not hundreds, or thousands¡­ or more.


    Tyron agreed to pay to learn of a sigil that dealt with energy translation, and though he could afford the price right now with the many souls he had harvested and stored in the Ossuary, he did not offer to pay. If he did, the entity would only refuse to let him leave once more until he had agreed to another deal.


    Finally, the entity withdrew entirely, leaving Tyron alone once more in the darkness. He felt great relief.


    Conjuring his strange globe once more, he set off in another direction, navigating the bizarre paths of the Abyss until he came to the place he desired. It was still marked, just as he had left it, though he hadn¡¯t expected his sigils to survive. Perhaps it was possible to create something here, though the cost would be¡­ unpleasant.


    Another ritual was performed, and the Abyssals gathered around, driven wild by the sense of the Veil growing thin, but here also, Tyron was protected by the great being. With its gaze upon him, none dared to rush forward and devour him before forcing their way through the narrow way he had created. With a final shudder, Tyron stepped through and closed the Veil behind him, almost sighing aloud as the final fingertips digging into his mind released their hold, dragged away against their will.


    Tyron stood, once again, in the warehouse which he had left, well to the west of Kenmor. It would be a journey of several hours to return to the city; hopefully the carriage driver was waiting as he¡¯d agreed to do.


    Carefully, he stripped off his clothes and scrubbed himself with the wash basin and soap he¡¯d prepared, burning the discarded clothing until not a shred of it remained. He also pulled off the enchanted rings and bracelets he¡¯d prepared, tossing those too into the fire and feeding the fire array with magick until they were completely destroyed, the cores ruined beyond recognition.


    Only then did he dry himself and dress once more in clean and untainted garments.


    He emerged into the early dawn light to find that his rented carriage had indeed waited through the night for him. A blessing. Walking to the main road and flagging one down would have taken him a day.


    ¡°Hello there, Master Almsfield. Find what you were looking for?¡± the driver started as he saw Tyron approach, once more wearing the kinder, gentler face of the enchanter.


    ¡°Very much so, Master Wilox.¡±


    ¡°Please, Master Almsfield, I beg you. I drive a carriage for a living. If my associates heard you call me ¡®Master¡¯ I¡¯d be kicked in the plums every morning for a week. Arn is fine.¡±


    ¡°As you say, Arn. Are you prepared for the journey back to the capital?¡± Tyron asked as he settled himself inside the carriage with a sigh.


    ¡°Not a problem, Master Almsfield. I went and picked up a pastry for you from the nearby village as well, if you don¡¯t mind. Tasty little thing, if I do say so myself, though perhaps not to your standards.¡±


    Tyron looked about and found a small plate with a golden crusted treat sitting atop it next to him. He gathered it up, and though it was mostly cool, it still had a pleasant warmth when he bit into it. The taste of gravy, minced beef and roasted vegetables filled his mouth as he deliberately chewed. He did need to eat more.


    ¡°You just earned yourself an extra gold, Arn.¡±

 B4C52 - Welcome Strangers

    Rurin felt the clash of her blade against another person¡¯s for the first time in her life and found she didn¡¯t like it.


    The Soldier was good, well trained and equipped, with a shining steel breastplate and helmet that radiated with enchantments. They blocked her slash and immediately moved to riposte, blade flickering through the air, almost seeming to ignore the intervening space.


    However, they were not gold.


    With one gauntleted fist, Rurin bashed the strike to the side, crouched low and leapt forward. Even her enhanced vision wasn¡¯t enough to prevent her sight from blurring as she blasted forward at ridiculous speeds. Her blade, perfectly weighted and aimed with inhuman precision, punched through that shining breastplate with ease, her monstrous, Unseen-enhanced strength, and her Skills, designed to pierce even the toughest of kin, were simply too much.


    Her brand flared into life, burning and searing at her nerves, forcing Rurin to clench her teeth and shut her eyes against the unbelievable pain. If she hadn¡¯t advanced beyond the strength of her curse, she would have been brought to her knees, unable to move.


    Rurin watched the light fade from the eyes of her opponent, then lifted her sword with one hand, the body rising along with it. With a flick of her wrist, she sent it tumbling away.


    ¡°I hate this,¡± she groaned.


    Just because she hated it didn¡¯t mean she had any option but to keep going. The fighting continued all around her, and her people were outmatched. She could see it in the way they coordinated, the way they tried to fight, instinctively, as if they were facing kin.


    Slayers didn¡¯t bunch up, that just made them easy targets. They spread out, trying to balance aggression with caution, always alert to the dangers confronting their teammates and ready to intervene. The Soldiers didn¡¯t behave that way. They fought in tight formations and moved as a single unit. If an individual Slayer approached, they would turn as one, confronting the opponent with a wall of shields and a flurry of blades.


    Other members of the team would fly in to relieve the pressure on their ally, only to be rounded on in turn. The tactics that worked against the beasts were not as effective against trained humans, and it was showing.


    It was a good thing she was there.


    She flicked her blade again, sending the blood still marring the steel flying into the grass as she sized up their opponents. The Soldiers had formed a solid frontline, with Magisters and Priests behind, providing spell support along with divine blessings and healing.


    The smart thing to do would have been to circle around and try to find an angle to assault the weaker backline. If she managed to get amongst them, she could rip the mages apart in moments, but she suspected that it may be a trap.


    Marshals were notorious for their ability to lock people down, rob them of their strongest Skills, even reduce the physical stats of their foes. If she charged in, there was a chance she¡¯d find herself cursed, bound and weakened as a dozen different spells and abilities rained down on her.


    Instead, she chose to do things the simple way, which was generally her preference anyway.


    She was a Vanguard. An Ascended Vanguard now, and she did her best work up close and personal.


    Rurin rushed forward faster than the eye could follow, lowered her shoulder and launched herself directly at the shield of the Soldier in front of her. He spotted her coming, which wasn¡¯t easy, and managed to brace before she got there, which was even more impressive, but she wasn¡¯t going to be denied.


    With Momentum active, and her absurd physical strength, she struck the shield like a Titan¡¯s hammer, crunching the metal and sending the Soldier flying back. Rurin grinned as the others rounded on her, all preparing to strike at her exposed frame.


    She lifted a foot and sent it crashing down into the earth, activating her Resounding Strike as she did.


    The ground rumbled as the incredible force rocked the dirt beneath their feet, sending a shower of sod flying in every direction and knocking half the troops around her to the ground. Even her own people caught within the blast weren¡¯t able to keep their feet.


    Rurin bellowed and waded forward, laying about her with her blade. She wasn¡¯t the most deft with a sword, she was no Magnin Steelarm, who could make steel dance like a fairy and strike like lightning. She wasn¡¯t a technician, she was a workhorse, and that¡¯s what she did.


    An overhead slash that brought her opponent to their knees when they attempted to block it, followed by a swift kick to the chest that sent them flying backwards. She parried a thrust then clubbed the Soldier on his left shoulder with her gauntlet. The bone broke with an audible crack before she reached forward to grasp the straps at the back of his breastplate and twisted to hurl her victim into the path of her next challenger.


    The two collided heavily, and Rurin had a tiny bit of space, enough for her to charge.


    The Vanguard was a Class that operated similar to Defenders, Or Shield Guards among the Slayers. Frontline fighters who wanted to be the focus of the kin¡¯s attention as much as possible. They had to be fast, to put themselves between their allies and the enemy, they had to be durable, to absorb tremendous amounts of punishment, and they had to be a threat, otherwise they¡¯d be ignored by the kin.


    A Vanguard typically didn¡¯t bother with a shield, they protected their allies by turning themselves into a living battering ram, and Rurin had knocked the wind out of monsters as large as a house on the charge.


    That was when she was silver.


    Like a grey-haired, grinning meteor, Rurin slammed into the nearest Soldier, who once again did an admirable job trying to brace for the impact, but found themselves hopelessly outmatched.


    She punched into the regrouping formation of the enemy and began to lay about herself once more. Her blade was a simple one-hander, short, weighted to the tip and forged of the hardest metals the magick-forges could produce. It was designed to work up close and personal, which was exactly how she liked it.


    Rurin didn¡¯t remember outmatching the bronze ranks when she¡¯d been promoted to silver, but as a gold, she felt she stood head and shoulders above the lower rank. The Unseen had empowered her to an absurd degree, to the point she wondered if she was even truly human any longer.


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    To fight a gold rank, they would need to bring another gold rank. There had to be one here somewhere, and she intended to wreak havoc until they deigned to show their face.


    A flicker from the corner of her eye was all the warning she got. Caught off balance, Rurin kicked off the ground, sending herself ten feet into the air. She spun to avoid the arrows that tried to pick her off before landing a dozen metres away from where she¡¯d leapt, looking at someone who, on the surface, didn¡¯t appear all that different from the other Soldiers.


    Yet she could tell the difference. It was impossible for her not to see it.


    ¡°How¡¯s the brand, slave?¡± the Soldier said, shaking out her sword hand.


    ¡°Hurts like shit,¡± Rurin replied cheerfully. ¡°Going to be a lot worse when I cut your head off.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think there''s much chance of that, dog. These are the last moments of your miserable life.¡±


    Rurin lowered her stance, blade held loosely to the side, her grin never faltering.


    ¡°You talk too much, princess. Come and fight.¡±


    The rest of the combat reformed around them, as if both sides had decided to give the golds their own space by unspoken agreement. If one of them was able to triumph over the other without sustaining major injury, then the battle would completely tip towards their side.


    The gold ranked Slayer was used to fighting with such stakes on the line, she held her teammates'' lives in her hands every time she went out to the rifts, just as they held hers. Just how much combat had this loyal pet of the Empire seen? She was eager to find out.


    The Soldier made the first move. Equipped as the others were, with a sword and shield, she executed a predictable move, charging forward with her shield held high. The difference was the speed and power behind the move.


    Rurin dug in her heels and leaned into the blow, and still was pushed back, her feet tearing through the ground as she endured the charge. Her bones rattled and muscles screamed as she pushed back, finally grinding to a halt. Which was the moment a sword snaked out from the shield. Three thrusts, each so fast they may as well have struck at the same time, each aimed at her vitals. The Vanguard dodged one, knocked another aside with her gauntlet and caught the third with her own blade.


    Needless to say, her opponent''s swordsmanship seemed a little more refined than her own, but that didn¡¯t bother Rurin too much. That wasn¡¯t how she won her fights.


    She swept up a leg and managed to catch the contemptuous look on the Soldier¡¯s face as she adjusted her shield. That expression didn¡¯t last as the shield collided with Rurin¡¯s shin with enough force to lift the Soldier from the ground.


    Rurin laughed, crouched and launched herself forward as if she¡¯d been shot from a ballista. Her opponent managed to angle her shield just enough to deflect Rurin to the side, leading to a glancing clash that sent both of them tumbling.


    Then the brand ignited in pain. Rurin hissed furiously as the curse flared to new heights, far and above the constant pain she¡¯d been pushing through the entire fight.


    Where were they? She glanced around quickly and found her target, a Magister, staff raised and hand extended towards her. The prick was manually feeding the brand, and with a gold ranked opponent in her face, there was precious little Rurin could do about it.


    ¡°Regretting your choices, dog?¡± the Soldier taunted, striding forward, shield raised.


    Teeth clenched and hands shaking, Rurin gripped her blade tight and prepared to engage again, only to find her legs were suddenly heavier than before, her limbs drained of their strength.


    It was going to be like this, apparently; they were going to tip the scales in their favour. She couldn¡¯t really blame them, she¡¯d do the same if she could.


    Like a predator circling a wounded deer, the Soldier approached with caution, but Rurin wasn¡¯t in the mood to wait. Despite the pain and everything else weighing her down, she did what she did best: she charged.


    What met her was an immediate stab, aimed to punch through her armour and core her heart. A perfectly timed, perfectly weighted attack along the perfect line, there was no way she could possibly dodge. Luckily, she had no intention of dodging, it wasn¡¯t really her style.


    The shock of pain as the blade pierced through the meat of her forearm was almost a welcome distraction from the curse, a new source of suffering for her to focus on. She threw her arm to the side, directing the sword away from her body and slammed into her opponent, who wasted no time twisting her blade to widen the wound.


    Nasty bitch!


    Rurin bit back a scream and dropped her own weapon, using the free hand to take hold of the blade. The edge of the enchanted steel bit onto her fingers even through the gauntlets, but Rurin had an absurdly high constitution, her flesh was more like stone. Rotating her body, she pulled the weapon from her opponent¡¯s grip and brought up her back foot to plant a furious kick which was deftly caught on the shield.


    Minus her weapon, the gold ranked Soldier was launched ten metres backwards, only to land deftly on her feet. She smiled from behind her visor as she drew her second, shorter blade. Rurin pulled the other sword from her arm, throwing it to the ground. Blood poured from the wound, a gaping hole in the meat of her arm. At least the bone hadn¡¯t been cut. At least, she thought it hadn¡¯t been cut. A little healing and she¡¯d be right as rain. Perhaps the Priests would oblige?


    ¡°It¡¯s not looking good for you, dog,¡± the Soldier taunted. ¡°How are you going to fight with your arm like that?¡±


    Rurin only shook her head and sighed.


    ¡°You young-folk, always want to talk in a fight. Ruins the atmosphere. I¡¯m not going to fight anymore.¡±


    There was a deafening roar followed by the sound of a thunderous collision. Dirt and dust flew everywhere, obscuring what had just happened. Rurin grinned.


    ¡°He is,¡± she said cheerfully.


    Then she collapsed onto her backside, groaning. The Magisters hadn¡¯t let up on her curse, and whatever was sapping her strength was only getting stronger over time.


    ¡°You look awful,¡± a gruff voice said.


    ¡°Want me to tell you how I feel?¡± she offered.


    ¡°No thanks, I can guess.¡±


    Worthy Steelarm approached her, greathammer slung over his shoulder, a look of mild concern on his face.


    ¡°Magisters are activating my brand,¡± she said.


    The Hammerman winced in sympathy.


    ¡°I think they¡¯ll be too busy to bother with it soon enough,¡± he assured her, rolling his shoulders.


    ¡°Then get to it,¡± she said, shooing him away, ¡°everyone wants to talk today.¡±


    Worthy rolled his eyes and began to stride away, his every step radiating the strength and power he contained within him. She wasn¡¯t sure exactly what Class he had now, but she doubted it was anything ordinary. The Steelarms had to feed their children something along with their mother¡¯s milk. They were made of different stuff.


    Beory had dismissed the accusation sternly, saying her genes would produce the greatest Slayer of all time, she had no need of Magnin¡¯s.


    Thinking of her murdered friend, Rurin let herself fall backwards into the dirt. The bulk of the fighting had moved away, and if some silver ranked idiot decided to try and finish her off, she would deign to rise and teach them a lesson.


    Perhaps the history books would record this as the first real battle of the rebellion, if they mentioned it at all. A meaningless scuffle at a crossroads with less than a hundred on either side.


    At least it was a victory for their side, but even someone like her could tell it wouldn¡¯t last for long. The currency of this war would be in gold ranked fighters, and soon, the Duke would bring more of them to bear than the rebels could hope to match.


    It was a lost fight from the beginning. Without a miracle, they couldn¡¯t hope to win. All they could do was inflict as much damage as possible while they were still alive.


    The pain of the brand finally faded, and she groaned with relief. With any luck, Worthy had smashed the Magisters¡¯ heads in before they managed to switch targets to him.


    ¡°Stupid Steelarms,¡± she sighed, ¡°they¡¯re a bad influence on me.¡±

 B4C53 - Rage of the Survivor

    The door to the Duke¡¯s study burst open as a golden-haired young man stormed through in a rage. Duke Raugrave looked up, managing to keep his features smooth only thanks to the forewarning he¡¯d received. He stood and folded his hands together, offering a short bow of the head in respect.


    ¡°Lord Jorlin. Welcome.¡±


    However, the young Lord of house Jorlin was not willing to stand on formality, not this day.


    ¡°They¡¯re dead, Raugrave! Half of the Jorlin bloodline has been erased! What do you have to say for yourself?!¡±


    Nostas Jorlin stormed to the Duke¡¯s desk and slammed his fists down on it so hard he cracked the reinforced surface. Papers went flying, secretaries and staff members, minor lordlings and ladies themselves, gasped and pushed themselves back against the walls, looking for an escape.


    The Duke raised his head and eyed the young man before him. It was clear Nostas had let his emotions run away with him. Red eyed, red faced, his grief and fury were laid bare to the world with no attempt being made to control or conceal them. His father would never have allowed himself to be compromised like this, not even in dire circumstances such as these. At some point, the old had to make way for the new, and it had only been a few years since Restas had made way for his eldest son. Now it fell on the young, inexperienced Lord to lead his house in this time of crisis.


    ¡°Are you insinuating the assault on the Jorlin manor was my doing? My responsibility?¡± Raugrave said, the warning clear in his tone.


    ¡°Our best Soldiers were away from the estate in answer to your call! House Jorlin demonstrated our loyalty and look at the result!¡±


    ¡°It is not my purview to ensure the security of any family¡¯s private holdings.¡±


    He didn¡¯t say the quiet part out loud, though he hinted at it. It was none other than Nostas who was responsible for ensuring the safety of his family. If their estate was left in a vulnerable way, he had nobody to blame but himself.


    Despite his anger, it was clear Nostas was able to interpret his meaning. The Lord¡¯s face grew darker still as he smashed the desk once more, the wood audibly splintering beneath his fists.


    ¡°The security of the province is your responsibility! You want to blame me. How dare you! When the Houses hear what I have to say¨C¡±


    As Nostas turned to leave, Duke Raugrave reached out and clasped hold of his forearm.


    ¡°Don¡¯t come in here, scream at me, destroy my furniture and then think you can leave without letting me say my piece,¡± Raugrave growled. ¡°Sit down so we can discuss this issue like Lords. You think I don¡¯t care when so much of the blood is spilled? I take my mandate seriously, and your father is one of my closest friends. I grieve with you. Now sit. Let us talk.¡±


    At least some of what he was saying managed to get through to Lord Jorlin. Nostas visibly wrestled with himself before gaining some level of control over his emotions. With a tight nod, he agreed and stiffly drew a chair back and sat down.


    ¡°Leave us,¡± Raugrave dismissed his staff with a wave of his hand before he resumed his own seat.


    The terrified men and women made their exit, taking only the bare minimum of time to bow on their way out the door. The Duke didn¡¯t particularly blame them. Though descended from the Noble Houses, they had not inherited the divine will but knew very well just how dangerous it could be. Just because it was illegal to use that Will on Nobles, didn¡¯t mean it never happened. How else was one to keep their distant relatives loyal?


    ¡°When did you find out?¡± Nostas asked, his voice still raw with emotion.


    ¡°I heard this morning,¡± Raugrave replied. ¡°I assure you, every available effort is being made to locate the parties responsible. My investigators are only waiting for your permission to enter the grounds of the estate.¡±


    ¡°They have it.¡±


    ¡°A moment,¡± The Duke activated an array built into his desk and murmured a few words into it. Thankfully, the fine work of the Arcanists hadn¡¯t been destroyed by the young Lord¡¯s outburst.


    A ro¡¯klaw would be sent within a few minutes and reach his teams in the field in less than an hour. The best mages, Marshals and most senior Diviners from the church had been gathered to sniff out the culprit. No one could act against the Divine Blood and get away with it. This was the first and highest law of the Empire.


    ¡°Whoever is responsible for this disgraceful offence will suffer the full wrath of the Empire. You have my word,¡± Raugrave assured him.


    ¡°Even if it was another House?¡± Nostas demanded, his eyes sharpening.


    So, he did suspect another House. What secrets did Jorlin hold that another House would be willing to break such a sacred law? The Duke had been too lenient with the Houses, he could see that now. All sorts of barely legal practices had flourished in the lax environment he¡¯d created.


    ¡°If it was, then I will petition the Emperor to Extinguish the bloodline,¡± Duke Raugrave stated gravely.


    Nostas¡¯ eyes grew wide and he settled back in his chair. He hadn¡¯t expected the Duke would be willing to invoke such a severe punishment. To destroy an entire bloodline was rarely done, only a few times in the history of the Empire.


    In the momentary lull in the conversation, the Duke leaned forward and folded his hands together.


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    ¡°I know you are suffering, and what has happened to your family is terrible, but I must think of the province. Of course, no effort will be spared to enact vengeance, but at the same time, there are many dangers to us that must be taken into consideration. You have lost many members of your family, but many still remain. Avenging the dead is important, but protecting the living is more important.¡±


    ¡°Our manor in the city has been under lockdown since last night,¡± Nostas said, glaring, ¡°and I have recalled our senior Soldiers from their duties elsewhere in the province.¡±


    The Duke¡¯s features tightened, but he let it go without comment.


    ¡°If you wish, I will allow any member of House Jorlin to live within Kenmor Castle for the next year. They will have my personal guarantee of safety.¡±


    Another unexpected offer. Kenmor Castle was the most secure location in the entire province.


    ¡°I will take that into consideration¡­. Thank you, Duke Raugrave.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± Raugrave said, waving a hand. As I said, your father is a close friend of mine. I would be pleased if the old goat was willing to spend some time in my company.¡±


    ¡°I will let him know.¡±


    ¡°However, let us not forget, there are threats not even I can protect your family from.¡±


    Even without being stated, they both knew exactly what he was talking about.


    The Emperor.


    If the Divine Court took matters into their own hands, there would be a complete and total purge of the western province. Not even the Nobles would be spared. Nostas himself may find himself the only surviving member of his entire family, a breed horse kept in stock to preserve the Blood, shipped off to the central province and put out to pasture.


    ¡°If we don¡¯t succeed in putting down the rebellion and completing the mission given to us by the Divines, then it¡¯s over, for all of us,¡± the Duke stated bluntly. ¡°I will be tortured and burnt at the stake, if I¡¯m lucky, but the fate of your father won¡¯t be all that different.¡±


    Nostas grit his teeth and visibly fought against his anger.


    ¡°I¡¯m aware,¡± he said tightly, ¡°though it is difficult to think of such matters in the face of my loss.¡±


    Preserve what you have left, then worry about what you lost.


    The Lord¡¯s lack of experience could be the death of them all at this point.


    ¡°I will speak plainly. If the rest of the Houses become spooked and withdraw their support from our work in a shortsighted attempt to protect themselves, then we are doomed. That goes for your House as well.¡±


    ¡°What do you want me to do? Just sit back and act as if my Aunts and Uncles haven¡¯t been brutally murdered?!¡±


    ¡°Of course not! If I must be blunt, what I want is for you to publicly affirm your commitment to the divine mission and not to pull your Soldiers away from their tasks.¡±


    ¡°You ask a lot.¡±


    ¡°I ask for the only thing that will keep us alive,¡± Raugrave stated flatly. ¡°I¡¯m sure the other Houses are already recalling their Soldiers and preparing to bunker down in their estates. It¡¯s idiocy that will result in all of our deaths.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not idiocy to want your family to live.¡±


    ¡°Then it is idiocy to get them killed!¡± the Duke roared. He nearly slammed his own fist down on his desk, but stopped himself at the last moment. The repairs were already going to cost him a fortune, and he liked this desk. ¡°We have been ordered by the Divines themselves! If we fail to fulfil their wishes, then nothing can save us! Any of us!¡±


    There was a loud disturbance at the door, muffled speech that quickly transitioned to raised voices, then open shouting as someone began to pound on the door.


    ¡°What in blazes is going on out there?!¡± Duke Raugrave bellowed.


    For the second time within the hour, the door burst open to reveal something of a scrum that had formed just outside the door. The Duke¡¯s personal guard had tangled with members of his staff who had been trying to prevent members of the clergy from bursting through.


    ¡°A Divine Revelation, Duke Raugrave!¡± the Priest called from within the pack. ¡°The Oracles have spoken! A Divine Revelation, my lord!¡±


    ¡°By the Gods, let the man through,¡± Raugrave shouted. ¡°Let him in here and get the hell out!¡±


    ¡°I bring word from the Temple, Duke Raugrave Kenmor, Lord Nostas Jorlin,¡± the Priest stated, red faced after the scuffle to get inside had finally resolved itself. ¡°Only minutes ago, the Oracles came out of a trance and communicated the words of the Divines.¡±


    The Duke¡¯s gut tightened painfully as he braced himself. The Ancestors could have said anything, condemned him and the entire province for their poor response to their orders, for example. He desperately hoped he would be given more time, things were finally starting to turn around. Given a few more weeks, the rebellion would be crushed, he was certain of it. They just had to hold out a little longer.


    ¡°It relates to the attack on the Jorlin Estate, which is why I was sent immediately,¡± the Priest heaved.


    Nostas rose in his seat, eyes flaring wide.


    ¡°What have the Ancestors said? Tell me immediately!¡±


    ¡°The Oracles have stated that the sight of the Divines is no longer obstructed, and sees the face of their enemy.¡± The Priest almost couldn¡¯t help but begin to intone as he passed on the words of the Oracles. ¡°The Unholy Disease that has burrowed into the heart of this province is the spawn of the Steelarm heretics!¡±


    At first, the Duke felt relief, he wasn¡¯t dead, not yet. Then the confusion came.


    ¡°Who? The Steelarm boy? He isn¡¯t dead?¡±


    ¡°Indeed not, my Lord. It was he who assaulted the Jorlin estate, the Divines themselves assure us. He has been hidden from their sight by unholy influences, but they have seen his face at last.¡±


    What was his name?


    ¡°Tyron?¡± the Duke tried to recall. ¡°Tyron Steelarm, wasn¡¯t that his name?¡±


    He remembered the business with the Steelarms. An unfortunate affair, but one they had brought upon themselves. Now their brat was running around massacring Nobles? What was wrong with that family?


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t he a Necromancer?¡± Nostas said quietly. ¡°Are you telling me a Necromancer murdered my family and carted off their remains?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± the Duke demanded, head snapping to the young Lord. ¡°There weren¡¯t any bodies?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Nostas forced through gritted teeth, still staring at the Priest.


    ¡°He was. Is,¡± the Duke said, remembering. ¡°He was a Necromancer. He was supposedly killed years ago. He¡¯s been alive all this time?¡±


    How strong could a Necromancer become in that much time? Strong enough to assault the Jorlin Estate single-handedly, apparently. The more he thought about it, the worse the situation became. This madman, possibly a gold ranked Necromancer already, now had access to Noble flesh? Noble souls?


    Raugrave felt the noose tighten around his neck with every second that passed. This was a disaster. The Emperor would want to know, and he would. The Oracles would send word soon, all Divine messages were relayed to the Divine Court.


    ¡°We have to find him,¡± the Duke ground out. ¡°We have to exterminate him, immediately.¡±


    ¡°Allow me to take the lead,¡± Nostas said, rising from his seat, face tight with fury. ¡°I will avenge my brother and retrieve his spirit, along with those of my family, if it¡¯s the last thing I do.¡±

 B4C54 - Prepare to Rise

    It almost felt unnatural to be sitting alone in his study as if nothing had happened. An entire Noble estate, every man, woman and child within, dead by his hands, but here he was, sitting in the brick-walled room beneath his shop as if he¡¯d never left.


    Yet he had.


    He thought he¡¯d feel more than he did. His goal all along had been to take vengeance on the Nobles, the Magisters, everyone who had played a part in the deaths of Magnin and Beory, and a small slice of that had been achieved at the Jorlin estate, yet he wasn¡¯t satisfied. Not even remotely.


    Some of the guilty were gone, yes, but so many remained. Until they were all gone, every one of them, until each and every descendant of the Divines was dead, along with their servants, the Magisters, he wouldn¡¯t stop, he couldn¡¯t stop.


    No, there was no sense of victory, but neither was there any guilt. Perhaps this was the work of the Vampires in him, but he was unmoved entirely by the desperate pleas of those he had killed, nor did he care about their suffering in death.


    In a way, he would have liked to have known if he were capable of this level of detachment without having been manipulated. Perhaps he always was able to do this, but he almost felt robbed of the chance to prove he¡¯d have been able to stomach the process of his vengeance just the way he was.


    There was no use being angry about it now. What was done was done, and there was still so, so much to do.


    Things were going to accelerate now, and quickly. He didn¡¯t doubt the Divines would interfere to ensure he was killed. After everything they¡¯d done to corner his mother and father, they surely weren¡¯t above getting their hands dirty to finish the job.


    Which meant he didn¡¯t have much time. They would find him eventually, there was no doubt about that. He wasn¡¯t so naive as to believe that his countermeasures would be enough to protect him from the full might of the Empire. Before then, he had to extract all the gains he possibly could, make his final preparations, then ascend to gold.


    Everything would hinge on what he was able to gain from that advancement. With the right Class, the right benefits and abilities, he could transform his undead army into a formidable force, strong enough to achieve his aims. If his options failed to meet his expectations, then he would find another way. It would take longer, but he would still succeed in the end.


    In his hands, Tyron rolled a small, smooth, round stone from hand to hand. It was unnaturally cold, the chill of the grave, as he was starting to think of it.


    Who could say why the divines had decided not to protect the soul of this scion? Whatever the reason, Tyron had him now, and he would take great pains to extract every ounce of knowledge he could. Before then¡­ he had to process the remains, and there was a great deal to do. Some of the work he could pass off to those working for him in the city, but some of it he could not.


    Not that he minded. Wielding the knife himself was the only way to ensure the work was done to his own exacting standards.


    Of course, even before that could begin, there was another issue that needed taking care of. He was here, waiting for them to arrive, since he knew they would distract him, so he didn¡¯t want to become engrossed in his work with a disturbance on the way.


    But they were late.


    ¡°What is taking those blood suckers so long?¡± he muttered to himself, idly poking at the pages on the table in front of him. He¡¯d expected Yor and Valk to come running the moment they learned what he¡¯d done. More than that, he wouldn¡¯t have been surprised if there was a violent confrontation.


    Despite their differences, both Vampires hated being forced to operate in the open, greatly preferring to remain secret and hidden. With his actions, there was no doubt the entire city was about to be overturned. He¡¯d kicked the hornets'' nest, and the Nobles would stop at nothing to hunt him down, regardless of the disruption to the rest of the province. The purge was one thing, a Divine Mission to hunt down the heretics, but mass murder of Nobles? Spilling the Divine Blood?


    They would move heaven and earth to bring him down.


    And in so doing, they would eventually find the Vampires nestled right in the heart of the capital. Just as his discovery was inevitable, so was theirs.


    What was taking them so long?


    Tyron frowned, irritated. Should he start working after all? No, something was definitely off. They should be here already, so the fact that they weren¡¯t¡­. Either they¡¯d fled, abandoned the capital and sought refuge in one of the larger rural cities, or¡­


    ¡°You¡¯re already here, aren¡¯t you, Yor?¡± he sighed.


    There was no response, but he stood and turned away from his desk anyway. The study was much as it had always been. Dimly lit by the globes of light he¡¯d created. It was slightly less messy than before, as he¡¯d finally completed and cleared up the components he¡¯d created for his skeletal giants. Even so, bones, pages and other detritus were loosely stacked about the place, much of it disturbed in his rush to get ready for his assault on the Jorlin estate.


    In the corners, the shadows seemed to gather, thickening into a deeper darkness. It could have been natural. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, or maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but he doubted it.


    He raised his hands.


    ¡°I can force you out, Yor. You know I can. Why don¡¯t you just reveal yourself and we can discuss your betrayal like sensible people.¡±


    ¡°A betrayal?¡± her voice echoed out from nowhere in particular and bouncing off the walls. ¡°Just who has betrayed whom?¡±


    ¡°You think I betrayed you?¡± Tyron asked, feeling genuinely surprised. ¡°I told you what I was going to do years ago. This shouldn¡¯t come as a surprise. In fact, it would be baffling if it were. In fact, aren¡¯t you only taken aback by the fact I would actually attempt to do what I told you I would?¡±


    The unnatural darkness streamed together and resolved itself in the outline of a humanoid shape, before finally Yor emerged, statuesque, dressed all in black, a stark contrast against her porcelain white skin. She did not look pleased. In fact, her expression could only be described as ¡®thunderous¡¯. Even so, she was stunning.


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    Tyron frowned and shook his head. He shouldn¡¯t be thinking about her appearance; was she manipulating his thoughts somehow?


    ¡°Come to tell me about your intentions to flee the city? Where did you establish your little getaway? Havercroft?¡±


    She narrowed her eyes slightly as she watched him.


    ¡°So you knew about that as well.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m an observant person.¡±


    Both Yor and Valk had been preparing their escape for months. Beings as cautious as they were, they likely had backups for their backups. It was only a matter of time before their preparations were complete and they vanished. It hadn¡¯t been easy to uncover these plans, but they¡¯d needed mortal help somewhere along the line, and mortals were vulnerable to exploitation, even ones who had been enraptured by a vampire.


    The two watched each other for a moment, each trying to read something from the other.


    ¡°Personally, I always knew you would go through with it,¡± she said, ¡°but my opinion wasn¡¯t shared by others. They believed you would¡­ put your vengeance aside, eventually. The lure of power would become too strong, and you would inevitably come to us of your own accord.¡±


    ¡°You do know more about the undead than anyone else,¡± Tyron said, ¡°even more than the Abyss. I would have come to you for knowledge eventually, that much is true.¡±


    ¡°But you would never have abandoned your vengeance.¡±


    ¡°Of course not.¡±


    Such a thing was unthinkable. It simply wasn¡¯t possible.


    ¡°I¡¯m starting to believe my Mistress may have erred in her intervention,¡± Yor said softly, ¡°though I would appreciate it if that thought never made its way back to her.¡±


    ¡°Are you willing to tell me what she did? Did she really do nothing other than deaden my emotions?¡±


    Yor eyed him, her eyes as dark as midnight.


    ¡°Would you believe me if I told you, no?¡±


    ¡°Of course not.¡±


    ¡°Then why ask the question?¡±


    ¡°Good point.¡±


    Despite the congenial tone of the conversation, Tyron was ready for violence to erupt at any moment. The Vampires might be fleeing the city, but that didn¡¯t mean they would ever forgive what he¡¯d done to them. If Yor felt she was in a position to kill him and get away with it, then she probably would.


    ¡°When it¡¯s over, there won¡¯t be much left of this province, Yor. It doesn¡¯t matter how far you go, or how well you hide. Eventually the Emperor will come, and nothing will remain of this place. You should prepare to flee.¡±


    ¡°Advice? From you? How delightful,¡± she purred. ¡°I¡¯m shocked that you of all people would care to ensure my survival.¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°You misunderstand me. I have no intention of dying along with this province, so I will flee. If you are forced to remain on this plane, then your only hope is to come with me.¡±


    He smiled slightly.


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you to make sure you are prepared to make it worth my while.¡±


    Her eyes glittered darkly as she watched him, fingers flexing ever so slightly, as if she were thinking of tearing his throat open.


    ¡°That is only the case if you succeed, which can only happen if you survive,¡± she pointed out, baring her fangs in a toothy grin. ¡°Nothing is guaranteed, and if I get the chance, I may just tip the scales one way or the other.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you already have,¡± Tyron said, his brows raised. Then he turned and glanced over his shoulder at the notes, books and projects waiting for his attention. ¡°This has been pleasant, Yor, but if you aren¡¯t going to try and kill me, then I would appreciate it if you saw yourself out. There¡¯s a lot for me to do, and not much time left to accomplish it.¡±


    ¡°I presume you mean your ascension to gold?¡±


    He hesitated for a second, then offered her a tight nod.


    ¡°A gold ranked Necromancer, finally a taste of real power,¡± she said. ¡°Of course, not nearly as much as you would enjoy as one of us, but you seem too attached to your living flesh to entertain that offer.¡±


    ¡°Who knows,¡± Tyron shrugged, ¡°I may end up a lich in the end.¡±


    Yor curled her lip, somehow managing to look flawless even with such open disgust on her face.


    ¡°Inferior creatures,¡± she said. ¡°Lacking in elegance.¡±


    ¡°They can stay awake during the day,¡± Tyron drawled, ¡°which is a plus.¡±


    ¡°A Lich is a mage who was terrified of death. A Vampire is a being who has embraced immortal life. We are not the same. However, I believe the night is fading. As you suggested, I will take my leave. Should you succeed, you will see me again, before the end.¡±


    ¡°How ominous,¡± Tyron murmured, but she was already gone, fading into darkness and sliding away, down into the tunnels and then beyond his reach.


    When morning came, her entire coven would be out of the city, he had little doubt. Doubtless they¡¯d taken the time to prepare safe havens along the route to sleep away the day on their way, well concealed along the roads. The loss of his undead helpers would hinder him significantly, but it was possible to proceed without them now. The groundwork had been laid, now he just needed to follow through.


    Stepping away from his desk, Tyron moved around the study, checking his wards, activating some arrays, shutting down others. Some weren¡¯t needed, now that the confrontation with Yor had ended without conflict, but he ensured they were still functioning, ready to be switched on at a moment''s notice.


    Just because Yor and Valk said they were gone didn¡¯t mean they wouldn¡¯t hang around and try to ambush him in the tunnels, or assault his study once they thought he was tired. Every precaution had to be taken; failure couldn¡¯t be permitted.


    Satisfied everything was functioning as intended, he nodded, satisfied, then reached out to his undead, concealed in the nearby tunnels. With a mental command, he spread his net wider, trying to ensure he couldn¡¯t be caught unawares by an attack through the sewers. In truth, he was far more vulnerable to an attack from above ground than below, but the Vampires struggled to work that way. Their thralls, though¡­


    Nothing he could do about it now.


    He returned to his desk and sat, fingers drumming on the stone surface as he considered his next steps. His next Class Advancement was the fulcrum around which everything would turn, and he needed to be prepared. The death he¡¯d dealt at the Jorlin estate was possibly enough to propel him all the way to level sixty, which meant he could no longer perform the status ritual until he was ready.


    Until then, there was a lot he needed to achieve. Ensuring all the core abilities were as fully levelled as he could get them and all the relevant techniques as well developed as he was capable of. That meant research, testing, developing his theories and putting them into practice, which took time he didn¡¯t have.


    Somehow, he would have to find a way. Alongside that came processing the materials he¡¯d gathered, another massive undertaking. More undead to prepare, which meant more enchanting, more refining, more bone weapons and armour to be crafted, more revenants and wights to be created.


    ¡°Going to be difficult to find the time to sleep,¡± he muttered to himself, still tapping idly with his fingers.


    Well, that was never really a concern, was it?


    He was close¡­ so, so close¡­ all he¡¯d had was a tiny little taste of his vengeance, and now he hungered for more. A few months, maybe only a few weeks, and it would all be over.


    Or, in another way, it would only have begun.


    After the Red Tower, the Nobles and the Duke, waited the Emperor, and three other provinces. Above all of that, the Divines themselves, four usurpers who had personally demanded Magnin and Beory be put in their place.


    All of it would crumble to dust before Tyron would be satisfied. The provinces, the Empire, the Gods themselves.


    He couldn¡¯t wait.

 B4C55 - Heart of Gold

    Worthy Steelarm had never felt so tired. He was stronger than he¡¯d ever been in his life, much more powerful than when he was an active Slayer, but even so, he felt an exhaustion that went down to his bones. It had started ever since Tyron went missing, and had really set in when he¡¯d heard the boy was dead. Ever since, it had grown, like a sickness for which he had no cure, and even this rebellion wasn¡¯t enough to fully shake the malaise.


    ¡°Sit down for a minute, Wor,¡± Meg said, stepping beside him and rubbing at his shoulder. ¡°All this pacing isn¡¯t going to help.¡±


    Nothing was going to help, and they both knew it, but Worthy didn¡¯t say anything. His wife was suffering just as much as he was, if not more. She hadn¡¯t known Magnin and Beory all that well, but Tyron was like a son to her. His ¡®death¡¯ had been devastating, and learning he was alive and killing himself somewhere far from her hadn¡¯t helped.


    ¡°I will,¡± he promised, reaching up and clasping her hand with his own. ¡°I just need to speak to Rurin first, then I¡¯ll be back. Are you cooking for the camp tonight?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a beef stew over the fire.¡±


    ¡°With potatoes?¡±


    ¡°Of course with potatoes.¡±


    ¡°Have I ever told you I love you, Meg?¡±


    ¡°Only every day.¡±


    ¡°You say that like it¡¯s not enough.¡±


    ¡°It isn¡¯t.¡±


    They both chuckled as he pulled her into a one-armed embrace. They¡¯d repeated those words back and forth to each other so many times, it was less a habit and more like a ritual. It brought them both comfort.


    One final squeeze, though Worthy was careful to control his strength, and then he was out the door. It was a simple timber structure, but it stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of canvas around it. Since Meg had decided to come with him, he¡¯d had no choice but to build something for them to stay in. There was no way he was going to make her sleep on the ground without a proper roof over her head.


    Many called out to him as he strode through the rows of tents, while many more just stared. They knew he was a Steelarm, had seen him fight and now treated him as something more than he was.


    He hated it.


    Just keep walking, he told himself, it¡¯s no business of yours.


    Rurin, Timothy and the leaders of the rebellion from Skyice could usually be found in the centre of the camp around the fire, when they weren¡¯t out fighting at least. It was a fairly casual arrangement, one that suited the Slayers, though he found the constant presence of the Priests a little disconcerting.


    ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t Worthy Steelarm, hammer of the rebellion and champion of the people,¡± Rurin called, raising her mug cheerfully.


    The Hammerman scowled and she burst out laughing.


    ¡°I have no idea how you stay so cheerful,¡± Worthy growled, walking up and taking a seat on the log beside the grizzled Slayer.


    ¡°What else is there to do?¡± she replied with a grin. ¡°These are our final days, Worthy. You¡¯ve known me for a long time, did you really think I¡¯d die miserable and cold? Fuck no. I¡¯m going out with a smile on my dial and a cup in my hand. Besides, we get to kill Magisters. If that doesn¡¯t put some pep in your step, then you aren¡¯t a Slayer.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a Slayer, I¡¯m an Innkeeper,¡± he huffed, rolling his shoulders and staring into the fire in front of him. ¡°Best damn Inn in Foxbridge.¡±


    ¡°You have your wife¡¯s cooking to thank for that,¡± Rurin said, nudging him in the side and the Hammerman swatted her away.


    Except¡­ he wasn¡¯t a Hammerman, not any more, not since he¡¯d advanced to gold. Now he was a Hammerlord. The title still didn¡¯t sit right with him.


    There was some truth in what she¡¯d said, Meg was a Cook, and a damn good one, but Worthy had been a damn good Innkeeper in a way that Levels and Skills couldn¡¯t really define. He was just good at it, he was suited to the role. It was something he could do well, something in which nobody would compare him to his younger brother. A thought struck him.


    ¡°Do you think Magnin would have been a good Innkeeper?¡± he asked.


    Rurin looked at him as if he were insane.


    ¡°What? He would have been awful, and you don¡¯t need me to tell you that.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I always thought too.¡±


    ¡°Even if he weren¡¯t awful at it, unless the Inn could fly, he would have abandoned it in a month or two anyway.¡±


    ¡°Aye, that he would have.¡±


    I don¡¯t like standing still, Worthy, Magnin¡¯s face flashed into his mind, soft smile on his face and light dancing in his eyes, always feels like I¡¯m wasting time.


    What about when you¡¯re here with your kid? Worthy had asked him. Is spending time raising your son a waste of time?


    That smile had slipped, just a little, but then it was back, same as ever.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Ty understands. I know it¡¯s hard on him, but he understands. I love my son, Worthy.


    He knows. That¡¯s why it hurts him so bad.


    That last sentence had gone unsaid, but now he wished it hadn¡¯t. He wished he¡¯d punched Magnin for every day of his damn life he¡¯d spent away from that boy.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I can stay here much longer,¡± Worthy said, still staring into the fire.


    Rurin lowered her mug and sighed.


    ¡°I thought something like this might happen. Got the itch to start moving, like your brother?¡±


    Worthy snorted.


    ¡°I am not my brother. No matter how much these fools want me to be.¡±


    ¡°I was wondering if that was starting to bother you,¡± Rurin said. ¡°I can tell them to piss off, if you want. They don¡¯t mean anything by it¡­ it¡¯s just¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just that Magnin and Beory were the best damn Slayers this province has ever seen, and now they see a fraction of that glory in me,¡± he growled. ¡°I¡¯ve been dealing with it my entire life. That¡¯s nothing new.¡±


    It had never bothered him that Magnin had been so famous, so well known and so revered. In fact, he¡¯d been Magnin¡¯s greatest supporter. Since the time his little brother could swing a sword, everyone could see how gifted he was. Worthy had trained him hard, and had felt nothing but pride when he could no longer provide a challenge in the training yard.


    What he hated was some of that renown falling onto him when he didn¡¯t deserve it. He¡¯d been a good Slayer, maybe even great, but he was respected far more than he¡¯d deserved, all because of his surname. It hadn¡¯t been so bad working at the Inn, but now, back among all these Slayers, it was worse than ever.


    ¡°So why do you want to leave?¡±


    Worthy was silent for a long moment, unsure what to say. Eventually, he just said what he felt.


    ¡°I need to find the boy,¡± he said, shrugging his heavy shoulders. ¡°I need to see him, make sure he¡¯s okay. I should have gone as soon as I learned he was alive, and even now I don¡¯t know why I didn¡¯t.¡±


    Rurin shook her head gently.


    ¡°Because I told you that you¡¯d die before you made it anywhere near him. Because we need you in the fight. Because I said I wasn¡¯t sure if he even wanted to be saved. Your nephew has grown hard and cold, Worthy. When I met him, he was like a block of ice, and if what I¡¯m hearing from around Kenmor is true, he¡¯s probably gotten worse.¡±


    ¡°What are you hearing?¡± Worthy demanded.


    The old Slayer didn¡¯t reply immediately, but took another long pull from her mug.


    ¡°Gah. This stuff tastes like yak piss.¡±


    ¡°Talk to me, Rurin.¡±


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯m getting word of¡­ patrols going missing¡­ dead Marshals found on the side of the road. Recently, an entire Noble estate went quiet. I think Tyron¡¯s been putting in a shift down there, and I don¡¯t mean at his shop.¡±


    Worthy surged to his feet.


    ¡°Damn boy is going to get himself killed,¡± he growled and turned to walk away. Rurin¡¯s hand shot out and caught him by the elbow, stopping him in place.


    He could pull away easily if he wanted to; she might be tougher than him, but he was far stronger. He turned back to face her, his frown morphing into a glare.


    ¡°Why are you stopping me?¡± he asked quietly.


    Rurin met his eyes and released his arm.


    ¡°I just¡­ I just don¡¯t want you to waste what¡¯s left of your life. I¡¯ve always thought of you as a friend, Worthy, even if you never saw me the same way.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t. Rurin was Beory¡¯s friend, and Magnin¡¯s by extension. Worthy deliberately separated himself from Magnin¡¯s friends. They had unrealistic expectations.


    Reading his expression, Rurin shook her head and chuckled to herself.


    ¡°Alright, ouch, but I¡¯m serious. Tyron is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to do, and we need you here, fighting with us.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re doing fine,¡± he rumbled.


    ¡°Things are going to change, and soon,¡± she warned him, an angry look in her eye. ¡°We had a group range out as far as Weighbridge. They came staggering back yesterday, what was left of them.¡±


    She took a shaky breath.


    ¡°The Magisters are sending golds against us.¡±


    ¡°Gold what? Soldiers? We¡¯ve been fighting them on and off for weeks.¡±


    ¡°Not Soldiers,¡± she replied, eyes hardening.


    Worthy looked at her, the blood draining from his face.


    ¡°You don¡¯t mean¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she nodded. ¡°They broke them and sent them in to fight against us. Jessul said they had chains around their necks. Chains.¡±


    She was too angry to continue, and Worthy could understand why. He was filled with shock and rage himself.


    The gold ranked slayers, the ones who reached the pinnacle they were allowed to achieve and retired in glory. They were heroes of the province who¡¯d put in over a decade of service, battling in the rifts with barely a break, keeping the realm from being overrun. The thought the Magisters might pit them against their former comrades had never even entered his mind.


    ¡°You¡¯re sure about this?¡± he demanded.


    ¡°We¡¯ll know for sure soon enough,¡± she told him. ¡°If they were in Weighbridge, then they¡¯ll be coming further west, and soon. If it¡¯s only a few now, it¡¯s going to be more soon enough. We¡¯re going to have to kill them ourselves, Worthy. Don¡¯t make me do it alone.¡±


    He stared at her and could see the depth of her pain in her eyes. Rurin was old, way older than most Slayers ever lived to be. She¡¯d refused to Advance and remained out on the rifts longer than almost anyone. Just how many people had she seen go on to become gold and retire? How many friends was she going to see over the battlefield in the next few weeks?


    ¡°I¡¯m leaving,¡± he said, and turned away.


    ¡°Arsehole,¡± she growled at his back, but there wasn¡¯t much feeling behind it. ¡°At least talk to Tim before you leave!¡± she yelled at his back. ¡°He might have a way to smuggle you into the city! If he doesn¡¯t, try the Priests! Idiot!¡±


    All she got in return was a rude gesture over his shoulder, but Rurin merely laughed to see it. At least he¡¯d had a little life in his eyes, which was more than she could say about him lately.


    Worthy trudged back through the camp, not even hearing the voices that called out to him, not even seeing the hero worship in the eyes of the younger ones. What Rurin had said about the Slayers filled him with rage. What she¡¯d said about Tyron filled him with fear. Yes, they would needr him to fight, but he had to put his family first. He should have always put the boy first.


    When he returned to the small cabin, he found Meg ambling around, gathering up bits and pieces from her herb stocks, preparing to head to the communal cookhouse and check on her stew.


    The moment the door slammed shut, she turned to look at him, smiling just a little, but could immediately tell there was something different about him.


    ¡°I¡¯m heading out, Meg,¡± he said, standing by the entrance. ¡°I¡¯m going to get Tyron.¡±


    Immediately, tears sprang to the Cook¡¯s eyes, and she nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad,¡± she said. ¡°I thought you¡¯d never leave.¡±


    She spread her arms wide and Worthy stomped forward before he enveloped his wife in a crushing embrace.


    ¡°Bring our boy home,¡± she whispered in his ear.


    ¡°Aye,¡± he replied. ¡°He¡¯ll get here.¡±

 B4C56 - Burning the Light

    ¡°I have three more for you today,¡± Tyron announced as he walked into the room abruptly.


    Cerry flinched at the sudden disruption, but Tyron didn¡¯t pause, placing down three stones upon the table in the middle of the room. Flynn eyed them, looking vaguely ill, though he chose not to say anything.


    ¡°This makes ten souls over the last few days,¡± Cerry murmured, half to herself. ¡°Just how many have died recently?¡±


    She didn¡¯t expect to get an answer, in truth she was only partially aware that she¡¯d even spoken aloud, but she had, and Tyron addressed her query.


    ¡°Not enough,¡± he said.


    In shock, Cerry looked up at him and almost immediately looked away. His eyes were ice cold, as were his tone and entire demeanour. It was almost impossible to reconcile this man, this Tyron Steelarm, with the Lukas Almsfield who had run Almsfield Enchantments. Were they really the same person? It seemed impossible, yet she knew it was true, had seen him transform his face with her own eyes.


    There was a pause, then a sigh. Tyron walked around the table and sat, close to Cerry, but not so close that she would feel uncomfortable. At least, that was his aim; judging by her reaction, he hadn¡¯t been successful.


    ¡°Cerry, you don¡¯t have to like or approve of what I¡¯m doing. In truth, I wouldn¡¯t expect you to. I don¡¯t ask that you pretend to be comfortable around me, or that you pretend not to see what I¡¯m doing.¡± He gestured to the three stones on the table. ¡°These are the souls of people I killed recently, just as the others I gave you were. I¡¯ve judged that they have nothing to answer for, and thus would like you to use your abilities to put them to rest, but you don¡¯t have to. If you refuse to help me, you are still welcome to stay here, and I will still protect you and Flynn as best as I can.¡±


    He was being sincere, she knew that, but it was still difficult to accept what he said. At times, she felt like he wasn¡¯t even human, as if he were some kind of monster with a human skin, putting on an act, being just human enough that others wouldn¡¯t notice what he really was.


    It wasn¡¯t fair to think of him this way, Cerry knew that, after everything he¡¯d done for her, and for Flynn. She¡¯d be dead, or worse, if Tyron hadn¡¯t protected them. Even so¡­


    She took a deep breath to steady her nerves.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright. I-I¡¯m happy to use my abilities. Letting the dead go on to rest is¡­ is a good thing. Are any of these¡­ are any of these children?¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°No children, not this time.¡±


    ¡°O-oh.¡±


    She almost hadn¡¯t been able to breathe when she¡¯d called out the spirit trapped in a stone and a young boy had emerged, cold and afraid, crying for his¡­


    No, best not think about it. She shook her head to chase the memory away. That soul was at rest now, she¡¯d done what she could.


    ¡°I know it¡¯s distasteful,¡± Tyron said evenly, ¡°but it¡¯s necessary.¡±


    She didn¡¯t want to reply, Divines knew, she didn¡¯t want to, but the words slipped out against her will anyway.


    ¡°How can it be necessary?¡± she demanded, hot tears burning in her eyes as she looked up to glare at her former employer. At the killer. ¡°They¡¯re children.¡±


    ¡°They aren¡¯t just children,¡± Tyron replied, looking back at her, his eyes devoid of sympathy, ¡°they have the blessing of the Divines. Of all the people in the Empire, they are the only ones who can inherit the Noble Class. Do you have any idea how powerful that is? The things they can do?


    ¡°If a Noble were to ask you to cut Flynn¡¯s throat and then gut yourself, you would. If they asked you to smother your newborn in its crib and eat it, you would. They are the Voice of the Divines, and they have absolute power over everyone who lives here. I¡¯ve learned things over the past years that would make your spirit weep were you to hear them, things that Nobles do to commoners, to Slayers, to anyone. They don¡¯t even think you¡¯re the same species as them, Cerry. Try to imagine what that justifies in their minds.¡±


    His voice neither rose nor fell as he spoke. This was no impassioned plea, merely a statement of fact and an appeal to reason, but now, a real spark of anger ignited within him as he continued.


    ¡°But that doesn¡¯t really matter. Not to me. I¡¯m going to exterminate every Noble line in the Empire because vengeance demands it. When I¡¯m done, none of them will remain.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s madness,¡± Cerry told him, tears running down her face. ¡°Just because they can inherit the Class doesn¡¯t mean they deserve to be killed! They haven¡¯t committed any crime. They weren¡¯t the ones who killed your family.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to discuss this any further,¡± Tyron said, his eyes growing cold once more. ¡°If you don¡¯t object, I¡¯d like to watch you work with the first of the souls. Would that be alright?¡±


    She didn¡¯t reply immediately, and Flynn, bless his timid heart, sensed her distress and came around the table to fold her in a gentle embrace. He didn¡¯t like conflict, and was particularly reticent around his former Master, but he was always there for her when she needed him the most.


    ¡°Fine,¡± she said after calming down. ¡°Just the first one¡­ please.¡±


    ¡°As I said,¡± Tyron nodded, withdrawing a small notebook from a pocket and flicking it to the appropriate page. In moments, he¡¯d produced pen and ink and sat, waiting for her to begin.


    Somehow, he seemed more alive in these moments than any others. There was something about the study of things he didn¡¯t understand that made him seem¡­ more like Master Almsfield. Her Class continued to be a fascination to him, and its connection to the Realm of the Dead was of immense interest. Thankfully, he didn¡¯t push her more than she was comfortable, though he could force her to use her abilities if he truly wanted to.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    In the end, it wasn¡¯t so bad, because Cerry liked using her abilities. At first, the Class had seemed grim and unpleasant, but guiding souls toward the afterlife, or at least bringing some level of comfort to them in their suffering was¡­ good. It felt like she was helping.


    When she felt ready, she gave Flynn a little nod and he returned the gesture with a slight squeeze on her shoulder before moving away to give her space. Cerry focused on the closest of the three stones and reached within herself, activating the primary ability of her Class: Spirit Speech.


    Come out and talk to me, she said.


    ¡°It¡¯s fascinating everytime I hear it,¡± Tyron muttered, scribbling furiously in his notebook. ¡°It¡¯s completely unintelligible, but I can speak with ghosts using a ritual and perfectly normal speech.¡±


    The ghost within was feeling resentful, and somewhat stubborn; Cerry could tell they weren¡¯t willing to come out immediately. Another benefit of her Class. As soon as she communicated with a spirit, a¡­ bond was established, giving her insight into the spirit¡¯s emotional state.


    It helped her speak to them, but it wasn¡¯t always pleasant. Every ghost she¡¯d talked to had been angry, despairing, filled with grudges or worse.


    It¡¯s safe out here, and I can help you, Cerry said. If you come out, you can talk to me. I¡¯ll listen to whatever you have to say.


    No! The spirit rasped back. I¡¯m dead. Leave me be!


    No matter how many times she heard it, the voice of the spirits always sent a shiver running down her spine. A rasp and wail, a scream and a whisper, it sounded like it was right next to her ear and from far, far away, all at once. Eerie and unsettling were wholly insufficient words to describe it.


    There must be something you¡¯d like to speak about, Cerry weedled, do you have any grandchildren you want me to pass a message on to?


    This was definitely the spirit of an older person. They were often most interested in their surviving family, although not always in a good way.


    My family is dead. I want to tell the bastard responsible to burn in the hells forever, and that¡¯s it!


    Hearing that, Cerry winced. Of course, this would have to have been someone who had their whole family working on the Estate. Many of the servants had been that way, loyal families who¡¯d worked for the Jorlins over multiple generations.


    You can tell him yourself if you want. He¡¯s here.


    The spectre hesitated, caught between terror and rage. As was often the case with the ghosts, rage won out, and the spirit billowed forth from the stone screaming in anger.


    Beast! Vile Fiend! Evil, cursed shit-prick! Die for my children! Die! Die! DIEEEEEE!


    Despite the shrieking and wailing that, to Cerry, was almost ear splitting, neither Flynn nor Tyron reacted to the ghost at all, because neither of them could see or hear it. This was another thing the Necromancer found interesting. Whereas he needed a ritual to substantiate the ghost, she didn¡¯t, allowing her to speak to them in their natural state.


    The ghost swiped angrily at Tyron, and at Flynn, also at Cerry a few times. It was difficult for them to perceive the living. As far as she could tell, it was almost impossible for the dead to tell the living apart in any meaningful sense.


    Of course, without the influence of Magick, the ghost was completely harmless and unable to interact with the material world in any way.


    I could tell you which one is the right one, Cerry suggested, getting a little irritated at being attacked.


    She told herself to be patient, this person had suffered a very traumatic death.


    You will lie! Came the screeched reply as the spirit continued to twist and circle around the room swiping and screaming at everything and everyone.


    I have no reason to lie, she said, trying not to get exasperated.


    She had no idea why ghosts tended to be so¡­ unpleasant. It was as if a part of their compassion or humanity was severed the moment they were no longer living.


    Of course, trying to be calm in the presence of the person who killed you was asking for a lot.


    I won¡¯t ask you to believe me right away, but I want you to know that I can help you. With my help, you can pass on much quicker than you otherwise would. I can¡¯t force you to agree, but it''s something you can consider.


    Another quirk of her Class. Cerry couldn¡¯t force a spirit to serve, it had to be voluntary. Only then was she in a position to do anything for them.


    Sadly, the spirit was too busy screaming and cursing to be sure that she¡¯d even been heard. Cerry sighed and hesitated a moment before she gave Tyron a gesture. He raised a brow at her.


    ¡°Already?¡± he asked.


    ¡°This particular person isn¡¯t¡­ all that happy with you? They¡¯re too upset to speak with me at the moment.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to tell them I was here¡­¡±


    ¡°It was the only way I could get them out of the rock.¡±


    With a few gestures and words, Tyron seized control of the spirit and banished it back into the stone, where it would remain until she awoke it or he summoned it out once again.


    ¡°Well that wasn¡¯t very successful,¡± Cerry sighed, rubbing at her temples.


    ¡°Why is it that your Class shows such a divergence from every other that deals with the dead?¡± Tyron mused aloud. ¡°Necromancy is about binding and commanding the dead, whereas you are actively required to seek their cooperation. Forging a relationship of mutual benefit. It¡¯s¡­¡±


    ¡°Nice?¡± she suggested, a little tartly.


    ¡°Different,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s very different.¡±


    ¡°How many more of these do you have, Master¡­ Steelarm?¡± Cerry finally sighed, feeling exhausted. ¡°Dealing with regular spirits who died without violence is difficult, but those who were killed are extremely hard to persuade. They hold onto those grudges with a¡­ uh¡­¡±


    ¡°With a death grip?¡± Tryon finished her sentence. ¡°Not that many more. No, I can¡¯t give you an accurate count. I need to vet them before I bring them to you, and I¡¯m not finished going through them all.¡±


    He capped his pen and put away his ink before snapping the book shut and slipping it back into his pocket. Standing from the table, he looked down at Cerry and Flynn for a moment before he sighed.


    ¡°I want you both to consider my earlier offer to leave the city very carefully. It¡¯s much more dangerous to be here now than it was before. Besides, if you were to stay much longer, then I¡¯m worried for Cerry.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡± she asked.


    Tyron tilted his head a little to the side before he straightened again.


    ¡°Because it won¡¯t be long until this place is overrun with angry spirits,¡± he told her flatly.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t mention this before,¡± Flynn said, coming to Cerry¡¯s side once more.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure of it before. Unlike Cerry, I can¡¯t see them normally. Right now, Kenmor is overflowing with very angry ghosts, and I do mean overflowing. They¡¯re starting to spill out into Shadetown. If they find out there¡¯s a Spirit Speaker here, they may come in droves.¡±


    The city¡­ was filled with ghosts?


    Seeing her look of confusion, Tyron chuckled to himself.


    ¡°You think I¡¯ve been a monster? When ten thousand little ones slaughtered in the purge descend on you, will you be able to think of me as in the same class as them?¡±


    Leaving his question hanging in the air, Tyron gave the two of them a nod, and walked out of the room.

 B4C57 - Quiet Moments

    Losing oneself to magick was such an easy process for Tyron. Perhaps he was addicted to it. There were all kinds of addicts in Kenmor; people unable to function without drink, or women, or gambling, or any number of things. Master Willhem could be thought of as an addict. If he weren¡¯t able to work with cores and create, Tyron genuinely thought the old man would simply fade away.


    There was something about the sigils, the arrays, the runes, the words, that Tyron found endlessly fascinating. There was nothing greater than time spent plumbing the possibilities, trying to build the same sigil array in new ways, rearranging a sequence to squeeze out any sort of gain.


    Dove had often railed against those who believed spellcasting was akin to music, a blend of instinct and knowledge that produced something artful. To Dove, magick was construction, building, engineering. Was there something artful about a delicate and well-built structure? Certainly there was, but in the end the only thing that mattered was the function.


    To Tyron, magick was even more fundamental than that. Magick was mathematics, magick was logic, language and sequence.


    Every sequence could be formed dozens and dozens of ways, and each of those had advantages and disadvantages. Which one worked best for the particular purpose you had in mind? What trade-offs were you prepared to make? Which components most suited your purpose?


    Whenever he learnt new sigils, there was always an extensive process of working backward through all of his most commonly used sequences and trying to construct something new that would perform the same role in a better, or at least different, way.


    The way the sigils interacted with the words could change based on the context they were used as well. With the right sequence, it was possible to make one plus one equal three, but that came with drawbacks all of its own. There were infinite possibilities, and perhaps some mages believed it was their artistic expression to select the right ones, or to specialise in certain patterns, creating their own unique blend of magick.


    To Tyron, that was almost offensively foolish. Specialise in certain patterns? Combine sequences based on feel? That wasn¡¯t magick, that was clumsy and inefficient. He knew he was a gifted mage, although gifted may not have been the right word, but the choices of others were so confusing to him sometimes.


    Why would you limit yourself to certain sequences? Learn all of them, then choose the best, most appropriate one. What need was there to focus on reliable patterns, when one could simply craft arrays using the tools available.


    Were Dove with him, he¡¯d be able to answer those questions. Because most mages found it difficult to master the proper pronunciation of the words of power, or the precise formation of sigils. So they mastered solid, generic patterns that they could perform under pressure and apply to many different spells. Not everyone could practise a sigil a few times and then perform it perfectly for the rest of their lives. Not everyone could flawlessly memorise the thousands upon thousands of variables each combination of sigils could send awry and balance them out in their head on the fly.


    For someone who could do all of those things, the practices of other mages were baffling. Had Tyron been a regular mage, doubtless he would have ticked off an enormous number of people by criticising their work. At least, as a Necromancer, he was forced to teach himself, and there were no orthodox practices for him to rail against. His methods and designs for his craft were entirely of his own invention, and when he thought of his students, hopefully studying and levelling up in the west, he was pleased to know they were learning magick the right way.


    With a final scratch of the pen, he completed his latest re-write and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. His trusty notebook had gone through a lot over the years, and was finally in danger of running out of pages. Idly, he flicked to the earliest entries and smiled at the horrible, half-formed ideas and arrays scrawled in messy writing all over the paper. He hadn¡¯t known anything then, and had been forced to figure out whatever he could on the fly. The end result was that a lot of his scratchings and ideas ended up going nowhere, abandoned only half-formed when he realised they were dead ends.


    He turned over the pages, moving forward in time and found it pleasant to see how his thoughts became (generally) more organised, more focused on the right concepts. The spellwork was still terrible, amateurish by his current standards, but that wasn¡¯t entirely his own fault. He¡¯d needed time and space to develop his craft, neither of which he¡¯d had back then. Now he had carefully crafted sequences, tried and tested, along with access to far more sigils and words of power, courtesy of the Unseen.


    With the final pages in the book, he¡¯d been writing his latest revisions to the fundamental methods of the Necromancy Class. Several versions of the Raise Dead ritual, the best of his techniques for preparing corpses, along with detailed descriptions and diagrams regarding weaving methods. It was helpful for him to compile this information, solidifying the fundamentals in his own mind, but in his heart of hearts, he knew that wasn¡¯t why he¡¯d done it.


    The entire city was in an uproar. The Nobles were howling for blood; now that so much divine ichor had been spilled, they demanded an ocean be filled in recompense. Brutality was everywhere, the fear that had gripped the streets before had been replaced with white-knuckled terror.


    And they were getting closer. It was only a matter of time before he was found and forced to abandon Almsfield Enchantments for good. A knock on the door could come at any second, and only Tyron¡¯s wards would warn him when they broke in. That was why Flynn and Cerri had to leave, and he was glad they¡¯d finally listened to him.


    Everything would come to an end soon, and so he¡¯d taken the time to write down the one thing he hoped would survive in the event of his death: his magick.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    There had to be some way for him to smuggle the book to the rebels at Cragwhistle. It wasn¡¯t perfect, but the book would certainly help his students develop their Skills and make proper Necromancers of themselves. Even if they didn¡¯t get it, the contents would be useful for any of the undead-related Classes.


    He frowned. This wasn¡¯t the right way to think. He wasn¡¯t going to die, that¡¯s what he needed to tell himself. He would succeed, his enemies would be destroyed, and he would return to the west and deliver the book to his students with his own two hands. Only that future would be acceptable, none other could be allowed to come to pass.


    Feeling resolved, he pushed the book away and stood up. His study had been mostly cleaned out now, all of his current projects were held within the Ossuary, where he couldn¡¯t lose them, but there were still a few bits and pieces lying about, including a few Repositories he¡¯d been working on.


    Tyron strode up to the closest, cocked his head for a moment, then began to work his magick. Soon, the spirit was conjured forth from the stone, a shrieking, gasping spectre, barely visible within the fog that surrounded it.


    ¡°Herath, time for another chat,¡± Tyron stated.


    The spirit screamed and tried to claw at him, but the confines of the ritual bound it, and the limitations of its form prevented it from harming him in any way.


    You will get nothing from me!


    Every time with this.


    ¡°You know I will,¡± Tyron said patiently. ¡°All you do is make things more difficult for yourself. Why do you insist on wasting time?¡±


    Murderer. I will suffer if it means taking even a second from you.


    The ever-present rage boiled to the surface and Tyron clenched his teeth before it erupted. Being called a murderer, by this person in particular, was infuriating.


    ¡°The stench of hypocrisy is so thick around you I can barely stand it,¡± Tyron grated. ¡°After what you did to my family, you think you¡¯re in any position to criticise?¡±


    Magnin and Beory deserved to die, the spectre hissed viciously, and I am proud of my service to the Empire.


    With a single, extended breath, Tyron pushed all the heat of his anger away until only ice-cold rage remained.


    ¡°Now you will serve a new master,¡± he promised.


    Never!


    ¡°You don¡¯t get a choice, Herath.¡±


    With a gesture, he ended the ritual and banished the Noble¡¯s soul back into the stone before he snatched it up and strode toward the Ossuary. The arch of bones remained in the centre of the room, anchored to a ritual circle that he would soon need to dismantle, lest the Magisters study and learn from it.


    He pushed open the door and stepped out of one realm and into another. Face as hard a stone, he placed the rock down on the altar as he ordered his minions to gather the materials he wanted. With dozens of skeletons on hand, it didn¡¯t take long before the carefully prepared remains of Herath Jorlin had been assembled on the altar.


    Tyron strode around the raised platform several times, running his expert eye over every centimetre of the bones, ensuring everything was as perfect as possible. When he was finally satisfied, he moved to stand by the skeleton¡¯s feet and began to weave.


    Lost in the work, even his anger faded away as his hands danced and fingers flickered above the remains. Threads of pure magick were spun with dizzying speed as he perfectly recreated the methods he¡¯d designed and mastered. Each joint, each muscle, took shape under his discerning eye, any errors corrected before they could truly form.


    The feet were difficult, intricate, with many tiny bones working together. Not all were necessary for a functional, walking skeleton, but Tyron insisted on perfection wherever he could. From there he moved up the legs, paying particular care to the ankles and knees. These joints were the most important for a properly mobile undead, and experienced the most wear.


    The hips, spine and ribs followed, until he reached the shoulders. Connecting the clavicle, scapula and humerus was difficult, but less important for a mage archetype. Herath wouldn¡¯t be swinging any swords, after all.


    But the hands, the hands were incredibly important. Tyron took a second to concentrate, pausing in his weaving as he summoned the correct structure of weave in his mind. It was intricate, multi-layered and incredibly fine, but without it, the undead wouldn¡¯t be able to properly form the spells required of it.


    It took an hour on each hand before he was satisfied with his work. Only when he was fully confident each digit would be fully articulate and precise in its movement did he finish the rest of the skeleton. Of course, that wasn¡¯t the end. He inspected his work again, top to bottom, and finding no error, he moved to the next step.


    With the stone in place, he raised his hands and began to speak, invoking the Raise Dead ritual.


    Time slipped by as Tyron worked. Forming each component of the ritual with meticulous care and flawless spellwork, he carefully constructed the prison which would house Herath Jorlin, made of magick and his own bones. When he reached the final step, he called forth the spectre trapped within the stone and forced it, wailing and shrieking, into its new form, merging the spirit with the weave, pouring it like liquid metal within its own hollow bones until it took root.


    Then began the final work, as he bound the ghost to himself, placing walls and barriers around the soul that would make Herath unable to disobey. Considering he was working on a former Magister, Tyron took extra care, building layers of protection and control that would place the mage entirely within his grasp at all times, and leave him unable to even consider bringing harm to his new master.


    When it was all done, the ritual came to a close, and the now familiar dark light bloomed within the hollow sockets of the skeleton.


    There was a long moment of silence.


    What have you done to me? Herath wailed.


    Tyron waved a hand, and the revenant could no longer speak.


    ¡°You¡¯ve begun your service to a new master. I wonder if you¡¯ll take pride in bringing death and destruction to all that you served before, Herath, because that¡¯s what you¡¯re going to do. Now, I¡¯m going to dip into your mind and find out exactly what I want to know, and you¡¯re going to tell me, because you don¡¯t have a choice.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we start with everything you know about the location where the gold ranked Slayer brands are kept?¡±


    Another gesture, and the revenant could speak once more.


    You will die if you go there, the revenant promised.


    ¡°Let me worry about that. Now talk.¡±

 B4C58 - Once Spilled, Never Forgotten

    Nostas Jorlin strode through the streets of Kenmor like an avenging angel. Around him, the highest level Soldiers of his House were arrayed, and he dove into the depravity of the city every day, hunting. Yet despite his best efforts, the trail of the Necromancer was infuriatingly cold.


    Kenmor had been turned upside down twice over with no result, so now it was time to start rattling the cages he hadn¡¯t been allowed to touch up to this point.


    At the head of his column, Nostas strode, barely aware of the public scattering out of his way, diving back into their homes or pressing themselves against the buildings lining the street. He was focused entirely on his purpose, the magnificent, multi-story building in the centre of the Arcanist district.


    Master Willhem¡¯s Arcanist Emporium.


    Faces paled as he moved directly to the famed store, dozens of armoured men and women in his wake. When he reached the door, he was met by an attendant who had clearly seen them coming.


    ¡°Welcome, my Lord,¡± she said, bowing deeply at the waist. ¡°How may we serve you today?¡±


    She wore a crisp, well-tailored uniform, as did all the store attendants at Willhem¡¯s. Professional to the last, she didn¡¯t even appear all that afraid¡ªat least, to someone less observant than a Lord, she didn¡¯t. The slight trembling of her hands, the ever so slightly pale complexion of her face. She was afraid, as she should be.


    ¡°I have come to conduct an inspection of the premises and question any and all persons associated with this establishment,¡± he announced. The Lord held a hand to the side, and a rolled piece of parchment was placed there by a nearby Soldier. Nostas held it out to the attendant. ¡°Our writ, signed by the Duke.¡±


    The attendant took it, trying to maintain her calm.


    ¡°I will bring this to Master Willhem immediately,¡± she said, her voice wavering. ¡°He will be with you as soon as he can, my Lord.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not necessary. We¡¯ll start now.¡±


    Without another word, Nostas brushed the attendant aside and shoved open the door, his Soldiers piling in behind him as the attendant cried out. The interior of the store was immaculate, filled with polished marble displays, gold inlays and intricate lighting arrays powered by enchantments hidden on the underside of tables and within the columns. Male and female attendants were placed at intervals all around the floor, some positioned next to certain displays, but all recoiled as the fully armed and armoured Soldiers poured in through the door.


    ¡°Question everyone,¡± Nostas barked, eyes hard. ¡°Go through the books; I want to know everything.¡±


    ¡°My Lord.¡±


    A man appeared at his elbow, a pinch-nosed, narrow-featured figure in a Marshal Lieutenant uniform.


    ¡°Officer Meechin.¡±


    ¡°With your permission, I¡¯ll handle the documents personally. It¡¯s my speciality, after all.¡±


    It was quite interesting, just how versatile the Marshal Class could be. Someone like Meechin, ill-suited for bringing down toughs in the street, had found another way to specialise his progression.


    ¡°No,¡± Nostas said and then cut off the impending protest, ¡°I need you in the next building. We aren¡¯t here for financial crimes.¡±


    Meechin hesitated, then nodded. He¡¯d probably never get another chance to inspect Master Willhem¡¯s books in his entire life, but he couldn¡¯t disagree with Lord Jorlin, not if he wanted to live.


    ¡°Six to remain here. Turn this place upside down and squeeze the staff until they squeak. The rest with me.¡±


    The Emporium itself was only one of the buildings that made up Magister Willhem¡¯s little compound. There were two others; the dormitory and the workshop. It was to the latter that Nostas went next.


    ¡°You can¡¯t come in here,¡± a young man said, barring their way as his legs trembled within his apprentice robe.


    ¡°GET ON THE GROUND,¡± Nostas commanded, drawing on the Divine Authority he possessed.


    Unable to resist his command, the apprentice was forced to his knees and then flat on the ground where he writhed like a worm. Upper lip curled with distaste, Nostas stepped over the man and shoved open the door. Inside, Arcanist benches in neat rows filled the open space, the students of Willhem themselves gathered together in a huddle, muttering amongst themselves. At his arrival, they turned toward the door fearfully.


    ¡°Against the wall,¡± he ordered them. When they were slow to obey, he gestured to the Soldiers behind him and they leapt forward, seizing the Arcanists and forcing them up against the wall with ease. Many shouted protests or cried out in pain or fear, others claimed their Noble heritage, outraged by this treatment.


    ¡°Those of Noble blood will be separated shortly,¡± Nostas assured them. ¡°For now, do as you¡¯re told.¡±


    He turned to the rest of his group, still filing into the building through the door, including Officer Meechin.


    ¡°I want you to go through every document relating to apprentices for the last twenty years, but especially focus on the last five. I don¡¯t care how briefly they were here, I want to know everything.¡±


    ¡°Yes, My Lord.¡±


    ¡°What in the name of the gods is going on here?¡±


    Master Willhem was neither loud, nor was he an imposing figure, yet somehow he managed to command attention anyway. His voice was thin, age wearing heavily on him, yet his demeanour was like a king in his throne room. The old master stood on the stairway, halfway down, one hand on the rail to steady himself, the other grasping the head of a bejewelled cane on which he leaned for balance.


    Although his tone was measured, his expression was furious.


    ¡°I am Lord Nostas Jorlin, and we are searching these premises.¡± The Lord turned to his people, who had stopped in their tracks at the appearance of the Master. ¡°Move. Now.¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    They did, not looking at Willhem as his face twisted in anger.


    ¡°On whose authority are you conducting this inspection, Lord Jorlin?¡± Willhem forced out from between clenched teeth. ¡°This is extremely¡ª¡±


    ¡°The Duke himself signed the writ.¡±


    ¡°The Duke?¡± Willhem spluttered as he reached the bottom of the staircase and made his way toward the Lord. ¡°He and I have worked together for many years¡ª¡±


    ¡°Divine Blood has been spilled. My family¡¯s blood, has been spilled.¡± Nostas turned his glare directly on the old Arcanist, his fury bearing down on the Master. ¡°I don¡¯t care if I have to gut every person in this building, Master Willhem, I will have my answers.¡±


    He turned and reached to his aid, who placed another parchment in his hand, which he unrolled and handed to Willhem.


    ¡°This is an Artist¡¯s rendition of what was found at the Jorlin Estate. Do you recognise anything?¡±


    Still furious, but in no position to refuse, Master Willhem held the page close to his eyes so he could see.


    ¡°There are¡­ fragments of some sort of array. It¡¯s hard to tell what the medium used to create it was¡­. Or even its function. These sigils could relate to energy, though I can¡¯t say how.¡±


    ¡°These fragments were found in the ruins of the Jorlin estate. The killer appears to have some knowledge of Enchanting, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    The old man''s face darkened.


    ¡°And on the basis of that, you storm into my building and terrorise my staff? They could have been trained anywhere! They could have been self-taught! You don¡¯t need to be an expert to create an array like that!¡±


    It wasn¡¯t much of a lead, but it was all Nostas had right now. Wherever Tyron Steelarm was hiding, he¡¯d done a good job of covering his tracks. Without the assurance of the Oracles, he would never have believed the man was still in the city.


    ¡°If you have nothing to hide, then you have nothing to fear. We have swept through every major Arcanist¡¯s in the city, and this is the last stop.¡±


    It was clear Willhem wanted to complain, but he restrained himself. Even he wouldn¡¯t escape without consequence if he said too much in front of the vengeful Lord. After all, despite all his success, the Divine Blood didn¡¯t flow in his veins.


    Which meant he was disposable.


    ¡°Of course I have nothing to hide,¡± Master Willhem muttered bitterly. ¡°I¡¯ve been an Arcanist in this city for over half a century. I¡¯ve worked hard for my reputation.¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t here to accuse you of murder,¡± Nostas rebuked him, ¡°but to see if the killer ever worked or trained here.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t train murderers, I train Arcanists.¡±


    ¡°You say that now. We will see what we find.¡±


    The following two hours were the longest of Master Willhem¡¯s life. The old man seemed to age visibly as time wore on and he was forced to watch Nostas Jorlin ransack every inch of his workshop. House Mages, Magisters, Officers of the law, all paraded through the building, rifling through the drawers, pawing through every cabinet, questioning his apprentices and examining all of his records. Even his precious library wasn¡¯t safe. Uneducated idiots walked through and took all of the rare volumes, going through every page without any care for the delicate nature of the old documents.


    All the while, Nostas Jorlin or one of his higher ranked followers peppered him with endless questions. How many apprentices had he taken in? What were their names? Did he notice anything odd about their behaviour? Was there anyone he suspected of foul play?


    They were especially interested in anyone who had trained only for a short amount of time, or had been expelled from the workshop.


    Growing increasingly irritable, Willhem answered their damned questions without fail, his memory as sharp as it had ever been. All the while, he thought of the thousands of commissions and favours he¡¯d done for the Noble Houses of Kenmor over the decades. This was how they repaid him in his twilight years? The disrespect was almost more than he could bear.


    Eventually they were joined by Officer Meechin, the weasel-ish lawman clutching his notebook to his chest.


    ¡°There are a few candidates, my Lord,¡± the Marshal reported.


    Furious at the lack of progress, Nostas turned an intense stare on the man, who shrank back immediately.


    ¡°Who?¡± the Lord demanded.


    ¡°There were t-three apprentices who started around the time we would expect the¡­ uh¡­ the killer to arrive in the city. Hunt Filtner, Lukas Almsfield and Victor Tarkyn.¡±


    ¡°Those three?¡± Master Willhem snorted. ¡°Only one of them was worth a damn.¡±


    ¡°Master, I¡¯m right here,¡± Victor complained.


    Nostas turned his glare at the young man against the wall. ¡°Who is this?¡±


    ¡°That is Victor Tarkyn,¡± Willhem drawled. ¡°A bright young man with a poor work ethic. Too busy trying to marry up to focus on his apprenticeship. An unlikely candidate for your vicious killer.¡±


    Lord Jorlin didn¡¯t care how likely it was, any lead would be chased down to the end.


    ¡°Take him. We¡¯ll question him in the castle.¡±


    Willhem ground his teeth as Victor was dragged away with an indignant squawk before being punched viciously in the gut, doubling him over and silencing his protests.


    ¡°I think he¡¯s engaged to one of the Shans,¡± Willhem stated.


    ¡°Noted. Who are the other two?¡±


    ¡°Hunt Filtner gave up his apprenticeship after a year and a half. He wasn¡¯t a bad lad, but he was easily intimidated. Couldn¡¯t handle the pressure.¡±


    ¡°Where is he?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea. I don¡¯t track my apprentices after they leave.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll find him,¡± Nostas promised grimly. ¡°What about the third one?¡±


    ¡°Lukas Almsfield? One of the best apprentices I¡¯ve ever had,¡± Willhem said wistfully. ¡°He had a mind like a steel trap and the work ethic of a demon. A good lad. Very polite. Not much for conversation, very dedicated to his craft.¡±


    ¡°You sound as if you¡¯re fond of him.¡±


    After listening to Master Willhem complain about the various failings of hundreds of apprentices over the past hours, it was almost odd to hear compliments out of the man.


    ¡°I have his papers here, my Lord,¡± Officer Meechin said, passing them over. ¡°I encourage you to look at the registered primary Class.¡±


    Nostas frowned, his pupils dilating the moment they found the entry.


    Curse Mage.


    A plausible cover for a Necromancer, but he would have been required to provide evidence of the Class in order to become an apprentice. Had Tyron found a way to fool the status ritual? It would make sense; how else could he hide in the city for this long?


    ¡°Tell me about this apprentice,¡± Nostas demanded, turning toward Willhem once more.


    The old Master frowned.


    ¡°He was a lad who took on Enchanting as a sub-class since he didn¡¯t want to be a Slayer with his primary. Like I said, very sharp, very dedicated. He progressed quickly and completed his apprenticeship in half the time. A good kid. He opened a shop in Shadetown, does bitwork for the people out there,¡± Willhem sniffed, as if disappointed, ¡°but it''s still high quality enchanting.¡±


    A brilliant, driven young man who became apprenticed to the Master Willhem within a year of Magnin and Beory being killed. That primary Class, Curse Mage, a legal plausible cover for a Necromancer. It made so much sense. It had to be him.


    ¡°Arrest Master Willhem and take him back to the castle. The apprentices too. I want anyone who worked with Lukas Almsfield in a cell.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡± Willhem bellowed, but Nostas wasn¡¯t listening.


    The young Lord of House Jorlin turned on his heel and marched out the door, anger boiling in his gut and a smile on his face.


    ¡°Let the Duke know we¡¯re headed straight to Shadetown. Send someone ahead and get eyes on Lukas Almsfield¡¯s shop. The bastard will be on the rack by nightfall.¡±


    Tyron Steelarm was going to suffer for a long, long time for what he¡¯d done. By the Gods, he would regret the day he spilled Divine Blood.

 B4C59 - Run

    A flash of light caught Tyron¡¯s eye, and for a moment he was confused. The array was set into the wall, flashing a bright orange light right in his face. A second later, he remembered what it was: his alarm.


    Someone had entered the shop.


    Since Almsfield Enchantments was closed and he¡¯d stopped taking commissions from re-enlisting Slayers, that could only mean one thing. It was strange; after fearing the moment of discovery for so long, to have it finally arrive felt almost anti-climactic. He was prepared; the persona of Lukas Almsfield had outlived its usefulness and he could cast it aside.


    It was time for Tyron Steelarm to reemerge into the light.


    Filled with sudden energy, he sprang up from his chair, grabbed his staff from its place against the wall and began to work. His hands flickered as he rapidly deployed the words of power, shutting down some arrays, bringing others to life and triggering his final surprise.


    As he did so, Filetta emerged from the sewer tunnel, a dozen skeletons arranged by her side.


    ¡°Time to go?¡± she asked, business-like for a change.


    When he was done, Tyron lowered his hands and nodded. ¡°Time to go. Is everything ready?¡±


    ¡°Just the way you wanted it.¡±


    There was a moment of hesitation from the undead.


    ¡°Are you sure about this?¡± she asked him.


    Tyron turned towards her, unwavering resolve burning in his eyes.


    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have asked,¡± she apologised.


    ¡°What will be, will be,¡± he stated. ¡°There¡¯s no going back from this point forward.¡±


    The Ossuary had been closed, his study was barren of his work, not a single scrap of writing remaining. Everything of any value to him had been removed long ago, leaving nothing for his pursuers to find, except for the connection between the basement and the sewer. It wouldn¡¯t take them long to discover where he¡¯d gone.


    Well, they¡¯d be slowed down a bit. Of that, he was certain.


    With a final glance over his shoulder, Tyron bid farewell to his study, the store, and any semblance of peace in his life. It was fine, he willingly cast it away. Peace did nothing more than weigh him down; where he was going, he wouldn¡¯t need it.


    With Filetta and her skeletons falling in around him, Tyron drew up the hood of his cloak and strode into the darkness of the sewer, staff in hand.


    ~~~


    As it happened, finding Almsfield Enchantments wasn¡¯t all that difficult. The enchanter had a good reputation for producing durable, quality work at a reasonable price. In a mere afternoon of intelligence gathering, Nostas Jorlin¡¯s people had compiled a laundry list of glowing testimonials for the store.


    On the surface, it seemed as if Lukas Almsfield was exactly what Master Willhem had said he was: a talented, hardworking Arcanist who, for whatever reason, had decided to establish himself beyond the walls of the city in Shadetown rather than within Kenmor proper.


    Yet Lord Jorlin was convinced there was more to this case. The timing lined up too well, the fact that ¡®Master Almsfield¡¯ had been so diligent, almost to the point of mania, his low profile, all of it raised his suspicions further and further.


    Only hours after his raid on the properties of Master Willhem, Nostas strode through the streets of Shadetown with a veritable army by his side. To apprehend the culprit, no effort would be spared; even Duke Raugrave had provided some of his personal Soldiers, along with the finest Mage Catchers in the province.


    Guilty or not, Lukas Almsfield would be screaming in the deepest pit under the castle before long, becoming familiar with the Duke¡¯s Questioners.


    The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky when they reached the market district. With a gesture, Lord Jorlin ordered his people forward, and they responded like the high levelled professionals they were. Gliding over the ground like panthers, they spread through the streets, forming a wide perimeter around the district and then started to pull it tight.


    Doors were locked and windows barred as the citizens raced to get out of sight and protect themselves from being caught up in the confrontation to come. Whatever was about to happen wasn¡¯t something they wanted to be involved in, and when they saw the livery of House Jorlin on the Lord¡¯s armour, they knew that blood would soon be spilled.


    The Lord himself waited with mounting impatience and fury, grinding his teeth as the necessary precautions were taken. Anti-magick fields were being established, eyes put on every path in and out of the district. Only when it was certain there was no way out for the prey did the circle begin to draw closed and finally allow Nostas to stride forward, armoured feet pounding the cobbled road as he gripped the hilt of his blade so tight his knuckles turned white.


    The store itself wasn¡¯t anything impressive, though the building was larger and more ornate than those around it. Stone columns and a carved landing extended from the front door, giving the entrance an officious air, a large embossed copper plate hung over the door that read ¡°Almsfield Enchantments,¡± the letters themselves gleaming with a subtle, magickal light.


    Yet through the broad windows that flanked the door, it was clear the interior was dark and empty. It had been some time since this ground floor had seen a significant number of people come through the entrance.


    Nostas ground his teeth. Had the suspect already fled? No matter. It delayed the capture, but wouldn¡¯t prevent it.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    The Lord pushed forward, only for Captain Mykl, leader of the remaining Jorlin family Soldiers, to catch him on the arm.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going first, my Lord,¡± the grizzled veteran said.


    It wasn¡¯t a question. In his anger, Nostas bristled at the lack of respect, but strangled his protest. This could be the hiding place of a Necromancer powerful enough to kill everyone in his family estate; it would be foolish to rush forward blindly.


    He gave a short nod, and only then did Mykl remove his hand, moving forward himself along with a few of his trusted men.


    ¡°Is the anti-magick field ready?¡± the Lord demanded.


    The highest ranking of the Mage Catchers stepped up beside him.


    ¡°It is, my Lord. Currently, we don¡¯t detect any unusual sources of energy within the building, but that doesn¡¯t mean there aren¡¯t any. An accomplished Arcanist has many ways to conceal magick from our eyes.¡±


    ¡°Would the field suppress it regardless?¡± he demanded.


    ¡°The short answer is no,¡± she replied bluntly. ¡°Large bursts of power can overwhelm anti-magick fields. They are useful tools, but not infallible. Caution is always advised.¡±


    He grunted and eyed the woman sideways. Specialists at hunting rogue Mages, the Order of Silence belonged to the Empire, or more directly, to the Duke. Their abilities were so narrowly focused, there wasn¡¯t much call for many of them, only three existed in the entire Western Province as far as he knew. At Gold Rank, she had reached the peak of what she would be allowed to achieve in her Primary Class. He¡¯d been told to treat her with respect and refer to her as Sister Ceril.


    If it allowed him to find Tyron Steelarm and tear the bastard apart, then he would gladly comply.


    Both of them watched intently as the door was punched open, the Soldiers rushing inside while others kept the building completely surrounded. A mouse wouldn¡¯t be able to slip out a window without being noticed, even wearing an invisibility spell.


    Lord Jorlin simmered as he was forced to wait while Marshals and Magisters stormed into the building after the Soldiers, rushing up the interior stairs and turning over every box and table within the store.


    ¡°Still nothing?¡± he ground out.


    Sister Ceril shook her head, her green eyes focused, unblinking on the structure as some form of power swirled within them.


    ¡°There are small readings; flashes and pulses, but those could just be from enchanted bits and bobs that were being sold. The field is soaking up that energy without issues, but there¡¯s nothing significant.¡±


    For five agonising minutes, the Lord of House Jorlin fumed in the street as the building was turned inside out, only for Mylk to emerge and report the building was empty.


    ¡°No sign of him at all?¡± Nostas growled.


    This wasn¡¯t what he wanted to hear.


    ¡°So far, no. He was living here, recently even, judging by the state of the rooms upstairs. There¡¯s still a fair few cores and other materials lying about, but so far nothing that would indicate Necromancy.¡±


    ¡°I want to know where he¡¯s gone,¡± Nostas demanded. ¡°Find me something I can use.¡±


    ¡°Allow me to inspect the building,¡± Sister Ceril said. ¡°If anything has been hidden using magickal means, I¡¯ll find it.¡±


    ¡°Go,¡± Nostas ordered and turned toward Mykl. ¡°Is the building secure enough for me to enter?¡±


    ¡°I would prefer you waited for the Sister to complete her search, my Lord,¡± the Captain replied, eyes glittering, ¡°but I suspect you won¡¯t tolerate further delay.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right, I won¡¯t.¡±


    The interior of the store was almost insultingly normal. Glass cases set atop long tables, plenty of space for clients to walk through the rows, admiring the pieces on display. Of course, it had all been overturned and now the space was in total disarray, but compared to what he¡¯d hoped to find, this¡­ normality¡­ grated on his nerves.


    A store counter, a safe, storerooms in the back, workrooms upstairs alongside private rooms for the owner. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.


    There had to be something.


    It was Sister Ceril who found it.


    ¡°I believe this storeroom has a false wall,¡± she reported when he rejoined her downstairs. ¡°I can feel enchantments built into the wall and floor behind it. If I¡¯m right, then there should be a staircase going down into a cellar.¡±


    Nostas¡¯ eyes widened as he felt his anger flare anew in his chest. Had he been right? Had his brothers¡¯ killer lived in this very building?


    ¡°So tear it down,¡± he demanded. ¡°I want to see it!¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± she said, her eyes as cold as ice. ¡°Unless you want to find yourself in an early grave, allow me to drain the power from the cores I can sense. Then your men can break down the wall and enter the basement safely.¡±


    Before Nostas could argue, Mykl was by his side placing a hand on his arm.


    ¡°My Lord. If this is the person we¡¯ve been chasing, there is no need to risk yourself. Allow us to take on the risk, that is what we are here for.¡±


    The young Lord ground his teeth.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he said.


    Once he had exited the building, Sister Ceril began her work, joining him outside when she was done a half hour later.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t sense anything further,¡± she told him, ¡°but that doesn¡¯t mean there¡¯s nothing there. The Mage responsible for creating these arrays is¡­ skillful.¡±


    ¡°Are you praising the murderer of my family?¡± Lord Jorlin grated.


    ¡°If my prey is skillful, then I will say so,¡± she replied evenly. ¡°It does no good to¡­ GET DOWN!¡±


    Breaking off mid-sentence, her face paled in an instant and she threw herself into him, bearing the Lord down to the ground as he shouted in protest.


    There was an inaudible thump that seemed to pulse through the ground and into Nostas¡¯ very bones. A moment later, a dark cloud boiled up out of the basement, filling the store and spilling out the door and into the street.


    Even though he wasn¡¯t a mage, Nostas could feel just how much power was contained within that cloud. It was dense with mystic energy.


    ¡°That¡¯s Death Magick,¡± Sister Ceril gasped from atop him. ¡°We have to get away. Get up, quickly!¡±


    She scrambled to her feet and, along with his nearby Soldiers, helped to haul Nostas from the ground.


    ¡°What is happening?¡± he demanded as they rushed to get further from the building.


    ¡°I felt a surge of power from the basement, incredibly potent magick. I feared it would cause a detonation of some sort, but now I worry that might have been preferable,¡± the Sister told him.


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t answer my question!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure exactly! There is some spell bound into the cloud, but I can¡¯t tell what it is. The anti-magick field will eat into it, but it will take time.¡±


    ¡°How long? What if he¡¯s still down there?¡± Nostas shouted.


    Behind them, the cloud of dark magick continued to expand, rising in the air, but it didn¡¯t grow any wider. After a minute, it had formed a pitch black pillar that engulfed the store entirely and rose a hundred metres high.


    Then it began to rotate, creating a dark vortex that grew faster and faster as purple lights began to flicker and flash within its depths.


    ¡°Break the spell!¡± the Jorlin Lord roared.


    Sister Ceril didn¡¯t reply, her face a mask of concentration as she and the other mages in attendance turned all their focus to overcoming this magick.


    A cold mist began to pour out of the base of the pillar. Slowly at first, it thickened rapidly until it became so dense it was impossible to see through. Vague shapes twisted within the cloud, causing the mist to eddy and swirl as it stretched its tendrils further outward with each passing moment.


    ¡°I¡­ I have it!¡± Sister Ceril cried, sweat dripping down her face. Her hands rose and flashed out a series of quick gestures as she chanted.


    When she was done, a change could be felt in the air, and the towering vortex began to slow its rotation. Within seconds, Nostas could see signs it was breaking apart.


    The mist, however, did not fade. In fact, it was still growing.


    From within, he saw a twisted, ethereal face, wracked with anger and pain, barely visible hands grasping, reaching for him.


    ¡°Ghost,¡± he said, pointing at the spectre. ¡°There¡¯s a ghost in the mist!¡±


    Then there were more. The mist swirled and danced as wraiths emerged, filled with hatred for the living.


    Hundreds of them.

 B4C60 - Ascension

    Tyron slumped down at the bloodstained workbench, heaving in breaths.


    ¡°It¡¯s strange. I almost can¡¯t remember what it felt like to be out of breath,¡± Filetta observed from the doorway. ¡°I haven¡¯t even been dead that long¡­ have I? My sense of time isn¡¯t what it used to be.¡±


    ¡°No, you haven¡¯t been dead that long,¡± Tyron rasped. ¡°I think dying¡­ has some effect on your consciousness¡­ and perception of¡­ the world.¡±


    ¡°Stop talking, you sound like a dying fish. Was it really necessary to run all the way here?¡±


    The journey through the sewers took them through a long and winding path through crumbling tunnels and rank pipes. Under normal circumstances, it was a trip that took hours, but that was time that Tyron couldn¡¯t afford.


    He took several more deep breaths to steady his breathing.


    ¡°By now, they know my shop is connected to the city¡¯s sewer, and soon they¡¯ll put together that I worked at the Red Tower. I have to move quickly before they can start to track me down.¡±


    Right now, he was in the underground workshop beneath the warehouse within which his butchers had been hard at work.


    The ghosts would work as a delay, certainly, but he couldn¡¯t count on them to achieve much. Spirits were far from indestructible, even if they couldn¡¯t be harmed by unenchanted weapons. If any had escaped to roam wild through Shadetown, he hoped that the near desertion of the market district would avoid too many suffering needlessly. The people he was after were inside the walls, not out of them.


    After another minute, Tyron felt he was finally calm and in control of himself enough to move to the next step.


    ¡°Filetta, can you guard the perimeter?¡±


    The wight turned to him.


    ¡°The others aren¡¯t enough? How many skeletons do you even have in the sewers around here?¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°I would simply prefer to be alone while I perform the status ritual.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re weird. Have it your way.¡±


    She turned and made a decent attempt at a swaying strut out of the room. Why she bothered, the Necromancer had no idea.


    Once he was alone, Tyron withdrew the page he had folded into the inner pocket of his cloak for exactly this purpose and laid it down on the bloodstained table.


    For a long moment, he simply stared at it. Now that the moment had arrived, he suddenly felt the need to question every decision he had made to reach this moment. Had he been right to push as aggressively as he had? Was he truly as prepared as he believed he was? Over the last few weeks, he had worked as hard as he possibly could, doing everything he could to ensure he pushed his abilities to their limits.


    Had it been enough? Could he have gone more slowly?


    These were arguments he¡¯d hashed out with himself hundreds of times. The risk of waiting, the threat of discovery, the rebellion. If he waited too long, he would eventually have been found out. Ever since he started attacking patrols on the roads, the security around Kenmor had begun to grow tighter and tighter. If he didn¡¯t act, then the rebels would have come under tremendous pressure and crumbled before they could properly organise. After the events at the Jorlin estate, how many Soldiers and Magisters had been pulled back to the city?


    No, he¡¯d done the right thing. He¡¯d done everything he reasonably could to prepare himself. The time was now.


    Tyron reached down, drew his knife from the sheath on his belt, contemplated the glittering edge for a moment, then pressed the edge into his palm.


    He was going to need a lot of blood for this one.


    Pressing his hand against the page, he spoke the words and enacted the status ritual. As expected, the flow of blood was swift, draining out of him and soaking into the paper. He tried not to let his nerves bother him as he waited patiently for the process to complete, then leaned down to read what the Unseen had in store for him.


    His eyes raced through the Skill notifications, looking for those key abilities he¡¯d hoped to max.


    Your manifestation and manipulation of Spirit Flesh has improved your proficiency. Spirit Flesh Formation has reached Level 10 (Max)


    Practice and honing your expertise has improved your proficiency. Advanced Spirit Binding has reached Level 20 (Max)


    You have continued to master your pocket within the Dimensional Weave. Summon the Ossuary has reached Level 10 (Max)


    The more of your power you pour into your undead, the better they will serve. Anoint Undead has reached Level 10 (Max)


    Your grasp over the intricacies of Death has deepened. Expert Death Magick has reached Level 30 (Max)


    These were the key abilities he¡¯d aimed to improve, and it was edifying to see they had. Tyron was far less concerned with his combat spells. So long as his ability to craft minions was as good as it could be, he was confident his Gold Ranked offerings would include something that suited him.


    Next his eyes slid down to his Class notifications.


    You have raised the dead and driven them to fight in your service, building a great sanctuary within the Ossuary. Your mastery of bones has risen to great heights, empowering your minions beyond their normal limitations.


    Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 60. You have received +14 Strength, +14 Dexterity, +21 Constitution, +21 Intelligence, +14 Wisdom, +14 Willpower, +14 Manipulation, +21 Poise.


    Your patrons marvel at the chaos you have sewn in their service. The Old Gods can sense the fear of their enemies and are filled with delight. The Abyss has tasted the richness of your harvest and yearns for more. The Scarlet Court can sense the ocean of blood that will soon be spilled and are content, sure they will collect their share.


    Forbidden One has reached level 40. You have received +8 Manipulation, +16 Constitution, +16 Intelligence, +16 Willpower, +8 Poise


    You have utilised the power of Death Magick against your foes. Death has become your closest friend and most trusted companion.


    Death Mage has reached level 20. You have received +8 Constitution, +8 Willpower, +8 Poise.


    That was¡­ significantly more levels than he¡¯d expected. Lord of the Ossuary reaching sixty was expected, desirable even, and eight levels of Death Mage wasn¡¯t too surprising, considering just what he¡¯d been doing and the sheer volume of Death Magick he¡¯d been working with. However, he was instantly suspicious of the eight levels of Forbidden One he¡¯d received.


    Were the patrons really that pleased with his actions? Even the Scarlet Court? The Three were probably delighted with current events, but the other two? He suspected that perhaps some fingers had been placed on the scale, giving him greater power in the hopes that he would survive the upcoming chaos and give them some return for their investment.


    The next notification was yet another surprise.


    Yours is a mind well suited to the pursuit of Magick, but also to the pursuit of Death. The more you experience it, the more you inflict it, the less you fear it, the greater your understanding grows. Continue to stride forward, brave the darkness, and you will be rewarded. Mystery: Essence of Death has grown to Advanced. Mystery: Soul Magick has grown to Advanced.


    His Mysteries continued to grow, further propelling him forward and tipping the balance in his favour. Tyron welcomed it, despite the somewhat ominous message from the Unseen.


    He released the breath he¡¯d been holding, and allowed himself to scan down the rest of the page.


    Name: Tyron Steelarm.


    Age: 24


    Race: Human (Level 21)


    Class:


    Lord of the Ossuary (Level 60)


    Sub-Classes:


    <ul>


    <li>Forbidden One (Level 40) </li>


    <li>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</li>


    <li>Death Mage (Level 20)</li>


    </ul>


    Racial Feats:


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    Level 15: Well of Magick.


    Level 20: Arcane Renewal.


    Attributes:


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Strength:


    </td>


    <td>


    102


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Dexterity:


    </td>


    <td>


    159


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Constitution:


    </td>


    <td>


    261


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Intelligence:


    </td>


    <td>


    381


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Wisdom:


    </td>


    <td>


    273


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Willpower:


    </td>


    <td>


    242


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Charisma:


    </td>


    <td>


    113


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Manipulation:


    </td>


    <td>


    139


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Poise:


    </td>


    <td>


    182


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    General Skills:


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 4)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Engraving (Level 5)(Max)


    Sculpting (Level 5)(Max)


    Weaving (Level 5)(Max)


    Dodging (Level 3)


    Running (Level 4)


    Skill Selections Available: 1


    Necromancer Skills:


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 20)(Max)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 20)(Max)


    Expert Death Magick (Level 30)(Max) Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Enhanced Minion Commander (Level 20)(Max)


    Undead Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Minion Modification (Level 10)(Max)


    Bone-Soul Melding (Level 20)(Max)


    Death Infusion (Level 10)(Max)


    Bone Forging (Level 20)(Max)


    Spirit Flesh Formation (Level 10)(Max)


    Anathema Skills:


    Abyss Tongue (Level 10)(Max)


    Spell Concealment (Level 10)(Max)


    Dimension Weaving (Level 10)(Max)


    Arcanist Skills:


    Expert Magick Scripting (Level 30)(Max)


    Channelling (Level 10)(Max)


    Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 20)(Max)


    Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 20)(Max)


    Expert Network Formation (Level 30)(Max)


    Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Core Sense (Level 16)


    Expert Power Control (Level 30)(Max)


    Death Mage Skills:


    Curse Weaving Level 7


    General Spells:


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)


    Necromancer Spells:


    Raise Dead (Level 40)(Max)


    Bone Animus (Level 40)(Max)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Shivering Curse (Level 16)


    Death Blades (Level 10)(Max)


    Empowered Bone Armour (Level 18)


    Minion Sight (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Spirit Binding (Level 20)(Max)


    Death¡¯s Fist (Level 19)


    Anoint Dead (Level 10)(Max)


    Cursed Miasma (Level 18)


    Greater Death Bolt (Level 18)


    Summon the Ossuary (Level 10)(Max)


    Bone Lance(Level 10)(Max)


    Ossuary Vent (Level 10)(Max)


    Blessing of Bone (Level 8)


    Field of Death (Level 3)


    Anathema Spells:


    Pierce the Veil (Level 10)(Max)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 5)


    Dark Communion (Level 3)


    Expert Suppress Mind (Level 23)


    Repository (Level 10)(Max)


    Fear (Level 5)


    Glamour (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Invasive Persuasion (Level 12)


    Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 8)


    Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)


    Blood Shield (Level 8)


    Death Mage Spells:


    Sap Life (Level 7)


    Necromancer Feats:


    Skeleton Focus III


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery II


    Spirit Mastery


    Undead Specialist


    Awaken the Altar


    Anathema Feats:


    Repository


    Wall of Thought II


    Drain Life


    Stormwise


    Bewitching Gaze


    Arcanist Feats


    Magick Thread Control II


    Compact Sigils II


    Conduit Seal II


    Core Networking II


    Death Mage Feats


    Efficient Death II


    Mysteries:


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Profound): WIS +50 CHA +50


    Essence of Death (Advanced): INT +20 WILL +20


    Soul Magick (Advanced): WIS+20 CHA +20


    Lord of the Ossuary has reached Level 60. Choose four additional Skills or Spells:


    Skills:


    Corpse Divining - Deepen your connection to the dead, allowing you to understand them more fully. Will replace Corpse Appraisal and raise its maximum level by 10.


    Corpse Singing - Enhance your ability to empower remains, cleansing and purifying them. Will replace Corpse Preparation and raise its maximum level by 10.


    Horde Conductor - Replaces Undead Control and raises the maximum level by 20.


    Ascended Bone Forging - Transform mundane bone.


    Bone-Soul Fusion - Replaces Bone-Soul Melding and raises its maximum level by 20.


    Spirit Moulding - Take the spirits of the dead and make something from them.


    Spells:


    Skeletal Sacrifice - Detonate a skeleton to shower your foe in shards of bone.


    Death Nexus - Create a lodestone that connects to all nearby undead, sharing its power with them.


    Ossuary Made Manifest - Create a permanent anchor for the Ossuary in your realm.


    Pillar of Shards - Raise a pillar of magickal bones that shatters into a hail of shards.


    Flesh to Bone - Sacrifice your life force to repair bone in the heat of battle.


    Spectral Bone Spear - Replaces Bone Lance and raises its maximum level by 20.


    Arcane Marrow - Give rise to demi-lich servants.


    Forbidden One has reached level 40. Choose four additional Skills or Spells:


    Skills:


    Corrupting Presence - Subvert the Will to resist from those around you.


    Crone¡¯s Gaze - Sense the inner motives of another when meeting their gaze.


    Raven Speech - Communicate with the children of the Old Gods.


    Perceive Magick - Open your senses to the flow of power.


    Dimension Folding - Replaces Dimension Weave and raises its maximum level by 10.


    Crone¡¯s Tongue - Improve your capacity to speak the Words of Power.


    Quicken the Blood - Move with the speed and grace of the undying.


    Spells:


    Advanced Bewitch - Replaces Bewitch and increases the maximum level by 10.


    Flesh to Power - Sacrifice your own body, or the body of another, to generate magick.


    Rot¡¯s Endurance - Employ the unending hardiness of Rot, who feels no pain and suffers no injury to impede him.


    Transform Blood - Take mortal blood and elevate it to a more powerful state.


    Field of Corruption - Project an aura of corruption that will weaken the minds of those within range.


    Murder of Crows - Summon a flock of spectral crows to harry your foes.


    Touch of the Abyss - Syphon the Abyss into your hands.


    Death Mage has reached level 20. Choose four additional Skills or Spells:


    Skills:


    Life Draw - Improve your ability to steal the vitality of the living.


    Sense Living - Your senses are tuned to hunt the living.


    Broadened Curses - Improve your ability to cast curses over a wide area.


    Death Sigil Weaving - Strengthen your ability to manipulate the sigils of Death.


    Undying Endurance - Sustain yourself with Magick, as your minions do.


    Spells:


    Wilting Curse - Weaken and enfeeble your foes.


    Curse of Pain - Cause intense pain in an area to those who defy you.


    Eyes of Death - See the flow of Death Magick with the naked eye.


    Hand of Corruption - Cloak your hand in an aura of death that can harm those you touch.


    Kill the Land - Corrupt an area with a font of Death Magick that will saturate the ground.


    Spectre of Unlife - Mask your face with an unliving visage.


    Afflict Spirit - Inflict suffering on the target¡¯s soul.


    Death Becomes Life - Maintain an aura that will replenish your strength as those around you die.


    Black Skull - Launch a magickal skull that will detonate on landing.


    Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 60. Choose two additional Feats:


    Ossuary Extraction I - Increase the amount of Death Magick available to the Ossuary.


    Ossuary Expansion I - Increase the size of the Ossuary.


    Ossuary Infusion I - Increase the efficacy of the bone receptacles.


    Class Focus I - Choose two Class Skills or Spells and raise their cap by 10.


    Skeleton Focus IV - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.


    Half-Dead - Allow your own bones to be infused with Death Magick.


    Bone Sculptor - Improve your ability to mould and shape bone.


    Bone Animator - Empower your constructs.


    Forbidden One has reached level 40. Choose two additional Feats:


    Dark Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Dark Ones.


    Abyssal Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Abyss.


    Scarlet Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Scarlet Court.


    Ruler in Shade - Your false faces are harder to break and see through.


    Corroding Presence - Encourage Death Magick growth in all around you, even the living.


    Black Soul - Tune your spirit to the void.


    Dead Flesh - Adapt your body to contain death aligned energy.


    Still Blood - Your blood will cease to flow, and change.


    Death Mage has reached level 20. Choose two additional Feats:


    Empowered Death I - Your mastery will strengthen your spells to greater heights.


    Penetrating Death Bolt - Your Death Bolt will pierce.


    Death Conversion - You will be faster when converting normal magick to Death Aligned magick.


    Curse Tuner - You can apply curses to a wider area, or increase their effect.


    Death Sense - Detect nearby sources of Death Magick.


    Deaden Self - Your sense of pain will grow dull.


    Eyes of the Grave - You will see as the spirits see.


    Rot Claws - Your hands will generate Death Magick in your nails.


    Fallen Shadow - You may store Death aligned energy in your shadow.


    There was so much to choose from that Tyron felt almost dizzied by the range, or perhaps that was just the blood loss. With so many levels gained at once, he had a laundry list of selections to make for each of his Classes, including feats! With such a broad range in front of him, it was possible for Tyron to hunt for synergies that may have otherwise escaped him if he were to make his choices during separate rituals.


    Cautiously, he examined and considered every choice the Unseen had placed before him, weighing them individually and then in concert with each other. Considering the battle he faced, some abilities would be more valuable to him in the short term than others, and so demanded greater consideration.


    From Lord of the Ossuary, some selections stood head and shoulders above the others.


    Arcane Marrow promised to unlock a new form of minion, one that he had no inkling of how to create on his own. Perhaps it would be possible to figure it out using the hint the ability¡¯s name gave him, but that was a risk he felt unwilling to take. Would he be able to create a demi-lich in the short term? No, but if he succeeded in Kenmor, then this spoke of power he would need in the long-term.


    Similarly, Ascended Bone Forging spoke of something he could use down the line. Right now, all of his skeletons, revenants and wights utilised weapons and armour forged from bone, and he had no idea how to make them something better. This ability could help push his minions to a greater height, and that was something Tyron could scarcely resist.


    For the final two choices, he was somewhat torn. Horde Conductor was tempting, especially considering the size of the skeletal army he now commanded, but the wights alleviated a great portion of that problem. Was this something he needed?


    Death Nexus held great promise, but was it something he could create himself by further developing the enchanting techniques and conduits he had already created?


    Making the Ossuary manifest? It could be immensely powerful, or totally useless. As usual, the vague descriptions of the Unseen were working against him, since he had no one else''s prior experience to draw from.


    Bone Soul Fusion was another very viable option. This Skill was the foundation on which his revenants and wights were built. Improving the ability and raising the cap by twenty would enable him to greatly improve his strongest minions.


    Spirit Moulding? Taking ghosts and using them to¡­ make things? How was that possible? What could he make? Again, choosing this option felt like a gamble. It could pay off, but perhaps it would be awful. Certainly, it wasn¡¯t something useful to him right now, like Spectral Bone Spear would be.


    Ultimately, he selected Bone-Soul Fusion and Flesh to Bone. The first was a risk, but the latter he felt comfortable about. No matter how powerful he made his skeletons, it was inevitable that they would suffer damage or be destroyed during the course of a fight. Using this ability, he could repair them at the expense of his own life force, keeping his minions in the fight for longer.


    It didn¡¯t sound too pleasant for him personally, but there were ways he could fix that. In part.


    The Forbidden One selections were¡­ interesting. Some were immediately appealing, but again, the lack of description held him back. Tyron was immediately willing to pencil in Perceive Magick, given who he was and what he wanted. The ability promised to let him experience the flow of magick in an entirely more direct way. Being able to see magick was one thing, but this promised a new experience entirely. At the same time, he immediately discounted Crone¡¯s Tongue. He didn¡¯t need help with the Words of Power, and he almost found the suggestion he did insulting.


    Flesh to Power was another ability he reluctantly decided to take. If he was going to continue to fight on larger and larger scales, then he needed more and more magick. Again, it didn¡¯t sound like it would be a pleasant experience for him, but he didn¡¯t need to feel good, he just needed to win.


    The final two selections were much more difficult. He always felt as if the offerings from the patrons were designed for them more than they were for him. Transform Blood? Turn it into something more powerful? What did that even mean? How could he even use it? There was no doubt in his mind that this was a powerful ability in the hands of the Vampires, but to him it was next to worthless!


    Unless, of course, he was willing to ask them to teach him how to use it.


    After careful consideration, he selected Dimension Folding, since it would factor into plans he held for the future, and reluctantly, he selected Quicken the Blood. It could save his life before the day was done, perhaps helping him dodge an arrow, or get out of the way of a stray spell.


    For Death Mage, Tyron had to think carefully.


    Death Sigil Weaving was another almost insulting option and could be discarded.


    Undying Endurance was of immediate interest to him. Costing Magick was a drawback, but if he could push his endurance even further, it may well be worth the cost. Life Draw was another option that was of interest to him. If he was going to take abilities that would allow him to spend his Life to gain other things, then getting more back seemed like it would be helpful.


    Which played into his next selection; Death Becomes Life. Considering the fight he was going to have, it was inevitable that there would be a great deal of death. By healing himself from the death that surrounded him, he could turn that life into more magick, or healing for his minions. Broadened Curses was another ability that would serve him well in the fight to come. Larger battles, with more skeletons, over a wider area, would be well served by his curses affecting more space.


    Satisfied with his choices, Tyron marked them with a print of his thumb, then turned his attention to the feats. This status ritual was far, far from complete.

 B4C61 - Ascension cont

    B4C61 - Ascension cont


    After making so many selections, Tyron still had a number of feats to choose, and the options there were tempting almost across the board. Except for the Forbidden One options; they were still¡­ odd. He wasn¡¯t sure what his patrons were pushing for him to be, but he found increasingly he didn¡¯t care. If he could be successful and survive to tell the tale, that was all he cared about.


    Considering the options for Lord of the Ossuary, there were several that he liked. And also various choices that weren¡¯t as interesting. Although it was powerful, Tyron didn¡¯t intend to make the Ossuary itself the focus of his build. His priority was still, of course, his minions and empowering them as much as he could. For that reason, Skeleton Focus IV drew his eye. He¡¯d wanted to take it for a long time, and now was as good a time as any, considering the fighting that would soon come.


    For the second choice, he wasn¡¯t sure where to go. Bone Sculptor, Bone Animator and even Class Focus were well worth consideration. Choosing two skills to raise the cap on was something that could help pay off in the long run, but right now, Bone Animator was most likely to provide a direct benefit.


    His giant skeletons were technically constructs, and not undead minions. The only thing making them similar to his basic undead was the material they were made from, and their appearance, obviously. Tyron was simply used to working with that shape, so he¡¯d stuck to it.


    Selecting Bone Animator, he moved onto the next Class.


    Forbidden One had several options he was more than happy to dismiss out of hand. He had less than no interest in currying favour with the patrons, any of them, which left him with limited options.


    Ruler in Shade didn¡¯t seem applicable, since he wasn¡¯t likely to be able to hide much any longer. The Three had reinforced his glamour while he¡¯d been in Kenmor, but the cat was out of the bag now.


    However, the other choices didn¡¯t appeal all that strongly. Corroding Presence would be useful, to an extent. Being around his skeletons during battle, the feat would help to refill the small reservoirs they contained, giving them even more staying power. The downside would be, if he couldn¡¯t turn off or contain the aura, then he would be leaking Death Magick into everyone around him, including the living. It would make being around him extremely dangerous, and also nullify any attempt to conceal his presence.


    However, there weren¡¯t many other viable options to take. Black Soul, Dead Flesh and Still Blood all spoke of a transformation that he wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to make. Nor was it clear precisely what they did. Which meant his only remaining option was to curry favour.


    Tyron was tempted to simply leave the selection blank, which would be a criminal waste of a feat, but spending one to do nothing other than appease one of the patrons felt like a waste anyway!


    This was a sub-class Tyron would be happy to abandon, despite the losses it would incur. It had helped to keep him alive when he was starting out, but it was debatable whether it was worth it any longer.


    Although if he dropped it, The Three would likely remove their protection from him¡­ exposing him fully to the Five Divines.


    ¡°I suppose it won¡¯t hurt,¡± he muttered to himself and put a thumbprint next to Dark Favour and Corroding Presence.


    Finally, he turned his attention to the final Class: Death Mage.


    Empowered Death I was an obvious choice. He was disappointed not to see Efficient Death III, but that was too much to hope for. For the second feat, he had several tempting options. Curse Tuner would help make his curses stronger, and Fallen Shadow would give him a permanent repository of Death Magick, which may also be able to soak up the magick he would produce due to Corroding Presence.


    Ultimately, his greed to have more magick available was the deciding factor. His available store of magick had grown to a massive well of power and would shortly expand further, yet with the fights to come, the demands on his reserves would be immense, since so many minions would be reliant on his power to move and fight once their own energy ran out.


    He placed a mark next to Fallen Shadow, then his eyes rolled back in his head as a rush of power filled his body and knowledge trickled into his mind. The hand of the Unseen was on him, and it continued to remake his mind and body into something beyond a normal human.


    After he recovered, Tyron placed his hand back on the page, and his blood continued to flow. Now he would have the most consequential choices to make. With some trepidation, he leaned forward to read the words as they formed.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Death Mage has reached Level 20.


    Select a Class Advancement from the following:


    He almost groaned in annoyance. Of course Death Mage would come first.


    Curse Bringer: Strengthen your mastery of curse magick.


    A fairly standard advancement, he assumed, and certainly one that had its uses. Tyron was extremely weak at offensive magick, especially compared to a specialised mage who could rain fire and unleash blasts of arcane power that put his own spells to shame. His most effective methods for aiding his minions in battle was to apply curses and weaken their foes.


    Death Tempest: Unleash potent Death spells against your enemies.


    This seemed like it would unlock some direct damage magick that would enable him to better participate in fights himself. It was a thought, but was it necessarily what he needed? If he were spending magick on offensive spells, then he¡¯d have less available to support his minions. No matter how much magick he was able to amass, it would never be infinite, and he would be better off spending that energy on more minions.


    Bone Mage: Conjure bones with devastating effect.


    This was¡­ something different. Perhaps it was built around spells like Bone Lance that summoned bones formed of magick to cast spells. This one had more potential, since his bone-related spells were empowered by his Bone Mastery feat.


    Corpse Mage: Give rise to minions who serve in death.


    Well¡­ this was likely a generic advancement from Death Mage that was Necromancer-adjacent. It could be safely discarded.


    Unliving Mage: Turn your magick upon yourself.


    This was likely to be a Class that offered some, probably weaker, form of lichdom at the end of it. Despite being repeatedly pushed in that direction, Tyron was in no hurry to shed his humanity for an undead form. The loss of his third sub-class would hit him too hard right now.


    Not wanting to ponder the Death Mage options much longer, he quickly turned his eyes to what really mattered: his Gold Class selection.


    Lord of the Ossuary has reached Level 60.


    Select a Class Advancement from the following:


    Demiurge of the Realm of Skulls: A fortress realm from which to lead your armies.


    A progression from the Lord of the Ossuary. It would likely provide him the knowledge necessary to carve out an even more impressive pocket dimension. It certainly had potential; a mobile fortress in which he could operate wasn¡¯t a bad thing by any means.


    Lord of the Bone Forge: Master of constructs of Bone.


    Perhaps he had impressed the Unseen with his bone giants¡­. This wasn¡¯t something he¡¯d expected to see. Obviously, stronger constructs were something Tyron would continue to research and create, but he wasn¡¯t certain it was going to be his focus.


    Imperator of the Endless Horde: Your Undead Legion knows no bounds.


    Another horde-focused Class, but clearly better than what he¡¯d been offered before. Now that his army of minions had grown, and his capacity to support more continued to grow, a Class focused on maintaining and managing a vast horde of undead was much more appealing. This was a serious contender.


    Master of Death: Death Magick is the servant and you are the master.


    He¡¯d been offered something similar last time, and his continued growth in Death Magick expertise had unlocked the next Class in the chain. Even so, this Class would turn him more into a Death Mage than a Necromancer, and he wasn¡¯t interested. Tyron knew where the true strength of his Class lay.


    Judge of the Ghostly Choir: Spirits sing a song of death at your word.


    This sounded a little odd. Clearly a ghost-based Class, it seemed to be referencing a type of spirit minion he currently wasn¡¯t able to create. Also, the word ¡®choir¡¯ seemed to hint he would be able to bind some sort of retinue? Or was he reading too much into it?


    Arch-Necromancer: Unparalleled at the craft of Necromancy.


    This sounded like something Tyron could get behind. Improving himself and pushing the very limits of the art of Necromancy were what fascinated him the most, what had brought him to this place. To be unparalleled was something that resonated with him. It was that search for the pinnacle that had driven his parents to such absurd lengths, and he shared that desire.


    And yet¡­


    ¡°Do I need your help to get there?¡± He addressed the page as though the Unseen could listen to him through the paper. ¡°I¡¯ve made so much progress without you, and I can go even further.¡±


    After a long minute of consideration, he reached out and placed two thumbprints on the page.


    One for Bone Mage.


    The other for Imperator of the Undead Legion.


    Then he ended the ritual.

 B4C62 - The Final Act Begins

    The Awakening.


    Tyron Steelarm. Your expertise in wielding the energy of Death continues to grow. More power will be placed at your disposal; use it well.


    You are Ascending.


    You have received the Class: Bone Mage


    Using a blend of offensive and defensive magick, the Bone Mage can conjure bone formed of magick for a myriad of purposes. Use it to shield yourself, or to pierce the flesh of your foes. To advance, cast Bone Spells in battle.


    Class Attributes per level:


    Intelligence +1


    Constitution +2;


    Willpower + 2;


    Poise +1;


    Tyron Steelarm, you have proven your mastery over Necromancy time and again. You were made for this path, or perhaps it was made for you. The fire in your soul burns hotter than ever, and now your Legions will share that fire.


    You are Ascending.


    +40 to all stats.


    You are able to advance Mysteries to the next stage.


    You have received the Class: Imperator of the Endless Horde


    A conqueror who smashes his foes under the weight of a horde of undead feet. The Imperator is not in command of an army, but a force of nature. To advance, raise minions and have them slaughter in your name.


    Class Attributes per level:


    Strength +2


    Dexterity +4


    Constitution +6


    Intelligence +6


    Wisdom +4


    Willpower +3


    Charisma +2


    Manipulation +2


    Poise +3


    The maximum Skill limit of Raise Dead has been increased to 60. Your knowledge of this Ritual has been expanded. You can now enact the ritual through capable minions.


    The maximum Skill limit of Enhanced Minion Commander has been raised to 40.


    The maximum Skill limit of Undead Control has been raised to 20.


    You have been granted the ritual magick: Undead Imperator.


    When he had absorbed all the information in front of him, Tyron nodded. It had been much as he¡¯d expected. The increases to Enhanced Minion Commander and Undead Control were nice, but not overly important. No, what mattered was the changes to the Raise Dead ritual, and the new ritual he had gained.


    He didn¡¯t know what Undead Imperator did, but he was certain it would be powerful, perhaps even having an effect on his entire undead army. After all, he was connected to each and every one of them via the network of conduits that he perpetually maintained.


    He¡¯d done everything he could to ensure each individual skeletal minion was as powerful as he could make it, and he would continue to do so. However, now he would attempt to provide a boost to the power of the horde as a whole. With spells that could strengthen an entire Legion of undead applied to his masterwork skeletons¡­ what might the result look like?


    He would soon find out.


    The status ritual finally came to a close once and for all, and Tyron was forever changed. The hand of the Unseen descended on him, and for the first time, he almost feared its arrival.


    Gaining a full forty points to all aspects of his being was three hundred and sixty status points gained at once. It made the tooth-grinding sensation he had endured in the first part of the ritual seem like nothing more than a pat on the head.


    Tyron writhed on the ground like a puppet dangling from broken strings, his limbs twisting painfully as he jerked from one position to the next without any conscious control. Through clenched teeth, he groaned and hissed as power flooded into him, working on his bones, his organs, his skin, his muscles and mind.


    Several times his eyes rolled back as the Unseen remade him. When the process was finished, which likely took only a few minutes, he felt drained physically and mentally. Yet, there was no time for him to recover. He picked himself up off the floor, dusted himself off and rolled his neck. Tyron''s constitution had reached absurd heights now;, he was able to endure far, far beyond the limits of most people, even most Slayers. This much was nothing compared to what was to come.


    Knowledge still continued to trickle into his mind, the Unseen feeding him the outlines of his abilities. He could already tell that the new ritual he was being fed was going to be something¡­ interesting. It would take time before he could tease out more, but it was clear that it required a lot of power to function.


    Hopefully, whatever effect it had would be worth the price. He had high hopes, but even now, with the torrent of power he contained within himself, his instinct was to be stingy with it.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Filetta,¡± he called out.


    The door was pulled open from the outside as the wight stuck her ethereal head in.


    ¡°Finished? You¡¯re actually a gold rank now?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call you if I wasn¡¯t done,¡± he replied, irritated. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m gold rank.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your new Class?¡±


    ¡°Why would I tell you?¡±


    ¡°Because it affects me! Probably in a literal way!¡±


    It did, but he wasn¡¯t going to say anything, a fact she could read from his expression.


    ¡°Prick,¡± she grumbled, pushing the door wider and striding into the room. ¡°Ready to move to the next phase, then?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s time,¡± he nodded, pushing himself up.


    Tyron found he was just barely steady enough on his feet to walk, but it would suffice. He would do what had to be done. The two of them turned to look at the wall on his left. There, a large ritual circle had been drawn, a huge, spherical core embedded in the wall. The core, the individual lines of the circle, all of it thrummed with black arcane energy.


    ¡°Once I activate this, we have ten minutes before it triggers,¡± Tyron reminded Filetta. ¡°We need to get as close to the Red Tower as we can by then.¡±


    ¡°I know the plan,¡± she said, waving one hand to dismiss his concerns. ¡°Just make sure that idiot knows what she¡¯s supposed to do.¡±


    For whatever reason, Filetta and Laurel had never really gotten along, despite Tyron thinking that they were fairly similar in many ways. Their bickering wasn¡¯t really an issue, so long as it didn¡¯t interfere with carrying out his instructions.


    Rather than say anything, he simply turned to the ritual circle and spoke the words of power. It was extremely simple; with the bulk of the work already being done, all he had to do was set it in motion.


    At the same time, receiving his command, Laurel did the same at another ritual site on the other side of the city. The moment he was finished, Tyron nodded to Filetta and the two made their way out into the sewer, moving at pace.


    It would take multiple hours to reach the Red Tower through the winding passages of the sewers, and by the time he got there, he expected them to be prepared for his arrival. Lukas Almsfield had done extensive work as a consultant for the Magisters, and right now they would be desperately trying to uncover every little thing that he¡¯d touched in his time there.


    Of course, the bulk of his work was completely fine, but there were a few little surprises that he doubted even the Magisters would be able to find. At least, they shouldn¡¯t find them before he arrived.


    In the meantime, the rest of the city would have to contend with the torrent of Death Magick he was about to unleash in their midst. The trick he¡¯d pulled at his shop would look like a candle compared to the bonfire that was coming.


    Contemplating the chaos he was about to unleash, Tyron couldn¡¯t help but feel his heart beat faster. It was finally happening. This was the day, this was the moment. The Magisters, the Lords, the Duke, the Gods themselves. Today, they were going to feel it, really feel it. He was going to bring the entire province down on its knees and cut the legs out from under the empire.


    After waiting so, so long, his vengeance was about to be unleashed.


    As Tyron ran through the dark, dripping sewer tunnels, he wasn¡¯t even aware of the savage grin on his face.


    ~~~


    ¡°How did no one know that the sewers extended out this far?¡± Nostas growled, his eyes wild with fury.


    To have his target so close at hand only to slip through his very fingers! It was maddening. The need to inflict pain on the man who had killed his kin was an almost physical urge with the Lord, and it took all of his self control not to lash out wildly at the people around him.


    ¡°I have no idea, my Lord,¡± Captain Mykl said, not mincing his words despite the dangerous mood his lord was in. ¡°We have people down there and more coming through the tunnels in the city. The city watch has been turned out to patrol the streets, and even the sewer maintenance crews have been kicked out of bed. We¡¯ll find him.¡±


    After tangling with the cursed spirits, who had finally been put down with a combination of enchanted weaponry and magick, Nostas¡¯ men had torn the basement apart, finding the dark cellar in which the Necromancer had performed his foul magick, along with a near-collapsed connection to a narrow sewer tunnel.


    ¡°I sensed the residue of powerful magick in that basement,¡± Sister Ceril noted. ¡°This Necromancer is stronger than I thought; we should be careful confronting him. Anyone he kills will make him stronger.¡±


    ¡°He was strong enough to massacre every person living in the Jorlin Estate,¡± Nostas ground out. ¡°Do you believe my House is filled with weaklings?¡±


    His tone indicated the Sister should think very carefully about her reply.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± she replied. ¡°I knew he must have power, but there was something about what I sensed down there. His mastery over magick is potent. I could practically smell it.¡±


    Hearing the villain complimented only further stoked the flames of Nostas¡¯ fury, and he turned from the conversation and continued to march through the city, lest he lose his temper. If he cut down one of the Duke¡¯s servants, he wouldn¡¯t escape without censure, regardless of the circumstances.


    He and the bulk of his personal forces had returned to Kenmor some time ago, on their way back to the castle to report to Duke Raugrave. Mykl had insisted that he take a carriage or at least ride a horse, but Nostas had refused. If he¡¯d been cooped up in a box on the way back, he would have exploded with anger.


    As it was, the streets emptied when they saw him and his retinue coming, though the thunderous expression on the Lord''s face was more than enough to send the citizens diving behind cover.


    Even stewing in his own anger, Nostas was not so self absorbed that he didn¡¯t notice the screams beginning to rise in the distance. They were shrill, filled with panic and something deeper; outright terror. He started to look around for the source, hand flashing to the blade at his waist, but Sister Ceril was by his side in a moment, pointing.


    A pillar of darkness was forming, just like before, except this one was easily twice the size, large enough that they could see the peak even through the multi-storied structures of Kenmor around them.


    ¡°Gods!¡± Nostas bellowed. ¡°The Necromancer must be there!¡±


    His mind was immediately calculating. How far were they from the pillar? How much longer would it take for them to reach it? Already he was starting to fear the distance was too great, and the bastard would once again escape.


    ¡°My Lord!¡± Mykl called over the rising din of the city. ¡°Over there!¡±


    Nostas snapped around to find the Soldier Captain pointing in another direction. He followed the outstretched arm of his retainer and saw what he was pointing at.


    A second pillar, rising just like the first. Already it was starting to twist and howl, eerie light flickering within. Soon the mist would start to spread, and the ghosts would emerge shortly after.


    ¡°Distractions,¡± Nostas raged. ¡°He¡¯s toying with us!¡±


    ¡°What do we do, my Lord?¡± Mykl asked. ¡°Should we move to the closest pillar and protect the citizens?¡±


    ¡°Damn the citizens!¡± the young Lord Jorlin roared. ¡°They are cattle! Born to serve! I want Tyron Steelarm¡¯s head on a pike!¡±


    ¡°Right you are, my Lord,¡± Mykl replied, unruffled. ¡°Where do we strike?¡±


    Now that was the question. Where would the evil son of a bitch be going with the city in an uproar and thousands of ghosts roaming the streets? The madman wanted to bring down the nobility, the magisters, everything. There were dozens of places he could go to inflict real damage. The Cathedral. The Castle. The Red Tower. Any of the Noble Mansions in the city. Slayer Academies. Magick Towers.


    ¡°If I may, Lord Jorlin,¡± Sister Ceril stated quietly, walking up beside him again.


    All around them, the hysteria was growing. They could hear more and more screams, and people were starting to emerge from their homes and shops, flooding the streets in panic. In the distance, the pillars swirled, a maelstrom of dark power that would soon spit out a horde of furious spirits.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Nostas demanded.


    ¡°I think I have an inkling where the Necromancer will be headed.¡±

 B4C63 - Army of the Dead

    Tyron made good time through the sewers, pushing himself hard. As he ran, he combed through the new knowledge the Unseen had placed in his mind, trying to tease out all the details of his new spells and abilities he could in order to make use of them sooner rather than later.


    Of course, it would be more ideal if he had a few days in his study to work through magickal theory and develop careful, controlled tests to work out what would work and what wouldn¡¯t, but now wasn¡¯t the time for that. If he truly was a genius, this was the moment where he would have to prove it. Throwing together spellforms on the fly based on half-realised, implanted knowledge was the stuff of madmen or the truly stupid in his mother¡¯s opinion, but now that he was here, what choice did he have?


    Around him, he had his most powerful servants: Filleta and two other wights, along with a selection of his best revenants. Around them, a guard of over a hundred skeletons were gathered in a tight formation in front and behind. It made the sewer almost impossibly crowded, but since they were all running in the same direction, it didn¡¯t matter that much.


    Of course, as expected, their journey wasn¡¯t without interruptions. The Necromancer didn¡¯t even see the first confrontation; it was over before he even realised what had happened. A shout, a brief scuffle followed by screaming, his front-most skeletons drawing on his power as they fought, then it was over.


    As they kept moving forward, he stepped over the corpse just in time to avoid tripping. All he gained was a glimpse of the body, but it was enough to furnish him with the details. A face, twisted in horror, bearded with a broad moustache, plain work clothes, a guttering lamp dropped nearby. Most likely a sewer worker forced into the network by the Marshals or Magisters. No doubt he had a tracking spell on him, which meant they now had a rough idea where Tyron was.


    Not ideal, but nothing unexpected.


    There was nothing to do but push forward. No doubt, the city above was in complete chaos by now. Moving through the streets would become more and more difficult as people fled the horrors he had created. Eventually, the Duke would create some form of perimeter and gain control of the situation, but by then, Tyron hoped to have reached the Red Tower and finished his work.


    They continued to run.


    Only ten minutes later, the second clash occurred. This time, it wasn''t over quickly; there was shouting, the sound of steel ringing. Tyron could hear the combatants calling to each other.


    ¡°Hold the line!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re just skeletons!¡±


    ¡°Give ground if you have to! We don¡¯t have to win!¡±


    These were Soldiers, Marshals or perhaps even militia pressed into service. It was almost impossible to see what was happening in the darkness of the tunnel, not to mention the cramped conditions. Of course, that wasn¡¯t a full impediment for Tyron. A few gestures, a few words was all it took for him to see through the eyes of his minions.


    Using the vision of his foremost skeletons, he was able to decipher what was happening through the swirl of the melee. There were ten of them, fairly basically equipped, trying to match blades with his skeletons as they gave ground, slowing his progress.


    Withdrawing his vision, Tyron gave the command to his skeletons to push forward. For foes of this calibre, he didn¡¯t need to personally intervene; the skeletons would be enough on their own.


    Following his command, the skeletons pressed forward, heedless of their own wellbeing. Silent and efficient, they fought like the unfeeling, unthinking magickal beings they were. Suddenly pressured, the men weren¡¯t able to prevent themselves from getting swarmed, and the inevitable end came soon after.


    Less than a minute later, Tyron stepped over their bodies as well, taking no pleasure in the death of these regular citizens. The Houses would happily throw a million people in his way if they could, and if he had to cut them down to spill divine blood, then that was exactly what he was going to do.


    In anticipation of further interceptions, he sent several revenants and Filetta to the front to help manage the fighting there. As much as possible, he wanted to spend his time combing through his new abilities, but it seemed circumstances conspired against him.


    There weren¡¯t many four-way intersections in the sewer, as they generally weren¡¯t conducive to the flow rate, at least, so he gathered, but they did exist. One tunnel crossed another in such a place where there was a clear slope, letting all the refuse flow out of the junction in one direction.


    Tyron and his retinue formed a column around a hundred metres long, but such intersections were twenty metres wide at their largest. The bulk of his retinue was in the tunnel ahead or the tunnel behind when the Soldiers decided to spring their trap.


    Illusions dropped on Tyron¡¯s left and right, revealing armed bands of Soldiers backed by mages, spells primed and ready, staves pointed in his direction.


    He directed his minions at the speed of thought, thick shields of bone raised to cover him in an instant. Even without his mental command, the heavily armed and armoured wight on his left stepped forward to cover the Necromancer¡¯s body with his own.


    Leon had proven to be a loyal servant in his new life as a wight, despite some initial¡­ friction between the two of them. Tyron noted the action of his servant even as his hands rose and he began to speak.


    Words of power thrummed within the tunnel, reality itself bending and stretching as Tyron bent it to his will. Power flowed like a river even as spells flew into his minions. Careless of their own survival, his skeletons threw themselves on fireballs and lances of arcane power, uncaring that their shields erupted in flames or their bones flew apart. Nearly a dozen skeletons were obliterated by the initial barrage, but it didn¡¯t matter.


    Flickering magick poured into his minions and they moved faster, charging lightly through the tunnels to bring their swords of bone down on the waiting Soldiers, who held their ground solidly, unafraid. Behind the wall of steel, the mages prepared their next wave of spells. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    None of them were prepared when hands began to emerge from the sewage tunnels behind them, grasping hold of the pathway and pulling the rest of their skeletal frames out of the waters. By the time the second wave of spells was prepared, several of the mages had noticed, calling out in fear as they realised they had been flanked unawares.


    Spells intended for Tyron were instead fired in panic toward the minions closing in on them from behind. Tyron waited, preserving his energy as more and more skeletons emerged from the sewer and threw themselves into the fight, hacking and slashing.


    When his wights made it to the front of the battle, they clashed blades with the Soldiers who, now completely surrounded by the undead within the narrow confines of the tunnel, fought grimly, knowing they wouldn¡¯t make it out alive.


    Soon, this battle was also wrapped up, yet this time the pile of corpses was not left behind. Skeletons gathered up the remains as Tyron quickly scooped up the newly released souls. Ahead and behind, more and more skeletons emerged from the sewer as he resumed his run.


    Several groups trying to converge on his position were set upon by the newly emerged undead, Tyron able to direct the conflicts remotely as the sewers around him became filled with more and more skeletons and revenants.


    All the while, he drew closer to the Red Tower.


    ~~~


    ¡°What in the name of the Goddess is it?¡± Duke Raugrave Kenmor ground out as he stared at the pillar of darkness now finally starting to disperse.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t much more than an area filled with concentrated magick. Death Magick, to be specific. There are a few other principles bound up in the spell, but that¡¯s all I can get from this sort of distance.¡±


    Tyron bloody Steelarm. The prick had really gone and done it. What was with that family? The gods had dealt with Magnin and Beory, and those two were a fucking mountain compared to the molehill of their son, yet the entire capital had been thrown into chaos by the latter while the former had gone quietly to their deaths like good cattle should.


    The Archmage Bysol lowered his hands, the glowing sphere of magick he had conjured to analyse the pillar fading as he did so.


    ¡°The amount of magick required to produce something on that scale is¡­ absurd,¡± he muttered. ¡°Whoever is responsible would have had to have been stockpiling that energy for months¡­ probably years. The expertise to conceal concentrated magick of that level of potency is also¡­ extremely rare.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care about how it was done,¡± the Duke said coldly, ¡°I only care about what it¡¯s done to my city.¡±


    The Archmage nodded and brought his hands up again, muttering a quick spell. A glowing sigil appeared in the air, and Brysol spoke into it briefly, listening carefully to a response that Raugrave couldn¡¯t hear.


    ¡°Our mages who reached the base of the pillar are reporting sightings of undead. Spirits are roaming through the streets, and zombies have been sighted emerging from the ground and sewers.¡±


    ¡°Zombies?¡± Raugrave barked. ¡°Where in the hells have the corpses come from?¡±


    ¡°If I were to guess, the Necromancer prepared some of them in advance, but also, if I¡¯m not mistaken, that pillar is close to where the recent¡­ disposal sites are concentrated. Any unburned corpses would have sucked in that Death Magick and risen of their own accord.¡±


    The Duke sucked in a deep, calming breath. Things were certainly not going his way, but it was fine. He was the Duke, in command of the entire Western Province. All the cards were in his hands. What was most important was that he squash this Necromancer like the insect that he was as quickly as possible. With a little luck, he could contain this disaster before things got too out of hand and word spread back to the Emperor.


    If the Divine Court believed him incapable of handling the crisis, then it was truly over.


    ¡°Send word to the Noble Houses. I want all of them to assemble in the Castle along with their best Soldiers,¡± he ordered. ¡°Then I want the Gold Slayers to get off their backsides and confront the undead scourge. If there aren''t enough of them, turn out the Slayer Academies as well. The students can deal with a few zombies and ghosts.¡±


    With the Nobles safely secured in the Castle, he could prevent any further loss of Divine Blood, which would help mitigate the damage in the eyes of the Emperor.


    If the Slayers could deal with the undead, which they should, seeing as how the undead were basically monsters, then that should free up enough resources to deal with the Necromancer problem.


    Beside him, Archmage Bysol was busy conjuring more sigils, spreading the Duke¡¯s orders as he said them.


    ¡°Have the Marshals establish a perimeter around the pillars. We don¡¯t know if these zombies are able to spread the curse or not, so we can¡¯t afford anyone to escape and infect the rest of the city. Instruct them to kill on sight, and have the militia mobilised to assist. The Magisters and my personal troops will be tasked with hunting down the Necromancer and taking off his head.¡±


    The Archmage frowned as he relayed the orders. Only when the sigil had been dismissed did he dare to question the Duke.


    ¡°We have no evidence that the zombies are capable of spreading their affliction. In fact, natural-born zombies are almost never capable of it. If we can catch and study one, my Mages would be able to determine the truth of the matter in minutes. Is it really necessary to issue a kill order so soon?¡±


    ¡°Any risk of it spreading is too high,¡± the Duke responded callously.


    If thousands of citizens were killed, that was fine, the Divine Court wouldn¡¯t care. If hundreds of thousands died, that may be a different matter.


    From atop the Castle, the city of Kenmor spread like a blanket of structures and lights. The Duke was attuned to the state of the city through his unique Class, granted to him upon his ascension to his current Rank. There was a poison in the veins of Kenmor, one that he hadn¡¯t been able to sense before, a sickness that had lain hidden for far too long. Along with the rising tide of terror within the walls, it was enough to set his teeth on edge.


    He turned away from the view and stormed back into his personal quarters where his personal army of servants awaited his commands.


    ¡°Prepare my armour and sword,¡± he demanded. ¡°I will go into the city personally. Inform my retinue.¡±


    Archmage Bysol strode in after him, robes brushing along the lusciously carpeted floor as he walked.


    ¡°That may not be wise, my Duke,¡± the old man cautioned. ¡°You are a formidable combatant, but your power lies in your Divine Title. There are others more suited to battle who can go in your stead.¡±


    Raugrave turned and glared at the Archmage.


    ¡°You want me to sit on my hands in the castle while the city falls apart? Do you know what will happen if the damage isn¡¯t contained?¡±


    Bysol grimaced. He knew the Duke wasn¡¯t talking about the cost in life, but rather the threat to his own position.


    ¡°There isn¡¯t much point avoiding death at the hands of the Emperor if you are killed in the chaos of the city, my Lord,¡± he tried one more time.


    ¡°Be silent, Bysol,¡± the Duke ordered, fire in his eyes. ¡°Death at the hands of the Emperor is certain; dying in the city is unlikely at worst. I will go down there and take command personally. If I lay eyes on Tyron Steelarm, I will order him to rip out his own throat.¡±


    He pointed a finger at the Archmage.


    ¡°And you are coming with me. Prepare yourself. We leave as soon as I¡¯m ready.¡±

 B4C64 - The Red Tower

    The Lady Recillia Erryn was furious. Beyond furious. She sat behind her desk, demeanour so icy the unfortunate Magisters summoned to her office felt their breath should have been misting in the air.


    Unlike the various functionaries, who scurried in and out of the office, for Grand Magister Tommat Baln, there was no escape. Seated at a second desk at a decidedly lower level than the Noble, he was forced to endure her fury at close range as best he was able.


    ¡°How many times did the Red Tower commission this heretic and criminal, Grand Magister?¡± Lady Erryn asked, her voice emotionless and flat. ¡°Surely you have determined the final number by now.¡±


    Even her face was a still mask, giving no hint of her underlying emotions, but there was no doubt as to how she felt. The heat of her gaze was scalding, and the chill of her words was icy.


    ¡°Well, uh,¡± Grand Magister Tommat stuttered, flicking through the stack of loose papers in front of him. ¡°We contracted Lukas Almsfield on¡­ at least three occasions. He did¡­¡± more shuffling papers, ¡°... several jobs for us in each commission¡­ his speciality was conduit magick, which is widely applicable.¡±


    Lady Erryn folded her hands together in front of her on the table, a genteel gesture, but the old Magister couldn¡¯t help but feel she was restraining her hands lest she rip his throat out.


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t answer my question,¡± she said quietly.


    Her glare was like a roaring bonfire, and the Grand Magister wilted even further. He retreated to the only tactic that remained to him: honesty.


    ¡°We brought in dozens of Arcanists on limited contracts through that period,¡± he pleaded. ¡°All the work was documented, but it''s difficult to rifle through the paperwork so quickly. I have ten Magisters and documentarians going through the records, but it will take time.¡±


    ¡°Time we don¡¯t have,¡± the reply was swift and sharp. ¡°Unless you haven¡¯t noticed, the city has been plunged into a state of emergency. I¡¯m told there are ghosts and zombies roaming the streets and the gold ranked slayers have been turned out to fight, which means our people need to be actively monitoring the curse. How can we do that when the security of the Tower has been compromised?¡±


    The old man grimaced. There wasn¡¯t a good answer to that, yet he reached for one anyway.


    ¡°Does it really matter if we can¡¯t immediately say what the Necromancer worked on?¡± he asked. When Lady Erryn raised her hands, he continued hurriedly. ¡°You subjected him to the Divine Authority. If he uses any of his knowledge against us, he will immediately die. Doesn¡¯t that give us some level of safety?¡±


    Recillia Erryn struggled to restrain her temper. The Grand Magister could only be partially blamed for his ignorance; he was a symptom, not the disease. The complacency she had been working so hard to rip out by the root had coddled the old man his entire life. To think an enemy could penetrate the heart of the Red Tower, work extensively on its defensive enchantments, and still they couldn¡¯t feel the blade on their neck was maddening.


    They had received a message less than an hour ago informing them that the mysterious attacker who had slaughtered everyone at the Jorlin estate had been identified. The name ¡®Lukas Almsfield¡¯ hadn¡¯t caused any alarm bells immediately, but she had soon recalled that she had in fact heard the name before. When she¡¯d eventually placed the name, she remembered meeting him. A lean, yellow-haired young man with dark eyes and an intense air about him.


    Of course, somehow, that hadn¡¯t been his real face. As a matter of course, she had tested whether the Arcansist had a glamour concealing his true features, but had failed to break it. She had no idea how such a thing was possible, but she couldn¡¯t deny the now-clear reality of the situation.


    ¡°I want everything that maniac touched to be dismantled by the end of the night,¡± she demanded, deciding to do as she always did and ride roughshod over the Grand Magister¡¯s sputtering protestations. ¡°I don¡¯t care what you have to do, get it done. Delegate someone to supervise it, since I want you to personally oversee managing the gold Slayers¡¯ curses. If something goes wrong tonight, I will personally see to it that you are crucified in the courtyard tomorrow.¡±


    The Grand Magister paled, and pushed himself up from the table.


    ¡°V-very well,¡± he muttered, trying to preserve his dignity. ¡°I will s-see to it immediately.¡±


    Before he could make his exit, the double door to the office burst open, a red-faced Magister rushing in and shouting.


    ¡°He¡¯s here!¡± he gasped out. ¡°There are skeletons climbing out of the sewer around the tower!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± the Grand Magister gaped, while Recillia rose calmly from her seat.


    ¡°Let us prepare to welcome him, then,¡± she said, eyes glittering darkly. ¡°I can¡¯t wait to see him dead.¡±


    They rushed out of her office. Well, the Magisters did. Lady Recillia Erryn moved in a stately manner that somehow still kept pace with the Mages'' more energetic motion. Every level of the Red Tower featured a corridor that ran the entire circumference. From there, narrow, slitted windows coated with protective enchantments allowed a good view of the surroundings and for spells to be cast through in relative safety.


    Magisters crowded around several of the windows before Recillia and the others arrived, but they quickly made way when they recognised the Grand Magister, and more importantly, herself. Staring down into the street, the Noblewoman could see what had raised the alarm.


    Skeletons were climbing out of several sewer entrances, gathering into neat ranks in the street. Even more were coming from nearby roads, marching out of the darkness, no doubt having used sewer exits nearby. Already there were hundreds of skeletons, their massed purple eyes emitting an eerie glow that blended with the magick street lamps that lined the broad avenues around the tower.


    The heavily armed and armoured warriors who guarded the gate were all assembled, their ranks formed up behind the rapidly closing gate as archers rushed into the towers and along the top of the wall that ringed the tower.


    ¡°How many Magisters will be available for the defence?¡± Recillia demanded.


    Grand Magister Tommat blinked as he turned reluctantly from the grisly scene on the street.


    ¡°W-well. We need at least twenty to manage the gold rank curse markers. Then¡­ at least a dozen to work on dismantling the enchanting work.¡±


    ¡°The Necromancer is already here,¡± she reminded him icily, ¡°there is no point fiddling with the enchantments. Get those Magisters to the windows. Now.¡±


    The old man nodded and turned to his brother Magisters, issuing stammered commands that sent several robed figures running away while others conjured communication sigils.


    The Noble Lady kept her eyes on the streets below as more and more skeletons continued to emerge. They held back from the Tower itself, massing across the broad avenue under the cover of the awnings of the buildings.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    How many were there? Hundreds, and more emerging constantly.


    Then her eyes flared as the Necromancer himself climbed out of the sewer, in full view of the tower. It was difficult to make out the details of the figure, as he was obscured by a sphere of blood as well as the thick, plated bone armour he wore, yet she could feel something coming off that person, an inkling of power that prickled against her skin.


    ¡°He¡¯s Gold Rank,¡± she stated. ¡°Hit him, now!¡±


    The Magisters turned to stare at her words, then back to the windows as she issued her command. Immediately, they raised their hands, muttering words of power as they began to shape their magick into spells.


    The Necromancer below looked up immediately, as if he could sense the spells coming, then raised his own hands in response.


    The air rippled as if struck by an invisible fist. At first, Lady Erryn couldn¡¯t understand what had happened, then the phenomenon repeated, and again.


    It was the Necromancer, she realised belatedly. He was casting a spell, and reality was shaking as if it were a drum being struck. Several of the Magisters staggered under the effect of that powerful warping, but others held firm, thrusting forth their palms and launching their spells.


    Five beams of ruby red light blasted down from the windows, streaking toward the figure below, who did not react. The light smashed into an invisible barrier, scattering across its spherical surface, sending shards of light arcing through the air and skittering across the cobbled road.


    The Necromancer did not stop casting, every word impacting the air with a physical force as he moved from sigil to sigil with flawless precision.


    ¡°Keep casting,¡± Recillia ordered, ¡°the shield will break.¡±


    Except it didn¡¯t. Skeletons emerged, different from the others, holding glowing staves in their hands, some of them with strange, eerie green flesh. Dozens of skeletal mages came forward, reinforcing the shield as the Necromancer brought his spell to a close.


    A grand arch began to form, formed entirely of intertwined bones. A large door was set in the centre of the arch, and uncaring of the barrage of spells falling on him, the Necromancer stepped to the door and pulled it open.


    Dark smoke billowed out of the door sweeping across the ground and rising into the air, obscuring the Necromancer, the door and arch in moments. Moments before it rose high enough, Recillia caught a glimpse of a massive skeleton stepping out of the door and rising to its full height, a huge, black sword gripped in its hand.


    The black cloud billowed outward like a wave, crashing against the iron gates of the compound as ghostly lights flickered in the darkness. Arrows began to fly, along with spells, sending the warriors posted in the high places ducking behind the crenellations to gain cover.


    ¡°Deploy the Tower shield,¡± she demanded, and for once Tommat Baln was ahead of her, already communicating with someone through a sigil.


    Moments later, there was a powerful surge of energy, so strong the air fizzed with it, causing the hair on the back of Recillia¡¯s neck to rise. Through the window, she could see the shield descend as it was projected from the top of the tower, falling like a red curtain to envelop the grounds.


    Surrounded by the scarlet glow of the shield, the tower took on a maddening, hellish hue, bathing the features of everyone near the windows in a blood-red tint.


    ¡°We will be limited in what magick we can send through the shield,¡± Tommat said, stroking his long beard nervously with one hand. ¡°It will be difficult to fight off the undead without the full support of the Magisters.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t need to win,¡± Lady Erryn told him. ¡°All we have to do is hold our ground. Eventually the Duke, the Noble Houses, Marshals and Soldiers will descend on this place, even the Slayers. So long as he doesn¡¯t get in, he¡¯ll be crushed by the might of the Western Province.¡±


    ¡°R-right you are, my Lady,¡± Tommat nodded.


    Through the black cloud, it was almost impossible to see what was happening in the street. Even the highest point of the bone arch was now hidden from view, the entire avenue outside the tower grounds concealed in darkness. Arrows and spells continued to fly, but they bounced harmlessly off the shield or scattered across its surface.


    Against a defensive measure designed to keep out an army of Slayers, Recillia doubted a single man would have any hope of even scratching the surface.


    ¡°Can you sense that?¡± Grand Magister Tommat asked.


    For a long moment, there was silence in the crowded corridor, Mages looking at one another, or staring blankly into space as they used their arcane senses to probe their surroundings.


    Lady Erryn turned her glare on the Grand Magister, wishing the old man would be more specific.


    ¡°What have you found?¡± she demanded.


    Tommat frowned, his eyes roaming upwards as he tried to discern just what it was he had glimpsed. Then it came again, and his face paled.


    ¡°It¡¯s the shield!¡± he gasped.


    ¡°What about it?¡± Recillia said icily.


    ¡°I think¡­ I think¡­¡± the Grand Magister muttered as he continued to tilt his head this way and that, trying to grasp what he was sensing. ¡°I think¡­ that¡­ we have a problem.¡±


    Several nearby Magisters had begun to weave spells, using them to inspect the surrounding magick, or to communicate with their fellows who were working the vast arrays that powered the Tower¡¯s enchantments.


    ¡°Power is being syphoned from the shield!¡± one of them announced, his eyes afire with blue magick.


    ¡°That¡¯s impossible!¡± Tommat shouted, but by his face, Recillia could see he doubted his own words.


    She grit her teeth and turned back to the window, staring down at the billowing darkness.


    ¡°Burn away that cloud,¡± she demanded. ¡°Dispel it. Destroy it. I don¡¯t care, but I want to see what is happening down there.¡±


    Tommat nodded and began to coordinate with his fellow Magisters, his pale, sweating face inspiring little confidence. At least when it came to magick, they were competent enough to get the job done. Soon they had several dozen Mages working in concert, using their power to break apart the magick sustaining the cloud.


    As they did, Recillia noticed that the light of the shield was starting to dim. It was slow, very slow, but even she could discern it with the naked eye.


    For several agonising minutes, the Magisters warred against the darkness, until finally it broke. The cloud scattered, fading away rapidly once the magick that produced it had been destroyed.


    Audible gasps filled the room, and for the first time, Recillia felt a tinge of fear run down her spine as she took in the scene.


    The street was filled with skeletons. Not hundreds. Thousands. All of them carrying arms forged of midnight-black bone. There was a sea of burning purple lights in their eyes, all of them staring directly forward at the tower. Throughout their ranks were more impressive undead, with full sets of armour and more elaborate weapons, and there were also cauldrons formed of grinning skulls held aloft here and there by groups of skeletons bearing them upon their bony shoulders.


    There were a dozen of the enormous skeletal creatures, each one twice the height of a man, standing stock still, waiting, staring toward the gate.


    Just before the arch stood the Necromancer, in the centre of an ornate ritual circle drawn in white sand. Every word, every gesture sent a ripple through the air as a mass of dark power over his head continued to swell with each passing moment.


    ¡°He¡¯s draining power from our arrays!¡± Tommat gasped. ¡°Somehow he tapped into the conduits!¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no way he was allowed to work on the shield arrays!¡± another Magister protested.


    ¡°Stop your babbling and kill him!¡± Recillia roared, pointing a finger at the Necromancer. ¡°He¡¯s right there!¡±


    There were hundreds of windows facing that side of the tower, and from them, Magisters began to send a barrage of spells, all targeting the man conducting his ritual in plain view.


    None of them got through. Surrounded by his undead servants, they used magickal shields of their own to protect him, or raised their shields of bone to cover his body, or even sacrificed their skeletal forms to prevent spells from reaching their target.


    All the while, the mass of dark power grew, draining away energy from the tower itself, slowly taking on the form of a hand made of dense, black mist.


    With his shields flickering, and his minions battered and driven back, the Necromancer raised his staff, then tilted it toward the tower gates.


    The black hand surged forward, reforming into a fist of Necromantic power the size of a horse-drawn wagon.


    Recillia subconsciously braced herself.


    The fist crashed into the gate with tremendous force. The shield shattered with a deafening crash even as the gate was blasted inwards. A shockwave rippled outward from the impact, rattling the tower and sending the Magisters down to their knees.


    Silent as the grave, the skeletons advanced.

 B4C65 - Battle of the Dead

    Power thrummed within Tyron. Every fibre of his being was awash with it. His personal reservoir of magick boomed like an ocean, crashing against the confines of his soul with the fury of a hurricane.


    And he could sense all of it. Almost like he had been granted a sixth sense, Perceive Magick gave him¡­ an extra sensory organ tuned only to the ebb and flow of arcane energy. When he raised his hands and began to form sigils, he could feel the power move with a clarity he had never experienced before, sense it flow and change as he enforced his will, shaping it into something new.


    He was so enraptured with this sensation he found it difficult to focus on the unfolding battle in front of him.


    Wights, revenants and his strongest skeletons, backed by the massive Bone Giants he had constructed, assaulted the now-open gates. Disciplined ranks of highly trained, high-level Soldiers, Archers and Mages held the line, refusing to give ground to his undead army.


    That simply wouldn¡¯t do.


    Once again, Tyron raised his hands and began to bend reality to his will. Magick flowed like a river as he spoke the words of power, using every ounce of skill and potency he could muster. He poured all of it into the spell he was crafting.


    From his feet, a grey mist began to spread. It spread rapidly, blossoming outwards into a circle with him at the centre. The mist wasn¡¯t real, but a construct formed of magick, and he had to constantly supply more energy to maintain it, but once it reached the defensive line, its effects became known.


    Men cried out in pain and anger as the mist, no more than a few centimetres high, began to drift around their feet. As they did so, the small pockets of the mist that touched them became tinged with red light, and began to drift towards Tyron, rather than away from him.


    When these small patches of mist reached him, they flowed into his flesh, and he felt the invigorating energy they contained merge with his own.


    The Field of Death. A spell he hadn¡¯t employed much, but had taken the time to study. It would steal away the life force of the living and bring it to him, so long as it was active.


    With a sharp breath, he began to enact another of his new abilities. Placing a hand on his chest, he sensed his own life, the vitality that infused his body, and began to burn it. With a constitution as absurdly robust as his own, Tyron¡¯s life force was a roaring flame, a great bonfire that would sustain him through inhuman levels of punishment and deprivation, but he had another use for it now.


    As he sacrificed his own life, it changed form, turning into magick and flowing into the raging reservoir within him.


    In a detached manner, he examined the torrent of magick within him. All around, his minions were drawing on his power. The mages of the tower continued to rain down magick upon him, but Tyron was protected by the dozens of skeletal mages he had created for the specific purpose of shielding him. At the front, his Bone Giants, wights, revenants and basic minions fought vigorously, draining yet more power. The Field of Death, the ever-flowing mist that gushed outwards from around his feet, also drew on his power.


    Yet now he counteracted that loss, providing new energy, pouring in more and more magick as he consumed his own vitality to supply it.


    When a third of his life force had been burned away, he stopped and took stock.


    The mist continued to bring him small packets of healing, which suffused him and replenished his energy, but the Field of Death wasn¡¯t paying for itself. The spell took all the life it stole and turned it into magick, but he was still running at a loss. Yet he felt that was likely due to the Skills being new and relatively low-levelled. When he grasped them better, they would cost less to cast and the ratio of life-to-magick would improve, allowing him to gain more from them.


    For now, it was fine. The drain on his power was more than manageable. His minions continued to generate their own energy using the intricately crafted web of conduits that bound them together. In fact, with all of his minions finally gathered together in one place, Tyron was able to witness just how much death-aligned energy they were able to create between them.


    His mind was cast back to that first moment when he had witnessed the tiny flecks of energy being passed between remains, growing ever so slightly each time. Gradually, that process would accelerate until the bodies were saturated, giving rise to wild undead. Now he witnessed that same process, but magnified several thousand times over.


    Not only did his minions constantly draw in and convert ambient magick through the arrays he had built into them, they also generated death magick just by being around each other, passing that energy between them and growing it each time.


    The end result was that the larger his horde grew, the more it would be capable of sustaining itself. The draw on his own reserves was much lower than he had expected, which meant he could spend more of his own power to tip the balance in his minions¡¯ favour.


    With a thought, Tyron commanded his minions, and they obeyed his will. All around the horde, the cauldrons were activated, spewing forth dense black mist suffused with death magick. In less than a minute, the entire avenue was covered in darkness, and Tyron shifted his position so the mages could no longer concentrate their fire on him.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    If they persisted in targeting him, his minions would be the ones to lose the battle of attrition. To remain safe, he needed to hide from their sight and break into the tower before they could dispel the black mist again.


    Reality shivered like a struck bell as he spoke once more, his hands flickering rapidly from one sigil to the next. More power flowed and the Shivering Curse took hold, blanketing the battlefield in a penetrating chill that pierced armour and flesh alike, getting straight to the bone.


    The Magisters were coordinated, pushing back against his magick and doing all they could to alleviate the effects. Tyron tsked as he witnessed them nullifying the curse. They weren¡¯t able to dispel it completely, not yet at least, but the Soldiers still holding at the front were able to ignore most of its effects.


    Between his skeletal mages and the Magisters, it was clear who was superior, and Tyron knew that despite all he was capable of, he wasn¡¯t enough to tip the scales by himself.


    With the demi-liches he could now create, he would be able to rectify this deficiency and bring enough magickal firepower to his army to hold their own against large numbers of trained mages. For now, he knew he would have to continue to pour out his reserves and hope it would be enough to prevent his skeletons from being overwhelmed.


    Now that he was hidden from sight, the Magisters in the towers had taken up two separate tasks. The first was attempting to break the mist and expose him once more, but they were contending not with a single spell, but a constant outpouring of energy from the cauldron constructs. To win, they would need to throw more energy at the mist than his cauldrons were providing, which would be difficult.


    The other half had taken to providing spell support to the battle at the gates. Beams of glaring red light, shards of crystalline energy that shattered just over the horde, bolts of malevolent energy, all of it rained down on his minions in a constant barrage that disrupted his front line and damaged his undead, reducing their effectiveness.


    This wouldn¡¯t do.


    Tyron utilised another of his new abilities. He chanted the words and formed the sigils, extending his hands out over the horde before him, and felt the spell take effect. Once again, his life force began to burn, but this time, it wasn¡¯t turned into magick; instead, it flowed out of him and over his army. Whenever it passed over a skeleton who had suffered damage, it flowed into them, his vitality consumed to reforge their bones and repair their weave.


    As he cut off the spell, he staggered to one side, clutching at his chest. Flesh to Bone was just what he had hoped for, but draining himself of so much life was a less than pleasant experience. Even using as much vitality as he had, he was far from repairing all the damage his undead had already sustained, especially at the front.


    Still, his minions were better positioned now. More of his skeletal mages had moved to the front to help shield the undead, and more of his shield-bearing minions were in position to defend their brethren.


    Drained of life, Tyron knew he had to keep pushing, so he didn¡¯t stop. Gathering himself again, he cast Death Blades, empowering the weapons of his army. When that was done, he began to hurl offensive magick into the fray.


    Bone Lances and Death¡¯s Fists began to flow, one after another as he employed the dual casting technique, words tripping from his tongue so rapidly they were almost indistinguishable from one another. Many of his spells were deflected or blocked, but many others weren¡¯t. Every time he caused damage, a little bit of life energy would meld with his own, gradually healing him and replenishing his reserves.


    Tyron¡¯s skeletons outnumbered the defenders by ten to one or more, but the weight of those numbers didn¡¯t matter so long as they had to fight into the relatively narrow gateway. The Soldiers and Magisters clearly realised the same, since they seemed determined to hold the passage, no matter the sacrifice. Despite pushing hard, his undead hadn¡¯t been able to dislodge the enemy, and the battle had stalled. It was becoming a waiting game. He would eventually be able to grind down the defenders. With his superior numbers and unrelenting undead, it was only a matter of time. It didn¡¯t matter if every Soldier took down five skeletons before succumbing, there would still be a horde standing at the end.


    Yet could Tyron afford to wait that long? He was under no illusions that the entirety of the forces in Kenmor were present within the Red Tower, far from it. Eventually, the ghosts he had created to act as a distraction would be dealt with and the Duke would collapse on him like an iron fist. In fact, if Tyron didn¡¯t breach the tower, the Duke wouldn¡¯t even have to. The Gold-ranked Slayers would be driven to do the job for him, and he had no chance of standing against them.


    Decisively, Tyron turned towards the arch of bone that stood behind him, striding up to the great door and pulling it open once more.


    ¡°You¡¯re needed,¡± he called inside, before stepping back to allow space.


    The sound of shuffling, then heavy footsteps, the dull grind of bone on bone as something within approached the door.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think you wanted us to come out this early,¡± an eerie, surreal voice stated.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t,¡± Tyron replied, flatly, ¡°but needs must.¡±


    From within, a wight emerged, glowing spirit flesh bound to their still visible skeleton within, yet this one was different from the others. Clad head to foot in layers of dense, black bone armour, this undead was the most heavily armoured of his servants by far. Such a weight of armour would make a minion ungainly under normal circumstances, but for this particular wight, it wouldn¡¯t matter so much.


    As his undead emerged, so too did the reins in their hand, followed by the ghastly, skeletal form of an undead horse. The form of the equine burned with purple light, indicating the soul of the animal still existed, moulded into the frame. It too was bound in heavy bone plating, a powerful array bound into its ribcage feeding power to the entire form.


    Once the mount was clear of the door, the wight reached up and climbed into the saddle, then silently directed the skeletal horse to move, making way for those that came behind.


    There were ten altogether. Not an overwhelming number, but each had taken a lot of time to put together, and a considerable amount of resources. Only the first was a wight, but the rest were all revenants. Tyron had hoped to use them as a surprise for later conflicts, but he needed them now.


    As his fellow undead mounted up behind him, the wight took in the sight of the unfolding battle and the grand tower rising before them.


    ¡°Magisters,¡± he stated flatly. ¡°You already have me killing nobles.¡±


    ¡°Yours was always a life of service, Captain Janus,¡± Tyron replied, his tone cold, ¡°you have merely swapped one master for another. What you defended in life, I will have you destroy in death.¡±


    ¡°Do I have a choice?¡± the wight said, eerie tone filled with bitterness.


    ¡°You already made your choice. You didn¡¯t want to fade out of existence, so now, you serve.¡±

 B4C66 - Break

    Tyron allowed his wights to coordinate the charge as he moved away from the arch before de-summoning it. The wide road before the tower gate would soon be filled with his enemies, and if they got inside the ossuary, who knew what they might do?


    The arch faded from existence, taking the door with it, and Tyron turned to stride back toward the battle. Archers continued to exchange fire overhead, arrows forged from bone or wood seeking out the vulnerable and unaware. Few managed to land a meaningful shot, but it added to the general chaos, which gave Tyron a greater advantage. Unlike the living beings they were fighting, the skeletons didn¡¯t feel fear and had no instincts of self-preservation. When arrows shattered on the cobblestones around their feet, they didn¡¯t flinch, second-guess or waver in their resolve.


    The same wasn¡¯t true for the other side.


    Once the fear took hold, he knew he would have won, his undead would trample the wavering spirits of the living beneath their heels. All he needed was to shock his opponents into giving him an opening.


    Once more he raised his hands and began to fling spells into the melee, waiting for the right moment to strike.


    The frontline of the battle was chaos, shields crashing on shields, blades rising and falling, the press of bodies so dense it was difficult to tell one form from another. The humans roared battle cries, shouted crisp, disciplined orders and fought with controlled fury, holding the line against the unending tide of grinning skeletons who came at them time and time again. The undead were silent, unfeeling and untiring. Skeletons up and down the lines continued to fight with cracked skulls that leaked magick or missing arms.


    And they were strong. When their opponents expected them to be light and weak, they dug in and pushed back with strength that belied their light frames.


    Then there were the wights and revenants. Human spirits, severed from mortality, they fought like demons, unfeeling and unrelenting, they stalked up and down the line, crashing to the front whenever they saw an opening, fighting with a calculated, disciplined style that the regular skeletons lacked. Whenever the undead line buckled, they were there, enchanted bone armour granting them incredible resilience as they battered back the Soldiers and stabilised the fight.


    When he judged the time was right, Tyron moved closer to the front and prepared to cast. Field of Death was still providing him small bursts of vital energy, though it wasn¡¯t enough to defeat his enemies. The damage caused was slight, and their opponents appeared to have enough divine healing to offset the damage it caused. Yet Tyron maintained it. The healing was meaningful enough, and it was yet another thing that his enemy had to contend with.


    He raised his hands once more, beginning to cast.


    The moment he did, a barrage of spells from above lanced down towards him, and Tyron was forced to abandon his cast, flicking the still-forming energy away from himself before any backlash could take shape. Dozens of spells crashed into the road where he¡¯d been standing, turning the stone surface to slag in an instant. Several spells shattered, sending shards of crystalline magick scattering everywhere, and without the timely intervention of several shield-bearing skeletons, they would have landed, possibly scattering off his armour, or maybe piercing his flesh.


    Tyron picked himself up off the ground and glared up toward the tower. They were waiting for him to start casting, using the ripples of magick to locate him, and then pummeling his location with spells. A simple, but apparently effective method to stop him from using any larger magicks.


    Gritting his teeth, the Necromancer considered his options. He could bring all his skeletal mages back to protect him, but they were in position to support the front line. Getting them to extricate themselves would take time and leave his regular skeletons vulnerable. However, if he let the Magisters take him out of the fight, it would be disastrous, especially at this key moment.


    Throwing caution to the wind, he made a snap decision and mentally commanded his undead. Skeletons rushed to his side and raised their plated-bone shields to cover him. A few of his skeletal mages weren¡¯t committed to the front, so he gathered them, then took a breath and raised his hands once more.


    He knew what was coming, and so worked as quickly as he could. Despite the rapid pace, his pronunciation was flawless, his execution of the sigils without error. The rain of spells came, as expected, but he didn¡¯t flinch. His skeletons held their ground, drawing deep on the reserves of power they contained to bolster their strength.


    Shields shattered and skeletons fell, only to be replaced by others stepping up to protect him. Some spells got through, searing light burning grooves into his armour and helm, but Tyron didn¡¯t flinch.


    Once more he cast Blessing of Bone, then smoothly transitioned to his next spell as the endless barrage of spells fell on him. More and more of his undead fell, their shields burned through or broken by the magick, and his skeleton mages were quickly running out of power as the flimsy shields they conjured were completely unable to hold back the tide.


    Once the second spell was done, Tyron began to move, putting distance between him and the casting location as once again his life force poured out and over his minions. His breath grew haggard as the vitality that sustained him withered away, his body becoming wracked with pain, but he didn¡¯t stop.


    When half of his life force had been given to his minions, he stopped the flow and took a moment to gather himself. Even with his absurdly robust constitution, there wasn¡¯t enough to repair all the damage to such a large number of minions. He estimated he might have already lost a hundred or more, but it didn¡¯t matter, there were so many more.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°They¡¯re ready to charge.¡±


    The oddly distant voice came from his left, and Tyron turned to see Filetta standing there, indicating the mounted undead moving into position.


    ¡°Hopefully it works,¡± he grunted.


    If it didn¡¯t, he was going to be in trouble. He couldn¡¯t afford to let this battle drag out any longer.


    Tyron eyed his spectral steeds and the revenants riding them. Putting horses together had been a nightmare of experimentation, but the final product, he hoped, would be worth it.


    Without a word, they charged, and Tyron raised his hands once more.


    The skeletal cavalry stormed over the ground, a clear path opened for them by the other wights organising the troops. In a flying wedge with the wight who had once been Captain Janus of the Jorlin family guard at the head.


    Even Tyron had to admit it was an intimidating sight. Each of the riders, along with their steeds, was covered in the heaviest, most durable bone armour he could forge. The plates themselves were also enchanted, making the riders by far the most resource-intensive minions he had ever created.


    As they neared the front, Tyron once again began to cast. After the first few syllables were spoken, the rain of spells began again, only to halt when the skeletal riders came into view.


    By then, it was too late.


    With the mighty, ethereal wight at their head, the cavalry leaped directly over the front two rows of skeletons, their speed greatly enhanced by the blessing of bone. Soldiers recoiled in shock, but there was nowhere for them to go in the crush, and they could do nothing but raise their shields as the horses crashed down on them, their riders laying about with their swords.


    The pressure on Tyron immediately lightened, and he raced to complete his spell. Power flowed as the words rang out, and in a few more moments he was done.


    Death to Life. Just like the Field of Death, it was a spell that required constant upkeep, yet another drain on his resources, yet he felt, in this moment, it would be worth it.


    With a mental command, Tyron drove his minions forward, pressing up himself as he began to throw more spells.


    A rain of blows and magick fell on the skeletal riders, but they endured, shields raised and blades falling all about them. The undead horses kicked and tossed, causing mayhem through the lines as they soundlessly responded to their riders¡¯ commands.


    The charge of the cavalry had created a crack, and the undead poured into that opening like a collapsing wave. The trickle became a flood, the shouts of the living turned into the screams of the dying, and Tyron continued to press forward.


    Shortly after, a burst of vitality reached him and Tyron gasped as the life-force flowed into his own. The pain in his limbs faded and the lethargic fugue he was experiencing lifted, if only slightly. Then another burst arrived, and Tyron closed his eyes.


    His spell was working, reaping a harvest of life from the enemy fallen. Every burst of healing he received represented the death of a mortal, and he was sorely in need of the energy.


    Spells from above continued to rain down, but they weren¡¯t targeting anything in particular anymore, merely attempting to stem the flood of undead as they squeezed through the breached gate, driving back the defenders.


    Push. PUSH! Tyron demanded of his undead, and they responded.


    His skeletal warriors fought recklessly, burning through magick as they fought, heedless of their own survival, throwing themselves on the buckling enemy lines in an endless wave. More bursts of vitality reached Tyron, and he began to convert his life force into magick once again, seeking to fuel the increased expenditure of his minions.


    Despite the punishment they were taking, his skeletal cavalry continued to stand tall, their thick plating absorbing blows and spells alike. Skillful and quick, they moved in perfect concert with their mounts, as if they shared a single mind, which to all intents and purposes, they did.


    As the cauldrons advanced, so did the cloud of black mist, washing over the battleline, no longer able to be held back by the mages there. Once the soldiers were plunged into darkness, the flow of vitality into Tyron increased.


    Then, the line broke.


    When it happened, it happened rapidly. A desperate voice called for them to fall back to the Tower, and the Soldiers were running.


    Tyron¡¯s heart surged and he laughed as his undead streamed forward, cutting down whoever they could reach. The Red Tower was accessed by an enormous set of double doors, which had been open during the battle as the wounded who could be reached were taken inside during the fighting.


    Now, in the midst of the desperate and chaotic retreat, they began to swing closed. Those within were clearly desperate to keep the skeletal horde out, even though their own allies would be left in the cold as well. Covered once more by the black mist, the undead spread quickly throughout the compound, encircling the tower as they continued to hunt anyone who¡¯d been left outside.


    Several Archers had made a run for it, leaping down from the outer wall and into the street, avoiding the skeletons who still remained outside and disappeared into the gathering night. For the Soldiers and mages who hadn¡¯t been on the wall, escape was not so easy. In pockets here and there, they fought, desperate shouts and screams filling the night as the doors slammed shut, leaving dozens trapped outside.


    Through it all, Tyron strode, his life force rapidly refilling as so many died around him.


    The compound was now his, and the tower itself would soon follow.


    ¡°That worked out better than I expected,¡± Filetta mused beside him.


    ¡°You thought we were going to fail?¡± he asked, giving her a flat stare.


    The wight chuckled, an odd sound coming from a ghastly skeleton.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to be honest, Tyron. I thought this whole thing was completely insane. I never expected you to even get this far.¡±


    ¡°Then why go along with it?¡±


    Filetta shrugged, flipping her black knives through her spirit flesh fingers.


    ¡°It¡¯s better than being a disembodied spirit howling into the void.¡±


    The Necromancer rather suspected that it was.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s next?¡± she asked. ¡°They¡¯re all holed up inside the tower. Do you have a way in? Some trick you prepared in advance?¡±


    ¡°Something like that,¡± Tyron muttered, staring up at the tower.


    Despite the death that surrounded him, Tyron was far from satisfied. There had been Magisters mixed in amongst the defenders, but the majority of them were still in the tower. Those were the lives he yearned to reap. Everyone who had fallen to this point was merely collateral damage.


    Those doors would give way, and his undead would rush into the tower like a plague of locusts.


    Vengeance was at hand.

 B4C67 - Kill the Dead

    A flicker of light shifted in the corner of Feolin Brightshield¡¯s vision. She cursed and brought her staff to bear, words of power rolling from her tongue as she turned the magick that flowed within her into scorching flames. A ghost emerged from the building to her right, its mouth agape, screaming with silent rage. Near-invisible hands reached for her, tipped in claws. Already, she could feel the chill of its presence shock her flesh.


    But only for a moment. Flames roared, and the ghost fell away, a piercing shrill, not of pain, but of fury as the spirit¡¯s tenuous form was burned, its magick consumed by her fire.


    ¡°I hate ghosts,¡± she cursed, eyes flicking from building to building as she waited for the next one to emerge.


    ¡°How do you think I feel about them?¡± MacRielly groused. The northman gripped his sword tight in his hands as he took position behind her and to the left. ¡°My weapons go right through them!¡±


    ¡°Your sword¡¯s enchanted,¡± Feolin scoffed. ¡±At a good price, I might add.¡±


    ¡°Two days back in the fucking city and this happens,¡± MacRielly cursed. ¡°I just wanted to visit me mam.¡±


    ¡°I thought your mother was dead?¡±


    ¡°The Magisters don¡¯t know that.¡±


    ¡°They do now,¡± a cold voice stated from behind the two of them. ¡°Shut your mouths and keep moving. We have three more streets to cover.¡±


    The two Slayers didn¡¯t feel any pain, but at those words, they both felt a tingling sensation at the site of their brand. The back of Feolin¡¯s neck prickled, as if her scar were being prodded by an insistent finger.


    She scowled, a seething anger roiling in her gut, but there was little she could do. MacRielly went further, growling under his breath, but neither of the two acted out, walking forward with their guard up as unnatural mist coiled around their feet.


    ¡°We¡¯re moving too damn fast,¡± the northman muttered to Feolin out the side of his mouth. ¡°They¡¯ve pushed the Slayers to the front, and everyone is trailing in our wake. You know that, right?¡±


    ¡°Of course I know,¡± she whispered back. ¡°What did you expect to happen?¡±


    Whatever her old friend said in reply was a mystery, since it was so quiet even her enhanced senses couldn¡¯t catch it, though the malevolent anger with which he said it was perfectly clear. For her part, Feolin tried to shove her anger down and focus. All Magisters were pieces of shit, and this clown, Berod, was no exception. Every group of Gold rankers pressed into fighting were being overseen by one of these idiots, and they were all being pushed forward recklessly into danger.


    She cast her eyes from side to side, waiting for the next spirit to appear. They were coming more and more frequently as they got closer to the source, and only magick would tear their bodies apart. During her career, Feolin had never been a battlemage, but thankfully it didn¡¯t take much to defeat these ghosts. The danger came from the quantity of them.


    Who¡¯d have known there were so many pissed off ghosts in this city?


    Even as the thought occurred to her, Feolin dismissed it with a grimace. Everyone knew. It wasn¡¯t a mystery to her, to MacRielly or to the prick in the Magister¡¯s robes behind them.


    A freezing sensation shocked her out of her thoughts, and she looked down to see ethereal fingers and a grinning face emerging from the ground right in front of her. Feolin leapt, her Gold rank strength more than enough to send her ten feet into the air as she pushed forth a hand and spoke, flames roaring from her palm moments later.


    The ghosts were already dissipating when she landed, but her lower legs were still stiff, causing her to stumble. She may have fallen had MacRielly not stepped forward to catch her.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± she muttered, shaking her feet one at a time, trying to get some feeling back. ¡°Keep your blade up.¡±


    ¡°Hurry up,¡± Berod snapped, ¡°we don¡¯t have time to waste. You¡¯re Gold rank Slayers, are you not? A few trifling spirits shouldn¡¯t pose any threat.¡±


    ¡°Is that right?¡± MacRielly snapped, turning on the mage with a furious expression. ¡°Then why don¡¯t you give it a fucking go?¡±


    Feolin quickly righted her balance just in time for her friend to collapse like a puppet with his strings cut, writhing on the ground as his curse filled his body and soul with pain.


    ¡°I warned you. There isn¡¯t time for your foolish bickering,¡± Berod grunted, staring down at the struggling Slayer with contempt.


    As the pain subsided, MacRielly picked himself up from the ground, breathing heavily, his face flushed and eyes wild with rage. Feolin reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder, and his gaze flicked to hers.


    He was close, she realised. Close to turning and trying to cut Berod¡¯s head off before the brand could disable his limbs. If he succeeded, the shock he would receive would surely kill him, but the northman was a hair away from no longer caring.


    Berod opened his mouth to speak, and Feolin felt a sense of defeat rise in her heart, but before the Magister could seal his own death, a low groan echoed down the road toward them. The two Slayers snapped their heads towards the source of the sound, and it came again. Wordless, almost mindless, the sound conveyed nothing, but for a single drive: hunger.


    ¡°Zombies,¡± MacRielly spat, turning his anger toward a new source. He strode forward, rolling his shoulders and swinging his blade from one side to another. ¡°If there¡¯s one thing I hate more than ghosts¡­ it¡¯s zombies.¡±


    ¡°I thought you hated driftbeasts the most.¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°That¡¯s only on account of Brole, may his soul find eternal rest. Secretly, it¡¯s always been zombies.¡±


    Like a blur, the northman slid forward, his blade snaking out faster than the eye could track. There was a flash of light, the sound of boots scraping on stone, then MacRielly strolled back out of the mist, knuckling his red moustache with one hand as he flicked the gore from his blade with the other.


    ¡°Five,¡± he said, clearly disgusted by the creatures. ¡°They smelled like your feet after a trip through the rifts, with an added hint of wet dirt.¡¯


    ¡°You were told there would be zombies,¡± Berod snapped. ¡°Make sure you aren¡¯t bitten and move.¡±


    Unwilling to experience the unique sensation of the brand any more than necessary, Feolin began to walk forward again, her feet finally warming up, but couldn¡¯t help giving voice to her curiosity.


    ¡°What¡¯s the rush?¡± she wondered aloud. ¡°If we¡¯re containing ghosts and a zombie outbreak, slow and steady should be the order of the day. Isn¡¯t that usually the case?¡±


    Berod¡¯s face darkened, but at least he didn¡¯t torture her.


    ¡°I have no reason to answer your questions. You are here to do, not to ask why.¡±


    ¡°Sure. Of course,¡± she replied, but continued to think on the matter. There had to be a reason for this unseemly haste. Berod didn¡¯t even seem to be pushing them out of a sense of cruelty, which certainly happened often when Magisters directly oversaw Slayers. No, if she were to hazard a guess, there was an ever so slight whiff of fear coming from the mage.


    Something was wrong. Very wrong.


    A swarm of ghosts appeared and Feolin¡¯s hands snapped out, sigils forming rapidly as she spoke. Before the ghosts could close the distance and pounce on her partner, a pillar of flame erupted, spinning as it crackled and roared, blasting them all with heat and burning away the mist that still clung to the cobbled streets around them.


    ¡°Fire Mage is a good sub-class,¡± MacRielly noted, a hand raised to shield his eyes from the glare.


    Feolin snapped her hands down to her side and the pillar of fire dissipated in an instant as she broke apart the magick.


    ¡°Of course it is,¡± she sniffed, ¡°how many times have I saved you with fire magick?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ many, but I¡¯m not sure this one should count. They¡¯re only ghosts.¡±


    ¡°Fine. You can deal with them yourself next time.¡±


    More groans echoed down the street, and the two turned their attention further ahead. Out of the mist, dozens of undead shambled forward, eyes vacant, desiccated, half-rotten flesh hanging from their bones.


    Where have they all come from? Feolin wondered. How many bodies have been lying around in this city?


    A shiver crept down her spine as she considered what this meant. Corpses were incinerated in Kenmor, and yet there were likely to be hundreds¡­ perhaps thousands of zombies. Had the crematoriums been backed up to this extent? Just how many people must have died in the city?


    She¡¯d known about the purge, everyone had, but¡­ she couldn¡¯t wrap her head around it. How many? This was far beyond the limits of tragedy and stepping into the realm of the absurd.


    ¡°Can you take care of them?¡± Feolin asked.


    MacRielly snorted.


    ¡°They¡¯re zombies, of course I can.¡±


    ¡°Can you take care of them without getting scratched,¡± she clarified with a scowl.


    He only rolled his eyes as he strode forward, swinging his blade. Feolin advanced behind him, staff raised and eyes watching for any sign of spirits. MacRielly took several slow steps, then leaned forward, almost as if he were about to fall flat on his face. When his head was only inches from the ground, he flickered and vanished, only to reappear as a glittering arc of light formed in his wake.


    Zombies twitched and toppled over, their heads sliced horizontally through the middle before they could notice something was happening. With another flicker, MacRielly was gone, another blinding arc of light traced in his wake.


    Again and again he vanished, only to reappear a dozen metres away, undead falling in his wake. When they were all done, he strode back to her, visibly tired, but pleased.


    ¡°There! Not a drop of blood on me.¡±


    Feolin shot a hand forward, a jet of flame roaring from her palm and searing through a ghost that had appeared over his shoulder.


    ¡°Well, fuck,¡± he said, patting at his shoulder. ¡°Now I¡¯m singed.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t complain, or your moustache will go next,¡± she warned him, holding up her hand.


    He clapped a hand over his upper lip, glaring at her.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t dare,¡± he whispered.


    ¡°Try me.¡±


    The two continued to advance at a steady pace, going faster than they would have liked, but slow enough to elicit the occasional threat from the Magister accompanying them. For the most part, they ignored him, until Berod said something they didn¡¯t expect, causing the two Slayers to turn back to look at him.


    ¡°The warehouse is coming up,¡± he said. ¡°Be ready.¡±


    Warehouse. What warehouse?


    Feolin glanced at MacRielly, who shrugged in confusion.


    ¡°Is there something important about this warehouse?¡± she asked. ¡°If so, why weren¡¯t we told about it before we set out?¡±


    ¡°Because you didn¡¯t need to know until we got here,¡± Berod snapped, glaring at the two of them even as he twisted his staff between his two hands.


    He¡¯s nervous.


    Unwilling to provoke the clearly on-edge Magister into rash action, she gestured for MacRielly to settle, and the two resumed their slow advance through the vacant streets of Kenmor.


    In the gathering dark, with the cold mist trailing around their ankles, the city felt unnatural. Tall stone buildings surrounded them, two story houses with their windows shuttered, stores and workshops with no light, no warmth or laughter emanating from them. It was as if the city itself were dead, without any life held within its walls except for the three of them.


    Despite knowing that there were other Gold ranked Slayers fighting only streets away, Feolin wasn¡¯t sure she had ever felt this isolated in her entire career.


    More ghosts appeared, along with more zombies, until they rounded a corner and saw a large building before them, with a name written in glowing brass over the front door.


    Mistress Letty¡¯s Crematorium.


    And the street was filled with the dead. Spirits trailed and circled overhead, filling the air with their silent screams and spreading cold mist over the heads of the zombies. Hundreds of them ambled about, listless and without purpose, until they sensed Feolin and MacRielly.


    How they did so, nobody knew, but they could definitely tell the living had drawn close. Low moans erupted from the closest, who turned towards them, causing those behind to follow, mouths agape, sightless eyes staring and rotting hands reaching.


    ¡°Fucking balls,¡± MacRielly swore. ¡°So many?!¡±


    ¡°They must all be killed. Not a single survivor,¡± Berod demanded nervously.


    The northman scowled, his temper flaring, but he contained his anger before he could do anything foolish. There was work to be done, Slayer work, and he would see it finished.


    ¡°Going to need some help for this one, Fee,¡± he muttered.


    In answer, she raised her hands and gave voice to the words of power. Soon, there was fire.

 B4C68 - Break Down the Door

    Tyron stared at the massive double door entrance to the Red Tower, a strange pulse thudding in his temple. Beyond these doors lay the people who killed his parents. Beyond these doors, somewhere, the array that was used to torture them could be found. Soon, he would destroy it all. He couldn¡¯t wait to destroy it all.


    He didn¡¯t even realise his teeth were clenched as he stood, his face impassive, but his heart pounding in his chest and fury flowing like liquid fire through his veins. A voice called to him, but he didn¡¯t hear it. All he could hear was his parents¡¯ dying words, all he could see was his father¡¯s face as he slid the knife into Beory¡¯s chest.


    ¡°Hey! Are you listening?¡± Filetta demanded, shaking his shoulder with one ethereal hand. ¡°Hello?¡±


    Gradually, the Necromancer returned to himself, his eyes beginning to focus on what was in front of him once more as he turned toward the wight.


    ¡°Wh¡­ what is it?¡± he demanded.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been calling your name, are you alright?¡± Filetta demanded. ¡°Don¡¯t come apart now, things are about to get serious.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t serious before now?¡± he muttered, startled to realise just how little attention he¡¯d been paying to his surroundings.


    He began to sort through the connections that bound him to his minions even as he searched with his eyes, ensuring the situation was still under control. As far as he could tell, it was, but time was still slipping through his fingers, time he couldn¡¯t afford to lose.


    ¡°It was serious before, but now there¡¯s a chance you might actually succeed, so it¡¯s more serious,¡± Filetta told him bluntly. ¡°How are we going to get this damn door down? Your big boys have been working on it for a while now, and it hasn¡¯t budged.¡±


    As she said, his Bone Giants had been hitting the door with all the strength they could muster, using their massive, heavily enchanted blades to hack at the metal, sending sparks flying with every strike. Despite the powerful blows, they weren¡¯t making much progress. A forbidding mass of black iron carved with sigils of binding and protection, the door was almost as hard to break as the gate to the compound.


    Sensing the magick around him, Tyron tsked when he found the Magisters were holding back from drawing on their central array. If they tried to tap that well of power, he could syphon off as much power as he needed, but they had already gotten wise to his trick. The door to the tower, much like the rest of it, was heavily enchanted, drawing on mighty arrays and stores of arcane power within the building. Unlike certain other components, these were things he had never been permitted to touch.


    Tyron watched as his Bone Giants continued to swing their weapons in mighty arcs, slamming the blades into the door only for them to bounce off, another burst of sparks flying into the air. The door was taking damage, but at this rate, it wouldn¡¯t break until it was far too late.


    If he didn¡¯t get into the tower, the Duke, the militia, the Gold Slayers, all of them would descend on him, trapped inside the compound with nowhere to go. He had no doubts as to how that fight would go. His skeletons would be torn apart, no longer able to leverage the advantage of numbers. Overwhelmed by high-level mages, he wouldn¡¯t be able to act to prevent his horde from being decimated. Worse, his magick could be suppressed entirely by mage-hunters, the invisible bonds that joined him to his minions cut like ribbons.


    He couldn¡¯t allow that to happen.


    ¡°Clear the door,¡± he commanded Filetta. She looked at him, incredulous, knowing he could do the same himself with a thought, but hesitated when she saw the expression on his face. Eyes as hard as flint and lips pressed together, Tyron looked grim, yet more determined than she had ever seen him. She reached out through her own conduits, ordering the undead to move, clear a space around the doorway.


    Other wights queried her, but she continued to issue wordless commands, and they followed.


    Soon a wide space had been cleared, revenants and skeletal mages gathered around, raising powerful shields as Tyron worked, oblivious to it all.


    Striding forward until he stood but five metres from the door, he reached inside his armour and withdrew a pouch drawn tight with red string. As he untied the knot, he sensed the air, testing the conditions. The sun had fully set, night had truly arrived over the city. Without wind or rain, the evening was clear, the stars peeking through the dark overhead to shine weakly over the courtyard.


    He drew in a long breath, closed his eyes, and visualised what he needed to do. One hand reached into the pouch and withdrew a handful of glittering sand. Cores that had been ground down to a powder were an effective ritual medium, yet one that was vulnerable to the weather, given how fine the grains were.


    Moving without hesitation, he began to make wide, measured gestures, pouring out the sand to form lines and curves. He didn¡¯t pause or stop to consider at any point, withdrawing more sand as soon as he needed to, moving from one sigil to the next as he worked his way outwards, an increasingly more intricate ritual circle forming as he went.


    Filetta stood and watched, unsure what he was trying to do, but unable to look away. In only five minutes, the circle was fully formed and Tyron finally grew still, stepping to the centre and inspecting his work. He cast his dark eyes over each line, each sigil, checking for even the slightest mistake. Finding none, he nodded with satisfaction and reached out his hand.


    A revenant stepped forward, a creature that had once been Herath Jorlin, a staff held in its hands which it offered to its master, even as the soul trapped within cried out with futile rage. Not even bothering to look, Tyron grasped the staff his mother and father had commissioned for him and grounded it between his feet. When he took his hands away, it remained in place, held by an invisible force as it anchored the circle.


    When all was ready, he took another, slow breath, and began to speak.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Even within the tower, they could feel the impact of his words upon the world. Reality itself shivered and warped as Tyron worked his will upon it. The soldiers behind the door looked at each other, uncertain, while the mages shivered, fearful of the power that rattled in their chests and set the very magick in the air to quivering.


    While he spoke, the circle lit beneath his feet as the ground cores began to absorb the power he poured into it. At first it glowed bright with white light, illuminating him from beneath to the point he looked like a spirit himself, shrouded by a blinding glare, but as he continued, the light darkened, becoming tinged with a sickly green. That colour deepened, until the entire circle was filled with a darker colour, the colour of roots and rich earth, the colour of moss and mould, of decline and death.


    His words coming faster and louder, Tyron took hold of the staff once more and raised it high overhead. The light around him grew so bright that he was impossible to see, even with his minions¡¯ undead senses. Then he slammed the staff down once again as he spoke the final word, and the circle suddenly dimmed.


    Filetta watched, uncertain what had happened. Seconds ticked by without change. Just as she began to wonder if something had gone wrong, Tyron staggered to one side, catching himself at the last moment with his staff.


    She started to run towards him, but a silent command froze her in place. The Necromancer turned to look at her, his eyes bloodshot, and he shook his head.


    Soft at first, but growing in volume, a laugh echoed out from somewhere Filetta could not see. The sound was like nothing she had ever heard before, laughter formed of chittering rodents and swaying vines. The air itself felt heavy and humid, as if it wanted to press her down to the ground.


    Something was here, something that should not be here.


    When she looked back towards Tyron, she saw him looking down towards his feet, where a large rat stood, gazing back up at him.


    The Necromancer nodded, once, and the rat turned away and began to skitter towards the great metal doors of the tower. The world seemed to hold its breath as the tiny creature reached out with a single paw, then let it rest against the cold iron.


    Filetta saw the change immediately. Where the paw had touched, the metal began to turn red and flake away. Like a sickness, the rust spread rapidly, long twisted lines snaking up the front of the doors and then widening as more and more of the metal corroded. As if the doors were experiencing millions of seconds for each of theirs, it rusted away right in front of their eyes. With the internal structure weakened, the bottom right half of one door dropped to the ground and fell outward with a mighty crash.


    When she looked again, the rat was nowhere to be seen. Tyron stood, still as a statue as the rot continued to spread through the metal, turning all to dust, until finally the hinges gave way and the great doors collapsed. Two giant metal doors crashed down, stood still for a wavering moment, then fell outward, collapsing at the Necromancer¡¯s feet with a resounding boom.


    Before the dust could settle, Filetta felt Tyron¡¯s silent prompting and began to march, more undead falling in around her.


    Behind the gates, ranks of soldiers and mages stood, ready and waiting, but she could see in their faces they weren¡¯t up to the fight. As the soundless skeletons marched forward, blades raised, the men and women in front of them looked afraid, hesitant, resigned, grim or downright terrified. Black mist billowed through the now open doorway, reaching inside and surrounding the defenders, stealing away their sight and sealing their doom.


    Tyron watched, impassive as his skeletons marched past him and into the tower. The ritual had taken a lot out of him, but he would recover. Thankfully, the favour of the Crone, Raven and Rot counted for something.


    He drew in a deep breath, feeling the cold air bite at his lungs. He was close now, so close. Just a little further.


    Just a little further, and it would begin.


    Focus returned to his gaze as he glared at the Red Tower. Fresh waves of hate rolled through his gut, and he grit his teeth to hold back the anger. Raising his hands, he began to cast, surrounded by black mist and grinning undead as he passed over the threshold.


    Screams were already rising from within as he completed his spell. Once again, bursts of vitality came to him, death filling him with life. Already the entryway was scattered with corpses, twisted faces screaming eternally in death. He paid them no mind. These were not the people he had come to destroy.


    The horde of undead poured into the tower, a river of bones and magick, crashing against the defenders and sweeping them away, breaking apart their formation and driving them deeper into the building. Tyron directed them all, rooting out every nook and cranny of the ground floor, leaving no stone unturned, using all the knowledge he had gained from working within these walls.


    Staff gripped in one hand, he moved toward the stairs to the upper levels. Skeletons bore the cauldrons alongside him, black mist still spewing forth in great torrents.


    ¡°Kill!¡± came a desperate, barked command.


    Tyron¡¯s vision filled with light as he rounded a corner. The air sizzled with the heat of magick, and the mist was burned away by thick beams of red light that streaked toward him. He didn¡¯t step back, but allowed his skeletons to stream forward, thick shields braced and covering him. Arcane energy crashed against black bone, and the bone gave out first. Skeletons crumpled, their shields burned away and bones shattered, but more took their place. Tyron waited while flecks of magick stabbed into his armour and charred his cloak, his heart beating painfully in his chest.


    When the light finally faded, dozens of skeletons lay at his feet, but still a thick wall of shields was raised before him.


    ¡°Stay back!¡± the voice called again. ¡°Come any closer, and you¡¯ll wish you were dead!¡±


    The Necromancer tilted his head to one side, as if looking at a puzzle.


    ¡°That¡¯s an interesting thing you said,¡± he replied, reaching within his cloak and rummaging in his pockets. ¡°The idea that living could be so painful that you would rather be dead and have done with it. It shows how limited you are in your thinking.¡±


    Tyron withdrew his hand, a perfectly spherical core held in his palm, its surface covered in intricate sigils. He held it up between two fingers, letting the light gleam off its surface as the Magisters stared at him.


    They were in two ranks defending the stairs, staves in hand, red robes on, a glittering barrier of light raised between him and them. He stared each of them in the face. There were less than twenty, some still young, others with long grey beards and lined faces worn with the passage of years.


    ¡°When I¡¯m done, you will understand that death¡­ is far from the end,¡± he promised them. ¡°Your life will leak out of you, breath and light will fade and you will die.¡±


    He shook his head, a wild look in his eyes.


    ¡°But it won¡¯t end. I will take your soul and lash it to your bones. You will raise your hands against your brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, all at my irresistible command. Your spirit will cry, and beg, and scream for the oblivion that lies beyond death.


    ¡°You. Will. Not. Have it.¡±


    With a flick of his fingers, he sent the core rolling down the corridor. As it passed, light flickered and faded as barriers, traps and alarms turned inactive. Eventually it rolled against the solid wall of red light that covered the entrance to the stairway, and that too faded away, leaving the Magisters exposed.


    ¡°Run, if you want. It won¡¯t save you. But you can run.¡±

 B4C69 - Divine Law

    ¡°Where are they?¡± Recillia demanded.


    ¡°I-I don¡¯t know,¡± Grand Magister Tommat replied. ¡°It must be taking longer than anticipated to settle matters in the city.¡±


    The fear was so prevalent in his tone that the Lady of house Erryn could no longer prevent her contempt from showing on her face.


    ¡°This tower is rotten from top to bottom,¡± she hissed, her voice full of venom. ¡°I have been too soft on you Magisters. That will change in the future.¡±


    Tommat quailed in the face of her open hostility. He had never seen such an expression on her face or heard such open dislike from her. The mask had finally slipped, and the snake within was baring its fangs in his face. All of his years as a Magister had not prepared him to confront a Noble in such a state. He felt weak, unable to act or think in the face of her rising anger.


    ¡°To think so many of you are scions of the Houses. It makes me sick to think I share blood with a single Magister,¡± she growled. ¡°Fat, indolent and useless, every one of you. If I had my way, the Duke would hang the lot of you and we could draw replacements from a pig farm. Torturing you for your incompetence is wholly insufficient. A single mage has breached the tower! One! Are you so incapable of managing a single person if they aren¡¯t branded?¡±


    She leaned down, right in his face as her diatribe continued, her eyes boring into his own, and the old man could not look away. If she wished it, he would die, he knew that, all she had to do was say it.


    And, in truth, she was right. They were weak against the unbranded, so much of their power was bound into the curse, its application, use and management. They were not battlefield mages and never had been, that wasn¡¯t their role! With less than a fifth of all available Magisters still in the tower, how were they supposed to hold?


    Yet all the excuses died on his lips. He couldn¡¯t bring himself to give voice to his true thoughts lest she use it as an excuse to punish him further. Instead, he said the only other thing that came to mind.


    ¡°Y-you can kill him, my lady,¡± he whispered.


    Lady Recillia Erryn didn¡¯t move, her eyes only widening further as her fury erupted.


    ¡°What,¡± she demanded slowly, ¡°did you say?¡±


    Silence was not an option for Tommat. All around them, a dozen red-robed Magisters stood, casting their gaze askance while their leader was humiliated in front of their eyes.


    ¡°With¡­ with the Divine Mandate, my lady,¡± he said again. ¡°He will die¡­ if you command it.¡±


    Recillia straightened and drew a deep breath through her nose as she tried to restrain herself¡­ but failed.


    SMACK!


    In one smooth motion, she raised her hand overhead and then brought it down across Grand Magister Tommat¡¯s face, sending the mage sprawling to the ground with her Gold Ranked strength.


    ¡°You dare think to order me?¡± she whispered, her tone filled with ice once more. ¡°You were born to serve, Tommat, and I was born to rule. You think to ask me to do what you cannot? Do you understand what I am?¡±


    Still trembling with rage, Recillia drew on her power, on her authority.


    ¡°Kneel,¡± she commanded.


    The weight of that word hung in the air as a physical presence, one that pressed down on everyone who heard it. Every Magister in the room crashed down to their knees, pressing their face into the floor. Even the Grand Magister, sprawled on the ground, had to pick himself up so he could properly kneel in accordance with her will.


    Eyes cold once more, Recillia pressed her foot into the back of Tommat¡¯s head, grinding his forehead into the stone.


    ¡°This is the true order,¡± she said. ¡°I am above you, and I have been since The Divines ascended and the Empire was founded. Your place is to serve, a task at which you have failed miserably. I will not forget.¡±


    She withdrew her foot and released her will, allowing the Magisters to rise once more. They did so with ashen expressions and trembling limbs, terrified of the power they had just experienced.


    ¡°Accompany me, all of you,¡± Recillia commanded. ¡°We will seek out this Necromancer and I will destroy him myself. Then we can cleanse this tower of the true corruption that infests it.¡±


    There was no doubt as to what she referred to, but without the ability to resist, each of the mages rose and fell in behind her as the Noble strode from the room. Grand Magister Tommat pulled himself to his feet, using the wall as a brace. Never in his life had he felt so exhausted, so drained and depleted. Yet what could he do? As Recillia had said, he had been born beneath her. When thought and will were stripped back by the Divine Will, all that remained was obedience.


    In his heart, a tiny voice whispered that perhaps¡­ just perhaps¡­ the Necromancer would be able to rise above it¡­ but he knew he could not. What was a mortal in the face of the Divines?


    Unaware or uncaring of the thoughts of her underlings, Recillia walked through the tower at her own, dignified pace, her expression cold and hard once more. Hands folded genteelly before her, head high and shoulders squared, she exuded authority and control, something the Magisters were more than willing to cling to in the current crisis. As their world crumbled around them, she was a stable bastion, one they might detest, but reliable nonetheless.


    As they descended the stairways, the sounds of fighting became louder. The screams of the dying, the sounds of magick, chanting, burning, a hint of smoke in the air, all began to assault their senses with greater frequency and intensity. To the dozen mages following her, only the unmoved presence of the Lady was enough to settle their nerves. They clung to her, hoping that she would succeed where they could not.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The further down the stairs she travelled, the more evidence she found of the incompetence she had railed against. More than once, she found Magisters cowering in corridors, or fleeing towards her, desperate to avoid the conflict below. She had the others bind them so they could be appropriately dealt with later, when there was sufficient time. All the while, her impatience grew. She wanted to find this Necromancer, this mortal who dared insult the Divines, and put an end to him, as one would destroy an unruly animal which no longer recognised its master.


    And then, suddenly, they were face to face.


    She rounded the staircase to find him below her, foot on the next step as he made his way up. The moment she saw him, he raised his head and saw her, the two meeting each other''s gaze.


    Recillia wasn¡¯t sure what she had expected to see. Certainly, the man looked quite the villain, covered in plates of bone armour so black they seemed to suck in the light. A cloak with burns and holes covered his shoulders and fell down along his back, while beneath him a dense black mist churned, inching its way up the stairs behind him. From that darkness, a host of skeletons slowly emerged, but not completely, only showing their heads and burning, purple eyes, while the rest remained shrouded.


    Slowly, the Necromancer brought up his hands to grasp his helmet, which he removed, revealing his face.


    Gaunt, pale, with dark hair and thin lips, his features were far from pleasing, but they weren¡¯t what captured the Lady¡¯s gaze; it was his eyes. Dark, they burned with an intensity so powerful she could almost feel it. Anger, resentment, grief, confidence, elation all blended together to form a storm directed towards her. He didn¡¯t even seem to see the Magisters behind her, which was fair, they hardly mattered at all.


    ¡°Lady Recillia Erryn,¡± he said, tilting his head to the side. ¡°This isn¡¯t our first meeting.¡±


    His voice was flat, devoid of the emotions she knew were roiling within him.


    ¡°So I¡¯m told,¡± she replied, narrowing her eyes. ¡°Master Lukas Almsfield. I¡¯m curious how you were able to maintain a false face in front of me.¡±


    ¡°Some mysteries are not for the likes of you to know,¡± he replied. ¡°However, you can be at ease, I am here wearing my true appearance. Tyron Steelarm, at your service.¡±


    He didn¡¯t bother to offer even a modicum of a bow, not even in mockery. Recillia felt her lip curl. She almost hadn¡¯t believed it when she¡¯d been told.


    ¡°Steelarm,¡± she said coldly. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t be surprised that the offspring of those two would similarly show such disrespect.¡°


    A hint of anger showed through on his face at the mention of his family.


    ¡°Enlighten me, if you could. What exactly did my parents do that required them to be tortured to death?¡± he said, his jaw clenched.


    ¡°They refused to do their duty,¡± she replied coldly.


    ¡°You ordered them to kill their only child.¡±


    ¡°I did. I personally gave the order, if you wanted to know.¡±


    The Necromancer shook his head.


    ¡°You gave it to the Magisters, but that order came from far above you. Far, far above. I was given this Class so you could issue that order, the sole reason. Why? Do you even know?¡±


    That gaze hardened even further, if it were possible, as he searched her for answers, as if he could rip them straight from her head. Her upper lip curled.


    ¡°You see shadows and plots where none exist. You are a deviant, that is why you have that Class. Look around you, the truth is plain to see just what you are.¡±


    The young Steelarm stared up at her for a time, then he shook his head.


    ¡°Lying or unaware. Whichever it is, it doesn¡¯t matter; I¡¯ll have the truth of it soon. I¡¯ll tear the answers straight from your shrieking soul, Recillia. There will be no peaceful end for you. I promise you, in the names of Magnin and Beory, you will suffer a thousand years of agony, and I still won¡¯t be satisfied.¡±


    He was so sure, so arrogant. She almost pitied him.


    ¡°Who are you? A pathetic mortal, like all of the others. Regardless of how much power the Unseen has lavished upon you, it doesn¡¯t make you any different. You are subject to a will greater than your own, and you have been your entire life. Here, in my presence, you are not a human, you are an insect, and you live only so long as I suffer for you to do so.¡±


    She stared down at him, hands still held together, her gaze unyielding.


    ¡°My patience has come to an end, Tyron Steelarm. Like your parents before you, die in vain trying to strike at that which is so much greater than yourself. I command your heart to cease beating. By the Will of the Gods, make it so.¡±


    As she invoked the Divine Will, her words changed from simple air to something greater. Speech capable of reforging reality, much like the words of power, but it was not through Recillia¡¯s will that this change took effect, but that of something far above.


    That presence was felt as she uttered her commandment, everyone present could feel it, even the Necromancer, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.


    Divinity had spoken.


    Tyron Steelarm jerked as if he¡¯d been stabbed, a hand clutched at his chest as he coughed blood onto the stairs. His helmet of bone fell to the floor with a dull thud before rolling down the stairs. Recillia watched in satisfaction as he lost his balance and began to pitch forward onto the staircase.


    This was the inevitable consequence of trying to overcome the wall that could not be surmounted. Just as his parents had tried to leap above their station and been beaten down, so too did the son meet his fate.


    ¡°A tragedy,¡± she murmured.


    Recillia moved to turn to the Magisters cowering behind her, but stopped as the Necromancer took a step. No, not a step, he simply thrust his leg forward to stop himself from falling over. The Lady watched impassively as he continued to press his hand against his chest and hack out blood, his entire body convulsing.


    It was a macabre sight, yet she found she couldn¡¯t look away. How fascinating, to think his drive to enact vengeance was this strong. Then, after another shuddering cough, he raised his head, blood dripping from his chin, and stared into her eyes.


    He was grinning.


    ¡°Did¡­ you really¡­ think¡­ death would be enough?¡± he rasped, a dangerous light blazing in his eyes.


    With a roar he thumped himself in the chest with one hand while the other gripped tight to his staff. Again, he cried out and pounded his chest. Then, as he withdrew his hand, she saw something; threads of magick, thin as wire leading from the tips of his fingers and into his own chest.


    Still grinning wildly, he began to flex his fingers in a familiar rhythm.


    Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Dum-dum.


    ¡°Impossible,¡± Recillia gasped, realisation blooming in her mind.


    Tyron Steelarm laughed then, wild and unrestrained, the laugh of a maniac, the laugh of a madman. For a moment, Lady Erryn began to wonder if she would actually die in this place.


    Still, his hand continued to flex, as steady as the finest drummer.


    ¡°All things are possible, Lady Erryn,¡± he rasped, blood continuing to drip from his lips. ¡°With enough hate, you would be amazed what someone can achieve.¡±


    Shaky at first, but with growing confidence, he took a step, rising up the staircase and drawing closer to the gathered Magisters and the Noble at their head. Almost involuntarily, the mages stepped back, transfixed by the horror taking place before their eyes.


    Recillia did not retreat, stunned by what she was seeing, and by the pure malevolence that radiated from the person before her. Was it really possible for one man to hold so much wild grief?


    ¡°I¡¯ve waited a long time for this, Lady Erryn,¡± Tyron grinned, eyes wild. ¡°What a marvellous undead you will be.¡±

 B4C70 - Authority Dies

    Tyron¡¯s chest was on fire as he continued to force his own heart to beat.


    Looking up at the Noble lady of House Erryn, he could see the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty starting to take hold. He savoured it. For how long had he yearned for such a moment? Every night for five years, ever since his parents had died, he had stared unseeing, burning for a chance like this. He wouldn¡¯t let anything take it from his grasp, not even death.


    ¡°You think you¡¯ve won?¡± Lady Erryn spat. ¡°I can kill you in a thousand ways. Cut your¨C¡±


    A pair of arrows flashed out from the mist behind him. The Noble¡¯s hand blurred as she batted one aside, but the other sank into her gut, doubling her over.


    ¡°Finally,¡± Tyron grunted.


    ¡°It took a little time to get here,¡± Laurel replied as she stepped up beside him, her spirit flesh glowing with ominous light. ¡°Nor was it easy.¡±


    Recillia gasped in pain as she straightened herself, but Tyron wouldn¡¯t give her another chance. His one free hand flashed through a series of sigils before a hand formed of black smoke snaked forth and closed around her. He tightened his grip, trying to squeeze the air out of her, but she was remarkably durable, glaring hatefully at him.


    Of course, she was gold. Why wouldn¡¯t the Nobles afford themselves a level of power they wouldn¡¯t allow to anyone else?


    ¡°Defend the lady!¡± The Magisters behind Lady Erryn seemed to wake from a spell, realising that their only hope of survival lay in the Divine Mandate she possessed.


    Tyron cursed and issued a mental order. From the darkness behind him, a horde of skeletons emerged, charging forward as his spell was disturbed, dropping the Noble to the stairs once more.


    She gasped in pain before once again drawing on her power.


    ¡°Cut your th¨C¡±


    But he was too fast. With his skeletons racing forward and the Magisters still preparing their spells, Tyron shaped a Death Bolt with a single hand and cast, before she could finish the sentence. His aim wasn¡¯t perfect, but it glanced off the side of the Noble¡¯s head, sending her sprawling once more.


    A barrage of spells was released at once, blasting back the front rank of skeletons, some of them crumbling apart as their bindings were undone, but at such close ranges, there was only so much the mages could do. For every skeleton they destroyed, five more took its place, rushing up with their blades at the ready.


    The moment Tyron recovered, he ran up the stairs, his heart still screaming in pain within his chest. He paid it no mind, was completely oblivious to it, just like he was to the smile on his face.


    He ordered his minions forward with ever greater urgency, gathering every single one from the lower floors and driving them upwards. He took the steps three at a time, charging alongside his wights and revenants as they reached his side. When he saw Recillia rising once more, he flung himself at her, dagger in hand.


    Before she could speak, he landed on her chest, driving the wind out of her. Bringing the knife around, he tried to puncture her chest, but she was shockingly strong, catching his hand in one of her own. He fought to bring the knife to bear, but she resisted, slamming her free hand into his side in an attempt to push him off.


    With only a single hand, getting into a brawl wasn¡¯t the best idea, but he wasn¡¯t thinking clearly, the pain in his chest and the roaring in his mind drove out all other thoughts. She had to die, and he had to be the one who killed her. Nothing else mattered, nothing else was allowed to matter.


    Ignoring the pain in his side, Tyron launched his face forward, slamming his forehead into hers and stunning them both. With his absurdly high constitution, Tyron recovered first and dropped his knife before yanking his hand free of her grip. When Recillia came back to herself, she found his hand reaching for her throat and tried to force her chin down to prevent him from getting a grip. Opening her mouth to speak, she was prevented by another forceful headbutt that sent both reeling once more.


    Around them, the final battle for the Red Tower took place, with the wide staircase filled with undead driving forward to strike at the Magisters, flowing around the private battle at their feet without interrupting it. No order came from Tyron to assist, and perhaps the wights sensed their master didn¡¯t want to be helped, and so they focused on the Magisters, driving them back and absorbing spell after spell.


    Men screamed and died, magick detonated and skeletons marched in silence while Tyron and Recillia wrestled on the ground, neither able to land a finishing blow. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    He thrashed, trying to clamp his hand tighter around her neck while Recillia fought to push him off, striking at his face, his chest, his side, whatever she could reach. Teeth bared, blood spraying and skin tearing, they grappled and clawed like rift-kin, mindless and savage.


    Ultimately, Recillia fought to live, to triumph and impose her will.


    Tyron fought to kill. And that was the difference.


    With a scream of hatred, Tyron took the hand he had been using to make his heart beat and began to form sigils with it.


    Instantly, his heart, his chest, his entire body, screamed in pain, an agony that ripped through his body like nothing he had ever known. His mind screeched in panic, adrenaline flooding his system as his body flew into shock for the second time in a short period. He didn¡¯t care.


    Recillia felt the spell coming, her face twisted into a snarl as she tried again to shove the filthy upstart away from her. Desperate, she clawed at his eyes and anything else she could reach, but that hand came for her all the same.


    Death Bolt was a weak spell, but at this range, it was more than enough. Point-blank, he fired it into her throat.


    Garbled, choked coughing was the only sound Lady Erryn could produce. She collapsed back onto the stairs, clutching at her throat and retching as Tyron leaned back, his hand catching the rhythm once more, using the threads to force his heart to pump.


    In that moment, he felt impossibly tired. For just a second, he let himself drift, but soon his hatred lit the way and he was able to come back to himself. Swaying as his body nearly betrayed him, Tyron reached into his coat and withdrew a stone covered in runes. He stood, gathering his balance before he stepped over to Lady Recillia as she grasped at her own throat, trying to repair the damage, trying to breathe, trying to speak.


    He rolled her onto her back before he placed the stone on her chest and planted his foot on it.


    She glared up at him, disbelief, terror and outrage warring on her features.


    ¡°We¡¯ll talk later,¡± he croaked. ¡°I promise you. This is just the beginning.¡±


    Too weak to struggle, Lady Erryn could only watch as a ghostly creature wearing bone armour crouched down by her side, twirled a dagger through its fingers before offering it up to the Necromancer. He took the blade, looked her in the eye, and drove it into her heart.


    Tyron watched the light fade from her eyes, knowing that this was the woman who had overseen the torture of his family. As she died, he felt the burden on his shoulders lighten by a tiny fraction.


    The stone suddenly blazed with light, chasing away the shadows and blinding the Necromancer, but faded again just as soon as it had come. Tyron removed his foot and lifted the palm-sized stone from the corpse of the Noble.


    ¡°You can¡¯t have her,¡± he chuckled darkly, turning his gaze to the ceiling. ¡°You can¡¯t have any of them. They¡¯re mine. Now and forever.¡±


    He staggered a little to the side as he placed the stone back into his cloak, but Filetta was there to catch him.


    ¡°You look like shit,¡± she told him.


    ¡°I feel like it,¡± he replied.


    ¡°What are you doing with your hand?¡¯


    ¡°Keeping my heart beating.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ shit. Really? Do you¡­ need help?¡±


    He cast her a glance, and she could clearly read him asking ¡®just what do you think you¡¯re going to do about it?¡¯ from his expression. In response, she could only shrug.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t been dead so long that I don''t remember heart beats being somewhat important,¡± she said defensively. ¡°Maybe you should rest or something?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Tyron replied, shrugging her off. ¡°The biggest obstacle here is dealt with. Now I get to kill every Magister inside this damned place.¡±


    He held out his free hand, and a skeleton stepped forward to give him his staff back while another stepped behind him and placed his helmet back over his head.


    ¡°I want all of them. Every single soul. Do the others have the stones?¡±


    Filetta held up her hands at his sudden vehemence.


    ¡°Yes, Tyron. They all have the stones.¡±


    ¡°Every single one,¡± he reiterated, eyes burning. ¡°Make sure of it.¡±


    She nodded, then hesitated before finally asking, ¡°What about the brands? Isn¡¯t that the reason why you¡¯re here?¡±


    He glared at her before he turned away to resume his ascent up the staircase.


    ¡°That comes second,¡± he said shortly. ¡°First is the Magisters. They have to die, Filetta. I won¡¯t leave any of them alive.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± she said. ¡°Just don¡¯t lose sight of the goal.¡±


    ¡°I never have. And I never will.¡±


    Tyron and his undead swept through the Red Tower like a plague. There was no corner the Magisters could hide from him in, nowhere they could rely on their defences to protect them. Skeletons, revenants and wights cut through every door, overturned the beds and threw down the wardrobes. There were pockets of resistance; some of the mages found their courage as they stared death in the face, banding together to try and defend a corridor or doorway.


    They used their best spells, jets of ruby light, crystalline projectiles, arcane fire, wires formed of magick that cut like blades. It was effective, but only for so long. Whenever these groups were found, Tyron was sure to arrive, leaning on his staff, one hand flexing in that steady rhythm. Once he arrived, the words of power would roll like thunder and resistance would shatter. Once it did, there would be a storm of blood and bone, leaving broken and bleeding Magisters on the ground, wights pressing inscribed stones to their chests while Tyron strode away towards the next fight.


    It was clear they knew who he was when he showed his face. Some cursed him, others tried to apologise, or plead for their lives. None of it moved him. He held no interest for the words of the living. There would come a time he would listen to their voices, he was sure of it, but it wasn¡¯t here or now, not while a single Magister drew breath in Kenmor.

 B4C71 - The Golden Core

    The Red Tower had fallen. The Magisters had been rooted from their place of power, and dozens upon dozens of them had fallen to the undead horde.


    Tyron strode through the corridors, his eyes hard and heart afire. For so long, he had imagined this moment, hoped for it, envisioned it, burned for it. To see it manifest before his eyes was satisfying beyond words. He had brought some small measure of justice to the killers of Magnin and Beory. It was but a tiny fraction; the work was not nearly done. The Noble Houses still stood, the Duke behind them, and the Empire as a whole behind him. Above it all, The Five Divines, false gods sitting in their own plane over this one, the chief architects of his family¡¯s downfall.


    No, he wouldn¡¯t be done until all of them had paid the ultimate price, but for so long, he had feared he would fail without achieving anything.


    ¡°I have to give you credit,¡± Filetta said when she found him on the staircase. ¡°I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d manage this.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯ve said.¡±


    ¡°No, I mean it. You¡¯ve done something no one thought was possible. At this rate, you might actually succeed in bringing down the entire province! Do you understand how insane that is?¡±


    ¡°This is only the beginning,¡± he promised her. ¡°After this, I¡¯ll bring down the other provinces, one by one, and then the Empire as a whole will crumble.¡±


    Then the gods themselves.


    Filetta hesitated.


    ¡°But what about the people?¡± she asked him. ¡°There are millions and millions of people living in the Empire. What will happen to them?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s up to them,¡± Tyron said, gaze hard. ¡°For now, we need to focus on finishing the work. There¡¯s still one part of the Tower we haven¡¯t cleaned out.¡±


    His wight nodded reluctantly before falling in alongside him.


    ¡°The place where they manage the gold rank curses, right? How does that even work? I thought the curse was just¡­ branded onto people and then did its thing. What do they need to do here?¡±


    Tyron explained as he walked. His left hand still flexed regularly, the threads of magick keeping his heart pumping, his right hand gripping the staff his mother gave him.


    ¡°For bronze and silver Slayers, they don¡¯t have to do anything. The brand is burned into the flesh, but the curse itself takes root on the soul. It draws energy from the person it''s attached to in order to fuel itself, but for golds, that isn¡¯t enough. The brand and its curse aren¡¯t enough to supply¡­ sufficient pain. For anyone who reaches gold, their brand is upgraded, but also an accompanying talisman is made which acts as a conduit.


    ¡°The Magisters can use them to trigger the brand, and also pump additional magick through them in order to amplify the pain the curse can inflict. Without this additional feature, it wouldn¡¯t be enough to keep such powerful people in line.¡±


    ¡°That sounds¡­ unpleasant,¡± Filetta stated.


    ¡°My parents were higher than gold rank, but even they weren¡¯t immune to the brand. I can only imagine how badly their souls were twisted to accommodate the curse, and just how much power the Magisters spent trying to force them to kill me.¡±


    The Necromancer¡¯s face and manner had become increasingly grim as he explained the grisly process. To have such a thing done to his family members must have been beyond horrifying. Not for the first time, Filetta was confronted with the dreadful reality faced by so many in the Empire.


    ¡°You know, when I was a thief growing up by the docks, Slayers seemed like a mythical existence to me. So powerful and free, fighting to keep us all safe. They were distant and far away, except for the golds, but we would never go near them. They were heroes, each as powerful as a god. I¡¯m starting to realise they weren¡¯t any more free than I was.¡±


    Her attention turned elsewhere, turning her head to stare beyond the wall to her right as she listened to something beyond human senses.


    ¡°There¡¯s someone outside trying to sneak in,¡± she told him. ¡°Some of the scouts spotted them in the shadows.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s about time people started to filter back to the Tower,¡± Tyron grunted. ¡°Bring everyone inside and barricade the entrance. We have to hold until I¡¯m able to break the gold curses.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t seem as confident,¡± Filetta said to him, noticing the grim cast to the Necromancer¡¯s features. ¡°Is there a problem?¡±


    He scowled at her, irritated that someone would doubt his abilities.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never been to this section of the Tower,¡± he told her. ¡°It¡¯s a place they wouldn¡¯t let any outsider touch, no matter their level of skill. Which means I¡¯ll have to break the no doubt rigorous defences one by one. I can do it, but it¡¯s going to take time. Only when that process is complete can I actually enter the vault where they¡¯re stored and try to figure out the best way to destroy them.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ in the meantime?¡±Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    ¡°I need you and the other wights to protect me and defend the tower from intruders. We¡¯ve already had one show up, and there are going to be more. Many more.¡±


    ¡°And here was me thinking things were going to get easier from this point forward.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s only just getting started.¡±


    Filetta shot him a sarcastic salute before she turned and raced away, shadows gathering as she passed before she vanished around the corner. Tyron summoned a guard for himself as he continued to make his way to the centre of the tower.


    There was only one way to access the heart of the Red Tower, where the powerful array that ran through the core of the building was located, along with the curses. A single door, behind which was a narrow corridor he had glimpsed in passing, followed by another door. Beyond that, he hoped he would find what he was looking for: the inner chambers that included the vault in which the gold ranked curses were stored.


    He knew it had to be there, the rest of the tower had been searched from top to bottom, and it was the only place that neither he nor his senior apprentice, Annita Halfshard, had been allowed to access.


    He came to the door just as a guard of undead formed around him, summoned by a silent command, chief among them his most powerful wight; the former Soldier captain Janus.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with your hand?¡± the wight asked as he approached.


    Tyron merely glanced at him before he turned back to the door.


    ¡°Do you have my tools?¡± he asked.


    Janus reached out and took a leather satchel from a nearby revenant, one of his cavalry, then passed it to Tyron, who leaned his staff against the wall and took it with his free hand.


    He knelt down and opened the satchel, only now realising how annoying this would be using a single hand. Tyron thought about rigging together an array to pump his heart for him, but dismissed the idea; he didn¡¯t have the time.


    Withdrawing his pliance, he pressed it into the palm of his hand and held it up to the door, his eyes closed as he sensed the magick within. Immediately he could feel numerous threads of power on the other side forming a complex web of arcane power in numerous arrays, some of which would be decoys, some of which would be deadly traps.


    He sighed. This would take a while.


    Without the specific Skills and abilities to cut and neutralise magick, he would need to counteract each array with one of his own, syphoning power away after connecting a conduit. Carefully.


    ¡°Nothing else for it,¡± he muttered, and settled in to work.


    ~~~


    MacRielly looked around, the hilt of his blade held in both hands as he surveyed the street.


    ¡°I think we got them all,¡± he stated.


    Then he looked at the bright flames leaping from the buildings around them, casting the battlefield with a pleasant, cheery red light.


    ¡°Any chance you can put out some of these fires, Fee? I¡¯m not sure the Duke will be pleased if we burn down half the fucking city in the process of saving it.¡±


    His partner turned and glared at him.


    ¡°What do you want me to do? Kill zombies or not kill zombies? If the answer is kill, then you get fire. That¡¯s all I have to offer.¡±


    ¡°Hey, whoa,¡± he held up his hands, ¡°I¡¯m not trying to bust your chops. I just thought that if you can create fire, then you can¡­ make it go away.¡±


    Feolin shook her head and sighed.


    ¡°I create magickal fire. When the magick goes away, so does the fire I made. If the heat creates any other fires, then those are outside of my control. I can¡¯t just¡­¡± she waved a hand, ¡°vanish flames.¡±


    ¡°Did you kill them all?¡± a voice called from behind them. From well behind them.


    MacRielly raised a brow and Feolin rolled her eyes before she called back to Berod.


    ¡°We haven¡¯t checked inside the crematorium, but there don¡¯t seem to be any left in the streets.¡±


    ¡°Someone else can worry about that. Get back here now,¡± the Magister demanded.


    The two Slayers looked at each other before they walked back to their ¡®handler,¡¯ a profound look of disgust washing over MacRielly¡¯s features.


    ¡°We¡¯ve done what we were asked to do,¡± he said flatly. ¡°Emergency dealt with. Ghosts and zombies dead. We¡¯re going back to the Gold District.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Berod said, ¡°you aren¡¯t. The emergency is far from over. We will head to the Red Tower immediately to deal with a threat to public safety.¡±


    There was something off about the red-robed mage. He looked even more nervous than before, visibly sweating and frequently glancing back to the tower. After a moment, he realised that neither of the two Slayers had moved and glared at them.


    ¡°What are you waiting for? Move!¡± he shouted.


    Feolin held up a hand in a calming gesture.


    ¡°Wait a moment¡­ I¡¯m not sure we want to go to the to¨C¡±


    She hadn¡¯t even finished speaking before the pain struck. It was worse than anything she had ever experienced, anything she had ever imagined. Her entire body was in agony, as if she were on fire from the inside. Feolin collapsed to the ground almost instantly, her skull cracking off the cobbled road. She couldn¡¯t feel it, the pain of the curse was all-consuming. There was a yell, and a moment later MacRielly fell down beside her, writhing and contorting just as she was, yet she was no more than dimly aware of it.


    Her soul was crying out in pain.


    When it was over, the pain was gone in a blink, bringing the sweetest relief imaginable. Feolin gasped and collapsed shivering in a ball, tears in her eyes, her hands trembling.


    ¡°Fuck¡­ me,¡± MacRielly groaned. ¡°I¡­ Fee¡­ are you alright?¡±


    ¡°I-I¡¯m fine,¡± she said, feeling anything but.


    ¡°If you are quite finished, get up and get moving,¡± Berod snapped. ¡°Further insubordinate behavior will be seen as rebellion.¡±


    Feolin could see in MacRielly¡¯s face that he fully intended to kill Berod, and she knew she couldn¡¯t talk him out of it, not anymore. The northman had always followed through on what he really wanted to do, since the day she and Brose had first seen him dragging a Vorpcat back to the keep on his back, covered in wounds with a broad grin on his face.


    She stood quickly and pretended to stumble, falling into MacRielly who reached for her in concern.


    ¡°Not now,¡± she mumbled. ¡°You¡¯ll die. You have to wait.¡±


    There was no point telling him no, so she didn¡¯t. MacRielly slowly nodded as he ¡®helped¡¯ her stand up.


    ¡°Alright then, Berod,¡± the red-moustached man growled. ¡°Lead the way and we¡¯ll follow.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re in front,¡± the Magister snapped, anxiously staring toward the tower. ¡°Hurry up.¡±

 B4C72 - What Lies Within

    Breaking through the door took too much time, and that was only the first step. Tyron worked as quickly as he could, one handed, draining the enchantments of their power, sensing the flow of power to avoid triggering any traps. All the while, his undead continued to hunt through the Red Tower and fortify the upper levels.


    ¡°They¡¯re trying to find a way in,¡± Filetta reported to him.


    Sweat dripped down Tyron¡¯s forehead, but he didn¡¯t notice, too focused on feeling out the tiny slivers of arcane energy on the other side of the door.


    ¡°Who is?¡± he replied softly.


    ¡°If I knew that, I¡¯d tell you. There was only one before, but we haven¡¯t seen them for a bit. Now there¡¯s more of them. Gold Rank, we think. So far, they haven¡¯t made it in, but it¡¯s only a matter of time.¡±


    ¡°Keep them out as long as you can,¡± Tyron murmured, eyes still closed.


    The fingers of his left hand continued to pulse in a steady rhythm, unfaltering as time ticked by, threads of magick pulled tight around his own heart. He straightened, pulled his head away from the door and nodded to himself.


    Reaching forth with his free hand, he grasped the door handle and turned it, pushing it open in one smooth motion. Then he waited, head cocked to the side.


    Nothing happened. No explosion, no crackling lightning, no flash of magick.


    ¡°Well, there you go,¡± Tyron said.


    ¡°So we¡¯re in?¡± Filetta asked, sounding surprised. ¡°Just like that?¡±


    Tyron gave her an incredulous look, drew a spare pliance from his toolkit and tossed it down the corridor. Before it was more than a foot past the door, sizzling beams of red light from four separate points on the wall launched out and melted the implement to slag.


    ¡°Ah,¡± the wight said. ¡°I guess I stand corrected.¡±


    ¡°Sadly, none of the Magisters I¡¯ve been able to scrape for information knew anything about the defences in here. A completely separate grid from the rest of the structure.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve killed every mage in this stupid tower,¡± Filetta stated. ¡°Surely, one of them knows how to deactivate all of this.¡±


    ¡°They probably do,¡± Tyron agreed as he stepped into the doorway, careful not to extend any of his limbs too far forward. The four points on the wall from which the beams had emitted were seamlessly blended into the stonework. If he hadn¡¯t seen them for himself, he never would have been able to pick out their locations. ¡°It would take too long to get reliable information out of them. Doing it myself is probably the fastest and safest way.¡±


    ¡°Well, you better get to it,¡± she warned him. ¡°Things are starting to heat up outside, and this army doesn¡¯t fight nearly as well without you.¡±


    Tyron grunted as he closed his eyes and began to extend his senses once more. Filetta watched him start to work, but as far as she could tell, all he was doing was slowly waving his hand in the air and frowning a lot. She turned and checked on his guards. There were two wights nearby, the former Soldier, Janus, and a mage whose name she didn¡¯t remember.


    ¡°Do your job well, Janus. Something doesn¡¯t feel right.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not like I have a choice,¡± the undead grunted.


    Oblivious to them, Tyron continued to work as quickly and safely as he could. He might not have known exactly what enchantments the Magisters had used in this section of the tower, but he did know the general patterns they favoured. Fortunately, they turned out to be as unimaginative and consistent as he had hoped.


    For the next few hours, he continued to break them one by one, advancing steadily into the corridor while Filetta or Laurel came to report to him about various skirmishes happening around the tower. Apparently someone had broken in. Now they weren¡¯t sure. Now there was a small group of slayers attacking the door.


    By the time he reached the other end of the short corridor, it was clear he was running out of time.


    The final enchantment faded to nothing, and Tyron breathed a short sigh of relief. There wasn¡¯t any time to celebrate, so he quickly pushed the palm of his hand into the door and tried to sense beyond it. After coming so far, he didn¡¯t want to be caught with his pants down at the last possible moment.


    After a few seconds, he frowned. After a few more, he opened his eyes again, staring hard at the wooden grain of the door.


    ¡°Anti-magick field?¡± he muttered to himself.


    He couldn¡¯t sense anything from the other side, no wisp of power at all. Either the space was cleansed of every trace of arcane energy, which was unlikely given where they were, or there was a field destroying any magick that entered it.


    The Necromancer stepped back and summoned his undead to his side.


    ¡°Something wrong?¡± Janus asked brusquely.


    Tyron assessed the former Soldier. Becoming a wight hadn¡¯t been something the man had welcomed with open arms, but Tyron had pushed him to it. A servant this capable mustn¡¯t be wasted. Still, he hoped the protections he had woven into him would hold. Janus had no love for his new master.


    ¡°I¡¯ve broken through the protections, but there¡¯s an anti-magick field on the other side of the door. Lead your undead through first and I¡¯ll follow behind.¡±


    ¡°You think there might be a trap?¡±


    ¡°At this point, I¡¯d be shocked if there wasn¡¯t one.¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Janus paused for a moment.


    ¡°I¡¯m no mage,¡± the wight said, ¡°but won¡¯t an anti-magick field destroy us? This¡­ body¡­ is only held together by your magick after all.¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°It will start to break you down, but the process will be slow. If you were elementals or astral beings, then it would be much worse. Your mundane components give you a measure of protection.¡±


    ¡°Our bones, you mean.¡±


    There was no need for Janus to issue a verbal order. He simply brought up his shield, tightened his grip on his sword and took position in the centre of the corridor, the other undead forming up around him.


    Moving as one, they advanced toward the door. When the Soldier reached it, he leaned back and crashed his bone-armoured foot into the wood, splintering it. Another kick, and it flew off its hinges, crashing backwards into the room beyond.


    In fact, it wasn¡¯t a room, but another corridor, this one circular, running around the central pillar of the tower, doors set into the far wall. There were rooms and offices here, where the most secretive and private work of the Magisters was done, but one of them would be the vault in which the curses were held.


    Tyron turned his head for a moment as he felt the draw on his power increase. His minions were fighting at several points around the tower, heavy fighting, judging by the amount of energy being consumed. His wights were engaged, which meant high level opponents. Each moment that passed, the fighting was spreading higher up. At least one assailant was rocketing up the stairs. He had to move fast.


    Move, he commanded his minions, and they moved, pushing forward into the central corridor, Tyron coming up behind them. He hesitated for a moment on the edge of the field, then issued more orders before finally stepping forward.


    Fields like this were difficult to establish, and maintaining one would be a massive drain on resources. Clearly, the Magisters were keen on protecting this space, which made sense, but why were there no guards here? In a place like this, mundane defenders like Soldiers and Guards were ten times as effective. Had they been pulled out when he stormed the tower and died fighting below?


    It was possible.


    Tyron reached out a hand, and his attendant skeleton passed him his staff once again. He eyed the nearby doors. None of these would have the vault behind them; that was at the end of the corridor to his left.


    It was uncomfortable being inside this damned field. He hoped it wasn¡¯t too large.


    ¡°Let¡¯s move quickly,¡± he told his wights, and they started to walk, heading toward the vault that would break the entire province over his knee.


    The doors smashed open so quickly Tyron barely had a moment to blink before the Soldiers were charging. One moment they were alone in the corridor, the next it was filled with shouting and the sound of ringing steel.


    He whirled around, snarling as more men emerged from the rooms behind him. There were dozens of them!


    His skeletons reacted with the cold and implacable bearing that was their nature. Without fear, shock or surprise, they raised their shields and gripped their blades, forming a defensive wall that absorbed the charge, wobbled, but didn¡¯t break.


    There were a number of revenants present, along with his two wights, but against a team of soldiers, it wouldn¡¯t be enough to hold for long. Reinforcements were already coming; he could sense his undead storming through the building, no longer at the doors, stairways or windows as they rushed to their master''s aid.


    Tyron gripped his staff tighter as he glared hatefully. He would have to break this anti-magick field. Without it, he could empower his minions, and the living would quickly fall before them. It would burn through a huge chunk of power, but what choice did he have? He couldn¡¯t afford to die here. He refused!


    ¡°Tyron Steelarm!¡±


    A voice filled with unfathomable venom barked his name, and Tyron turned to see a vaguely familiar man in ornate armour striding towards him. More than his bearing, more than the arrogance in his face, the armour told the tale of who this was: a noble. Who else could afford to wear something so heavily enchanted, so elaborately made?


    ¡°Do I know you?¡± Tyron asked as he brought his staff up, then sharply down.


    The moment it touched the ground, he began to channel his power through it. This wasn¡¯t a spell, except in the crudest possible sense. Anti-magick fields were, oddly enough, made of magick themselves. Just like any other spell, they could be drained of their power, though it was difficult to do so. To destroy this field, he would have to flood it with double the amount of arcane energy that had been used to make it. If multiple mages had poured their power into it, he may run out of power before he got anywhere close to dispelling it.


    The noble¡¯s twisted expression didn¡¯t change as he continued to stride forward, swinging his blade from left to right, his eyes fixated on the Necromancer.


    ¡°You know my family,¡± the man spat. ¡°You know my brother.¡±


    The family resemblance clicked into place.


    ¡°Jorlin?¡± Tyron stated, outwardly calm as he summoned up more of his power and funnelled it through the staff. ¡°Yes, I see the resemblance. I recognise that flesh. I butchered enough of it, after all.¡±


    If it were possible, the armoured noble¡¯s face twisted even further, turning a deep red with the force of his rage. He opened his mouth to curse or roar something, but another voice cut him off before he could utter a syllable.


    ¡°He¡¯s trying to break the field,¡± a woman said, emerging from a nearby room behind the noble. ¡°There¡¯s a massive amount of power being destroyed right now.¡±


    Dressed in purple robes, with the hood pulled low over her eyes and the gold-stitched emblem of their order in plain view, Tyron knew exactly what this woman was.


    ¡°Is the field holding?¡± the noble demanded.


    ¡°Of course,¡± she smirked, staring at Tyron. ¡°I can hold it easily.¡±


    He doubted that very much. Thankfully, the noble looked convinced, turning back to Tyron with an ugly smile on his face.


    ¡°Nostas Jorlin,¡± Tyron said, as if he¡¯d just remembered the name. ¡°Head of the House.¡±


    Notas froze for a moment, and Tyron seized the chance to continue speaking as he continued to squeeze out every drop of power he could muster.


    ¡°I believe your brother was¡­ Herath? Yes, Herath Jorlin. I remember him well.¡±


    ¡°You will die a slow, agonising death for what you did to my family,¡± Nostas grated. ¡°I could kill you with a word, but I won¡¯t. You don¡¯t get to go that easy. I¡¯ll have your skin turned into a lampshade and hang it from the ceiling over your cell. You will spend a thousand days begging for death; only then will I have your tongue cut out.¡±


    The noble¡¯s whole frame trembled with the force of his rage. Tyron watched him coldly. All around him, his skeletons were being pressed, and he¡¯d been forced to retreat against the wall as his minions fought on his behalf.


    ¡°You may not have that much time,¡± Tyron called. ¡°Herath is on his way, after all. If you take too long, we will see a touching family reunion here in the tower.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t let him bait you,¡± warned the female mage-hunter. ¡°He won¡¯t be able to hold out for long.¡±


    Tyron gritted his teeth as, unfortunately, it seemed like she might be speaking honestly. He had an ocean of power at his command, but unless it was double what she had, it wouldn¡¯t be enough.


    He began to burn his vitality again, converting it to magick as he forced all of the energy out of his staff and into the field.


    The anti-mage twitched.


    ¡°He has too much power,¡± she warned. ¡°I won¡¯t be able to hold for much longer. Get him!¡±


    ¡°My pleasure,¡± Nostas growled.


    At that moment, another figure came hurtling through the corridor, bellowing in rage, and all hell broke loose.

 B4C73 - Brawl In The Tower

    Tyron didn¡¯t have time to identify the attacker, but since they seemed to plow into the Soldiers, he had to assume they were on his side. The most important thing was that he prevented the Noble from speaking. There had to be limits or restrictions on how they were able to wield the Divine Authority, but he didn¡¯t know what they were.


    With a final surge of magick, he felt a deep pain in his limbs as he continued to burn his health for more power. Cracks began to appear in his skin, thick blood leaking through and trailing down his limbs, soaking into his clothing, but he endured.


    The anti-mage gave a furious cry as the field shattered, collapsing to her knees from the strain. Tyron grinned, his free hand rising, flashing through a series of sigils faster than the eye could follow as he spoke the words of power.


    The world shivered like a struck bell as Tyron worked his will upon it. Before the Noble could take even a few steps, the Necromancer shoved his hand out and sent a streak of whirling black mist in his direction.


    Nostas saw the spell twisting through the air towards him and sneered in contempt. As the fist began to coalesce in front of his face, he slashed through it with his sword. Powerful enchantments ignited along the length of the blade, powered by the perfectly spherical cores in the hilt and pommel. With a flash of light, the magick was severed, not even slowing him down.


    However, the unnatural warping of the air hadn¡¯t stopped, hadn¡¯t ceased for a moment, as Tyron continued to cast. The Field of Death bloomed once more, enveloping the battlefield and sapping the life from every living entity within range. Thanks to his feats, a portion of that vitality found its way back to Tyron, and it was very welcome.


    Now he needed to get a buff for his minions ready; they wouldn¡¯t hold for long without it. Before he could get far into the spell, Nostas¡¯ voice stabbed into his brain.


    ¡°Cease your prattling. By the Gods, make it so!¡± He bellowed.


    The words stuck in Tyron¡¯s throat as his fingers seized, the spell disintegrating before it could truly take shape. He turned to glare at the abominable Jorlin. What were the limits on their cursed authority? What sort of dominion did The Five even hold over him? There had to be a way to break it!


    Nostas continued to advance towards him, blade shimmering in his hand. The battle raged around them, Tyron¡¯s minions pressed back by the human Soldiers, forming a solid wall that protected him from harm, but for how long?


    In the distance, he was dimly aware of the roaring figure who had stormed into the chamber. Metal shrieked and crashed beyond his line of sight, but he didn¡¯t have the space to care since he was in such personal danger.


    ¡°Have you learned your place yet, worm?¡± Nostas stated coldly as he strode forward, limbering his sword arm by whipping the blade from side to side. It was clear he had a combat-related sub-class at least, judging by his expert handling of the weapon. ¡°Cease your pointless resistance. I can kill you whenever I want.¡±


    Tyron grit his teeth. What could he do? If he started casting again, would he even be able to? What would be the point, if he was shut down with another word anyway?


    He opened his mouth to reply, only for a deafening roar to drown out the fighting as a broad, hairy Hammerman leapt forward, bringing his weapon around in a savage arc towards the Noble¡¯s head. Nostas reacted just in time, his blade flicking up as he threw his head to the side, deflecting the hammer just before it cracked into his skull.


    Watching the exchange with his mouth hanging open, Tyron could scarcely believe what he was seeing.


    Uncle Worthy?!


    For a moment, he thought he was seeing things. That his Uncle couldn''t possibly be here. It was so shocking that, for a moment, he neglected to pulse his fingers. Pain exploded in his chest, bringing him back to reality.


    Worthy bellowed, his two-handed hammer swinging in dominating arcs, the air itself bending as it passed. Massive shoulders bunched under stiff leather armour, his arms bulged and veins stood out on his neck.


    ¡°Move your arse, boy!¡± Worthy roared as he continued to corner Nostas with a flurry of blows.


    The Noble was severely pressed, unable to stand up against the might of a Gold ranked Slayer. Every time he tried to speak, Worthy¡¯s hammer whipped straight towards his face, forcing him to bend and twist at difficult angles, contorting his body and cutting off his speech.


    Tyron snapped into action, flicking out sigils and speaking the words of power.


    Death Blades.


    From one spell, he moved directly to the next.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Blessing of Bone.


    Newly invigorated, Tyron¡¯s minions moved faster, fought harder, their weapons smoking with dark power that caused their enemies to flinch back.


    It would help, but his minions were already battered and on the back foot; they weren¡¯t going to win the fight on their own. When would the rest of his minions arrive?


    Unsure of the best course of action, Tyron called out to Worthy. ¡°Keep him busy and don¡¯t let him talk! I¡¯ll finish the fight over here!¡±


    ¡°Hurry up, idiot!¡± Worthy roared as he spun around, putting his whole body into a mighty swing. Nostas was forced to duck low, almost pressing his face into the floor.


    Thinking he had an opening while the hammerman recovered from his swing, he began to speak.


    ¡°Coll¨C¡±


    ¡°Nope,¡± Worthy grunted, whipping his foot up and slamming into the Noble¡¯s chest.


    Despite the powerful blow, Nostas was able to angle his body, the powerful enchantments in his armour helping him react and move at speeds he wasn¡¯t capable of alone.


    Tyron returned his focus to his own battle. He snapped up his hand and began to cast rapidly. Bone Lance after Bone Lance ripped into the surrounding Soldiers. With perfect mental control, Tyron was able to manipulate his minions, having them duck, shift to the side or move their shields at the exact moment he released his spells. It was if they were merely an extension of his own body.


    Moving in tandem with his minions, he was able to slam the magickal bones into the front ranks of the foe. Blood spattered and men screamed, but the Soldiers quickly adapted, shifting to a more defensive posture and angling their shields towards him.


    It was enough that they were wary of him, making it a little easier for his undead to fight. Tyron raised his hand once again and cast a longer spell.


    Death Becomes Life.


    Having burned his health to a low ebb and poured his magick out into the anti-magick field, Tyron was running on fumes. He reached for a pocket in his cloak, but hesitated. No, it wasn¡¯t time yet. He could still hold.


    If the Soldiers started dying, he would have all the vitality he needed to heal himself and pour more magick into his reserves. They just had to die!


    Tyron clenched his jaws and burned his health further, converting to the magick he desperately needed. Pain filled his limbs and left him trembling on his feet, but it was enough. He had the power he needed, that was all that mattered.


    His hand rose anew, and he drew on his reserves to bend reality once again.


    Shivering Curse.


    A blistering cold filled the corridor as if all the heat had been sucked away in an instant. Breath misted in the air, limbs seized as blood slowed within veins and frost began to coat every surface.


    ¡°Janus, push,¡± Tyron demanded, and his wight responded, seizing control of the undead and driving them forward.


    With the curse in effect, Tyron began to cast Bone Lance once more, trying to find gaps in the enemy ranks and inflict maximum damage wherever he could.


    He felt a burst of vitality in his gut and the pain lessened for a moment. Then another. The tide of battle was starting to turn, but not fast enough for Tyron¡¯s liking. Worthy was clearly stronger than Nostas Jorlin, which was only to be expected, but with his Divine Authority, it wouldn¡¯t matter if the Noble found enough time to utter a command. Every moment that passed, he feared he would turn to see Worthy collapse to the ground, clutching at his chest as his heart betrayed him.


    Come on. Come ON.


    Tyron pushed harder, burning his newly gained vitality for more magick, using the power to fuel more offensive spells. Inch by inch, his undead began to push back, their blades snaking out to find flesh and spill blood.


    Once a gap opened up, Tyron forced himself through, sprinting towards his uncle, who was still fighting a dozen metres away. Worthy was bleeding all over his body, his armour easily cut through by Nostas¡¯ enchanted blade. Forced to take risk after risk to keep up the pressure, Worthy hadn¡¯t come out unscathed, with deep wounds bleeding heavily.


    ¡°Nostas!¡± Tyron yelled. ¡°Are you ready to join your brother in death?¡±


    The head of House Jorlin turned his head toward Tyron, meeting his eyes for just a moment, naked fury all over his face.


    That was all the time the Necromancer needed. His fingers flickered, and Tyron¡¯s mind smashed into Nostas¡¯ like a sledgehammer.


    He expected to crack the Noble like a walnut, yet he was surprised to find he hadn¡¯t broken through. Something resisted him, something foreign, a strange power that enveloped Nostas¡¯ mind.


    The Gods. Even here, they were fighting against him, shielding their favoured children from his wrath. Just how much did they favour the Nobles with their accursed Class? How hard did they put their fingers on the scale of the Unseen?


    Unwilling to accept defeat, he enveloped the shield with his mind and began to squeeze it like a vice. From within its shelter, Tyron felt Nostas'' mind rise up, pushing back at him, trying to shove him away.


    Never. Never!


    There wasn¡¯t any chance he let this moment slip away. Flexing his will, Tyron clamped down on the Divine protection again and squeezed until he felt as if his soul itself was about to tear apart.


    The protection shattered like glass, leaving the mind unprotected within. Nostas boiled out, full of fire and fury, clawing at Tyron like a mad thing, trying to tear him to pieces.


    Yet his anger was nothing compared to the Necromancer¡¯s, a candle next to a roaring bonfire. Exhausted, wounded and spent, Tyron would never allow himself to submit. He seized hold of Nostas¡¯ mind and smothered.


    Once again aware of the material world, Tyron found Nostas staring at him, eyes vacant, unmoving.


    Not wasting his chance, Worthy sprung forward, bringing his hammer over his shoulder and down onto the Noble¡¯s head, smashing the skull and crushing the flesh to the point it appeared he¡¯d been decapitated.


    Tyron collapsed to the ground, his strength giving out at the last moment.


    ¡°I could have used that skull,¡± he groaned, drawing deep breaths.


    Worthy looked down at him, hammer up on his shoulder, and grinned.


    ¡°Shut up, boy.¡±

 B4C74 - No More Heroes

    Tyron sucked in air as reinforcing skeletons finally poured into the corridor. Throwing themselves into the fight, he soon received burst after burst of vitality as his undead slaughtered the remaining Soldiers. The splits in his skin began to close, and he breathed a little more easily, the deaths of his enemies bringing him back from the brink.


    Worthy looked down on his nephew, waiting and watching as he healed. He was significantly wounded himself, but he was patient, still steady on his feet, until a little colour had returned to the lad¡¯s cheeks.


    ¡°Any chance you can turn off this spell that¡¯s hurting me?¡± Worthy asked, pointing at the swirling mist around his feet.


    ¡°Oh, shit. Sorry,¡± Tyron mumbled, cutting off the magick.


    Finally able to take a good look at his Uncle, Tyron noted the changes that had come over him. He hadn¡¯t seen Worthy since he had fled from Foxbridge, all those years ago. His Uncle had been larger than life, a former Slayer who had retired at Silver rank, settled down and opened an Inn. With his broad smile, fierce beard and portly frame, he¡¯d been every inch the celebrated hero and consummate Innkeeper.


    That was the only way Tyron had ever known him.


    Barely a shadow of that man remained now. Worthy had lost weight, but not muscle, looking leaner, but powerful, his arms and shoulders still massive within his armour. His face had lost its laughter and gained more scars. His eyes no longer twinkled with the joke he hadn¡¯t told you yet, but held a deep sadness. As he looked into those sombre blue eyes, so much like his own, Tyron found he didn¡¯t know what to say.


    He¡¯d dreaded this moment, he realised now. He had told himself so many reasons why he wasn¡¯t able to go and see his Aunt and Uncle, that it would be better if he didn¡¯t. They wouldn¡¯t understand what he was trying to achieve. They wouldn¡¯t approve. They¡¯d try to talk him out of it. Tyron had always feared, deep down, that not only would they try to turn him from the path of vengeance, but that they would succeed.


    They were the only people in the world who understood and shared his pain, who understood a fraction of what he had gone through. When he looked at Worthy, he had feared there would be condemnation, criticism, anger and rejection in his gaze, but what he saw was so much worse: understanding.


    ¡°Don¡¯t, don¡¯t look at me like that,¡± he said, turning his eyes to the floor between his legs.


    ¡°Like what?¡± Worthy rumbled. ¡°Is there something about my face that upsets you?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know what I¡¯ve done, Uncle Worthy,¡± Tyron said. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t look at me like that if you knew.¡±


    ¡°Oh, is that right?¡± Worthy said. He walked, heavily limping, over to Tyron, then slumped down to the floor. Worthy looked ahead and didn¡¯t reach out to his nephew, but remained still by his side. ¡°That¡¯s a little better,¡± he groaned. ¡°I¡¯m too old for this. It was hard to get here without getting caught. Reminded me of being on the other side of a rift.¡±


    Now that the last defenders had fallen, the corridor, indeed, the whole tower, was eerily quiet. Blood soaked the floor, pooling from the dozens of corpses while the Undead stood watch, unmoving and silent.


    Worthy shifted to make himself more comfortable then turned to look at Tyron, who continued to stare down at the floor.


    ¡°Now, you were in the middle of telling me what I know, and how I¡¯m allowed to feel about it. Continue.¡±


    Tyron didn¡¯t say anything. He couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°It¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve seen you since you ran off in the middle of the night, boy. You don¡¯t get to remain silent in front of me.¡±


    The Necromancer took a deep breath and tried to steel himself. He¡¯d been unwavering for six years; why was it so hard now? In the face of every atrocity, he hadn¡¯t blinked, but his Uncle''s face was enough to make him question himself? It was ridiculous. He couldn¡¯t accept it.


    ¡°I¡¯ve done terrible things, Uncle. I¡¯ve killed many people. Women and children among them. Guilty and Innocent alike have suffered because of me. You can¡¯t tell me you don¡¯t care. That Aunt Meg would still be able to accept me. I¡¯ve dragged the Steelarm name through the mud in pursuit of vengeance. I-I can¡¯t say I¡¯m sorry, because I¡¯m not. If I had to do it again, I would. Gladly.¡±


    Worthy scratched his cheek and sighed heavily.


    ¡°Tyron, take off your damned helmet and look at me.¡±


    Slowly, Tyron raised his free hand and took the helmet from his head, placing it on the ground between his feet. Slowly, he lifted his head and faced his Uncle. Worthy looked at him openly, without judgement, but with a spark of anger in his eyes.


    ¡°You keep telling me that your Aunt and I can¡¯t understand and can¡¯t forgive. That¡¯s bullshit. You think I don¡¯t know who you are? I practically raised you, boy.¡±


    There was real anger in the hammerman¡¯s tone, along with hurt.


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t walk the first time your parents left you with us. You spent more time under my roof than in your own damned house. I saw your first steps, I heard your first word, don¡¯t you dare talk to me as if I don¡¯t know who you are, or how you feel.¡±


    Worthy stretched out his arm and wrapped it around Tyron¡¯s shoulder and pulled him in roughly. As strong as he was, it was pointless for the Necromancer to resist, and he found himself crushed against his uncle''s side.


    He smelled of blood, sweat and oil, but something else, something familiar that reminded him of home, of falling asleep by the hearth as his Aunt cooked and Worthy told wild stories.


    ¡°I know what Magnin and Beory meant to you, boy,¡± Worthy said softly. ¡°They were your whole world. My brother was an incredible man. No, incredible isn¡¯t enough to describe him. More than one in a million, he was one of a kind. Even from a young age, we could all see that he was¡­ different. Somehow, he managed to find someone on his level to marry. I couldn¡¯t believe it, the first time I met your mother. The two of them together¡­ were like something not of this world. You couldn¡¯t help but want to try and be a part of it, to make them look your way, for just a moment. It was like being noticed by the sun.¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The arm around Tyron¡¯s shoulders tightened.


    ¡°And the only thing they truly cared about was you, boy. No one else really mattered to them, not even your Aunt and I. Other than you, they valued their freedom, but they gave that away for you in the end, didn¡¯t they.¡±


    Tyron hesitated and nodded.


    ¡°I don¡¯t blame you for wanting vengeance, boy. I don¡¯t blame you for the people you¡¯ve killed and the chaos you¡¯ve caused.¡±


    Worthy extended a worn, scarred hand, then slowly clenched it into a fist.


    ¡°If I could have achieved what you have, I would have done the exact same thing.¡±


    Unwilling to accept that statement, Tyron shook his head, causing Worthy to jab him in the gut with his other hand.


    ¡°What, you don¡¯t think I¡¯m up for it? I was slaughtering rift-kin and burying Slayers before you were born. You think my stomach would turn at the thought of burying a Noble family in the dirt? Bah!¡±


    Still injured, Tyron doubled over with a gasp of pain and Worthy patted him on the back.


    ¡°Sorry about that, still haven¡¯t fully grasped my strength. It¡¯s easy to lose control sometimes.¡±


    Even Tyron found it difficult at times, and he wasn¡¯t even built around Strength. For his Uncle, who doubtlessly had a colossal amount of Strength, the problem would be massively exacerbated.


    After he¡¯d recovered, Tyron elbowed his Uncle, who pretended to be hurt, and for a brief second, he felt like he was ten years old again.


    ¡°Down the corridor somewhere,¡± he said, mainly to distract himself, ¡°is the vault in which all the gold-ranked talismans are kept.¡±


    ¡°Seems like the sort of place they¡¯d keep them,¡± Worthy shrugged.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to destroy them, Uncle.¡±


    ¡°Aye. I suppose that¡¯s why you came here.¡±


    Tyron turned to watch his Uncle.


    ¡°What do you think is going to happen when I do that?¡± he asked slowly.


    Again, Worthy scratched his cheek, looking unbothered as he contemplated the thought.


    ¡°Well,¡± he mused, ¡°I suppose the Gold Slayers locked up in the city will go wild. There¡¯ll be fighting in the streets and half the city will get burned down. The Duke will try to keep the peace, but he won¡¯t be able to, so the Nobles will retreat into the castle until the worst of it dies down. After that, I suspect the Imperial Court will send a peacekeeping force, and they¡¯ll burn the entire province down to the ground.¡±


    The Necromancer nodded, his expression grave. This was what he¡¯d expected as well.


    ¡°And¡­ that¡¯s fine? Hundreds of thousands of people will die, probably millions . All of those innocent people, just so I can get revenge for the killing of my parents?¡±


    Worthy sighed.


    ¡°Anyone could tell you that the systems underpinning the Empire are rotten to the core. I¡¯m a Slayer, my parents were Slayers, my grandparents were Slayers, every single one of us was branded. Resentment towards the powers that be was fed to me from my mother¡¯s tit.¡±


    He pointed toward the still seeping corpses nearby.


    ¡°These men and women were just doing their jobs, but they were working to protect the people who made things the way they are. If you want to get to the Nobles, you need to go through thousands of people like this; that¡¯s how they¡¯ve set it up. It isn¡¯t wrong to try and get revenge, but when you try to attack the people who¡¯ve made themselves the pillar of the empire, the whole thing is going to fall down on your head, no matter what.¡±


    ¡°Does that make it right?¡± Tyron muttered.


    Worthy looked at him, frowning.


    ¡°You¡¯re telling me you care about this stuff? You actually care about all the people you¡¯ve trampled to get to this point? If so, why even start in the first place?!¡±


    ¡°But I don¡¯t care!¡± Tyron burst out, eyes hardening. ¡°I don¡¯t care about any of them. Even before the vampires messed with my head, I didn¡¯t care. No matter how many died, no matter how much suffering I caused. Ever since¡­ ever since¡­ it happened, I feel like I haven¡¯t felt anything at all except anger and hate. I see how the ghosts act, how they scream and rage, filled with spite for the living, and I feel exactly the same way.


    ¡°Sometimes I wake up in the morning feeling completely numb, wondering if I¡¯m already dead.¡±


    He breathed out slowly as something deep within his chest slowly eased.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to go through with it. I¡¯ll destroy the talismans, set the Gold rank Slayers free, and then watch while Kenmor burns to the ground. All those people are going to die, and I know that I won¡¯t care, because I¡¯m not done. I won¡¯t stop until the entire Empire has been burned to the ground and the Five Divines are pulled down from their perch and buried in the dirt.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to cause¡­ millions of people to die, and I just can¡¯t bring myself to care.¡±


    He turned to face his Uncle, who listened quietly.


    ¡°Worthy, am I a monster?¡±


    His Uncle stared at him, unblinking, then threw back his head and laughed. With his arm still over Tyron¡¯s shoulders, he crushed his nephew to his side and slapped him repeatedly on the back.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t realise my question was so funny,¡± Tyron grumped.


    Worthy wiped a tear from the corner of his eye as he continued to chuckle.


    ¡°Well¡­ I¡¯m just surprised that something like this was bothering you so much. Look, I¡¯m going to let you in on a little secret. This is hidden Steelarm knowledge that hasn¡¯t been shared with you before, or with anyone in the province, you understand?¡±


    Unsure what his Uncle was getting at, Tyron just nodded.


    ¡°You are a monster, Tyron,¡± Worthy said with a broad smile, ¡°just like your father and mother.¡±


    ¡°My parents were heroes,¡± the Necromancer said, dismissing his Uncle as he frowned in disapproval.


    ¡°Of course they were, lad. Who ever said you can¡¯t be both at the same time? When I said Magnin and Beory didn¡¯t care about anyone but you, I wasn¡¯t joking, they really didn¡¯t care. Couldn¡¯t give a shit about anything or anyone. I¡¯ve never met two people more completely self-obsessed and unfeeling. They loved you more than they did their own lives, and they still wandered off and left you by yourself for months on end. That¡¯s not the sort of thing normal people do, boy.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t make them monsters,¡± Tyron stated firmly.


    ¡°Oh, it does. The only reason they never fought against the Nobles and tried to cut them down is that they never cared enough to bother about it. As long as they got to fight and get stronger, nothing else mattered to them, not until you came along. If you¡¯d been the one to die, what do you think those two would have done? Do you really think they would have gone back to life as it was before?¡±


    Worthy snorted.


    ¡°No, they would have murdered everything and everyone who got in their way until they cut the head from the Emperor himself, no matter the cost.¡±


    Tyron shook his head, still unwilling to accept it.


    ¡°They were loved across the province, had friends and comrades. They weren¡¯t as cold-hearted as you say.¡±


    Worthy reached up and ruffled his nephew¡¯s hair.


    ¡°Because they knew it was easier to go through life as a hero than a villain. Like I said, there¡¯s no reason you can¡¯t be both.¡±


    He pointed toward the wall.


    ¡°Out there are hundreds of thousands of people, maybe even millions, who hate this province, who hate the Nobles just as much as I do. People who want to see this place burned down to the ground so something better can be built in its place. Let¡¯s not forget the Slayers out there. They¡¯re on your side. You can be a hero to them, and a monster to everyone else. That¡¯s what Magnin and Beory did.¡±


    He nudged Tyron in the side, eyes twinkling with a hint of his old humour.


    ¡°Just a chip off the ol¡¯ block, you are. Being a monster just runs in the family.¡±

 B4C75 - Free Will

    Tyron and his uncle sat in silence for several long moments, breathing deeply, eyes closed, each enjoying being in the presence of the other. All of a sudden, it was hard for the Necromancer to understand how he¡¯d been able to keep his family at arm¡¯s length for so long. Despite everything that had happened, everything he had done, and all the ways he had changed, Worthy didn¡¯t see him any differently than he had before.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t mind some of Aunt Meg¡¯s soup,¡± Tyron muttered to himself, thinking of the rich flavour of the broth he¡¯d enjoyed since childhood, glistening with fat and chunks of meat fallen straight off the bone.


    ¡°You look as thin as a fence post,¡± Worthy chuckled. ¡°When your aunt gets ahold of you, she¡¯ll put more than soup in you before you can leave the table.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been eating,¡± Tyron said, defensively.


    ¡°What? Paper and air? There¡¯s no meat on your bones!¡±


    Tyron looked down at himself.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that bad.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit, lad. Respectfully, bullshit.¡±


    Maybe he had neglected to eat more than he should have, especially over the last few weeks. Well, he definitely had, but so what? He had an entire province to bring to its knees.


    Speaking of which¡­


    With difficulty, Tyron levered himself back to his feet, one hand clutching the wall, the other held close to his chest.


    ¡°What¡¯s with your hand?¡± Worthy asked.


    ¡°Heart stopped beating,¡± Tyron replied as he steadied himself.


    ¡°Is that right?¡± Worthy blinked, then laughed. ¡°You¡¯re as hard to kill as your uncle,¡± he declared, pounding himself on the chest, then started coughing.


    ¡°Are you alright? Do you need help?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine, boy,¡± Worthy waved him off. ¡°I¡¯ve got some trinkets and foul brews the others foisted on me before I left. They¡¯ll fix me up. Now¡­¡± the hammerman stood with a groan, hands fumbling for his pockets, ¡°... let¡¯s see what the Red Tower was built for.¡±


    It took them a while to open the door, but soon they stood within the room at the very heart of the tower. Tyron could feel the power thrumming through the walls and beneath his feet; the central array the Magisters had constructed through the centre of the entire structure focused its energy right here, on this very room.


    The walls, floor and ceiling were covered in runic script, intricate enchanting work that controlled and moderated that vast flow of magick, warping and shaping it before funneling it down into the hundreds of talismans set into the walls.


    Shaped like discs, the cursed markers shone like gold, and each contained its own densely detailed sigils, along with a name carved into the centre. Each one represented an active Gold Ranked Slayer, one who had undergone the branding and retired to the city, ready to escape the slaughter and desperation of the rifts.


    In the middle of the floor, a receptacle rose up, reminiscent of a hand basin in shape, but with a circular slot in the deepest recess of the bowl.


    In a single glance, Tyron knew that this was the tool that had been used to torture Magnin and Beory. Through this device, the Magisters had poured their own magick, along with energy siphoned from the tower itself, to visit unimaginable suffering on his parents over the vast distance between them.


    He grit his teeth, a hot flash of anger burning through him, but it quickly subsided. There was no need for the rage, not right now. In this moment, his thirst for vengeance was like a beast inside his chest, feasting on a wealth of bones. Soon he would feed it the grandest prize of all, but in the long run, it wouldn¡¯t be sated. Not for long.


    ¡°So¡­ we just pull them off the wall?¡± Worthy wondered, naked anger burning in his eyes as he looked around the room with disgust.


    ¡°That won¡¯t be enough by itself. We have to destroy them completely,¡± Tyron said.


    He reached up and grasped the closest disc with his free hand, pressing his fingers to the edges. The metal was hot to touch, almost burning his absurdly durable skin, a testament to the energy flowing through it. He pulled it free from the wall and tossed it into the basin, moving onto the next.


    ¡°Throw them all in there,¡± he told his uncle. ¡°I know how to break them.¡±


    Worthy raised his brows.


    ¡°That¡¯s quite a secret, lad. How did you figure that out when you¡¯ve never seen these before?¡±


    ¡°I had some help.¡±


    He ripped what he¡¯d needed from the souls of dead Magisters, but he didn¡¯t feel the need to explain that to his uncle. The two men moved through the circular chamber, pulling discs from the wall and dumping them into the basin. With two hands available, Worthy was much more efficient than Tyron, but in ten minutes, they¡¯d managed to pry all of them down. The basin was near overflowing at this point, filled to the brim with the physical talismans that enforced the Gold ranked Slayers¡¯ curse.


    When these were destroyed, the brand by itself would no longer be strong enough to restrain their actions. There would be pain, of course, but not enough to drive them to their knees or take away their consciousness. With so many of the Duke¡¯s Soldiers committed outside the city, there wouldn¡¯t be anything to stop their rampage.


    Tyron looked down at the basin, knowing exactly what he was about to unleash.


    Worthy watched his nephew, but found his expression inscrutable, no hint of emotion in his eyes.


    ¡°What are you thinking, lad?¡± he asked.


    Perhaps he was feeling hesitant now, on the brink of unleashing chaos on the city?


    ¡°I was thinking¡­ it would be better if Magnin and Beory were still alive,¡± Tyron said quietly.


    The hammerman looked down at the basin once more.


    ¡°Aye, lad. It would.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°What in the name of the North is going on up there?¡± MacReilly swore.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Berod snapped, ¡°we are going in.¡±


    ¡°Going in, how?¡± Feolin retorted. Her neck was also craned up to stare at the tower, but even she could see the entrance at the base was stuffed full of undead. ¡°The two of us can¡¯t force our way in.¡±


    The Magister scowled, but even he could see that throwing his only two Slayers into the tower was likely to get them killed. The great doors of the tower had completely fallen away, revealing a corridor filled with darkness, ominous mist and glowing purple eyes.


    ¡°There must be another way in,¡± he spat, desperation clear on his face, ¡°find one, now!¡±


    The Magister was despairing, panic in his eyes as he looked at the Red Tower, now under heavy assault at the very least. MacRielly and Feolin had¡­ different emotions.


    As they¡¯d run into the courtyard, it was clear there had been heavy fighting. Bones lay scattered across the paving stones, shattered skulls and ribs where undead had fallen, but although there was blood and other gore scattered around, suspiciously few bodies could be seen.


    Clearly, the Necromancer responsible for the disturbance in the city was here, and had been shockingly successful in penetrating the Magisters¡¯ sanctum. Neither Feolin nor MacRielly were feeling particularly charitable toward the red-robes in this moment, if they ever had. The northman in particular was struggling to mask his glee, a wicked smile threatening to spread from the corners of his mouth.


    ¡°Maybe we should wait for others to arrive,¡± Feolin suggested. ¡°Other gold Slayers are sure to come shortly.¡±


    Indeed, some were already here. It was difficult to pick them out, but some were climbing the tower, trying to find a way in. At least, she thought those were Slayers.


    ¡°Yes¡­ yes we will wait, but not for long!¡± Berod declared, eyes fixated on the tower.


    Above them, strange lights emanated from deep within the building, the air overhead felt¡­ odd¡­ charged with magick and almost alive. Feolin had no idea what might be happening, but she knew she didn¡¯t want to be anywhere near that tower, certainly not the upper levels. Whatever might be going on, it was taking a lot of energy.


    It didn¡¯t take long for more to arrive, Slayers, Magisters, Soldiers and Marshals alike. When more red-robed mages appeared, Berod ran over to converse with them, heads together and gesturing towards the tower furiously.


    Feolin eyed the Slayers nearby. Some, she recognised, some she didn¡¯t. All of them looked as though they¡¯d been through the ringer, jaws still clenched against remembered pain, just like hers. MacRielly met her gaze.


    ¡°Lot of pissed off Slayers here, Fee,¡± he muttered quietly. ¡°Lot more to come.¡±


    There was something in his voice that sounded the alarm in her head.


    ¡°What are you thinking, MacRielly? In fact, don¡¯t say anything, I don¡¯t want to know.¡±


    ¡°The tower isn¡¯t looking so good, Fee. Something might be fucking happening here,¡± he said, insistent.


    ¡°What do you think is happening?¡± Berod snapped, a moment before the northman screamed and collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain. Soon, the pain was so intense he could no longer make a sound, and merely twisted, eyes bulging out of his head.


    ¡°We were just talking about the tower,¡± Feolin cried desperately.


    Berod stared at the Slayer on the ground, face filled with contempt.


    ¡°I know what you were talking about. I¡¯ll give MacRielly a few moments to collect himself, and then you will charge the tower along with the others who have gathered. We must get inside the building.¡±


    Except the northman was no longer writhing in pain, he was breathing heavily, curled up on the ground, with a strange look in his eyes.


    Feolin rushed to his side and crouched alongside him.


    ¡°Are you alright?¡± she asked.


    MacRielly was pale and shaking in the aftermath of the souldeep pain, a feeling she knew well, but there was something in his face¡­


    ¡°It stopped,¡± he whispered.


    ¡°Thank the goddess the prick didn¡¯t keep it going,¡± she cursed.


    ¡°No¡­ you don¡¯t understand. He didn¡¯t stop it, it just¡­ stopped.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ how could you tell?¡±


    She whipped her head around to look at Berod, who stared back with consternation in his gaze, then up at the tower.


    A figure had appeared in the window, left hand clutched against his chest, strange armour made of what appeared to be black bones moulded into plates over his body.


    ¡°I think we found our Necromancer,¡± Feolin muttered as she helped pull MacRielly to his feet.


    From far overhead, the figure looked down on them, then began to speak.


    ¡°My name is Tyron Steelarm!¡± he roared, voice echoing off the courtyard walls. ¡°Son of Magnin and Beory Steelarm, nephew of Worthy and Meg Steelarm.¡±


    Feolin scrunched her brow. Wasn¡¯t he supposed to be¡­ dead? The man speaking didn¡¯t necessarily look completely alive, but he certainly wasn¡¯t dead.


    ¡°Kill him,¡± Berod hissed. ¡°Kill him now!¡±


    Feolin looked at the Magister, then to the others who were making similar demands of the Slayers they had brought, then at MacRielly.


    Could it be?


    More and more people, Slayers among them, were filtering into the courtyard with each passing moment, all of them looking up at the man in the window, listening to what he had to say.


    Yet none of the Slayers collapsed to the ground in pain.


    ¡°My mother and father, loyal Slayers their whole lives, were ordered to hunt me down and kill me in cold blood,¡± Tyron bellowed, rage and pain plain in his voice. ¡°They refused! Refused to submit to the will of the Magisters, refused to be turned against their only child! For that refusal, they were tortured to the limits of their tolerance! Ultimately, they held out as long as they could before finally they came and found me.¡±


    He stabbed an accusatory finger down at the Magisters gathered below.


    ¡°They told you they murdered me, as if they could! In truth, they killed themselves, sacrificing their lives for mine.¡±


    An angry ripple ran through the gathered Slayers, muttering to themselves. Nobody had believed the story they¡¯d been told about the Steelarms, yet what could they do about it? Turning them against their child had been a high profile example of the brutality the Magisters engaged in regularly, but it had stung all of them, since Magnin and Beory had served so long, and so well, that they should have been above it.


    To hear that the two people many of those present had met in the rifts, many owed their lives to, had been forced to such an action, was infuriating.


    ¡°They set up everything for me,¡± Tyron continued, ¡°a new identity, a way to hide, to live a whole new life without them.¡± He paused as his face twisted with grief. ¡°I refused! I would have vengeance against the Magisters, against the Nobles, against the Duke, against the damned Emperor himself! I made a choice!¡±


    He stepped away from the window for a moment, and an object came sailing through the gap, tracing an arc as it plummeted down to the stones below. Whatever it was crashed down not far from Feolin, scattering shards of what appeared to be gold in every direction.


    ¡°Now you choose!¡± Tyron roared. ¡°Slayers of Kenmor, of the Western Province, you are free!¡±


    He turned his burning gaze to the red-robed figures who had begun to huddle together, stinking of fear.


    ¡°Kill them all!¡± he cried.


    MacRielly leapt forward, blade tracing a glittering arc through the air that swept Berod¡¯s head from his shoulders. As the Magister¡¯s body slumped to the ground, the head landing a dozen feet away, MacRielly grit his teeth against the pain, eyes tightening, as he endured. Then he laughed, hoarse and tight, but filled with real joy.


    ¡°He¡¯s fucking right!¡± the northman roared for all in the courtyard to hear. ¡°We¡¯re free!¡±


    His laugh turned savage as he stomped on Berod¡¯s remains and turned his eyes, now filled with bloodlust, on the remaining Magisters.


    Soldiers ripped their blades from their sheaths and moved to position themselves around the red-robed mages, but there was uncertainty in their every move. All around the courtyard, Feolin could see her fellow Slayers starting to realise what was happening, what had happened.


    ¡°Oh, no,¡± she whispered.


    MacRielly howled like a demon as he charged forward, blade singing as he swept it through the air.

 B4 - Epilogue

    The city of Kenmor burned.


    Exhausted, yet filled with a strange energy that wouldn¡¯t let him rest, Tyron watched the destruction from within the tower. It had been a full week since the Gold ranks had been set free, and they had been on a rampage ever since.


    From his window, he counted six separate fires. The docks had gone up yesterday, a conflagration that had spread remarkably quickly given the proximity of water. Smoke still rose from that quarter, a few buildings still aflame no doubt.


    ¡°It¡¯s not as bad as you think,¡± Worthy said, walking up behind his nephew and placing a hand on his shoulder. ¡°The docks are still on fire? You¡¯d think with all the water¡­¡±


    ¡°Not as bad, how?¡± Tyron cut him off, expressionless.


    This high up, it was possible to avoid the worst of the smell, but the scent of smoke, ash and blood still hung thick in the air. At street level, it must have been unbearable.


    ¡°Not as many dead as I¡¯d thought,¡± Worthy replied, scratching at his cheek. ¡°Some of the Slayers had enough sense to help evacuate the city, and some of the residents had enough sense to join the riots. Every guard post, Marshal office and Noble residence has been ripped to the ground, and it wasn¡¯t just the Slayers who did it.¡±


    Did it ease his conscience, to hear there had been fewer innocents caught up in his vengeance than expected? Not at all, since it hadn¡¯t bothered him in the first place. At least he could say it was a good thing. He had no wish to see people suffer needlessly, it was simply impossible to achieve his goals any other way.


    Worthy looked at his nephew with concern. Despite his best efforts to stuff food into the boy, he hadn¡¯t eaten enough over the last week, had barely slept either. All he¡¯d wanted to do was work, work, work.


    Creating undead, a messy business.


    ¡°How¡¯s that thing on your chest holding up?¡± the hammerman said, tapping himself on the chest for emphasis. ¡°Your ticker still ticking?¡±


    Tyron glanced down at himself, feeling the device he¡¯d attached to himself.


    ¡°The array is holding together,¡± he said, ¡°as it should, but there are problems with it that I didn¡¯t expect.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°It pulses at a regular beat, ventricles then chambers, same pace every time, but that isn¡¯t how a person''s heart is supposed to work.¡±


    ¡°I see what you mean,¡± Worthy said, nodding, ¡°when you exert yourself, your heart is supposed to speed up, or slow down when you sleep. Yours is always going at the same pace.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. I could modulate it myself, but how am I supposed to know how fast my heart should be beating? There are times I feel quite unwell, and I think it¡¯s only due to my constitution that I haven¡¯t collapsed already. Somehow, my body has been able to endure despite this¡­ flaw.¡±


    His mouth twisted on that final word, and Worthy chuckled. His nephew had always been a perfectionist. He stepped up and threw an arm over his shoulder.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem right that a Necromancer at your level would be fully alive anyways. If you aren¡¯t at least partially dead, how are you supposed to empathise with your minions?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m supposed to empathise with them?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s hurtful,¡± Filetta said from nearby.


    ¡°Shush.¡±


    Uncle and nephew looked out the window together at the smoking remains of what had once been the province capital. Kenmor was an immense city, home to millions¡ªat least, it had been. To see it so desolate and empty was¡­ strange. To think that only a few hundred individuals had the power to bring a city like this to its knees. The Nobles had been right to fear the Slayers, but in binding them as tightly as they did, they made a violent outburst like this inevitable.


    ¡°How many Slayers have you seen break, Uncle?¡± Tyron asked.


    Worthy grunted sourly.


    ¡°Too many,¡± he said. ¡°Never the ones I thought, either. At some point, people just snap, can¡¯t handle the brand, can¡¯t handle the killing, can¡¯t handle the pressure. Sometimes we¡¯d find a Slayer huddled in their room, weeping and wailing, rocking back and forth on the floor. Sometimes they¡¯d just leap at us with a knife in hand, or try to stick ice shards through our chests while we were sleeping.¡±


    The hammerman shook his head sadly.


    ¡°Lost a lot of good people to the despair. Kind people. The thing about Slayers is that they¡¯re always in pain, even if they don¡¯t know it. Folk who are sensitive to others¡¯ feelings are more likely to pick up on it, try to do something about it. Carrying that load is tough, even for the strongest.¡±


    ¡°Is that what¡¯s happened out there?¡± Tyron wondered. ¡°Have they snapped?¡±


    ¡°No. They haven¡¯t snapped, not like the others. These are Gold ranked Slayers, holed up in the birdcage for decades, some of them. The resentment they feel goes all the way to the bone.¡±This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Tyron accepted this. Hopefully, the golds would come around and be allies when the city was finally finished. They wouldn¡¯t be able to stay much longer, after all.


    ¡°The Nobles still packed into the castle?¡±


    ¡°Aye. Like rats in a trap.¡±


    The Castle loomed large in the distance, an enormous fortress, the most secure location in the entire province. Within those massive walls, the Duke and remaining Noble families huddled. It was almost appalling, how quickly they¡¯d been willing to sacrifice the city. After the first few hours of fighting, almost all signs of resistance had vanished as Raugrave had ordered his people to retreat to safety. Since then, the golds had made regular attempts to break through, but had failed every time.


    Which was fortunate, in its own way. Tyron definitely wanted to be there when the walls finally came down; he wouldn¡¯t be satisfied to let the Nobles die without his involvement.


    ¡°I¡¯m ready, Uncle Worthy,¡± the Necromancer stated, pushing himself away from the window. ¡°I¡¯m heading to the castle today.¡±


    ¡°Finally. I¡¯ll let a few people know,¡± Worthy said, turning away and striding towards the stairs.


    Being a gold ranked Slayer himself, Worthy had been able to liaise with the less bloodthirsty of his peers in the city. Feeding regular updates back to the tower and helping coordinate the evacuation, it had been a busy week for him as well.


    With a mental command, Tyron summoned his minions, directing them to assemble in the courtyard, then he began to make his own way down, Filetta shadowing at his heels.


    ¡°Do you really think you can bring down Kenmor castle?¡± Filetta asked softly.


    ¡°You still doubt me?¡± Tyron asked. ¡°After everything that¡¯s happened?¡±


    ¡°Everything that¡¯s happened is the only reason I¡¯m entertaining this at all,¡± she replied.


    ¡°If I was by myself, then I wouldn¡¯t be able to get through,¡± Tyron stated evenly as he began to descend the stairs. ¡°Even with the growth of the horde, I¡¯m not enough on my own to bring down the castle. With hundreds of Slayers by my side? There¡¯s a chance.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t the Emperor likely to kill the Duke and everyone else anyway? Shouldn¡¯t we be running to the west?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t trust the Emperor to kill families related to The Five,¡± Tyron sneered, ¡°and even if I did, I would still go after the castle. There are things inside that I want, very dearly.¡±


    As they descended the stairs, evidence of Tyron¡¯s work was everywhere. Piles of meat and bones filled the corridors of the tower, turning what had once been the centre of power for the Magisters into a charnel house. The stench of blood was inescapable.


    On the second floor, Tyron found the butchers and corpse weavers he¡¯d been able to bring into the tower. It hadn¡¯t been easy to track them down, but Worthy had managed to smuggle them inside before the city had been too damaged.


    ¡°Time to go,¡± he told them. ¡°Thank you for your help.¡±


    Five men and women watched him approach, visibly exhausted. They¡¯d worked constantly over the past week, preparing dozens and dozens of corpses for Tyron. It was the only way he¡¯d been able to get through the remains he¡¯d gotten hold of.


    ¡°Take this as your compensation and get ready to leave the city,¡± he advised them all, handing a heavy pouch to each of them after a skeleton passed it to him. Judging by the looks on their faces, they were quite satisfied with the gold he¡¯d handed them, not that he was sure just how useful it would prove to be in the months to come. ¡°I will be leaving myself in a few days, and it will be a hard road to the mountains.¡±


    Eager to be on their way, they ducked their heads, muttered farewells and headed to the stairs. There were still corpses, now bloated and rotting, waiting to be processed, but they would have to be left unfinished. The most important dead had been completed, that was the main thing.


    Down the corridor, in what had once been a mess-hall, an arch of bone stood. Tyron approached and pulled the door open to reveal the interior.


    Inside, a new form of undead hovered near the altar, feet dangling just above the ground. A smoking staff of forged bone in hand, the minion did not possess spirit flesh, as the wights did, but rather something else, a red crystalline structure that clung to its bones. Through its hollow eyes, it was clear to see the skull was filled with more crystal growths.


    The demi-lich glowed with magick as words of power emanated from its undead form, fingers of bone flicking from one gesture to the next. Around the room, skeletons placed in the recesses writhed as the Raise Dead ritual continued, channelled to each of them through the altar.


    When it was done, Tyron nodded in satisfaction, a little tension leaving his shoulders. It had taken some getting used to, casting the ritual through his minions, but he was growing increasingly comfortable with it.


    ¡°Well done, Grand Magister Tommat,¡± he said. ¡°Your service is much appreciated.¡±


    He could feel the spirit of the old man raging inside its new prison, but he was sure it wouldn¡¯t last long. Tommat had been a broken thing in life, and he would soon be the same in death, resigned to his fate and pliant.


    Besides, what did he have to complain about? Tyron had remade him, more powerful than he¡¯d been while alive.


    With a silent command, he emptied the Ossuary and walked out himself, closing the door and dismissing the entrance. With his final tasks done, Tyron descended to the ground floor, strode out of the tower and into the courtyard.


    The full might of his undead legion was assembled, skeletons packed into neat ranks, revenants and wights spaced amongst them like officers in an army. His mounted skeletal knights formed up in the centre, heavily armed and armoured, ready to act as his personal vanguard.


    Tommat floated out to join the other demi-liches Tyron had created, only four so far, alongside his new construct.


    In the middle of the gathered undead stood a platform, held aloft by dozens of skeletons. As Tyron approached, they lowered it for him, and he alighted onto it, balancing himself as they raised it back up.


    Uncaring of the horde around him, he turned his gaze down, to the intricate ritual circle he hand engraved on the bone surface. When everything appeared satisfactory, he nodded, reached out a hand and accepted the staff his parents had made for him from a nearby undead before slotting it into the prepared groove.


    The Necromancer raised his hands, and began to speak, words of power rolling from his tongue and reverberating through the air, sending ripples through reality for dozens of metres around him.


    Beneath his feet, the circle began to blaze with light as he poured more and more of his magick into it, shaped and given purpose by his words and hands.


    When it was done, the light of the circle exploded, blindingly bright, before fading to almost nothing.


    Then it returned, no longer bright, but a purple so deep as to be almost black, and each and every undead in the courtyard began to resonate with that same light.


    The Undead Imperator ritual was complete.


    Tyron lowered his hands and nodded with satisfaction. As long as the ritual was ongoing, he would need to remain in place to maintain it, so he stayed on the platform, reaching out to grasp his staff and take it back into his hands.


    ¡°Alright then. Let¡¯s go,¡± he ordered.


    As ever, the horde obeyed his command.

 B4 - Epilogue (cont)

    Feolin watched with horrified fascination as the gates caved in, finally tilting back to blast off their hinges and collapse with a dull roar. She hadn¡¯t believed it would be possible, not really, to break into the castle. It seemed impenetrable, an unmoving mountain of stone that by all logic should collapse under its own weight. Yet, somehow¡­


    The Slayers gave a bloodthirsty cheer. Weapons raised into the air as they roared and screamed, each pushing to be the first through the gates. MacRielly would be in there somewhere, screaming bloody vengeance as he shoved others aside, trying to be the one to get to the Duke first.


    Nearby, Tyron Steelarm watched it all unfold from atop his strange platform, his face expressionless, but his eyes burning. As always, a contingent of his undead remained about him, but others continued to engage in the battle, firing arrows, flinging spells, exchanging fire with the defenders on the walls.


    Somehow, the appetite for violence amongst the Slayers still hadn¡¯t abated. They didn¡¯t even need to kill the Duke, for the Emperor surely would, but it didn¡¯t seem to matter.


    For her part, Feolin had seen more death and suffering in the past ten days than she had seen in the decade before. The streets were choked with bodies, the noble quarter reeked of blood. She¡¯d seen the Necromancer pick through it all like a crow, going from slaughterhouse to slaughterhouse with his army and dragging away the dead.


    It was grim work, but she understood the need for it. However, it was difficult to view the man sympathetically when every time she saw him, even from a distance, he looked as cold as a corpse himself.


    ¡°Are you coming?¡± a voice asked.


    It took Feolin a moment to realise that someone was talking to her, and even longer to realise who it was. It was the Necromancer, speaking to her from atop his perch.


    She looked back to the gate. She could already hear the screaming and clash of blades, the flare of magick coming from within. No doubt the castle would soon become another charnel house.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have any desire to see it,¡± she replied.


    ¡°See what? The worst of our impulses laid bare? The depths of cruelty your fellow Slayers will sink to when they¡¯re no longer bound by the curse? Are you afraid that you will walk in there and start to believe that the Magisters were right all along?¡±


    He didn¡¯t sound impassioned, or upset, he barely sounded curious. Feolin wondered why he was talking to her at all.


    ¡°The Magisters are platinum ranked arseholes,¡± she told him, ¡°but that doesn¡¯t mean I need to see their guts spilling out with my own eyes. I find all of this¡­¡± she gestured vaguely toward the city, ¡°... unnecessary.¡±


    ¡°Freedom without vengeance,¡± Tyron nodded. ¡°Thankfully for me, not many of your fellow gold rankers felt the same way.¡±


    She felt a flush of hot anger at those words.


    ¡°Why? Because you couldn¡¯t enact your vengeance without them?¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± he nodded. ¡°Without them, I would have no chance of getting inside the castle. Every noble in there is going to die, along with all the men and women who sided with the Duke against us. However, that¡¯s not the only reason I want to get in there. I mean, aren¡¯t you curious? You don¡¯t want to know what is hidden within the bowels of the castle?¡±


    Feolin had a creeping suspicion that she very much didn¡¯t want to know what might be down there.


    ¡°Why?¡± she asked warily. ¡°Do you have some idea?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I know,¡± Tyron said, showing some hint of emotion at last: a quick flash of a smile. ¡°I want someone like you to come with me, someone who isn¡¯t¡­¡± he gestured toward the fighting at the gate, ¡°... so enthusiastic. Who knows what they might do when they find what I¡¯m looking for.¡±


    ¡°You want a witness.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. I want a witness.¡±


    The gold slayer thought about it for a long moment as the fighting continued to intensify in the distance.


    ¡°Alright, fine,¡± she eventually agreed, hoping she wouldn¡¯t regret it. She looked up at Tyron. ¡°Why are you up there, anyway?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m standing on a ritual circle,¡± he explained. ¡°I need to maintain the flow of power. I¡¯m not up here because I think I¡¯m better than everyone.¡±


    She looked down at the skeletons carrying him around on their bony shoulders.


    ¡°I can admit it doesn¡¯t look good,¡± he said.


    ¡°Fine. Pull me up and I¡¯ll go with you,¡± she said, walking over and reaching up with one hand.


    Tyron looked a little surprised at first, then he reached out to clasp her hand and easily pulled her up onto the platform. Despite not being fighters, their gold ranked strength was enough to perform an act like this without a hint of strain.


    Once she was up there, Feolin could see that indeed there was a potent ritual circle carved into the platform, which Tyron remained in contact with at all times, giving him control of the flow of power. It was an interesting spell, and as a mage, she found herself drawn to examining it, leaning in to study the sigils and connections.


    ¡°It¡¯s a ritual that empowers my horde,¡± Tyron explained. ¡°Any undead connected to me can also draw power through the circle. In addition, it gives me an enhanced mental connection to each of them.¡±


    ¡°So you can know what each undead under your control is doing?¡±


    ¡°I could already do that, but in a vague way. This ritual gives me a much stronger bond. Are you alright if we start moving?¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course.¡±


    With a lurch, the skeletons below began to march, the platform holding surprisingly steady on their shoulders. From the elevated perch, it was much easier to see what was going on, and she watched as the undead gathered around them, forming a vanguard that began to press toward the breach in the wall. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    During the fight, the Slayers had managed to bridge the enormous moat using boulders and huge chunks of stone that they¡¯d thrown in before someone was finally able to tear the drawbridge away. It was still there, half sunk into the bloody waters on its side, a huge hunk of riveted metal, humming with enchantments.


    As they drew closer to the fighting, Feolin steeled herself, drawing on her own power in case she needed to defend herself.


    The undead marched silently, as always, no fear, hesitation or anxiety in their movements. Among them, the powerful wights, decked out in plated bone armour and wielding potent, enchanted blades walked, along with the massive skeletal giants, smoking swords swinging with each lumbering step.


    It was insane to think a single Class was capable of creating an army like this. Beyond the rifts, what a weapon he would be! With this many undead, he could hold a rift by himself for days on end!


    As if sensing what she was thinking, Tyron spoke up.


    ¡°It¡¯s a shame, isn¡¯t it? When I first got this Class, I wanted to prove that I could do good with it, that I could be a weapon against the kin. If I did that, I¡¯d be accepted, and allowed to serve as a Slayer, just like my parents.¡±


    Hopelessly naive. Feolin tried not to show it in her expression. She failed.


    Tyron snorted. ¡°I know,¡± he said. ¡°Defeating the rifts was never the plan. It was never what they wanted. They need magick to fuel their power, and without the rifts, there would be no magick. No brands, no Classes, no control. When everything is built upon the foundation of a world with arcane energy, when you depend upon it to exist¡­ suddenly, a world filled with more and more of the stuff doesn¡¯t seem all that bad.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t talking about the Duke¡­ or even the Emperor¡­ are you?¡± Feolin asked.


    The clash of steel and screams of the dying were so loud now. The Slayers had plunged through the gate and ploughed into the waiting Soldiers like a tide of ravening barbarians. Gold ranked abilities boomed and howled, crushing armour and shattering stone. Overhead, magickal energies clashed in the sky, a series of rolling booms and flashing lights made it seem as if they were fighting in a fierce lightning storm.


    Rather than throw the undead directly into the thick of the fighting, Tyron seemed to take a different approach. The undead scattered around the courtyard once they were through the destroyed gate, running for the doors, stairs and towers. Undead mages shielded the rest from harm while they battered at barricades, trying to force their way in.


    Once the skeletal giants arrived, they made short work of the barred doors, smashing them in with only a few blows. Just like that, the undead flowed into the castle, swarming over the walls and towers while Tyron stood in the courtyard, atop the platform, eyes flicking rapidly from place to place.


    Ahead of them loomed the great fortress in which no doubt the Duke huddled with his few remaining troops and mages. The Necromancer barely gave it a glance.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to join the assault on the Duke? Your undead would be a useful weapon against the nobles.¡± Feolin asked.


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°I will send undead, but I won¡¯t go myself, not at first. There is something else I need to find.¡±


    His head snapped downward and he grimaced.


    ¡®What?¡± Feolin asked.


    ¡°Ghosts have gotten into the lower levels. We can go down now,¡± he said.


    At once, the skeletons lowered the platform down to the ground, nearly causing Feolin to stumble. The moment it touched the ground, Tyron stepped off, and the light of the ritual faded. She joined him, matching her stride to his and he moved unerringly toward one of the splintered doors.


    ¡°We have to go down?¡± she sighed. ¡°Just how deep does this place go?¡±


    ¡°All the way to hell,¡± Tyron replied, his tone flat.


    Skeletons formed around them, in front and behind, and she knew the others were still combing through the castle, hunting, seeking, killing. Even as he walked down the seemingly endless stone steps.


    The two descended far below, down the steps and into the darkness, accompanied by the glowing purple light of the undead. It was eerie, even to Feolin, who had experienced great terrors through the rifts.


    ¡°Have you ever wondered what happened to the Slayers who went mad?¡± Tyron asked suddenly over his shoulder. ¡°The ones who couldn¡¯t handle the pressure and went rogue?¡±


    ¡°They were killed,¡± Feolin said shortly. ¡°I¡¯ve seen it myself.¡±


    ¡°Some of them were killed,¡± Tyron replied, ¡°the ones they weren¡¯t able to subdue. The rest get hauled away by the Magisters and Marshals. What happens to them?¡±


    ¡°They get tried and executed, I imagine.¡±


    What else would they do with them?


    ¡°Half right. You know that people who are Slayers tend to have children who are Slayers, right?¡±


    Feolin¡¯s mouth tightened.


    ¡°I know,¡± she said.


    ¡°And you know why the brothels are positioned so close to the Golden District?¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°Then the rest is self-explanatory.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t see how¡­¡± a monstrous thought began to creep into her mind. ¡°You aren¡¯t saying¡­¡±


    ¡°What I¡¯m saying is that every year, dozens of Slayers were brought here, to the underground. The reason doesn¡¯t really matter to me.¡±


    He threw open a door in front of them, and Feolin gasped at the sight that lay beyond.


    ¡°What matters is that they all died here.¡±


    A stone lined pit in the centre of the room seemed to descend into perfect darkness, but even from the entrance, she could see the bones poking out.


    ¡°The entire castle is sanctified ground, no need to worry about naturally forming undead,¡± Tyron noted, stepping forward to look into the pit. ¡°A mass-grave of fallen Slayers. Are you sure you don¡¯t want to look?¡±


    Feolin felt sick.


    ¡°No¡­ I¡¯m fine.¡± She grimaced. ¡°Is this what you came here for?¡±


    ¡°Not quite.¡±


    He turned his back on the treasure trove of bones and led her out, closing the door behind him. Once again, they set off through the darkness, striding through the narrow corridors in their various twists, turns, rises and falls.


    It was hard to tell if they were moving closer to the surface or deeper down. It was hard to find any sense of direction at all, in the dark, but eventually the atmosphere began to change.


    Soon, she realised just where they were. The guards were long gone, fled or recruited to fight, but it was clear the dungeons beneath the castle had been abandoned. Except, not entirely.


    Moans, screams and pleas echoed from the damp stone walls as those still locked away, likely without food or water for days, cried out at the sound of footsteps. When they saw the undead, the prisoners fell silent, cringing back in their tiny cells, turning their faces away from the light of the skeletons¡¯ eyes.


    Row after row of cells, Tyron marched past all of them, Feolin on his heels, until he came to one and stopped. For the first time, she felt she saw a hint of genuine emotion in his face as he gazed at the crumpled old man lying on the floor of the cell.


    ¡°You know this man?¡± she asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s Master Willhem,¡± he replied softly.


    ¡°No!¡± she gasped, turning back to the unfortunate prisoner. She could see some resemblance, but it was difficult to match the esteemed Arcanist she had seen only briefly with this wreck.


    ¡°What happened? Why would they bring him here?¡± she muttered.


    ¡°I happened,¡± Tyron said.


    She waited, but got no further response.


    ¡°Is he¡­¡± she hesitated to continue.


    ¡°He is hovering on the edge of life and death, but there isn¡¯t anything anyone can do to save him now. This place has made his condition worse. Old-age can¡¯t be healed.¡±


    ¡°Is this why you wanted to come here?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Tyron knelt down and lifted his hands to grip the bars of the cell, profound emotion welling deep in his eyes.


    ¡°I will witness your final moments, Master Willhem,¡± he whispered. ¡°And then, you will come with me. You¡¯re just like me now. You want to make them pay.¡±

 B5 - Prologue

    Wind and sand blasted across the eternal dunes. A robed figure walked alone, one hand holding their hood low over their face, blocking the wind. Clearly this one was not of the dust. It was obvious from the way they walked, but to shield themselves against the sand?


    Al¡¯hakash. Forbidden.


    Hunkered down in the dunes, invisible and unmoving, Hon¡¯kaal watched and waited for the creature of flesh to draw closer. His grip tightened around the hilt of his shell-blades. Soon, they would be close enough. Soon, they would learn the price of treading on sacred ground.


    ¡°Hold, Warrior of Dust. Do not attack.¡±


    Hon¡¯kaal remained hidden, hands gripping tighter. What trickery was this? The intruder called out once more.


    ¡°I have permission from the Graal to be here. I seek to barter with Dust Folk of the plains. I have trade.¡±


    Why was he even talking? There was no way he could know that Hon¡¯kaal was here. This outsider was just another thief of the empire, here to take what they had not earned to honour their false gods.


    The figure was no longer walking, instead, they stood still, shielding themselves from the cutting sands.


    ¡°Come out, or I will make you come out.¡±


    Perhaps they did know something? Impossible; it had to be a bluff. Hon¡¯kaal did not move. They would wait for the moment to strike.


    Words of power slammed into the air, and the Dust Warrior moved on instinct, springing out of the sand and spinning through the air, blades drawing a deadly arc. Before they could draw close, the weapons slammed into a wall, and suddenly Hon¡¯kaal was surrounded, boxed in on all sides by ethereal slabs of bone.


    He spun again, blending his form with the sand and letting the wind take him, but it wasn¡¯t quick enough. Reality warped under the force of the intruder¡¯s will, and the Dust Warrior found themselves snatched out of the air, gripped tight in a hand of shadow and death.


    No matter how he struggled, with his arms pinned to his sides, Hon¡¯kaal was unable to free himself. After exhausting his strength, he ceased to struggle. He slumped in the grip of the spell and gave himself over to final death.


    The intruder did not move to land the finishing blow.


    ¡°I have permission from the Graal,¡± he repeated. ¡°I have come to trade.¡±


    Reaching into his robes, the intruder pulled out a scroll case, and from inside they drew a piece of parchment, shielding it against the fierce winds. It was difficult for Hon¡¯kaal to read, but he was able to see the sign of the Graal stamped on it.


    ¡°How does an outsider like you have something like that?¡± Hon¡¯kaal rasped.


    ¡°Because your leader is wiser than you, and knows how to get that which is most valuable to the Dust Folk.¡±


    ¡°You have Crystal Magick? Or water?¡±


    ¡°I have knowledge.¡±


    Once the Dust Warrior was convinced not to try and kill the outsider, it was another four hour journey over the sands before they arrived at the camp.


    It was a disorienting experience for Tyron. Walking through the sandstorm, it was impossible to know left from right, and at times, one couldn¡¯t see their own hand in front of their face, the air was so thick with sand. If he hadn¡¯t run into the guide, Tyron may never have found the camp at all and been forced to seek shelter. As it was, he could thank his superhuman endurance that allowed him to push through conditions all but the Dust Folk considered deadly.


    Sheltered by a rock spire that pierced the dunes like a spear, the camp was formed of many-layered tents, each protected by wind shields that sought to protect them from the worst of the sand. At these speeds, weak cloth would be torn to shreds by the desert. If Tyron¡¯s cloak hadn¡¯t been enchanted against it, his bare flesh would have been exposed and his blood would have dyed the sands for kilometres back.


    When an outsider came close to the camp, the response was immediate, figures rising out of the sands to stare from behind their darkened hoods, never revealing their faces. Within the tents, people huddled down, sensing danger, or perhaps responding to some unseen signal.


    ¡°Now we will see if you live or die, kash¡¯lani,¡± Hon¡¯kaal rasped. ¡°The Graal will determine your fate.¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    ¡°What kind of madman would come into the lands of the Dust Folk without permission? I have no wish to die,¡± Tyron stated.


    ¡°A thief, or a fool.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a poor thief who announces himself before walking into your camp.¡±


    ¡°A fool, then.¡±


    ¡°Speak with your Graal. I have no desire to aggravate your people any more than necessary.¡±


    With a low hiss, the Dust Warrior turned away, while several others stepped up to watch over the outsider. Hon¡¯kaal disappeared into the largest tent, only to emerge a few minutes later, anger radiating from his every step.


    ¡°You speak truly, it seems, kash¡¯lani.¡±


    Tyron raised a hand.


    ¡°I am not an outsider any longer. I am a guest of the Graal. Chan¡¯lani.¡±


    The Dust Warrior hissed once more, and Tyron shrugged. Manners were hard to come across these days. At least they didn¡¯t impede him as he made his way toward the large tent and slipped inside.


    As soon as the heavy layers fell shut behind him, the overwhelming sound of the wind quieted to almost nothing. It was dark inside, but even so, Tyron could easily make out the various human figures spread around the space, along with the leader of this camp, sat in the centre of the tent, seated on an elaborate rug, formed of concentric circles that placed the figure at the nexus.


    Tyron bowed his head respectfully, approached and sat, folding his legs and placing his hands on his knees, keeping them in open view.


    ¡°It¡¯s not easy to find your people,¡± he said.


    The Graal gave a low, wheezing laugh. They sounded like a breeze rustling the dunes, something about them radiating great age.


    ¡°We do not want to be found,¡± came the reply. ¡°The people of your empire have always hunted us. Chased us. Tried to drive us from our lands. It never works, only the people of Dust can live in the blessed sands, but we have learned to be cautious. It is chan¡¯rela, good that we do this.¡±


    ¡°Your own people nearly stabbed me,¡± Tyron stated calmly.


    ¡°That is what they are trained to do. For outsiders to come here is Al¡¯hakash.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯m an exception?¡±


    ¡°You are if you can deliver what you promised.¡±


    The figure leaned forward, and even in the dim light, Tyron could finally make out their face.


    The Graal was old, but more than old. The flesh and skin were shrivelled and tight, making the features impossibly emaciated. Hollow sockets stared at Tyron, while he saw nothing but darkness and shadows reflected back.


    This was not a living person, and hadn¡¯t been for some time.


    ¡°You don¡¯t seem surprised, to see what I am.¡±


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°I already know what you are. We can discuss these matters face to face, if that is your preference.¡±


    The skeletal figure raised a brow, then, slowly, opened their mouth wide. There was movement within, until finally a brightly coloured beetle emerged, its shell shimmering in the low light.


    Moving carefully, the insect crept up the face of the figure until it sat in the centre of its forehead, still and watching.


    ¡°It has been some time since I sat before an outsider like this,¡± the voice still emanated from within the body, but Tyron knew who was really speaking.


    ¡°The honour is mine,¡± Tyron said, offering a slight bow. ¡°Now, should we proceed with our exchange of information?¡±


    ¡°We shall. Honour would dictate I provide you with refreshment, but our stores are light, and I feel you would refuse them anyway.¡±


    ¡°Knowledge is the sustenance I crave,¡± Tyron replied.


    He pulled around the leather satchel that rested on his back, reaching inside and removing three scroll cases from within.


    ¡°I¡¯ve written here everything we know about what has occurred in the Western Province of the Empire.¡±


    He placed the scrolls in front of the Graal and then sat back while a thin hand emerged to pull them closer.


    ¡°Can you summarise them now?¡±


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°The destruction of the Western Province is complete. The Emperor¡¯s Golden Legion has burned everything all the way to the Barrier Mountains. We suspect there isn¡¯t anyone left alive. The rifts are being tamed once again, but there are still thousands of kin who have been left to wander across the land. It will likely take months, perhaps even a year, before they are hunted down and the land made habitable again. The south is particularly bad.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the Graal said, ¡°we have noticed the monsters coming into the desert in greater numbers. What of your people? Have you managed to find safety beyond the mountains?¡±


    ¡°Maybe, maybe not,¡± Tyron replied, his tone flat. ¡°If you want to know more about us, or the land over the mountains, then you would need to offer up more to trade.¡±


    ¡°We are offering you the secrets of our people already. What more could you possibly ask of us?¡±


    Tyron snorted.


    ¡°We both know you have parted with a bare sliver of what you have to share. I am no friend of the Empire, this you know. Your knowledge will be put to good use against your enemies if you share it with me.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps, perhaps not. The friend of today is the enemy of tomorrow. We are cautious, here on the sands. After all, have you not surrounded this camp? It seems you do not trust us much either.¡±


    At these words, the humans within the tent gasped, some pulled blades, but the Graal raised a hand to stall them, the beetle resting on the forehead remaining unmoving.


    The Necromancer stared back.


    ¡°I will not allow myself to die, not until my work is done.¡±


    Silence hung heavy in the tent, until the Graal began to laugh, a low wheeze, filled with dust and dead air.


    ¡°Very well. Let us discuss further what we might offer in trade. You have secrets, and so do the Dust Folk. We can come to an arrangement.¡±

 Book 5 - Prologue (cont)

    ¡°I told you I would find it.¡±


    ¡°But you didn¡¯t; I found it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s almost as if you¡¯re suggesting my totem pole provided no value whatsoever.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not suggesting it, Dove, I¡¯m outright saying it.¡±


    The skeletal form of the once-living Summoner turned its back in outrage, flicking the crumbling bones of the snake he¡¯d attached around his waist over his shoulder.


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you upfront, Tyron, this partnership isn¡¯t going to last without mutual respect.¡±


    ¡°Respectfully, shut the fuck up. I¡¯m working.¡±


    Dove briefly considered unleashing his marrow hound on the Necromancer, but thought better of it. Even as a joke, attacking someone much stronger than himself with an undead entity conjured from the realm of death itself was probably a bad idea.


    Instead, he watched as Tyron muttered to himself, cast magick and mucked about with runes for ten minutes before getting bored.


    ¡°This tomb has been sealed for hundreds of years. What are the odds any defences are still functional? You can probably crack the door open and stroll inside without a care.¡±


    Tyron lowered his hands and turned his unfeeling gaze upon the oddly dressed skeleton.


    Dove was still wearing the armour Tyron had crafted for him, along with a tattered robe that seemed to be for dramatic effect only, and the snake dangling between his legs, of course. Even for an animated construct of onyx bones, he looked utterly ridiculous. The Summoner had always been eccentric in life, and it seemed death had only driven him further in his pursuit of the absurd. Or it had simply driven him mad.


    ¡°Arihnan the Black was the most powerful and feared Necromancer on record before me,¡± he said, completely without ego. ¡°If I had built it, the enchantments I built into a tomb to protect my secrets would grow stronger over time, not weaker.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but you¡¯re weird,¡± Dove pointed out, ¡°and we have no evidence to suggest that Mr Black was an enchanter of anything like your skill. Even if he was the best Necromancer around, he had to make these runes himself, or hire someone to do it for him.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t an unreasonable thing to say. Tyron considered for a moment. It was true he¡¯d been having trouble finding any significant source of arcane energy that would indicate the presence of a trap, but he¡¯d thought perhaps they were simply very well made. This was supposed to be the greatest Necromantic treasure trove in the realm, there was no way it wasn¡¯t heavily defended¡­ right?


    ¡°Fine,¡± Tyron said, giving up. ¡°I¡¯ll send in some minions.¡±


    ¡°Rude,¡± Filetta said from her spot against the wall.


    ¡°I mean regular skeletons,¡± Tyron defended himself. ¡°I wasn¡¯t going to send you in first.¡±


    ¡°Of course he wasn¡¯t going to do that,¡± Dove stated, leaping to the wight¡¯s side and swinging his snake suggestively. ¡°He wouldn¡¯t dare interrupt our special time.¡±


    She grabbed him by the skull, jamming her fingers into his empty eye-sockets before she spun, whipping him off his feet and slamming him into the ground.


    ¡°You¡¯re disgusting,¡± she told him as she rose and sauntered over to the Necromancer. ¡°Besides, I¡¯m spoken for.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Dove gasped, horrified, from his mangled position on the floor, ¡°Tyron, you betrayed me?!¡±


    ¡°Shut up, both of you,¡± Tyron rolled his eyes. ¡°If you¡¯re going to go in there, be careful. Take some minions with you, use them to feel out for traps.¡±


    ¡°I will,¡± she said, waving him off.


    Several skeletons ran down from further back in the underground passage on Filleta¡¯s command. She ordered them forward, and in short order, the undead had managed to haul the slabs that served as the seal for the tomb out of the way.


    The tunnel filled with thick, stale air as the long-trapped atmosphere within was finally released. They were already deep underground. It was warm, but the air was still and cloying. Dove tilted his head as Filetta and the minions stepped into the darkness, looking at Tyron.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you need air to breathe?¡± he asked. ¡°I know your heart situation is¡­ out of the ordinary, but you still breathe, right?¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    Dove waited, but there didn¡¯t seem to be more coming.


    ¡°So¡­ how are you fine down here?¡± he pressed. ¡°You don¡¯t enjoy my particular advantage of being a spirit yearning for the void but mercilessly lashed to an attractive stone form.¡±


    ¡°Yearning for the void?¡± Tyron asked, brow raised. ¡°I can set you free right now if you want.¡±


    ¡°No thanks,¡± Dove said quickly as he picked himself up from the floor. ¡°I¡¯ve become too familiar with the Realm of the Dead to be at all interested in an extended visit. That place is¡­ cold.¡±


    Tyron stared at his former mentor with hard eyes. He¡¯d been asking Dove to share his knowledge of the Realm of the Dead ever since meeting up with him before crossing the mountains. However, Dove had proven to be less than willing to say anything about the place, dropping cryptic hints and avoiding the topic whenever possible. The search for the tomb of Arihnan was a worthwhile distraction, but the time he would need to be more forceful with his questions was soon approaching.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Sound from within the tomb distracted him, and he turned to see the glowing light of ethereal flesh drawing closer. It soon resolved into the form of Filetta.


    ¡°You should probably come and see this,¡± she said.


    He held out an open palm and conjured a globe of light to hover above it, casting shadows deep into the tomb and began to walk forward, but not before he summoned more of his undead to his side.


    The bulk of his army remained at the settlement, helping to carve out a safe haven amidst the chaos that now filled what had once been the Empire of Granin. That didn¡¯t mean he hadn¡¯t brought enough to keep him safe.


    Surrounded by heavily armoured wights and revenants, Tyron stepped over the threshold and into the tomb. The change in the air was immediate, the stink of rot and mould somehow clinging to the walls despite the long centuries that had passed.


    The narrow pathway soon opened up to a larger chamber, with rows upon rows of stone slabs, each with a concave depression carved out of the surface. Tyron ran his hand along one. The stonework was starting to crumble, but it was clear there had been a channel running out one end. He frowned and stepped around to the head of the slab, poking with his foot until he found what he was looking for.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Dove asked, wandering over to peer at the ground.


    ¡°They drained bodies of blood on these slabs,¡± Tyron said, pointing to the shallow bowl that formed the surface and the narrow opening that let the blood flow out. ¡°You can see they let it fall here into this gutter, where it pooled and ran that way. There was probably a collection point for each row.¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t it just thicken up and turn to mush?¡± Dove asked, perplexed. ¡°Blood doesn¡¯t flow like water, that¡¯s just bullshit.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t, unless you have some specific types of magick,¡± Tyron said, thinking to himself. He shook off his introspection. ¡°Let¡¯s keep going, I want to see more.¡±


    This must have been where Arihnan had processed the raw materials that went into creating his army. After draining them of their blood, the remains were brought into the next chamber. It was dusty, filled with webs and littered with bones. There were some things Tyron couldn¡¯t explain, like the massive cauldron that still sat on spikes above a fire pit, or the rusted hooks that hung from the ceiling, but the knives and saws, he recognised instantly. This was a butchery.


    The deeper they went, the clearer a picture was formed of the massive effort that had gone into the ancient Necromancer¡¯s rise. He hadn¡¯t worked alone, far from it. The scale of the operation was a clear giveaway, but the rooms with crumbling timbers and rotted blankets were clear evidence of the help he had.


    The iron bars and locked gates for doors indicated that labour may not have been voluntarily given.


    Two skeletons were lost due to mundane, mechanical traps. The first was crushed by an iron ball that dropped from above, the second carved into eight pieces by a series of blades that emerged from the walls.


    Both were salvageable with extensive repairs, so Tyron had other minions gather their remains and take them back to the base camp.


    ¡°This guy was old-school,¡± Dove noted appreciatively after the second trap had been triggered. ¡°No arcane trickery or arrays, just old-fashioned mechanical traps. You don¡¯t see this kind of craftsmanship any more. It¡¯s a dying art.¡±


    ¡°This place is hundreds of years old,¡± Filetta noted dryly. ¡°Obviously, it¡¯s old-fashioned. It¡¯s old.¡±


    ¡°You youngsters don¡¯t appreciate great work when you see it,¡± Dove huffed.


    ¡°We¡¯re both dead. Arguing about age is just depressing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been dead longer than you!¡± Dove declared, pointing a bony finger. ¡°That makes me double-older than you are.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the only dead person I¡¯ve met who I can¡¯t stand,¡± Filetta said. ¡°How do you even manage to be such a pain?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s one of my many talents,¡± Dove declared, swinging his snake skeleton suggestively.


    ¡°I¡¯ll lock both of you in a rock and leave you down here if you don¡¯t shut up,¡± Tyron warned them.


    Dove thought for a moment.


    ¡°The same rock?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Separate rocks.¡±


    ¡°Well then, no, obviously.¡±


    The skeleton mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key, a gesture made creepy and bizarre by his total absence of lips.


    With Filetta at the lead, they crept deeper into the complex, finding more rooms and chambers with strange purposes. The tomb was larger than any of them had expected, and when they found the tunnels that had likely been where Arihnan had stored his army, they gained a new perspective on its size.


    Carefully combing over each new chamber was exhausting, but after hours and hours of painstaking searching, they arrived at the deepest recesses of the tomb and found Arihnan¡¯s study.


    It was difficult for Tyron to suppress his excitement when the light over his palm played across the scrolls and bound volumes, many of them securely stored in cases or treated leather. It seems the lich had been particular about storing his knowledge, just as Tyron was.


    There were several desks, or what was left of them, indicating Arihnan hadn¡¯t worked alone, but no matter how they searched the room or the adjoining chambers, they didn¡¯t find any beds, confirming the histories that claimed Arihnan had been a lich.


    ¡°Seems secure enough,¡± Filetta said, still scanning with her undead eyes. ¡°You can grab some books if you want to, boss.¡±


    ¡°Come on,¡± Dove interjected, ¡°the books are more likely to be trapped than anything else! Allow me.¡±


    He sprang forward, seized a scroll case and lifted it dramatically from the shelf that held it. There was a pause as Dove stood, unmoving, waiting for something to drop, but nothing did.


    Tyron stepped to his side and smoothly lifted the case from his hand.


    ¡°Thanks. I¡¯ll take it from here.¡±


    Eyes gleaming with excitement, he found a comfortable enough patch of rubble, opened the case and began extracting the document within with intricate care. The paper was of decent quality, but only by carefully preventing moisture contamination had it been able to survive this long. He unrolled it and held the light close, eyes rapidly scanning the page.


    ¡°I can read it at least,¡± he noted aloud. ¡°The writing is terribly faded, but legible.¡±


    ¡°You speak Granese? Or whatever the language was here,¡± Dove asked.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Tyron replied shortly, still scanning.


    ¡°You learned it just in case we found this place, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    Tyron didn¡¯t reply.


    Instead, he put the first scroll away and resealed it, then held out his hand as a skeleton passed him another. Hours passed as Tyron meticulously went through document after document; even though he read through each in a matter of moments, Arihnan had left a lot of writing behind. Dove tried to engage him in conversation, but failed utterly. Then he tried to alleviate his boredom by reading himself, only to be forced away by Tyron¡¯s minions.


    Ultimately, he gave up and went to sleep.


    Tyron was halfway through one of the volumes when he finally lowered it with a sigh.


    ¡°Let¡¯s pack up as much as we can,¡± he said. ¡°I can go through the rest when we get back to the settlement.¡±


    ¡°Anything useful?¡± Filetta asked as Dove stirred back to life.


    ¡°Useful?¡± the former Summoner mumbled. ¡°These are the writings of the great Arihnan the Black! This is hot shit right here! Tell her, Tyron.¡±


    The Necromancer grimaced, then hesitated, choosing his words.


    ¡°So far, it¡¯s a bit¡­¡± he searched, ¡°... basic.¡±

 B5 Chapter 1 - Survivors

    With each step Elsbeth took, crystal shards crunched underfoot. The ground was littered with them, broken from the larger clusters that burst through the ground, rising as high as a house at their largest. To think that crystallised magick, a precious resource over the mountains, was so absurdly abundant here.


    It sickened her.


    She cast her gaze across the plains and barely recognised her own world. There were almost no trees, no grass or greenery of any kind. Instead, a blasted wasteland of crystal shards and sandy, dry soil extended in every direction she turned, only terminating at the Barrier Mountains, scraping the sky to the east.


    When they had finally been forced to flee through the mountains, a part of her had been filled with hope, dreaming that life away from the Empire would be better than it had been before. Reality was not so kind.


    A presence within her spirit stirred, and the Priestess clasped her hands before her chest and closed her eyes. Slowly, the sensation grew as a being so much greater than herself reached out to speak into her heart.


    A hard land will make a hard people. We will pour out our blessings on the worthy and upon this land. Fear for the people, and we will not fail to judge them.


    The touch of The Three receded and Elsbeth released a shuddering breath. More often than ever before, the Old Gods were willing to speak to their Priesthood, taking a more direct hand. Perhaps they had foreseen this future all along? They intended for the western province to be wholly destroyed so that they could create a new land, carved out of the wilds for their followers to inhabit?


    That wasn¡¯t for her to worry about. The Gods knew her heart, knew what concerned her the most. She would continue to fear for the people and hold them up in prayer. Then, they would be judged, but there was nothing else she could do.


    Footsteps approached from behind, easy to hear thanks to the crunching of crystal.


    ¡°What are you doing out here?¡± Munhilde asked. ¡°Has something changed since yesterday?¡±


    ¡°Not that I can see,¡± Elsbeth said, turning to face her old teacher.


    The older woman was smiling, not an expression that Elsbeth had grown accustomed to seeing on her face over the years they had known each other. Despite the frostbite that had taken three of her fingers, Munhilde had been more at peace than ever after crossing the mountains. Elsbeth had asked her about it, and had been told that living out from under the thumb of The Divines had been like being able to breathe freely for the first time.


    ¡°At least there aren¡¯t any kin nearby,¡± Munhilde noted, scanning their surroundings. ¡°Good to see the Slayers are doing their work properly.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve been fighting constantly,¡± Elsbeth chided her.


    ¡°So? That¡¯s what they do. Come back to the settlement, there¡¯s nothing to be gained from standing out here.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± Elsbeth sighed, and began to walk back with her teacher turned friend.


    ¡°The Mages were forecasting another magick storm in a few days,¡± Munhilde told her, looping her arm through Elsbeth¡¯s and patting her on the shoulder.


    ¡°Are the rods going to hold?¡± she replied, worried. ¡°They¡¯ve been taking a beating recently.¡±


    ¡°Getting information out of the lich is well beyond me,¡± Munhilde said. ¡°I¡¯ve met taciturn people in my life, but getting words from that particular undead has proven to be harder than getting blood from a stone.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll try. He¡¯s been a little more open with me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d appreciate it.¡±


    The two chatted back and forth as they continued to walk through the wasteland. In the distance, what had begun as a crooked smudge rapidly grew as the ruins of what had once been a great city came into view.


    Broken stone littered the ground around them, enormous foundation stones, some several metres wide, jutting up from where they were half buried in the dirt. Elsbeth wasn¡¯t sure what manner of kin had torn this once-thriving city apart, but she hoped she never saw one.


    They began to see smoke rising and further signs of activity until finally, once they were well inside the circle of the ruined walls, they came across the first of the small settlements. Haggard-looking men and women came out from their homes amidst the rubble to greet the Priestesses as they passed, asking for news or for blessings. Many had perished in the western province, some had refused to leave, either not believing the Empire would destroy them, or simply lacking the will to start over somewhere else.


    Millions had died, but millions had survived, and begun the great migration to the west. The mountain crossing had been perilous, especially difficult for the very young, and the very old, and many hadn¡¯t made it. Adapting to life in these harsh conditions had claimed more. But now, two years after the city of Kenmor had fallen, life was beginning to feel at least a little normal for the survivors.


    Whenever she was asked for prayer, Elsbeth was more than happy to stop and spend time with the people, calling on the Old Gods to turn their gaze favourably upon those who called on them. It was unlikely they would listen; Crone, Raven and Rot would judge who was worthy, and who was not, without much care for her input.


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    The closer they drew to the centre of the ruins, the more people, and the more signs of habitation they found, until they eventually wound their way to the city centre, where the first signs of fresh water could be seen.


    In the very centre of the lost city, a fountain had once stood. An enormous edifice, dozens of metres across, which had once been topped with a grand statue, perhaps depicting a ruler, or hero of the long-dead people of Granin. Now, a different stone sat in its place upon the plinth, a rock which, when the light fell upon it just right, seemed to resemble an old man laughing. From beneath that rock, an endless wellspring of water flowed forth, filling the fountain basin and overflowing into the garden plots that had been constructed all around it.


    This was where the settlement was at its busiest. The grand plaza of the ruined city had been turned into the last safe haven of those who had fled from the western province, the only place with potable water and fertile soil in the entire wasteland. All around the outskirts of the open space, great poles had been planted, rising ten metres into the air and crackling with power at the tip.


    It was around the base of one of these that Elsbeth found what she was looking for.


    The presence of the dead was everywhere in the settlement. Patrols walked the streets, skeletons worked alongside the living to dig the channels, clear the debris, work the plots. Even without the presence of their master, the wights and demi-liches were able to command the lesser undead, and it was one of these she was looking for.


    Twenty skeletons, a wight and a demi-lich had gathered around the base of one of the rods, and after bidding farewell to Munhilde, Elsbeth strode toward them before stopping a respectful distance away.


    As she watched, the demi-lich floated before the rod, one skeletal hand extended, causing the complex sigil patterns engraved on the wooden surface to glow.


    ¡°You can approach, young one,¡± the lich said at last, lowering his hand.


    Elsbeth walked toward the group, watched carefully by the attendant wight, but she paid them no mind.


    ¡°Master Willhem, it¡¯s nice to see you again,¡± she said.


    The demi-lich turned his hollow-eyed stare on her.


    ¡°I think you are the only one who greets me like that,¡± the Arcanist said, his voice ethereal and ghostly.


    ¡°You may not be alive any longer, but you are still Master Willhem, and you¡¯ve done so much to help people. I wouldn¡¯t dare not show my respect.¡±


    An empty chuckle emanated from the lich.


    ¡°It¡¯s nice to be appreciated,¡± he said. ¡°I suppose you came to ask about the rods?¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± Elsbeth confirmed, ¡°Munhilde told me there should be another magick storm soon. I was hoping you would be able to tell me if they¡¯ll be able to protect us.¡±


    Master Willhem looked up at the rod, then at the raging skies above.


    ¡°I never imagined I would see such raw, unbridled power,¡± he sighed, then extended a hand to touch the wood once more. ¡°I¡¯ve been doing work on the rods for the last few days, but there are so many, it¡¯s unlikely I¡¯ll get to them all before the storm arrives. The ones I¡¯ve fixed will function properly, but I can¡¯t guarantee them all.¡±


    Elsbeth bowed her head.


    ¡°That¡¯s all we can ask of you, Master Willhem. Thank you for your efforts.¡±


    ¡°It isn¡¯t like I have much choice. My pupil has asked me to do it, though I was going to anyway.¡±


    The demi-lich snorted, or tried to. Sometimes it seemed as if he still hadn¡¯t adapted to being dead, despite the passage of years since the transition.


    ¡°Do you mean Tyron is coming back? He¡¯s been gone for months.¡±


    ¡°Should be back in an hour or two, the brat,¡± Willhem groused. ¡°If you see him, tell him to help me with these damn rods. If he wants to collect and ground enough magick to scour an entire city, then he better come and assist. I¡¯m too old for this.¡±


    ¡°You could tell him yourself?¡± Elsbeth suggested gently.


    The lich stared at her with his blank eyes.


    ¡°I think not,¡± he said shortly, then turned away, drifting just above the ground as he moved to the next rod.


    Elsbeth sighed. It was a shame Master Willhem found it so difficult to reconcile with his former student, and Tyron was surprisingly reluctant to force the issue. If she were to guess, she would say that the former Arcanist was the one person he actually felt bad for having turned into an undead.


    If the Necromancer was returning, then he would be coming from the south. Elsbeth looked over the plaza once more before she smiled to herself and began to walk to the southern end of the ruins.


    Spotting Tyron coming back was much easier than she¡¯d expected; the horde of skeletons gave him away. Rows of undead, marching in perfect unison, walked directly into the city as Elsbeth watched them go past. Eventually, in the middle of the column, she found Tyron and Dove, bickering as usual.


    ¡°Welcome back,¡± she greeted them. ¡°Nice to see you getting along so well.¡±


    ¡°The best part of coming back here,¡± Tyron grunted, ¡°is having someone else for Dove to annoy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll stick to you like glue,¡± Dove declared. ¡°No distractions this time.¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t last five minutes.¡±


    Before they could get caught up in another argument of Dove¡¯s devising, Elsbeth interjected.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been gone for months this time. Was it worthwhile? Are the Dust Folk going to help us?¡±


    ¡°They are,¡± Tyron confirmed, ¡°and I was able to get a glimpse at some of their scrolls. We can expect the first caravan in a week or two. I¡¯ll have a talk with Master Willhem and see if we can put together the things they want before they arrive.¡±


    ¡°Master Willhem is busy right now checking up on the rods,¡± she told him. ¡°They¡¯re expecting another storm in the next few days, and he¡¯s not sure he can get to all of them in time.¡±


    Tyron looked irritated, then sighed.


    ¡°He still refuses to reach out to me, doesn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°Seems that way,¡± Elsbeth confirmed. She fell in alongside her old friend as they walked back into the city. ¡°I don¡¯t think he¡¯s comfortable with what happened to him.¡±


    It was interesting to see how people responded to Tyron as he returned. Faces peeked out from behind the buildings, or looked down from above, out of crumbling windows from two-story buildings overlooking the road.


    Some were filled with light and hope, others, fear and disgust. Tyron remained a controversial figure amongst the survivors. Some praised him for his role in protecting and saving them, other blamed him for all that had befallen the western province.


    ¡°We found the tomb of Ahrinan the Black, by the way,¡± Dove said. ¡°Apparently, he was a bit of an amateur.¡±


    ¡°What? Really?¡± Elsbeth exclaimed. ¡°You found it?¡±


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°There is a lot I can learn from what we recovered. It¡¯s just that his spellwork was crude,¡± he said, glaring at Dove.


    Overhead, the clouds stormed and rolled, light flashing and coiling as the magick gathered and intensified.

 B5 Chapter 2 - The Storm Rolls

    It took Tyron a day to tend to the storm rods. Of course, Master Willhem, which is how Tyron still thought of the demi-lich, worked as well, repairing more than half of them. However, he couldn¡¯t help but feel disappointed that his former teacher continued to avoid him, refusing even to communicate through the conduit they shared.


    He¡¯d been patient with the Master Arcanist, giving him time and space to adjust to his new existence, but it didn¡¯t seem to be working. He wasn¡¯t sure if Willhem resented him for bringing him back from the dead, or felt betrayed by the deception Tyron had played on him, or simply detested being an undead. The demi-lich¡¯s thoughts were completely masked to him at all times, and Tyron hadn¡¯t done anything to force the issue.


    Which was how it would remain, for the time being. He needed his Master¡¯s help, and he would get it one way or another, but he would much prefer it if he could treat him as an equal, rather than a servant.


    By the time he finished the maintenance, the storm overhead had reached a boiling point. It was disturbing, to say the least, watching the sky tear itself apart in much the same way it had in the worlds beyond the rifts. To think that just over the mountains from the Empire, the realm they inhabited was already so far gone, almost completely lost to the kin and magick that poured out in an unending tide.


    When he made his way back to his quarters, the first crashing booms erupted overhead.


    Tyron knew what would follow. Wild and untamed magick would clash overhead, a storm of power that would produce fire, wind, lightning, ice, and other, less mundane magickal effects. Without the knowledge he¡¯d gained from the Old Gods regarding the nature of magick, he wouldn¡¯t have been able to create the rods and keep the city safe at all.


    He pushed all other concerns from his mind as he made his way, finally, to his own home amidst the ruins. Not that it was much of a house. He strode up the cracked and damaged steps towards what had once been a grand entrance. Of the columns that had once flanked the doorway, little remained but the base, the stone sheared through as if by a knife. Stepping inside, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling to note the progress that had been made.


    His skeletons had been hard at work trying to repair the roof, but it was slow going. Such a large building required an ungodly amount of time, effort and resources to repair, and with literally millions of people trying to create a new life for themselves in the city, it would have been absurd for him to claim all the stone required to cover it.


    His undead spent nine-tenths of their efforts assisting people around the city and working on civil projects¡ªclearing the streets, cleaning out usable buildings and helping to enforce order. The rest was spent on his own projects, and among those, the roof he didn¡¯t really need or use didn¡¯t rank all that highly.


    Hopefully, whatever progress had been made wasn¡¯t torn away in this latest storm.


    The inside of the building was cavernous, a vast open space still littered with dust and chunks of stone. At the far end, the altar was suspiciously still intact, along with the three grand statues positioned in alcoves behind it: Crone, Raven and Rot.


    Whatever the Old Gods might be, they were certainly petty enough to protect their own statues during the downfall of a civilisation, apparently. Perhaps they had anticipated the day when people returned to this lost city and made use of their old temple.


    Well, too bad. Tyron had claimed it for himself, and precious few people were even aware this place was a temple at all. Besides, he wasn¡¯t interested in this open and exposed space, he did all of his work in the complex below.


    He turned to his right and made his way down the broad stairs on the side of the chamber, his undead filing down along with him. A heavy wooden double-door blocked the way down, and Tyron knocked firmly before waiting for a moment. He could sense his undead on the other side, and all throughout the rooms below, of course, but he wasn¡¯t the only living occupant of this place.


    It took a little while, but eventually he heard movement on the other side of the door, followed by a voice calling out.


    ¡°Hello? What do you want?¡±


    ¡°To get inside,¡± Tyron replied.


    ¡°Oh shit!¡±


    There was a scramble before someone yanked on the door. It swung open to reveal a mousy young woman with thin wisps of hair falling down over her pale face and large bags under her eyes.


    ¡°Master Steelarm!¡± Briss exclaimed, bowing at the sight of him. ¡°Welcome back.¡±


    ¡°You look tired,¡± he said, striding past. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been working on something with Georg,¡± she replied, scurrying to fall in beside him. ¡°We think we might have found a way to improve the longevity of his zombies.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t adopt my worst habits,¡± he warned her for the hundredth time. ¡°You work better with frequent rest and a clear head.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± she replied, straight-faced, and he grimaced.


    Being a good teacher was something he strove to be, but being a good role model was another thing entirely.


    ¡°Gather the others in the living room,¡± he told her. ¡°I have news and tasks for each of you.¡±


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    ¡°Are you sure you wouldn¡¯t want to rest and have something to eat?¡± Briss asked, and he turned a glare on her. She merely stared back at him, blank-faced, until Tyron rolled his eyes.


    ¡°I¡¯ll eat while we talk,¡± he conceded, waving her off.


    Without another word, the young woman turned and dashed away through the narrow corridor, looking for her fellow Necromancy students.


    More accurately, looking for Tyron¡¯s students. With so many having come across from the western province, and the Old Gods meddling with the Awakening, there were more and more Necromancers emerging. Most of them stayed here, beneath the temple, but Tyron hadn¡¯t the time to teach all of them directly, so that duty had been passed down to his own students.


    Tyron passed orders amongst his wights and allowed them to see to the dispensation of his minions. Many of the skeletons he¡¯d taken outside the city were in need of repair to their bones, armour or weapons, and some required all three. A huge amount of work that would likely have to be pushed onto the less experienced Necromancers. They couldn¡¯t do the job as well as he could, not nearly, but more and more, Tyron was coming to grips with the fact that he could only be in so many places at once.


    For now, he was able to ensure that all the revenants, wights and demi-liches in his service were still maintained personally, but soon even that might be beyond him.


    With a few more orders, he had the undead carrying the various books, scrolls and other prizes from his journey to sort and stow much of it, while some he told to follow him.


    The living room was, much as it sounded, a comfortable, shared space with a crackling fire, bright lights, soft chairs and many, many bookshelves. Tyron took off his bone armour, allowing his minions to place it carefully on the stand in the corner. Freed from the weight after months on end, he allowed himself to sink into a chair while a skeleton appeared carrying a covered plate.


    Fresh bread, butter and steamed vegetables greeted him when the cloth was removed. A feast, under current conditions. He would have to thank whoever was in charge of the kitchens for their generosity.


    He wasn¡¯t halfway through the meal, which he surprisingly enjoyed, before his three students entered the room.


    All three had undergone significant changes since they had first become his students.


    Richard was no longer as hesitant or timid. There was a certain hardness to his features now, as life had taught him tough lessons over the last few years.


    Georg had grown taller and broader still, but there was a studious and reserved intelligence in his eyes now, where before he had been so much more direct.


    Briss, still a waif who appeared much younger than her years, had hardened the most. There was a coldness to the set of her features and her gaze that only seemed to soften in the presence of Tyron or her fellow students.


    ¡°Welcome back, Master,¡± Richard greeted him, taking a seat.


    ¡°Fresh bread?¡± Georg noted as he sat. ¡°There hasn¡¯t been much of that lately.¡±


    ¡°There should be more in future,¡± Tyron noted as he finished his meal. ¡°After this storm, we should have enough reserves to expand the plots in the plaza.¡±


    ¡°Really? I thought we were a ways off yet,¡± Richard said, leaning forward with interest.


    ¡°I underestimated Master Willhem,¡± Tyron said dryly. ¡°The man has improved on my designs at every turn. The rods are capturing more energy than expected and converting it more efficiently than I¡¯d calculated.¡±


    The students fell silent at the mention of the demi-lich, which Tyron chose to ignore. They knew the difficulties he was having with his old mentor, even if they didn¡¯t understand them, and he felt no compulsion to explain himself.


    ¡°Now, I have to explain just how successful this expedition was,¡± Tyron said, putting his plate to one side and holding out his hands for nearby skeletons to deliver books and scrolls to him. ¡°It took a while, but I have to say, you were right, Richard. We did find the tomb of Ahrinan the Black.¡±


    ¡°I knew it,¡± Richard exclaimed, pumping his fist. ¡°The signs were all there.¡±


    ¡°Well, it wasn¡¯t so much his tomb as it was his workshop,¡± Tyron acknowledged. ¡°I have no idea where the man was buried, unless any of you have found a record of it?¡±


    They each shook their heads and Tyron grunted. It appeared that any mention of the final resting place of the old lich had been scrubbed from history, leaving vague clues and references to a ¡®tomb¡¯ that had little to do with Ahrinan¡¯s final resting place.


    ¡°What we did find was a shocking number of intact writings from the lich himself,¡± Tyron stated, holding up several leather-bound volumes.


    His students seemed less enthused than expected, and he looked at them quizzically.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you excited to study the work of the most powerful Necromancer on record?¡± he said, surprised.


    Georg, Richard and Briss exchanged glances.


    ¡°We study your writing, Master,¡± Richard shrugged, speaking for the group. ¡°Is what¡¯s written there really better than that? I¡¯m dubious, is all,¡± he excused himself as Tyron scowled.


    ¡°I suspect Ahrinan was a platinum rank, well over level eighty. And he came from a society that didn¡¯t eschew the use of Necromancy. The best techniques and methods of the Granin Empire can be found in these volumes, along with, hopefully, everything they knew about Ability selections and branching Classes. Interested now?¡±


    They did appear a little more intrigued, and Tyron snorted, putting the books to the side.


    ¡°There¡¯s too much for me to go through myself,¡± he said, ¡°so I¡¯ll need your help to comb through the material. If you find anything promising, make sure you bring it to me. Put your own projects on hold, we need to go through this quickly.¡±


    All three nodded, and Tyron moved onto the next topic, satisfied.


    ¡°I was able to get what I wanted from the Dust Folk after some¡­ forceful negotiations,¡± he explained.


    Georg raised a brow.


    ¡°Don¡¯t we need to rely on them for trade?¡± he pointed out.


    ¡°They weren¡¯t upset, I compensated fairly,¡± Tyron waved away his concerns. ¡°I¡¯m going to go over these scrolls myself. With luck, we can advance our knowledge of constructs by leaps and bounds.¡±


    All three accepted this. Their teacher was far and away the leading expert in regard to constructs that made use of Death Magick.


    ¡°As for the Western Province¡­ the news isn¡¯t good. The army of the Emperor has finished their sweep. The only things I could see moving out there were kin. It looks like they killed everyone and everything up to the mountains and then returned east.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t easy to think of your homeland as having been completely destroyed, but it was an undeniable fact. Even Tyron had been taken aback by the savagery and finality of the destruction. Seen through the eyes of skeletons and ghosts, it was clear the Emperor had scoured the province completely. Only ruins remained.


    ¡°I¡¯ve no idea when or if they¡¯ll start to repopulate it,¡± Tyron said, ¡°but for now, it seems like they are content to leave us alone.¡±


    ¡°Are we going to leave them alone?¡± Briss asked.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Tyron snorted.

 B5 Chapter 3 - Endless Study

    It was pleasant to exchange words with his students, who had grown into serviceable mages. Having someone to discuss the principles of Necromancy with, even at a surface level, was something he found enjoyable.


    The problem he had with these conversations was that the three students were far too willing to accept anything he said as the best solution, or the optimal method, without proper examination. Did he expect them to come up with better solutions than he did? No, obviously. That didn¡¯t mean he wasn¡¯t expecting them to try.


    He¡¯d reworked his own techniques as spellforms dozens of times over at this point, and he would change them again in the future. Tyron considered himself far from infallible.


    ¡°We can¡¯t see what¡¯s wrong, but if there is something, we assume you¡¯ll fix it,¡± Briss had told him bluntly during one discussion. It was disappointing, but perhaps he was expecting too much from them.


    Tyron had been taught the principles of magick by one of the best Battle Mages the province had ever seen from a young age. On top of that, he¡¯d been a Necromancer for far longer than they had. It was unlikely they¡¯d be able to equal his knowledge of theory and principles any time soon.


    With more students studying Necromancy, he hoped that at least some of them would come to challenge his ideas. Sitting in a room full of people who agreed with you was far less edifying than he might have expected.


    Exposing them to the work of Ahrinan the Black would at least give them a chance to examine an alternative approach. From what Tyron had read from those volumes, there were significant differences between the Necromancy he himself had developed and that of the old lich. The magick he¡¯d read had been powerful, to be sure, but lacked a certain¡­ elegance. Still, he was certain there were valuable nuggets hiding in the writings that could be adapted to his own practices.


    Tyron sighed as he finally stepped into his own chambers for the first time in months. Someone had been keeping it clean, which was a nice touch. He¡¯d half expected to return to find the furnishings covered in dust.


    The room was simple, which was to be expected, given their situation. A crude bed had been pushed against the wall, the mattress stuffed with dried straw. For someone with his absurdly robust constitution, he could comfortably sleep on the floor, but others had insisted he be given something more.


    Bookshelves filled half the remaining wall space, with desks taking the remainder. Three desks in total, each covered in scraps of paper, open books and half-furled scrolls. Idly, he picked up a volume, trying to work out what his train of thought had been when he¡¯d put it down, then shook his head and shut the book before he could be drawn in too deep.


    He needed to sleep. It had been too long since he¡¯d gotten proper rest. Pushing aside his buzzing thoughts, Tyron undressed, peeling off the clothes he¡¯d worn for almost a week straight at this point, before washing himself with the basin and soap a skeleton had brought in from the laundry. Pulling clean clothing from the chest under his bed, he rolled into the sheets and snuffed out the lights with a verbal command.


    Knowing he wouldn¡¯t be able to sleep without it, he cast Sleep on himself, quickly stealing his consciousness away.


    After a deep and dreamless sleep, Tyron awoke feeling lethargic and drained, almost as if he hadn¡¯t slept at all. Grumbling to himself about the vagaries of rest and whether he should finally become a lich and leave the weaknesses of the flesh behind, he washed himself again before checking the array pumping his heart for irregularities.


    Master Willhem had iterated on his earlier design and produced a far superior version, which wasn¡¯t surprising, given who he was. With multiple fail-safes built in, the plate was relatively small and hooked directly into the flesh in the middle of his chest. When he found it to be working as intended, keeping his heart beating at a steady rhythm, he could only shrug. Perhaps he needed more rest than he expected.


    He conjured the lights once more and took a seat at his desk, clearing space as skeletons brought him breakfast and scrolls from the collection he had in a nearby room. No toast this morning, but a warm and filling broth with millet and carrots was more than sufficient.


    With a clearer head and rising anticipation, he began to read through the scrolls provided by the Dust Folk one by one, making careful notes as he progressed. It didn¡¯t take long for him to run into his first deadlock.


    He¡¯d thought the initial work he¡¯d studied from the Dust Folk had been obtuse and strange, and he was convinced they¡¯d only given it to him because they were confident he wouldn¡¯t work it out, but these new documents were on an entirely new level. It made sense¡ªhe¡¯d only been given basic texts in the past, and this time he¡¯d made sure they¡¯d provided him with something that had more meat on the bone.


    The problem was, the magick of the Dust Folk was based on a completely different foundation than that of the Empire. As insects who possessed undead puppets, they weren¡¯t as familiar working with hands as a human would be, which was why they specialised in ritual magick and constructs as opposed to casting spells. Everything was designed in a way to be placed in a spell array, not to be spoken or used as a gesture.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    In short, translating their magick into something he was more familiar with was difficult. Halfway through the first scroll, and already he couldn¡¯t proceed any further because he wasn¡¯t familiar with the patterns of symbols used and thus could only speculate as to what the intended function of the array was.


    He leaned back with a sigh and folded his arms across his chest, pressing against the metal plate warmed by his body heat.


    Despite the Dust Folk being careful not to let him see any examples of their famed constructs, he knew they existed. There was a reason the Empire had never bothered to drive them out of the southern deserts, and it wasn¡¯t just the low value of the land. Not to mention, the Dust Folk managed to keep the numerous rifts that fell within their territory under control somehow, and he doubted it was with a trained army of bugs the size of his palm.


    They made use of every resource they could get their reanimated corpse hands on down there, including the bodies and souls of the dead. Which was precisely why he wanted to crack the mysteries of their arts.


    However, he could already see what a difficult and laborious task it was going to be. Despite handing over a number of scrolls in trade, Tyron felt they were unwilling to let outsiders uncover their hard-won secrets. He had some texts to work with, but no actual demonstration or example of their methods. The terminology they used was, naturally, written in their own language, which was yet another layer of difficulty in front of him.


    Not only was he reverse engineering new magick from an obscure and difficult source, he only had a passable knowledge of the language it was written in.


    Pushing the first scroll aside, Tyron took up the others and went through them one by one, taking meticulous notes on each until he ran into dead end after dead end. In everything the Dust Folk had given him, there came a point he was forced to put it down due to unknown sigils, unfamiliar language or bizarre structure.


    It wouldn¡¯t be the first time Tyron had been forced to piece together magick from disparate slices, but it wasn¡¯t exactly a process he enjoyed.


    ¡°Nothing else for it,¡± he muttered to himself, rolling up his sleeves, gathering loose sheets of paper and a fresh pot of ink.


    Six hours later, Georg knocked on the door and waited. When he didn¡¯t hear a response, he knocked again, a little louder, but still heard nothing.


    ¡°Master Steelarm?¡± he asked, pushing open the door slowly.


    His teacher sat at his desk, poring over a scroll, while the walls were covered in sheets of paper, each with various sigils, phrases or arcane arrays scrawled over them. None of it made any sense to Georg, even vaguely. He let his eyes roam over the wall, trying to get some sense of what it might relate to, but other than a few isolated sigils, he couldn¡¯t make heads or tails of it.


    ¡°Master Steelarm?¡± he said. ¡°I wanted to talk to you about something I found in the notes.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t easy to get through to Tyron when he was working; the man had an inhuman level of concentration and focus when he was absorbed in magick. Normally, Georg wouldn¡¯t bother trying, but he did think his teacher would want to see what he found.


    ¡°What is it, Georg?¡± Tyron asked, irritated, not looking up from the scroll in front of him.


    ¡°Do you want to read it for yourself?¡± Georg asked, holding out the book in question.


    ¡°Just tell me what you found.¡±


    He was assuming that Georg was good enough to know what he¡¯d found. Luckily, this time, he did.


    ¡°I think I found the version of Raise Dead that Ahrinan used. Or at least, one of them.¡±


    Still, his teacher didn¡¯t look up.


    ¡°And? Anything interesting?¡±


    ¡°There are some sigils that I¡¯m not familiar with, so I thought it might be of interest. Looks like there¡¯s at least a few differences between your version and his.¡±


    ¡°Let me see.¡±


    Tyron held out his hand and Georg gave him the book, making sure to leave it open on the correct page. Tyron finally looked up from the scroll and turned his gaze over to the volume Georg had given him. His burning eyes tore into the page as if it owed him money, and only moments later, he was passing it back to Georg.


    ¡°Using the Rin and Uln couplet to infuse magick was an idea I considered and discarded a long time ago, though there¡¯s interesting use of Nolr, Cillir and Pel when forming the artificial mind. Take it to the others and see what you can figure out.¡±


    So saying, he turned his attention back to his work.


    Richard and Briss wouldn¡¯t dare disturb their teacher while he was working, but Georg was a little more adventurous than them.


    ¡°Can you explain a little about what you¡¯re working on?¡± he asked, turning his gaze to the walls once again. ¡°I can¡¯t make out any part of this.¡±


    Tyron grunted.


    ¡°I¡¯d be shocked if you could,¡± he said without judgment. ¡°The artistry of the Dust Folk in making constructs is far greater than what I¡¯d thought. If I¡¯m not mistaken, they¡¯ve been able to blend souls with constructs, even ones made of stone. How they manage to bind a human soul into a non-human form¡­ it doesn¡¯t make sense. As far as I understand, a soul shouldn¡¯t be able to move something that doesn¡¯t match its original form.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ crazy,¡± Georg blinked. ¡°But what about all these notes on the wall?¡±


    ¡°Translation,¡± came the short reply. ¡°Every page is a word, sigil or array that needs to be translated into a form that¡¯s more compatible with our own spell structure.¡±


    Georg nodded slowly, trying to think how it was possible to do something like that. Wasn¡¯t that just¡­ making up new magick on the spot?


    ¡°Good luck,¡± he said, turning and heading to the exit.

 B5 Chapter 4 - The Killing Fields

    ¡°You done, Worthy?¡±


    ¡°Aye, I think we¡¯ve finished up on this side. Well, as finished as it can be.¡±


    Trenan nodded and wiped the sweat from his brow as best he could. Despite his physique, enhanced by the Unseen beyond the limits of human physiology, he was still exhausted. A level of fatigue that sank deep into his bones and seemed to take root there. He¡¯d need a few days to recover from all this exertion.


    ¡°You look like I feel, lad,¡± Worthy Steelarm chuckled, eyes knowing beneath his shaggy brows. ¡°No need to worry, we¡¯re done for the time being. Let your team know they can start packing their gear once we get back to camp.¡±


    ¡°I will. Thank you, sir.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t ¡®sir¡¯ me. I¡¯m a Slayer.¡±


    The Hammer Warden nodded and turned to head back to his team. The Gold Rank Slayers would be even more worn out than he was after the heroics they¡¯d performed over the past week, and the months prior to that. The number and strength of the kin that roamed these plains was like nothing Trenan had ever heard of back in the Empire. As much as he wanted to contribute, at Silver rank, he was much weaker than people like Worthy, who did the vast bulk of the fighting.


    As he approached, his two comrades looked up from their efforts digging for cores.


    ¡°We¡¯re packing up and going home,¡± he told them. ¡°Once we get back to the camp, grab your stuff and we can leave straight away.¡±


    ¡°Finally,¡± Arthur sighed in relief. Face and robes covered in dirt and gore, the man looked like he¡¯d been put through a grinder.


    His wife, Chol, somehow managed to maintain her cleanliness even on the battlefield. Perhaps it was her dark skin tone, or perhaps her nature magick that made the difference, but she never looked as filthy as Trenan and Arthur. She stood, hands pressed into the small of her back and groaned.


    ¡°A good thing,¡± she said. ¡°Another day and I might have fallen to sleep in battle.¡±


    ¡°You should have said something,¡± Arthur frowned, worried. ¡°If you¡¯re too tired to fight, let me know.¡±


    ¡°I will, dear heart,¡± she said, smiling. ¡°This time, I did not, because I had strength in me still.¡±


    ¡°Save it for your own house,¡± Trenan grunted, already walking away. ¡°Leave the cores, we¡¯ve got more than we can use from kin that size anyway.¡±


    It¡¯s not like they were getting paid for them. Money wasn¡¯t much of a thing for those who had fled the Western Province. What would be the point of coins, after all? Everyone was desperate to survive, and there weren¡¯t enough resources to go around.


    Well, they were swimming in cores and materials butchered from kin, but short on food and fresh water. Thankfully, those were rationed and dispersed freely.


    Chol and Arthur, also at the limits of their strength, or perhaps just sensing Trenan¡¯s lack of desire for talk, remained silent on the long trek back to the camp. Underfoot, shards of crystal mixed with the sandy soil shifted, crunching and crackling like shards of glass as they walked. Despite two years of looking at the blasted wasteland that was the former lands of Granin, he still wasn¡¯t used to it. The lack of green, the tactile hum of magick in the air, the cloying heat, it was an alien landscape that he couldn¡¯t quite believe was part of his own world.


    Just how far had the realm fallen for so much of it to be covered in this terrain? All his life, he had wanted to fight to hold back the rifts, never knowing that war had been lost centuries ago.


    ¡°Trenan? You alright?¡±


    He snapped back to himself, shaking off the morose thoughts and realised he was on the outskirts of the camp. Tents, fires, figures moving and laughing, Slayers all. Somewhere, a hammer was ringing on steel, bringing a sense of normalcy to the wasteland, and he relaxed a hair without even realising it.


    ¡°Yeah. Sorry, Arthur, just got lost in my thoughts. Can you do me a favour and pack the gear? I¡¯ll go report to the higher ups and then we can leave together. Alright?¡±


    ¡°Sure thing, boss.¡±


    ¡°Shutup.¡±


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Wearily, he trudged to the centre of the camp where a bright, roaring fire could be found, people sitting and discussing around it, warming themselves by the flames.


    It almost didn¡¯t bother him anymore that the whole thing was fuelled by magick rather than wood. There was an almost infinite supply of arcane energy just floating around in the air out here, he¡¯d been told. Pumping it into a collection of flame crystals was a heck of a lot easier than finding a tree out here, that was for sure.


    ¡°I think we¡¯re getting close to the rift in the north,¡± Trenan heard a deep voice rumble. Somehow, Worthy had gotten back ahead of them. Not surprising, really; the man could run like the wind itself when he wanted to. ¡°The kin are getting thicker and stronger. I think I was right on the edge of the Broken Lands during our last fight.¡±


    ¡°Be careful near those fucking rifts,¡± another voice warned him. ¡°They¡¯ve been running wild for hundreds of years; who knows how large and dangerous they are at this point?¡±


    As he drew closer, Trenan found Worthy and the former leader of the Slayer rebellion, Rurin Wilkin, talking together by the fire. Slayers being who they were, they didn¡¯t seem to care who overheard their discussion. As far as the higher ranked Slayers were concerned, they were all there to do the same job, so why bother keeping secrets from each other?


    ¡°I heard the same warnings you did,¡± the Hammer Lord replied. ¡°We¡¯ll need some careful planning before we run in there, we all know that. Clearing one of these rifts is going to take a lot of people, Rurin, so try and free up your schedule.¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± the old Slayer squawked. ¡°I¡¯m too old to be fighting colossal class monsters on the edge of a gods-knows-how-large rift. We have hundreds of golds; send some of them.¡±


    ¡°We might need all of them,¡± Worthy replied flatly.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure your young nephew will help out.¡±


    ¡°Of course he will, but having undead isn¡¯t enough to replace gold ranked Slayers, you idiot.¡±


    When they finally lapsed into a comfortable silence, Trenan felt the time to approach. He gave Worthy a nod before turning to Rurin.


    ¡°Wanted to let you know my team is heading back to the city for a break.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Ebert,¡± Rurin grinned. She¡¯d taken to calling him that to poke fun at how straight-laced and organised he was. An unhealthy state of mind for a ¡®proper¡¯ Slayer. ¡°Thank you for the report. I¡¯ll have someone make note of it. When do you expect to be back? If you haven¡¯t noticed, there¡¯s a shit load of kin to kill out here.¡±


    Trenan considered the question. They¡¯d been out for two weeks, and while the fighting had been beneficial to them, it was unrelenting and harsh. Chol and Arthur were worn down to the bone, and so was he.


    ¡°A week,¡± he said with finality.


    That would give them enough time to rest, perform the status ritual and adapt before coming back out again.


    ¡°Sensible,¡± Rurin said with a slow nod. ¡°Cautious, appropriate.¡± She nodded again, failing to hide her sly smile. ¡°Are you sure you weren¡¯t destined to be an accountant?¡±


    ¡°I feel as if I¡¯m where I¡¯m supposed to be,¡± he replied. ¡°Do you disagree?¡± he asked, brows raised.


    ¡°Well I fucking don¡¯t,¡± Worthy grunted. ¡°I like this kid and his team. It¡¯s a damn shame what happened to your fourth, but that¡¯s not on you. Good Slayers, the lot of you. Now piss off and sleep. Take that as an order if you need to.¡±


    He really was tired if a little compliment and sympathy from the Steelarm was enough to get a lump in his throat. Not willing to speak, Trenan bobbed his head and left the fire.


    When he returned to the others, their tent and belongings had been packed away, his own bags neatly piled on the ground while Chol and Arthur stood talking to another figure. The moment he saw them, Trenan felt his heart drop in his chest.


    Surrounded by ethereal light, ghostly green flesh around dark black bones and coated in midnight armour, the wight looked much as the others did, except he recognised her features.


    ¡°Hey, Brigette,¡± he said heavily, trying to keep his expression neutral.


    She looked towards him, her expression faintly sad.


    ¡°Hello, Trenan. I wanted to stop by before going to the rift.¡±


    The silence between them deepened as Trenan didn¡¯t walk forward and the undead didn¡¯t approach, leaving Chol and Arthur standing awkwardly in the silence.


    ¡°Take care of yourself out there,¡± Trenan blurted, then kicked himself for saying anything at all. What was the point?


    He thought he saw a ghost of a smile on the wight¡¯s face before she extended her hands and gripped her former teammates on their shoulders.


    ¡°Look after each other,¡± she said, ¡°and stay safe.¡±


    Then she was gone, striding off to join the skeletal horde massing nearby. Clearly, Tyron had ordered them out to help clear the kin now that he had returned to the city. They¡¯d heard about his return days ago, but only now were the undead showing themselves.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to be so standoffish with her,¡± Arthur muttered as he shouldered his pack.


    Trenan picked up his own, unsure what to say.


    ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ she¡¯s dead,¡± he said lamely, shrugging the straps onto his shoulder and starting to walk. ¡°What do you say to your dear friend who is dead?¡±


    ¡°Maybe start with ¡®I miss you¡¯,¡± Chol chided him. ¡°Or ¡®hello¡¯. Most conversations start with hello.¡±


    ¡°I just¡­ I don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like for her as an undead.¡±


    He hated saying it. He hated thinking it. He hated the fact it was real.


    ¡°I just¡­ hope she¡¯s happy.¡±


    ¡°One way to find out,¡± Arthur said. ¡°Ask her yourself.¡±


    The three friends fell into silence as they set out on the long walk back to the city.

 B5 Chapter 5 - Many Places at Once

    Within the Ossuary, a demi-lich stood over the altar, channeling dark magick into the meticulously prepared bones before it. What had once been the Grand Magister of the Red Tower, Tommat Baln, a gold ranked mage who had devoted his life to overseeing the work of his brothers and the management of the Slayer problem, was now a skeletal husk, serving at the command of another.


    Indeed, it wasn¡¯t even him casting this ritual.


    Power surged through his bones as his hands danced in the air and words of power rocked the chamber, but he was not in control. His master used him like a puppet, controlling his every movement, even seizing his voice from him, leaving Tommat with no choice but to act as a spectator to his own body, what was left of it, as it cast magick well beyond what he was capable of on his own.


    Power flooded into the bones before him, and through them into the numerous recesses carved into the walls around the chamber. The workings of the ritual were intricate and refined, but it was difficult for even a mage of Baln¡¯s experience to try and unravel the sequences that made up its construction. Through him, Tyron blazed through the spell, gestures and words flowing thick and fast, shaping the magick at a dizzying pace.


    A level of precision and mastery that Baln had never truly believed was possible.


    When at last the ritual was completed, his hands lowered to his side and, after a moment, he felt Tyron¡¯s will recede from him, leaving Tommat in control of himself once more. After over a year of this unliving existence, he thought he would feel tired, feel drained and exhausted, but he didn¡¯t, he barely felt anything at all. He didn¡¯t feel cold or warmth, didn¡¯t feel the touch of the air on his skin or the breath in his lungs. His body was not capable of such things any longer.


    A creature of bone and arcane marrow, he felt little connection to the mundane world at all. Instead, he was a creature of death and magick. Even his eyes no longer perceived as they once did, everything he saw now wreathed in ethereal mist. He reached out with his two hands, no longer flinching when he saw the bone digits, and grasped the staff that had been planted before the altar.


    A work of incredible artistry, created by Master Willhem himself, the staff was something he couldn¡¯t have hoped to afford in his life, as the precious materials that had been poured into it would have made even a noble lord balk. Carefully, he took it to the corner of the chamber and placed it on its stand before he returned to the altar.


    The skeleton that had been lying there was now standing beside it. Along the walls, the other skeletons had emerged from their recesses and now stood, silent and waiting, their eyes burning with the same purple light that filled his own skull.


    They were connected, these skeletons and the demi-lich, he could feel their simple, artificial minds, sense the conduit that connected them to him, and through him, to their true master. With a wordless command, he bid them to file in behind him, and turned to the exit.


    The bone archway that contained the door to the ossuary had been summoned below the temple, and he led the newly risen skeletons out into the narrow corridors that formed the bulk of the underground complex.


    Despite the number of people living and working here, many of the hallways were still covered in dust and webs, yet it was hard to care about such things as a demi lich. Tommat didn¡¯t feel the webs that clung to his limbs and robe, and no dust caught in his throat or eyes, since he didn¡¯t have them.


    When they came to the right door, he had the skeletons line up against the wall and knocked on the newly installed door. Before long, a young woman opened it, then blanched when she saw him outside.


    ¡°Ah, one moment, master lich. We weren¡¯t quite ready.¡±


    Hovering just a few inches off the floor, Tommat knew it was intimidating to stand before a demi lich such as himself, and rarely were any among the living willing to meet his gaze. After a few moments, the young lady returned.


    ¡°Alright, we can start now. Can you send them in one at a time for us?¡± she asked.


    Rather than answer, he lifted a hand and the first skeleton stepped forward and inside the room. She gave him a hesitant nod and walked inside, leaving the door open behind her.


    Along with the Necromancers who had Awakened in the past few years, there were dozens of others who had obtained Classes related to the dead. Bone Smiths, Corpse Handlers and more were now an embedded part of the process in preparing the undead for war, and it was in this room that the smiths plied their trade.


    Watching through the doorway, Tommat saw as the skeleton was armed and armoured, plates of black bone fitted, a helmet placed over its head, a sword and shield pushed into its hands. When the three humans in the room were finished, he issued a silent command. The skeleton turned and exited the room, moving to the back of the line, while the next minion stepped inside to be fitted. One by one, they worked through the skeletons while Tommat watched and waited.


    It was easy to be patient as an undead. He¡¯d long ago noted how shedding his flesh had changed the nature of waiting. His muscles didn¡¯t ache, his feet didn¡¯t hurt, there was no need to rest his eyes or shift his weight. He simply remained in place, unmoving, unmoved.


    From time to time, he felt the awareness of his new master sweep over him, a pull on the conduit much like a tug on his leash. Every time he was made aware of his servitude, Tommat felt¡­ nothing. Nothing at all. A part of him wanted to be furious about that, to rage and scream that even his ability to feel negative emotions about his slavery had been excised from his soul. Except, he couldn¡¯t. That too was denied to him.


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    As if sensing his circling thoughts, the awareness of his master latched onto him. Tyron saw through his eyes, examined his mind, as if he were holding the demi-lich in his palm like a curious toy. After a few moments, Tommat felt himself be put back down.


    There will be more skeletons to raise in two days. Before then, practice your spellcraft. You will be sent to the rifts soon.


    The order came directly to his mind, and then his master was gone, his attention drawn elsewhere.


    Tommat ordered the next skeleton into the room.


    ~~~


    Brigette marched in silence alongside the skeletal horde. Despite the lack of speech, it wasn¡¯t as if she didn¡¯t communicate. In fact, the wights were steadily speaking to each other, although speaking wasn¡¯t exactly the right term.


    She didn¡¯t fully understand her new existence, not really. She wasn¡¯t even sure if she was grateful to have it, despite volunteering to undergo the¡­ change. To be honest, she hadn¡¯t expected to die, so she hadn¡¯t given it as much thought as she probably should have. Many other Slayers had agreed to become undead were they to lose their lives fighting the kin, and she¡¯d liked the idea of continuing the work even if she fell.


    Pay attention. This is still contested ground.


    Janus¡¯ mind rang against her own, and she turned to look at him on the other side of the column. He wasn¡¯t watching her, but somehow he¡¯d known she was distracted.


    Sorry, I¡¯m focused.


    Under their untiring march, the column made good time over the broken ground, quickly putting themselves well beyond the outskirts of the Slayer camp and pushing towards the closest rift.


    For months, they¡¯d been slaughtering kin out on these plains. Absurd numbers of the beasts roamed freely, pouring through a number of rifts that occupied what had once been Granin. The intention was to finally drive them back to the rift itself and establish a permanent presence there, gaining some level of control over the land. Actually achieving that had proven to be much more difficult than anyone had thought.


    It hurt to admit it, hurt to even think it, but the truth was obvious for anyone to see. If the state of the world around them wasn¡¯t enough of a clue, the monsters emerging from the ground were undeniable proof. The realm they lived in was well on its way to becoming another fallen realm, producing its own native kin.


    Ghosts have spotted a pack approaching on the forward left-flank. Be ready.


    It was difficult to see as an undead, the landscape was wreathed in mist that ebbed and flowed according to winds she could not feel, but with so many of them gathered together, it was difficult to sneak up on them. Before long, she spotted the pack with her own eyes, a group of six hound-like creatures, each the size of a donkey. She issued her orders, and the minions under her command responded, turning as one to face the threat.


    Archers pulled back on their bows as the front ranks formed a defensive wall. Skeletal mages raised their hands and began to cast, preparing bolts of darkness to fling at the monsters. When the kin spotted the horde, they charged, bellowing and roaring with mindless fury, seeking only to destroy whatever they could touch.


    Arrows and spells were loosed, many missing, but many others hitting home, causing the monsters to stumble. Brigette monitored her minions carefully, watchful for any slip as she constantly shifted their positions to ensure the formation was perfect. She wasn¡¯t used to it yet, and moving the minions took too much of her concentration, making it hard for her to fight at the same time.


    Janus was flawless with it, able to move the undead like they were his own limbs despite fighting with consummate skill and control. She had a long way to go before she reached his level.


    More packs coming. This seems to be a hotspot. Get to the front and hold the line.


    So ordered, she moved forward, drawing her enchanted bone blade as she looked to find the other kin approaching. When she reached the forwardmost ranks, she could see them: two dozen beasts in total, some larger, some smaller than the creatures they were already fighting.


    Drawing on the strength of the arcane energy that burned within her unliving flesh, Brigette dashed forward, bringing her blade down in a decisive overhead strike. Burning with black smoke, her sword dug deep into the kin¡¯s flesh, corrupting and eating away at the muscle and sinew. The monster screamed and retaliated, slashing at her with a vicious strike, which she parried, the claws sparking against her bone-sword and failing to penetrate her armour.


    The skeletons around her pressed, looking to surround the kin and use their superior numbers to bring them down, but she swiftly gained control, holding them in place. If they broke formation now, the archers would be exposed to the beasts who still hadn¡¯t charged.


    Against this many kin, she would have preferred to have more skeletons available, but they would have to make do until the next column set out from the city.


    All at once, she felt a great mind sweep over the horde, pouring through the conduits like a wave. Committed to the frontline, Brigette almost froze on the spot but pushed through, continuing to move her sword as the Necromancer sized up the situation.


    With a deft hand, he seized control of the skeletons from her, guiding them expertly and leaving her to worry about her own fight. Instantly, the undead became more coordinated, moving forward to strike in small groups, then retreating to reform the line. When the newly arrived kin charged, the skeletons ducked to allow clear firing lines for the archers and mages before rising at the last moment, properly braced to receive the kin.


    As soon as the battle lines were joined, power blazed through the conduits, an outpouring of magick that invigorated Brigette and the other undead, filling her with strength and power. Faster and stronger than before, she drew on her swordsmanship skills, blade flashing as she danced amongst the kin, revelling in the slaughter she unleashed.


    And then, a few moments later, it was gone. The power receded, along with the mind of the master, leaving her feeling like a beached fish, gasping on the sand.


    It didn¡¯t matter; in that short, sharp confrontation, the fight had been won. Skeletons were already surrounding and picking off the last of the kin while Janus stood still, redirecting the ghosts who acted as their scouts.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get going,¡± he said to her, aloud. ¡°We still have a few kilometres to travel before we reach the proposed site.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± she nodded.


    She could still feel the mind of Tyron Steelarm from dozens of kilometres away, looking in another direction now, but she knew at any moment he could glance this way and seize control once more.

 B5 Chapter 6 - Upon A Golden Throne

    There was a certain¡­ thrum in the air around the Palace of Ascension. The air, the earth, everything seemed to pulse at an incredibly high frequency, a vibration so slight as to be almost undetectable. A remarkable achievement, really, to experience so slight an effect while in the presence of such an unimaginable outpouring of power.


    Selene¡¯s Chosen raised his staff, a blazing stave formed of pure light, and proclaimed: ¡°All kneel!¡±


    In one smooth motion, along with the other thousand attendants, ministers, Nobles and officials, Administrator Merigold Kent knelt, then pressed her forehead to the hallowed ground. Behind her, the other members of her office were arrayed, while in front, the Grand Duchess Tiranda also knelt, but was permitted to keep her head up.


    In that position, the gathering froze, waiting for permission to rise to be given.


    The thrum grew stronger, to the point Merigold could feel it, deep in her chest. The palace was coming closer. She wished she could see it descend, but such a thing was forbidden by the Gods themselves. Even throughout the capital, all would be averting their eyes from the spectacle, for it was something they were not worthy to see. If even a child turned their gaze upon the palace, even for a moment, they would be blinded, according to Imperial law.


    It was tempting to look, but not that tempting. The Gods did not permit any who were not of the purest blood to see their power made manifest. As a minor noble, Merigold knew she would never be afforded that privilege.


    When the vibration had reached her teeth, she knew the palace was close. It was eerie to think that something so large could rise and fall in the sky without making so much as a sound. The wind moving around the palace was the only indication it was there at all, if not for the thrum.


    Then came the deep C-kroom that seemed to reverberate up from deep beneath the ground. The Palace of Ascension had connected to the cradle which would hold it in place for its time upon the ground. She had seen the cradle with her own eyes, a tiny thing, no larger than her fist, held in place by four beams that cut through the centre of the depression holding the Ascension Array. The very bottom tip of the palace would sit, nestled in that cradle, until the palace rose to the sky once more.


    Here it comes.


    The next moment was always a little disconcerting. There was a long, pregnant pause, then a slight lurch as the bridge latched onto the palace and began to rotate. She¡¯d never been told why the palace needed to be in constant motion, but there had to be a reason, and a very good one. The Cloud Bridge, despite its name, had to weigh thousands of tons, and keeping the mechanism greased to let it rotate with the palace was an unthinkable undertaking.


    ¡°Rise!¡± Selene¡¯s Chosen declared, and Merigold rose to sit on her heels, then stood in one smooth motion.


    For fear of making an error and receiving punishment, she had practiced that movement thousands of times after receiving her appointment. Even now, the thought of stumbling made her stomach clench in terror.


    Where before there had been a vast empty space, now the Palace of Ascension sat, in all its glory.


    A perfect diamond shape, pointed at the very tip and very bottom, its flawless symmetrical lines were enough to take her breath away, but everything else about it was just as spectacular.


    For hundreds of years the Empire had poured everything it had into the construction of this palace, and it showed. Millions of the highest grade cores were used to fuel the giant array that held the palace aloft, and the structure itself was formed of the most precious materials known. The side facing her, with the grand entrance formed at the edge of the bridge, featured a grand mural that covered the entire surface, depicting the Five Divines in all of their splendour.


    Orthriss. Warrior and defender. Shieldwarden of the Empire and God to all those with unwavering hearts and solid wills. He was shown on the palace as the unyielding and implacable fighter he was. Armoured, his mighty shield, Riyan, upon his left arm, the blade, Petrik, gripped in his right hand.


    The Fallen One, Tel¡¯anan. Lost god of magick. He was shown, robed and crowned, with his eyes closed, his noble face set in an expression of deep sadness.


    Hamar. Lighthearted adventurer. God of travel, bards, music and invention. Smiling, as always, his divine crossbow, Caelun, cradled in one arm, his lute, Stringfellow, in the other. With light and laughter in his eyes, he was always the friendliest-looking of the Gods, and one Merigold was particularly devoted to.


    He was, after all, her own ancestor. Barely.


    Lofis. Mother of the Empire. Goddess of the seasons, of harvest, growth, life and death. From the side of the palace, she looked down on the gathered throng with a mother¡¯s love. The Staff of Summer was held lightly in her hands, and her Crow, Trittan, rested on her shoulder.


    Finally, in the centre of the mural and directly over the grand entrance, was Selene.


    Goddess of Healing and light, divine matriarch of the Empire and Mother of the Emperor, for it was from her the ruling lineage sprang. Depicted with flawless beauty and a gentle visage, Selene appeared with the glow of divine healing in one hand, and the light of civilisation in the other.


    Made of gold, platinum, diamond and other precious materials, the mural was one of the most astounding things a citizen of the Empire could ever hope to see. Largely because they would never be allowed within the palace itself.


    ¡°Attend me!¡± the Chosen of Selene declared. ¡°You are under the eyes of The Five Divines!¡±


    So saying, the imposing woman, dressed in her full regalia, turned and began to lead the procession over the bridge and toward the grand entrance of the palace.


    Despite serving for years, Merigold still felt shivers run down her spine at the sheer, awe-inspiring magnificence of the occasion. It was difficult to hold one''s nerve in the presence of such august figures and the gaze of the Gods themselves. In her opinion, anyone who wasn¡¯t affected was simply not normal.


    The procession advanced along the Cloud Bridge, all moving at a slow, ceremonial pace. Step, pause. Step, pause. Step, pause. When the Chosen reached the threshold of the palace, the thousand-strong procession halted once more as she raised her hands high and uttered a prayer to The Five. Only then were they allowed to step inside.


    As one not of the High Blood, Merigold kept her eyes down once they crossed the threshold. Even the floor they walked on was a dazzling sight, each tile an artwork in and of itself, displaying an engraving that spoke of the legends from the dawning of the Empire.


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    Her favourite, one that showed Hamar bewitching an army of rift-kin with his song, would be a few metres to her left this time, due to a shift in the lines. She smothered the disappointment lest it show in her face. One did not appear dissatisfied with the interior of the Palace of Ascension.


    With the palace, there was always light, and music, the flawless acoustics of the structure carrying the heart-piercing voices of the Emperor¡¯s choir throughout the space.


    Finally, the entire procession had entered the palace and now fully occupied the grand chamber. The Chosen of Selene raised her hands, and the procession came to a halt, every member of the court standing in their appointed place, not a centimetre out of position.


    Ahead, upon the Grand Dais, Marigold knew there would be where the highest Nobles, Arch-Priests and Ministers sat around the marble table said to be hewn by Orthriss himself. Above them would be the Cloud Circle, in which the most pure-blooded nobility in all of the Empire sat. Above them, the Seat of Divinity, upon which the Emperor himself was seated.


    Above him, of course, were five empty thrones, each more elaborate than even the Emperor¡¯s seat, to ensure that all remembered who truly ruled in this place.


    ¡°Emperor! Child of the Goddess and favoured child of The Five!¡± The Chosen intoned. ¡°Your court is ready to serve!¡±


    She brought her staff down to strike the floor once, twice, thrice. Then, silence.


    The Chosen of Selene bowed low, then turned and moved deliberately to her left. With measured strides, she walked to take her place alongside the other Chosen of The Five, there to watch over the ceremony.


    ¡°Begin.¡±


    Spoken from high above, the voice of the Emperor was soft, barely reaching the ears of those below, but still resonated with such power that Merigold felt it down to her toes. For a moment, that voice wiped away every thought in her mind, even stole the sight from her eyes, leaving her as an unthinking blank. Half a second later, she returned to herself, chilled to the bone, and trembling, as she always was.


    Thankfully, the Emperor almost never spoke while court was in session. A blessing, to those such as herself, without the status or power to resist the effect.


    From there, she kept her head down and found her calm once more as events proceeded in the traditional way. The Grand Duke or Duchess in charge of each ministry would step forth, one by one, and give their summary report which would be tabled to the Dais. There, it was debated and discussed by the great personages, sometimes questions being directed back to the Grand Nobles, sometimes appeals made to the Emperor, who ignored them. Eventually, the report would be accepted into the record, and the head of the next ministry would be invited to step forward and make their report.


    Agriculture was just finishing when Merigold realised that her own ministry would be presenting next. Positioned directly behind the Grand Duchess, she could see the great lady¡¯s heels as she stepped forward to address the Dais.


    ¡°Grand Duchess Tiranda of House Ritherwell,¡± she stated, her voice resonant and dignified.


    Even looking at the floor, Merigold could picture the Great Lady standing tall and serene under the stare of the greatest people in the Empire. Her face flushed thinking of it. She was proud to serve such a personage, and so closely since her recent promotion.


    ¡°We are eager to hear the report from the Treasury,¡± came a voice from the Dais, interrupting the normal flow. ¡°After all, this has been a disruptive year.¡±


    Merigold felt a stab of fear. She had no idea who had spoken, she would never dare look, but were they intending to question the treasury closely? Duchess Tiranda would be fine, she was incredible, but she prayed they wouldn¡¯t ask for her. Lesser Blood working within the Ministries were almost never questioned, but it could happen.


    ¡°Then I will proceed,¡± Tiranda stated, unruffled. She withdrew the elaborate scroll case tucked under her arm and unhurriedly removed, then unfurled the scroll within, passing the empty case to her personal attendant.


    Without hesitation, or the slightest stumble, she read through the report, which Merigold and her fellow administrators had laboured over for the past two weeks, finishing with the conclusion.


    ¡°Due to disruptions in the Western Province, revenues are predicted to be significantly reduced for a period of fifty years. Two years ago, the province tithed a total of fifty-two million, three hundred and eleven thousand, eight-hundred and twenty seven sovereigns, alongside an estimated twenty-two million in equivalent Cores. Last year, the Golden Army retrieved sixty-eight million, five hundred and twenty-two thousand, nine hundred and sixty-one sovereigns, and an estimated thirty-eight million in equivalent Cores. Next year, that revenue will drop to zero.¡±


    Merigold resisted the urge to lace her hands together, remaining still and controlled, despite the uncomfortable feeling rising inside her. This was all expected, everyone knew this was coming for almost two years now. This report contained no surprises, no shocks at all!


    ¡°Five decades of reduced income for the Empire,¡± a scathing voice from the Dais declared. ¡°A fifth of the Empire cut away, impoverishing the Emperor and slowing the work of our Divine Ancestors, and why? The petty grievance of a single mage!¡±


    It was all Merigold could do to remain still. The Emperor, impoverished? The Imperial Province alone drew in more than five times the revenue of the Western Province. Cuts were necessary, clearly, and had been fiercely debated more than twelve months ago. As for placing the responsibility on a single individual¡­ such a view ignored the glaring flaws that had been examined at length within this very chamber! Mismanagement by the Magisters¡¯ Tower. Poor leadership from the Noble Houses. A delayed and insufficient response to rising tensions. And more. And still more besides!


    ¡°I can¡¯t help but feel you are oversimplifying matters, Grand Duke,¡± a male voice challenged, a little wryly. ¡°Perhaps you were asleep during our deliberations over the past few years?¡±


    Exactly! Merigold held still, lest she nod to herself and draw very unwanted attention.


    ¡°I am attempting to draw our attention to the key issue at hand,¡± the first insisted, sneeringly. ¡°The man responsible for this¡­ catastrophic damage to the Empire¡¯s finances has not been caught! Where is Tyron Steelarm? Why is he not here, pressed to the floor and grovelling before the Emperor, begging for forgiveness for his crimes?¡±


    ¡°If we knew where he was, then I¡¯m sure he would be here,¡± the second voice countered. ¡°Unless you happen to be withholding key information, Grand Duke, then I¡¯m unsure as to what you are alluding. The warrant for his capture was signed by the Emperor himself.¡±


    There was a brief pause. No doubt, the speaking person had turned and bowed to the throne upon which the Emperor sat.


    ¡°The Golden Army hasn¡¯t found him in the Western Province itself, so clearly he has fled somewhere else.¡±


    ¡°Exactly! Why are we not considering the possibility he has entered the Central Province? The heretic could be working against us this moment from within the capital city! Where is our sense of urgency?¡±


    There were murmurs building within the chamber now, a grave breach of protocol, yet this outburst was clearly making the court uneasy.


    To Merigold, it was even more baffling. Didn¡¯t they know exactly where he was? In the Central Province? The idea was absurd.


    She kept waiting for someone to say something, to spell out the obvious truth that everyone was aware of, but the moment never materialised. Instead, the figure upon the Dais continued to speak, demanding a province-wide manhunt, sweeping measures to contain and identify every person who had entered within the last two years. Expanding the search to every other province. Pressing off-duty Slayers into service hunting him down.


    It was¡­ so absurdly expensive! Such measures would blow another Western Province-sized hole in the budget! Surely, Grand Duchess Tiranda would speak up against this pointless waste! Yet, moment by moment, she stood silent, refusing to say a word.


    The countless days and nights Merigold had spent along with her fellow staff, balancing the books, poring over budget proposals. Totting up lines of numbers until they felt like blood was dripping out of their ears. They would have to do it all again if this madness was allowed to continue! Where did they think the money was going to come from? Did nobody else think of the money?!


    ¡°He¡¯s in Granin!¡± she burst out.


    Silence fell in an instant, all eyes turned to the small woman standing first among the clerks of the Treasury.


    Merigold wished she could die.

 B5 Chapter 7 - Under the Eyes of the Gods

    She was going to be put to death. Speaking out of turn before the Imperial Court? Death. Extreme, painful and public death. She was a Noble of lesser blood, which might count for something. Probably. She could likely argue out of the painful, or the public, but definitely not both. Which was better? A quick death in public, or a horrific, slow death but without her shame being on display for all to see?


    She knew what her mother would prefer. Bringing shame on the family? Unthinkable! Well, it was too late for that; she had opened her stupid mouth, and now it was going to be filled with sizzling rocks. Perfect.


    Mind filled with frantic nonsense, Merigold fell to the default and final action that seemed to make sense. In a swift and ungainly motion, she knelt and pressed her head to the floor. She didn¡¯t say anything. Further words would only make her eventual death all the more painful. She¡¯d already subjected the high Nobles and the Emperor to her words, anything further would get her flayed.


    ¡°Someone remove this undisciplined cretin,¡± the voice from the Dais declared venomously. ¡°Chosen of Selene. What rabble has been allowed into the Palace of Ascension that they would dare speak in this place?¡±


    With her face on the floor, Merigold couldn¡¯t see anything, but she could hear well enough. She heard the deathly silence from all the clerks around her. She heard footsteps approaching from her left. Perhaps the Chosen of Selene was coming to drag her out with his own hands.


    Hot tears welled in her eyes. Why couldn¡¯t she keep her mouth shut? Mother had always said she could never pay attention to anything that wasn¡¯t written down. This wasn¡¯t the way she wanted to prove her right!


    ¡°Stop.¡±


    One word, softly spoken, but in an unmistakable voice that caused the air to shiver and all motion to cease. Once again, Merigold felt her mind succumb for a brief moment, every thought scrubbed away, only to snap back into place an instant later.


    What was going to happen now? Had she angered the Emperor to the point he wished to intervene personally? What horrific torture awaited her now? Shaking in terror, Merigold remained in place while everyone waited, barely a breath to be heard within the entire court.


    The silence dragged on, and on, and there could be only one reason. The Emperor was conversing with a high Noble from the gallery, intending for that person to act as his voice. That meant the Emperor had more to say, but didn¡¯t want to be heard by the court.


    Just how much was he going to punish her? A whole diatribe condemning her disgraceful action? That was too much.


    So sunken in despair was she, Merigold almost didn¡¯t hear when a voice spoke from the gallery.


    ¡°I am Bealyn Lofis, Pure of Lineage, and I will speak on behalf of the Emperor.¡±


    A true descendant of a Divine! Just how much trouble was she in?!


    ¡°These are the words of the Emperor, witnessed by The Divines!¡±


    A bell tolled somewhere high above, a single resonant note that filled the chamber with its unspeakable purity.


    Instantly, everyone in the chamber knelt. Despite being unable to see it, Merigold knew exactly what had happened. If there had been an air of fear before, now abject terror had gripped the court.


    The sound of the bell grew louder and louder, rising to the point it was painful to hear. When it reached its peak, four other sounds rose to join it, also emanating from above. Unlike the bell, which Merigold had never seen and couldn¡¯t say where it was housed, she knew exactly where these four notes were coming from.


    Everyone knew. They came from the thrones of Selene, Orthriss, Lofis and Hamar above the Emperor. They signified the Gods themselves were listening, something that hadn¡¯t happened for almost a hundred years.


    Merigold couldn¡¯t even weep anymore. She tasted ashes. She couldn¡¯t breathe. What was happening?


    ¡°The matter of the Western Province, and the uprising there, is an affront to The Five. The Divines have already personally intervened to put down the heretic, speaking through their Oracles, and the Empire has failed them. As a result, an entire Province has been lost and the Empire diminished.


    ¡°The Emperor is disappointed.¡±


    The speaker allowed that word to hang over the court like an executioner''s axe before she continued.


    ¡°Rebellion against the Empire is rebellion against the Gods. The Emperor cares not for cost. The Emperor cares not for petty squabbles and bickering in the court. The Emperor wishes for finality. This rebellion should be crushed with the full might of the Empire, every individual rebel and heretic stamped out, and only then can the court return to its normal duties.¡±


    Another pause as the words were allowed to sink in.


    ¡°This clerk seems certain as to where the rebel known as Tyron Steelarm has gone. The Emperor wishes to hear why.¡±


    At this point, Merigold felt numb. Nothing could happen that would surprise her anymore. There were further footsteps that drew to her side and she found herself gripped under the arm and hauled to her feet. The Chosen of Selene glared down at her.


    ¡°Stand and walk,¡± he stated.


    Somehow, she held herself up, and managed to walk, with the eyes of the entire court on her, before the Dais, the Chosen looming behind her like a cloud of judgement. Around the table, the most august members of the court glared down at her as if she were scum they wouldn¡¯t deign to scrape off their boots. Yet, given the words of the Emperor, they would never dream of preventing her from speaking.


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    Despite being placed here, Merigold did her best to keep her gaze down. She didn¡¯t want to antagonise anyone any further, and certainly didn¡¯t want to lay eyes on the gallery, or heaven forbid, the Emperor himself.


    Ancestor Hamar. Give me strength!


    Hamar was known to give people mirth, happiness, and cheer, none of which she needed right now, yet she hoped her prayer was well received.


    ¡°Now speak,¡± the Lady Lofis stated. ¡°Tell us the source of your confidence.¡±


    Silence fell, and Merigold felt completely defeated. She was supposed to open her mouth? And speak? Impossible. Flatly impossible. She could barely stand up. A firm, reassuring hand fell on her shoulder. The Chosen.


    ¡°You must speak,¡± he murmured in her ear. ¡°Or you will surely die.¡±


    How motivating! Desperate, Merigold tried to force air through her throat, failed, coughed, hacked, and tried again. Eventually, she was able to force out some words. She spoke hesitantly, softly, but her words carried throughout the chamber.


    ¡°W-we¡­ the¡­ the Treasury¡­ we were asked to¡­ t-to go through the¡­ uh¡­ the financial documents recovered from¡­ the Duke Raugrave and¡­ the Noble H-Houses, in the¡­ Western Province.¡±


    She paused to suck in a breath and try to steady herself. The more she spoke, the smoother the words came. She was talking about documents. She loved documents. Documents were easy.


    ¡°We know¡­ that¡­ uh¡­ that the centre of the¡­ r-rebellion was focused far to the West, along the¡­ the mountains. Payment records show the¡­ pattern of deployment¡­ and the concentration of Soldiers towards¡­ towards the west.


    ¡°This was¡­ also discussed here in court¡­ in the reports detailing the rebellion. We also know that, the¡­ uh¡­ surviving Magisters and Soldiers¡­ reported pursuing Tyron and the Slayers West after the fall of Kenmor.¡±


    No doubt desperate to try and capture him to prevent the justice of the Emperor falling upon their heads.


    ¡°How do we know this?¡± the Lady Lofis demanded from above, and Merigold flinched.


    ¡°T-the records from H-house Baln s-stated that they¡­ released arms and a-armour to their Soldiers for¡­ for ¡°pursuing the enemy to the West¡±. Several other Houses also d-did the same.¡±


    ¡°Then how do you know that Tyron Steelarm is within the former lands of Granin?¡±


    ¡°B-because the Golden Army was deployed to the West before the S-Soldiers returned. We know this from t-the inventories of the House armouries when the army arrived. None of the arms or armour¡­ had been returned yet. This means¡­ Tyron could not have come to the Central Province¡­because the border was shut down from that moment on.


    ¡°As for Granin¡­ the reports stated that the Army found the Westernmost towns and villages were empty¡­ including Cragwhisle. The¡­ the Dustfolk would never take them, so¡­ so where could they have gone? According¡­ According to the ledgers d-detailing the cores claimed by the Golden Army at every rift in the West, none were cleared by the Rebellion. That means t-they didn¡¯t flee through the rifts.¡±


    She couldn¡¯t help herself any longer and began to knead her hands together out of nervousness.


    ¡°T-the only explanation was that t-they found a passage t-through the mountains. I-I thought e-everyone knew this.¡±


    It had seemed obvious to her. Along with the details presented by the various other departments during the hearings that examined the rebellion, the picture had been obvious. Every detail the Golden Army had extracted from those they¡¯d captured and put to the question had confirmed it.


    She expected to see the people seated at the table looking contemptuous or impatient, and some did, but others looked thoughtful, even surprised.


    From above, there was silence, and she imagined the Emperor was speaking to Lady Lofis once more.


    ¡°The Emperor thanks you for your contribution. Please remain with the Chosen of Selene once the court has concluded. You will be rewarded for your insight.¡±


    With those words, the aura of The Divines began to fade from their thrones, and a more normal atmosphere was returned to the chamber. The worst, it seemed, was over.


    Staring blankly, Merigold felt herself being dragged back to her place by the Chosen, propped up until she was able to keep her legs under her, and then left alone.


    Sweet anonymity was hers once more. She felt completely drained and lethargic, as if a year''s worth of courage had all been sucked out of her in just a few minutes. Debate on the Dais raged as this Arch-Bishop demanded a Holy War be declared, while this Grand Duke or Duchess urged the Emperor to use the full might of his armies to smash the mountains flat and pursue the rebels to death.


    Merigold was barely listening. All of it seemed to pass by in a blur as she devoted all of her concentration to merely remaining standing. Whether the session dragged on for days or passed in minutes after that, she couldn¡¯t say. The next thing she remembered, the Chosen of Selene had placed his hand on her shoulder once more as the other members of her ministry, including Grand Duchess Tiranda, filed out of the palace and over the Cloud Bridge, returning to the capital to resume their regular duties.


    ¡°A descendant of Hamar, I¡¯m told,¡± the Chosen stated, looking down at her.


    ¡°Y-yes,¡± she mumbled back, still with her eyes downcast.


    ¡°Come. Lady Lofis will speak to you regarding your reward. I¡¯m told the Emperor himself had words for you.¡±


    ¡°I-I¡¯m not worthy!¡± she stammered. ¡°I can¡­ just go back to my post! It¡¯s fine¡­ isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Surprisingly, the Chosen chuckled. She had always seen him as an austere man, but without the presence of the court, he seemed at ease and relaxed.


    ¡°That would make the Emperor into a liar, and we can¡¯t have that.¡±


    She deflated immediately.


    ¡°No, we can¡¯t,¡± she muttered miserably.


    She was not permitted to stand on the Dais, nor even to draw too close to the gallery, but there was a spot to the side where the Lady Lofis could remain in her position above and speak down comfortably enough to the clerk, which was where the Chosen took her.


    Soon, the commanding voice of the Lady Lofis, a direct descendant of a Divine, rang in her ears. To listen to her was still difficult, though her words did not obliterate all thought as the Emperor¡¯s did.


    ¡°Merigold Herimar. The Emperor is pleased with your insight and impressed by your ability to find the truths hidden in pages of script. Have you always been so adept at interpreting documents?¡±


    Merigold wrung her hands.


    ¡°Well¡­ documents are easy,¡± she said, trying to speak clearly. ¡°People are¡­ much more difficult.¡±


    There was a pause, then the Lady spoke again.


    ¡°You have been promoted one rank and granted a residence within the Cloud Palace for your lifetime. Take this reward with the Emperor¡¯s blessing.


    ¡°Additionally, you have been appointed to the special ministry responsible for handling the rebellion.¡±


    The last was thrown in, seemingly as an afterthought, and just like that, Merigold was dismissed.


    She turned to the Chosen beside her.


    ¡°I¡¯m what?¡± she said, dumbly.

 B5 Chapter 8 - The Limits

    Tyron slumped forward, his chin slipping from the hand which had been propping him up as he was trying to study through bleary eyes. One moment, he was trying to read the scroll propped open on the table before him through blurred, red, raw eyes, the next, he was awoken by a loud bang.


    He was so fatigued, it took him a while to realise the sound had been made by his head slamming into the table. As tough as he was, he barely felt the impact, yet it was enough to startle him back to some sort of wakefulness.


    ¡°I think I¡¯m too tired to keep reading,¡± he mumbled to himself.


    ¡°Yeah, no shit,¡± a voice said from behind him.


    Tyron turned to see Dove leaning against the wall behind him, swinging his snake in slow, lazy circles. Borderline delirious, Tyron thought for a moment he was wearing a feathered hat, of all things.


    He blinked several times, trying to clear his eyes.


    ¡°Dove¡­ where the heck¡­ did you find that hat?¡±


    ¡°Oh, this old thing?¡± the undead said, sweeping it off his skull and fluttering the feathers against his ribs. ¡°I made it myself with cured kin leather. The feathers, I sourced from a Dust Folk caravan. Quite dashing, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    Dealing with his former teacher was always an enormous headache, but in this instance, the pain was almost clarifying, helping the Necromancer to dispel a little of the fog that plagued him.


    ¡°Just how desperate for a reaction are you, Dove?¡± he asked tiredly. ¡°You put so much effort into such ridiculous pursuits.¡±


    Far from being offended, the former Summoner merely snorted with amusement.


    ¡°In my eyes, you¡¯re the absurd one. Imagine dedicating your life to such dreary subjects like vengeance, and not shitting your pants in public. Boring! Dull! Lacking stimulus for the washing staff!¡±


    ¡°Of course, you didn¡¯t have to wash them yourself,¡± Tyron mused, thinking aloud.


    ¡°That¡¯s not the important bit!¡± Dove cut him off. ¡°The important bit is the detailed examination of how dreary and uninteresting your life is. Let¡¯s focus on that.¡±


    Tired as he was, Tyron actually started turning his thoughts towards defending his life choices, before he shook his head. As if he was going to start justifying himself to Dove, of all people.


    ¡°Presumably, you¡¯re here for a reason,¡± he said to his former mentor, turning around properly in his chair to face the skeletal construct. ¡°You didn¡¯t come to annoy me.¡±


    He considered for a moment, then sighed.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t come just to annoy me.¡±


    Dove cackled to himself, sweeping the hat back onto his head before gathering the snake skeleton and swinging it up onto his shoulder and around his neck like a scarf. One of these days, Tyron would have to check to see how it was stitched together. Whoever had done the work did a good job of it.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t put it past me,¡± he said. ¡°There is little that gives me more joy in this unlife than annoying you. Although, it¡¯s getting harder and harder to achieve. I almost feel like you no longer care about the feelings of your old teacher.¡±


    It was impossible for a skeleton carved of onyx to form a hangdog expression, and yet, somehow, Dove managed to adopt a long-suffering and pitiful air, even without having the capacity to form a facial expression.


    ¡°You missed your true talent in life. You should have been a mime.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I told my mother!¡±


    ¡°Then you wouldn¡¯t talk as much.¡±


    ¡°Sacrifices must be made, in the pursuit of true art.¡±


    ¡°Why are you here, Dove?¡± Tyron sighed. ¡°Out with it or I¡¯m going to bed. By myself.¡±


    The last was a necessary classification, since the skull started leering at him. How did he even manage to leer?


    ¡°Fine. I thought now might be a good time to discuss my mastery over the Realm of the Dead and all that pertains to it. The cosmic secrets I have unlocked. The nature of life, of death, and the cycle of rebirth. The deep knowledge, the very deep knowledge! So deep, it was moist when I found it! Locked with the crevices of the realms, the damp, sopping crevices!¡±


    ¡°Stop thrusting your hips at me.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, I was getting carried away. Anyway, I know you wanted to speak about it, and now¡¯s your chance.¡±


    He went back to leaning against the wall, looking for all the world as if he had someplace he¡¯d rather be. Tyron frowned.


    ¡°You turned up now, when I¡¯m on the brink of exhaustion, collapsing on my desk, and offer to speak to me? This timing isn¡¯t just suspicious, Dove, it reeks more than your hat.¡±


    ¡°How dare you,¡± Dove gasped. ¡°Do you really believe I would be so conniving, so deceitful, so¡­ so underhanded?!¡±


    ¡°Stop talking for a minute or I¡¯ll stuff your soul in a chopping board,¡± Tyron groaned, rubbing at his face.


    Blood and bone, how long had it been since he¡¯d slept? He hadn¡¯t felt this exhausted in¡­ a long time. Years. Perhaps not since he reinvented the status ritual for Dove, if even then. His eyes were dry as bone, his skin felt stretched over his skin, his mouth felt like he¡¯d eaten a handful of sand. To top it all off, he had a pounding headache, and his guts were twisting around themselves like a sackful of snakes. He desperately needed something to eat and drink. He also needed sleep. Badly.


    If his students saw him like this, they¡¯d start trying to mother him again. He¡¯d had enough of that treatment the last time.


    What had he been doing? He trailed his eyes across the pages scattered over the table, along with those he¡¯d stuck to the wall. Yes¡­ the sigil combination related to the containment of the soul. It had to be the soul, what else could these particular runes relate to? He¡¯d been cross-referencing to see if they were used anywhere else¡­ perhaps in the¡­


    His hands were already reaching for the scroll when he realised what he was doing and let them collapse in his lap. Getting drawn back in now would be a terrible idea. He sighed and pushed them all away before turning back to Dove.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Remain shut up for a minute,¡± he stated.


    A few mental commands sent the undead he kept nearby running, and it wasn¡¯t long before Filetta arrived in the room, a plate of bread and steamed vegetables in one hand, a mug of water in the other.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t need to use me as your waitstaff,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m an undead killing machine. Even a skeleton could bring you food.¡±


    ¡°Their artificial minds don¡¯t know how to carry plates and can¡¯t tell what food is decent. I¡¯d have to look through their eyes and micro-manage every movement,¡± Tyron grunted, taking the plate and mug and putting them on the table. He took a tiny sip from the mug, letting the cool water run over the desert that was the inside of his mouth.


    What an amazing feeling. That alone was enough to help him feel a little better. He knew better than to start guzzling at the water, so he took another small sip, then another.


    ¡°Why is Dove being so quiet?¡± Filetta wondered, spotting him in the corner acting uncharacteristically obedient.


    ¡°Because I made a threat he knew I¡¯d follow through on,¡± Tyron replied, trying a sliver of carrot. It hurt his throat going down, so he switched back to sips of water.


    ¡°Which was?¡±


    ¡°Chopping board.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    Dove raised a hand and waved it a little. Tyron rolled his eyes and nodded.


    ¡°Hey there, sweet cheek-less,¡± he said, leaning toward Filetta while stroking the snake bones as if they were a cat. ¡°Haven¡¯t seen you around much lately.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because I actively avoid you. Prick,¡± came the reply. She turned back to Tyron. ¡°If that¡¯s all, I¡¯ll leave.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°Thanks. Sorry to ask you to do this,¡± he waved his hand toward the food.


    ¡°Just don¡¯t make a habit out of it,¡± she scowled.


    ¡°Why can¡¯t I have spirit flesh?¡± Dove complained as Filetta spun and left. ¡°I could make expressions again. Sort of.¡±


    ¡°If you want upgrades, you need to be less of a pain in the backside.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s never happening.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    It would take time for the food and water to actually make it through his system, but for now, just having something in his stomach was enough to make Tyron feel revived. It wouldn¡¯t last, his mental fatigue was immense, but it would have to do.


    ¡°Alright,¡± he said, continuing to take tiny bites from the food on his desk. ¡°Start talking.¡±


    ¡°About what?¡±


    ¡°Realm of the Dead.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that place. It sucks.¡±


    ¡°Does it?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Tyron kept grazing as Dove stared at him blankly.


    ¡°Are you actually going to give me details and answer my questions, or are you just here to piss me off?¡± Tyron said, outwardly calm.


    Dove held up his hands as if to ward him off.


    ¡°I¡¯ll talk, I¡¯ll talk. To an extent. There are things I can and things I can¡¯t say.¡±


    Well¡­ that was interesting in and of itself. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees.


    ¡°If we were to compare your new role to that of a traditional Summoner, how close would they be?¡±


    The two had often discussed Summoning magick. To give him his due, Dove had been an excellent Summoner, with a firm grasp of the fundamentals and broader applications of that branch of spells. Had he reached gold rank, he would have become powerful indeed.


    ¡°Fundamentally the same, but the methods are completely different,¡± Dove replied.


    Another clue. Tyron tried reasoning out loud.


    ¡°So¡­ as a Summoner, to put it simply, you would use Astral Projection to send your consciousness to the Astral Sea and attempt to form a contract with a being native to that Realm. Upon successfully forming a contract, you became able to summon them here in our realm for a time.


    ¡°If the fundamentals are the same, then I assume you follow a similar process. You would use¡­ Realm of the Dead Projection? Undeath Projection? You couldn¡¯t really call it ¡®Astral¡¯ Projection anymore¡­.¡±


    ¡°The Skill is called ¡®Death Projection¡¯. Boring, I know.¡±


    ¡°Interesting¡­ so you use this ability to send your consciousness to the Realm of the Dead, and once there, you have to convince an¡­ entity? A being? A denizen of that place¡­ to make a contract with you.¡±


    ¡°Basically, yes,¡± Dove said, waving a hand. ¡°There are differences, but in essence, that¡¯s what I have to do.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯ve seen the Realm of the Dead?¡±


    The skeleton hesitated.


    ¡°Not sure I would say ¡®seen¡¯,¡± he hedged. ¡°You don¡¯t really see as a disembodied spirit. I¡¯ve been there, sure.¡±


    ¡°Can you tell me about it?¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ not really. My contracts¡­¡±


    He trailed off, leaving Tyron to join the dots. He had formed contracts which forbade him from speaking. The problem was, with Dove, that could be a complete falsehood. It was entirely possible there were no such restrictions on him at all and he was just being difficult for the fun of it.


    Tyron leaned back in his chair and took another sip of water. Was Dove lying to him? It was difficult to say.


    ¡°Are you able to summon the spirits of the dead?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No,¡± Dove replied definitively.


    That seemed to track. So far, he¡¯d seen two of Dove¡¯s new summons. One was a hound the size of a donkey formed of bones and shadows. A terrifying-looking summon, it had disturbed every living thing that had laid eyes on it.


    The other was a smaller, wraith-like bird that didn¡¯t have a beak but more of a needle, like a mosquito. What it fed on, and how, Tyron was very keen to know.


    ¡°Do you think you will eventually be able to summon the spirits of the dead?¡± he pressed. Perhaps if he advanced further?


    ¡°No,¡± Dove said, again, with great certainty. ¡°That¡¯s not how it works.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ so you can only summon creatures who are ¡®native¡¯ to that place. Am I correct?¡±


    ¡°You are.¡±


    Tyron thought some more.


    ¡°You have contracts with two creatures so far that I¡¯ve seen. Are you able to summon any more than these two?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Do you have more than two contracts?¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°Do the contracts with the two summoned creatures place any restrictions on your speech?¡±


    ¡°They do not.¡±


    Tyron stared at the skeletal construct that housed his former mentor. Dove stared back. He was being unusually cooperative. Was that a mask to hide his deception, or was he being as open as he could be, and deciding to be helpful on a whim?


    Dealing with Dove was an increasingly painful experience. Thankfully, the time he¡¯d spent locked in a gardening implement seemed to have reigned him in a little.


    If he was being honest¡­ then there were many potential implications. He was forced into a restrictive contract by some sort of entity living within the Realm of the Dead? A powerful being that ruled over the realm? Or perhaps just a slice of it?


    ¡°Is there a way to break a contract you¡¯ve formed?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t answer that.¡±


    ¡°Are you able to list the contracts you¡¯ve made?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Can you tell me how many there are?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Do any of them place you in danger?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t answer that.¡±


    ¡°Do any of them place me in danger?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t answer that either.¡±


    ¡°Fuck¡¯s sake, Dove. What the heck did you agree to?¡±


    He tickled the feathers of his hat with his long, bony fingers.


    ¡°Do you really think I can answer that?¡±


    Tyron groaned and rubbed at his temples. The headache, which had been slowly receding, was now back with a vengeance. What was he supposed to do with this information?


    ¡°Dove¡­¡± he began before trailing off. He was definitely going to regret this. ¡°... Do you need help?¡±


    The skeleton sprang upright and planted his absurd hat back on his head.


    ¡°Funny you should ask,¡± he cackled. ¡°Turns out I do.¡±

 B5 Chapter 9 - Going to the Rifts

    After his discussion, Tyron finished his simple meal, went to his room to wash up and then slept. He was out for over twelve hours before he woke to find Briss poking her head through the door as he blearily sat up. The moment she saw him, she vanished, leaving him confused. He shook his head, staggered out of bed and went to put some fresh clothes on, only to find a warm plate on his desk with breakfast. Had Briss just delivered this?


    If so, he had to ask her how she¡¯d managed to get her hands on some eggs. They were worth their weight in gold these days, with how few chickens managed to make it over the mountains. As many eggs as possible were being fertilised in the hopes of building up the population, so actually getting to eat one was a rare treat.


    After pulling on a simple robe, he sat down to enjoy the meal. After washing it down with some water, he felt much refreshed, if not fully fit. He¡¯d pushed himself pretty hard this time, that much was clear. Thinking it over, he¡¯d made some headway in his research, which was something. He¡¯d doubted the Dust Folk had ever thought he¡¯d be able to extract anything meaningful from the scrolls they¡¯d given him. He was most definitely going to have the last laugh on that front.


    He took the time to shave off what was starting to be a scraggly beard and not merely stubble before he combed out his hair and tied it back. A haircut was long overdue. He¡¯d probably get Filetta to put a knife to it. Just as he was finishing, there was a tentative knock at the door.


    ¡°Come in,¡± he said, turning to face it.


    Expecting to see Briss, he was a little surprised to see Georg and Richard as well. The three students entered his small and sparse chamber, giving him deferential nods as they did so.


    ¡°Is there a reason you all want to talk to me in my bedroom?¡± he asked, frowning.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Richard started, just seeming to realise where he was. ¡°We¡­ we¡¯ll go wait in the sitting room. Come on.¡±


    A moment later, they¡¯d all shuffled out, leaving Tyron behind wondering what was going through their heads. After he¡¯d pulled on some socks and sturdy shoes, he went to join them, falling into his seat and giving each of his apprentices a searching look.


    ¡°I assume you have something you want to tell me?¡± He said. ¡°Some sort of breakthrough in Arihnan¡¯s texts?¡±


    If so, he was quite keen to hear it.


    ¡°Exactly that,¡± Richard said, unable to conceal his excitement. ¡°The three of us have been coordinating to get through all the material, there¡¯s so much of it, but we put that aside a few days ago to focus on something Georg found.¡±


    The former farmhand jumped in.


    ¡°I was working through some of the things written by Bintis¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait a second. Who is Bintis?¡± Tyron interrupted.


    ¡°Oh. Some of the volumes appear to have been written by Arihnan¡¯s¡­ apprentice, or helper. He¡¯s named in a couple of writings, but it isn¡¯t clear exactly what he did. Anyway, some of the texts dealing with more fundamental Necromancy appear to have been written by him.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± Tyron mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°Right. The book seemed to be Bintis detailing the steps that needed to be completed in order for Arihnan to work on various forms of undead. Most of these things are familiar to us. How they treated their bones for skeletons. How they preserved corpses for zombies¡ª¡±


    ¡°Anything interesting there?¡± Tyron interrupted again.


    Finding new ways to prepare raw materials to create better undead was one of Tyron¡¯s many obsessions. He¡¯d done so much work on his own to develop more ideal bones, and now a lot of that research had been passed to Bone Smiths and Corpse Handlers, yet he still thought about it often.


    Squeezing even a single percent of performance out of his basic skeletons would make a significant difference when his army numbered in the tens of thousands.


    ¡°Not¡­ not really? There¡¯s a few things that could be useful, but we would need to work on translating the names of the alchemical substances they used to get a better idea. It¡¯s possible we have already tried those methods.¡±


    ¡°Make sure you look at that as a priority,¡± Tyron insisted.


    He refused to believe that, in just a few years, the Necromancy that he and the others practiced was as developed as what Arihnan used. Sure, the spellwork might be better, since Tyron was, if nothing else, very good at magick, but processing corpses was brand new to him and everyone else he worked with. Necromancy hadn¡¯t been illegal in Granin during the time of Arihnan the Black. That meant hundreds of years of research and innovation into their methods.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Tyron knew he was smart, but he wasn¡¯t that smart. Overcoming a deficit like that in just a few years was impossible. When it came to the spellwork, he had the benefit of further hundreds of years of theory and development since Granin had collapsed. That certainly helped.


    ¡°We will, we will!¡¯ Georg insisted. ¡°Just listen. Bintis was also mentioning the methods used to process the remains of kin. We know from the historical record that Arihnan the Black had monsters in his armies, and this was the first hint we¡¯d seen that the process of creating those undead had actually been written down!¡±


    The Necromancer sat up in his chair. Now this was interesting. He¡¯d long assumed that the powerful beasts seen in Arihnan¡¯s horde had been bone constructs, which was why he¡¯d devoted so much of his own attention in that direction. The limitations of the Raise Dead spell were quite clear: you could only use it on remains of your own¡­ type. Even extending it to horses had been a rare boon. Creating undead from kin?


    It¡­ didn¡¯t make sense. There was literally an inexhaustible supply of kin. Infinite materials. If a Necromancer could use them to create undead¡­ they would have dominated the entire world ages ago!


    ¡°Did you find more?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s where I came in,¡± Briss announced proudly. ¡°When Georg shared with us what he¡¯d found, Richard and I dropped our own work to start combing through everything to find more details about this method. We completed a pretty exhaustive search and found only three other places where it was mentioned. One was a passing mention of the difficulty dealing with the size of the remains, another listed several means of preparation required for converting specific corpses, and the final mention, we believe, may have been an alternate version of Raise Dead.¡±


    ¡°Show me,¡± Tyron demanded, holding out a hand.


    Unable to hide her grin, Briss handed a volume over, a marker slid between two pages. Seizing the book, Tyron opened it to the marked page and started devouring the words in front of him. For five minutes, there was total silence in the room as the three students watched their teacher with bated breath. In truth, they weren¡¯t expert enough to know exactly what they¡¯d found. The three had checked again and again, knocking their heads together to try and be as sure as they could be.


    With a snap, Tyron closed the book, a thoughtful expression on his face. For a long moment, the students were left in suspense as he continued to ponder.


    ¡°A couple of points,¡± he said finally. ¡°This is indeed a modified version of Raise Dead,¡± he said, tapping a finger on the cover of the book. ¡°However,¡± he continued, cutting their joy off before it could become too pronounced, ¡°I do not believe this is generally applicable to all forms of kin. Rather, I think there were specific types of kin that Arihnan was able to raise as undead. It feels like he was granted these modifications as a result of feat selections, or perhaps his platinum Class Advancement.¡±


    As with most of the spells he had seen in Arihnan¡¯s notes, there were inefficiencies and sub-optimally formed sigil strings scattered throughout. The conduit work was particularly¡­ if not crude, then lacking in refinement. In this particular version, there were a significant number of sigils that Tyron didn¡¯t recognise, so he could only use context and his own knowledge to make educated guesses. If he wasn¡¯t mistaken, then most of them related to the artificial mind, which was the area Tyron himself felt the most deficient in.


    His basic undead, those without a soul, were only capable of a limited number of actions when acting on their own. Engraving even this small list onto the minion took a significant amount of time, and in the end, it basically boiled down to ¡®controlling their body well enough to hit things, use shields and shoot bows.¡¯ More complex reasoning and patterns of movement were well beyond his ability to inscribe. His basic skeletons weren¡¯t really capable of jumping, for instance.


    Expanding his knowledge of artificial minds was one of his primary goals, and if he could unlock the secrets behind these sigils, then that would be a significant stride forward.


    ¡°Get ready,¡± he announced to his students, still thinking to himself.


    Georg, Briss and Richard looked at each other, confused.


    ¡°For what?¡± Georg asked.


    Tyron looked at him.


    ¡°To head to the rifts,¡± he said, as if it were obvious. ¡°Prepare your undead, bring any of the new Necromancers you think will benefit from fighting against the kin and leave lessons for the rest. We¡¯ll march out tomorrow.¡±


    He tapped a finger on the cover of the book again.


    ¡°The best way to test this spell is to try and apply it to various kin. If we can find monsters that are similar to the ones we know were present in Arihnan¡¯s army, then we can attempt to use the spell on them. Considering it''s time to push toward the rifts anyway, we can kill two birds with one stone. There will be many kin to kill, and you all need levels, so you¡¯re coming too.¡±


    The three students sat wide-eyed for a moment until Tyron raised his hands and made ¡®shooing¡¯ motions.


    A moment later, the three were gone, leaving Tyron by himself once more, thoughtfully tapping away at the book now resting in his lap.


    This would be an interesting opportunity. Deciphering the sigils laid out in the text would be a major step forward in the overall understanding of Necromancy being developed around Tyron. Being able to add powerful kin to his army without having to invest any ability selections or feat choices would be a major coup. While they were at it, he could take this time to complete the push for the closest rift. Seizing control of it would make a huge difference for the survivors living in the ruins of Granin. Fewer kin roaming the wilds would mean it was safer to expand further outwards. The outskirts of the city were still considered dangerous, as smaller kin could slip into the ruins unseen and roam through the crumbling buildings looking for prey.


    It would also give Tyron a chance to fully implement the knowledge the Old Gods had given him regarding the nature of magick. If he could truly destroy it, remove it from the realm, shrinking the rift in the process, then his world may indeed have a future after all.


    If he were the first person in the history of the realm to actually close a rift, then he would go down in history as a hero, perhaps regardless of the damage he caused in his pursuit of vengeance.


    Rising from his chair, he made his way to his workshop, issuing dozens of silent orders with his mind. He couldn¡¯t muster his full army, many were needed to keep the peace and help with manual labour in the city, but he would need to bring as much strength as he could. This would be a difficult battle.

 B5 Chapter 10 - Departure

    Gathering his horde wasn¡¯t as simple a task as it had been in the past for Tyron. He already had minions put in the wasteland, but there were many more still roaming the city. Thankfully, he could push most of the work onto the wights. There was really only one conversation he really needed to have directly now that his students were making their own preparations.


    He found Master Willhem in his own workshop, a space the demi-lich had created to continue pursuing his passion: enchanting. The transition to undead had robbed Willhem of much of the assistance he received from the Unseen. His Class had changed, some abilities had been lost, along with a significant loss of stats. On the other hand, he retained all of his knowledge, any mysteries that he had, which was likely to be a few, and he now had an infinite amount of time to perfect his craft.


    Despite the setbacks, he was still a better Arcanist than everyone else in the Western Province. Even now, Tyron found it staggering the sheer amount of things that old man knew.


    As he approached the workshop on foot, an honour guard of his best undead around him, he heard a living voice inside, chatting away, the murmured voice of the demi-lich replying as if from a great distance.


    There was only one person who could get Master Willhem talking like that. Tyron hadn¡¯t expected to run into her here, and, to be honest, he didn¡¯t want to.


    ¡°It is what it is,¡± he muttered to himself.


    He knocked on the doorframe, then walked inside without waiting for an answer. Inside, he found Willhem floating slightly over the ground as all the demi-liches did, working with a pliance at a waist-high bench. Sitting at a table in the middle of the space, his fellow graduate, Annita Halfshard.


    She did not look pleased to see him.


    ¡°How dare you show your fucking face here,¡± she growled, glaring up at him.


    ¡°At least it¡¯s my real face this time,¡± Tyron said, half-joking.


    ¡°Am I supposed to be grateful?¡± she growled. ¡°Get the fuck out of here.¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°I¡¯m going out to capture the closest rift, and I¡¯m taking Master Willhem with me.¡±


    Master Halfshard stood from the table, slamming her hands down on the surface. She was exceptionally short, but so fiery it was easy to overlook her size.


    ¡°Like hell you are. Haven¡¯t you done enough to him?¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t the one who killed him,¡± Tyron replied. ¡°It was the Nobles who did that.¡±


    ¡°You turned him into a monster.¡±


    ¡°I gave him life.¡±


    ¡°That isn¡¯t life!¡±


    ¡°Enough.¡±


    Master Willhem spoke, a hint of emotion breaking through into his normally flat voice. Slowly, the demi-lich turned to face his two former pupils, eyes burning with the purple light of the dead.


    ¡°Don¡¯t speak of me as if I weren¡¯t here.¡±


    Master Halfshard hung her head.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Master Willhem.¡±


    ¡°I apologise, Master Willhem,¡± Tyron said.


    ¡°That¡¯s better,¡± the lich scowled. ¡°I¡¯m trying to work.¡±


    ¡°What are you working on?¡± Tyron wondered, curious.


    ¡°We were trying to find a more efficient design for your magick storage,¡± Annita sniffed.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t really call it mine. I did the conduit work, but the rest was all Master Willhem.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but he¡¯s been weakened, he can¡¯t do it as well as he wanted, so I¡¯m helping.¡±


    ¡°Be quiet,¡± Willhem grumped at them, then waved Tyron to lean closer. ¡°What do you think of this?¡±


    The Necromancer looked down on the work they¡¯d done, carefully scanning the hundreds of runes gathered into multiple arrays, their positioning and placement relative to each other, and the intricate lines of power that bound them together. This was no sketch or rough design, Willhem and Halfshard had been creating on the fly, engraving their still-forming ideas directly onto a core.


    ¡°It¡¯s good,¡± he said finally, ¡°better than what we have in place right now by a fair margin.¡±


    ¡°And the conduits?¡± Willhem said.


    ¡°Need a little work,¡± Tyron admitted.


    ¡°Blast it!¡± the Master swore, throwing his pliance down in frustration. He held up his skeletal hands and curled them into fists. ¡°They don¡¯t move the way they¡¯re supposed to! How am I supposed to work when my hands don¡¯t listen to my damn head?¡±


    Annita glared at Tyron as Master Willhem let out his frustrations, and Tyron could only sigh, reaching out to grip the demi-lich by the forearm bones.


    ¡°It will get better,¡± he promised. ¡°Your hands are the most sophisticated marriage of bone weaving and spirit flesh I¡¯ve ever created. There¡¯s no lich, revenant or wight who comes close to the fine motor control you have. You¡¯ve lost Skills, but those can come back, in part. Right now, you expect your hands to move a certain way, but they can¡¯t keep up, not yet.¡±


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    The demi-lich dropped his arms and mastered himself, becoming cold and dispassionate once more. This was the attitude Tyron had become accustomed to seeing from his old Master since he had been raised, and he would be lying if he said it didn¡¯t bother him.


    ¡°What is it you want from me?¡± Willhem asked. ¡°I presume you haven¡¯t come for no reason.¡±


    Annita¡¯s eyes glinted at this and her glare intensified further.


    ¡°That is the case,¡± Tyron admitted. ¡°Right now, I¡¯m gathering my horde for an all-out assault on the closest rift. The Slayers are going to support the push as well. We want to seize the rift and take control of it.¡±


    ¡°What does that have to do with me?¡± Willhem asked.


    ¡°Because I need your help implementing never-before-seen sigils into arrays that are designed to weaken the rift over time, draining away its power and destroying the magick coming through.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not even possible,¡± Master Halfshard burst out.


    ¡°It is, if the Old Gods haven¡¯t lied to me,¡± Tyron told her, shifting his gaze. ¡°They revealed certain things to me which, if true, might hold the key to saving this world from corruption.¡±


    Master Willhem had fallen into a contemplative silence, but Annita was more than willing to argue in his place.


    ¡°If such sigils existed, why have they never been found until now? We¡¯ve been trying to close the rifts for thousands of years!¡±


    ¡°Have we?¡± Tyron countered. ¡°I don¡¯t see any evidence of that. The rifts expand, year on year. There are breaks, every dozen or so years. If that doesn¡¯t sound like a managed, staged increase in the levels of magick in the realm, then what is it?¡±


    ¡°Are you saying the Slayers and Arcanists have been conspiring to keep themselves in work?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m saying the Five Divines require enormous levels of magick for whatever reason, and they will do, and have done, absolutely everything they can to ensure the pipes keep getting wider.¡±


    Tyron matched his fellow apprentice''s glare. If she wanted a contest of fire, he had anger to burn until the realm was ashes and dust.


    ¡°These runes likely have been found before, probably many times, but then suppressed or destroyed. The Empire as a whole has never worked to close the rifts, or even manage them properly. Are you really going to suggest they couldn¡¯t prevent breaks by stationing gold ranked Slayers around rifts? It¡¯s not just about control, they want the rifts to widen.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a pointless conversation anyway,¡± Halfshard half conceded. ¡°If these runes exist, you want to drag Master Willhem out there, put him in danger? Why can¡¯t he work from here?¡±


    ¡°Because he¡¯s not an Arcanist anymore,¡± Tyron stated bluntly. ¡°His new undead Class is related to enchanting, it¡¯s true, but he can¡¯t properly level it without fighting. I¡¯ve been as gentle as I can with Master Willhem, out of respect for the great man that he was and is, but I can¡¯t use kid gloves any longer.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re going to fucking command him?¡± she challenged.


    ¡°If I must,¡± Tyron replied firmly, eyes boring into hers. ¡°For the sake of my vengeance, and to save the entire realm, I can do no less.¡±


    ¡°Vengeance comes first, does it?¡±


    ¡°Always.¡±


    The two matched glares until Master Willhem spoke up again.


    ¡°I really wish you two would shut up,¡± he groaned. Drifting over the floor, he moved to the side of the room and collected the bone staff that Tyron had prepared for him, a masterwork that Willhem had enchanted himself. ¡°Being undead isn¡¯t all bad,¡± he said to Annita as he drifted about, collecting various items from around the workshop, such as his pliance. ¡°My back doesn¡¯t hurt so much anymore, and my fingers used to ache something fierce when it was cold. Also, I can still work, which, aside from the two of you, is the only thing I ever really cared about.¡±


    Annita looked down at the table, but not so quickly that Tyron didn¡¯t see the welling of tears in her eyes.


    ¡°And you,¡± Willhem continued, speaking to the Necromancer this time, ¡°turned me into a slave, brought me back from the dead without my permission. That is not something I can just forgive.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Tyron apologised, genuinely sorry for the pain he had caused his old Master.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t sorry you brought me back, though, are you,¡± Willhem stated.


    ¡°No,¡± Tyron admitted. ¡°No I¡¯m not. I can only promise that I will end your unlife, or remove any control I have over you, the moment the work is done.¡±


    ¡°It will have to do,¡± Willhem grumbled, finally grasping a satchel of tools and drifting toward the door.


    ¡°Thank you, Master Willhem.¡±


    After the demi-lich had gone, Tyron and Annita Halfshard remained in the workshop, the latter still simmering with anger toward the former.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever forgive you for what you¡¯ve done to him,¡± she said flatly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll live with that,¡± Tyron replied. ¡°You can hate me as much as you want. Just don¡¯t get in my way.¡±


    Leaving the workshop behind, he headed outside and checked in with the various wights around the city. Most of the skeletons had been gathered outside of the city already, armed, armoured and ready to fight. Walking back to the temple, he dropped in to find his apprentices were also ready to go, their travelling supplies packed and stowed. There was a great deal of excitement from the three, each keen to head out and test their latest minions in the field.


    With all of their undead gathered outside of the city, the Necromancers joined their minions and began the trek out over the wasteland together. It would take time for them to reach the Slayer camp on foot, but they could only move so fast.


    ¡°Why are zombies so slow?¡± Briss demanded of Georg. ¡°They have muscle tissue, they should be able to move faster than a skeleton.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been over this,¡± he said, rolling his eyes. ¡°Muscle tissue weighs a hell of a lot more than bones do. They¡¯re heavier. It takes them less magick to move around, because they can power themselves somewhat, but they have more meat to move.¡±


    ¡°Can you make them move faster?¡± she pressed him. ¡°Some spell or ability that gives them a boost?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I can, but that would mean I¡¯m spending magick that I need for fighting. Why don¡¯t you get your skeletons to give my zombies a push if you¡¯re in such a hurry?¡±


    ¡°Can you two stop bickering?¡± Richard asked. ¡°I think Master Tyron is thinking.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not bothering me,¡± the Necromancer said. ¡°I was checking in with my minions closer to the rift.¡±


    He shook his head, as if to rattle loose the sights he¡¯d seen, then turned his gaze to the undead of his students. Much like himself at that point, they didn¡¯t have that many servants. Georg had the most, thanks to the lower maintenance requirements of zombies. There were several trade-offs he made for that benefit.


    ¡°None of you zombies are contagious, are they, Georg?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No, I passed over that option,¡± the former farmhand replied. ¡°There are other ways to make zombies a viable minion, I believe.¡±


    ¡°I look forward to seeing what you come up with.¡± Tyron turned to look at the skeletons of Briss and Richard.


    ¡°You¡¯ve done good work,¡± he complimented them. ¡°You¡¯ll lose a lot of these minions, but they¡¯re sure to net you some levels first. You can be proud.¡±


    Working with his guidance, they¡¯d been able to learn his techniques and had implemented them as best they could, to varying success. It was interesting to see the differences between them. Briss was significantly better at weaving than Richard was, but he was a better ritualist and spellcaster, which showed in the quality of his artificial minds.


    The three students, however, couldn¡¯t help but compare their own undead hordes with their teacher¡¯s. Rank after rank of smooth-walking skeletons, skeletal mages, archers, revenants, wights and demi-liches marched beside them, a literal army, which would only grow once they caught up with the army already out in the field.


    The four continued to talk amongst each other as they made their way out to the Slayer camp, debating Necromancy and their likely paths forward.