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"Probably a new trainee," I mused. "The Gilamorst guild has a nasty ideology that they must maintain themselves as close to death as possible to cast the strongest necromancy."

"Is that true?"

We both looked down at my very fit, very voluptuous body—clad in a simple yet supple set of black leather riding pants and a plain sleeveless white tunic tucked into them, held up by a matching leather belt laden with my hip bags attached and a short sword in its sheath. The curves of my body were accentuated by muscles developed from regular, intensive use. Then, I looked up at Gaion with a raised brow. "Do I look like I starve myself within a breath of dying?"

A loud guffaw barked from Gaion's lips before twisting into a wry smile. "'Spose not. I've seen you eat a whole pig by yourself." He shook his head, as if remembering the night with disbelief, and went back to polishing the wooden bar with an old rag.

"I wouldn't mind another pig soon, old man," I replied, touching the scroll to my temple in a mock salute and leaving him to his busy work. "Otherwise, would you kindly send something up for lunch?"

"Sure, sure. Wouldn't want you to waste away."

"Thanks, pops. Feel free to send it with Jessella. I have a lot of appetites to quell today."

He huffed a sigh. "Jessella is out with another patron for the week, something about some family gathering and a noble trying to dodge arranged marriages. Sounds like one of those sappy fantasies she reads."

"Let her live her dream. Life is too damn short to be stuck miserable." I tapped the stair railing with an open palm, making a loudthwackto accent my point. "And those sappy fantasiesmake for some great inspiration in bed, so I don't wanna hear it from you!"

Gaion huffed another laugh and waved his meaty hand around with the polishing cloth. "Yeah, yeah, get off with ye. I got work to do before opening and don't have time to argue with your stubborn ass." With that, he threw the cloth over his shoulder and lumbered through the swinging wooden door behind the bar leading into the kitchen. A waft of hearty beef stew carried on the air wafted by the doors rocking back and forth on their hinges, the smell making my mouth water.

"Go get some raunchy books or get laid, Gaion!" I yelled teasingly toward the kitchen. Titters of laughter from the two cooks—Hitala and Durit—grew louder with whatever Gaion growled back at the ladies.

The scroll, momentarily forgotten in my other hand, pulsed an angry heat as if it were about to catch fire. Those crotchety old necromancers hated being pushed to the side. "Fine, fine," I grumbled at it. Taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor, I pulled the key for mine from my hip satchel as I stepped up to the second door from the staircase on the left.

The lock's machinations clattered and clunked inside the door, spelled against picking or other nefarious means of breaking in, and swung open on smooth hinges despite its worn appearance. Even with my steady residence the last four years—at least, in the time Gaion knew me as Haron Val Toric—there was not much in the room that would indicate I lived there. No personal touches, nothing left in the chest at the foot of a fluffy, feather-stuffed twin bed, and nothing beyond a couple sets of loose white shirts and practical leather pants. I never left my weapons or satchels, either out of habit or paranoia or some muddled combination of the two. When I first moved to the area five years ago, I was more of a wanderer camping between Gilamorst and the next northern town of Covenant Crossing. Maybe it wasloneliness or boredom that drew me into the city, but my passing business became so regular here Gaion had offered the room.

He may have been joking at the time; it was hard to tell with him. But I took him up on it regardless, and he hadn't been able to shake me since.

Moving more on rote memory, I unbuckled my belt and hung it on the corner of the bedpost, followed by the much larger leather-worked pack on my back to hang before rummaging around for my notebook and a charcoal pencil. The scroll continued to pulse its impatient heat as I sat at the small desk along the right wall by the matching light wood dresser.

"Let's see what made you stoop low enough to send someone after me," I muttered. "Are we demanding a payment of blood now?"

The red wax seal pulsed a bloody red, answering my question succinctly enough. Necromancers as a whole tended to demand their payments by more visceral means than gold and prayers. With the sharpened tip of the letter opener I kept in the desk drawer, I stabbed the meaty part of my palm and smeared a bloody streak across the magic seal to break it. The whole process was nothing more than routine. The injured hand barely even throbbed as I wrapped it with a spare handkerchief from my pocket.

A sizzlinghissof reactive magic soaked my offering into the wax and melted it away to puddle on either side of the scroll, repelled from it like rain dripping down oiled leather.

"Let's see what warranted a sealed scroll, I suppose."

Even speaking to no one but myself, alone in my bedroom with this fucking piece of paper, my enthusiasm left something to be desired. It was an active decision to not associate with the necromancer guild any more than I had to, and nothing killed my joy more than being dragged in, like I predicted this letter was about to do. My only comfort was the sheer discomfort itlikely took for a necromancer—most likely a pretentious man—had to swallow his pride and pen this scroll to me, one of the very rare successful women in the field. Dragging this out wasn't going to make the situation any better.

Grasped firmly between the point and thumb of both hands, I snapped the scroll open and braced myself for the secondary verification spell.

My eyes barely managed to close in time to avoid being blinded by the vicious red light that flashed from the parchment's surface. Searing heat moved from the top of my forehead all the way to my chin, as if a burning gaze was methodically passing over my face. If I had any kind of impersonation spell active, it would have lit my head on fire and killed me in the most brutal fashion. I saw it happen to a thief once. It was not a pleasant experience for either of us before I plucked the scroll from his loose grip to read for myself. In my defense, he shouldn’t have held me hostage while trying to impersonate me in the first place.

Rostered Member Haron Val Toric

You are hereby ordered to attend a summons request from the Royal Family of Respar, in the main guild hall located in the kingdom seat of Gilamorst. Failure to present yourself at this summons will result in the stripping of your guild membership and a bounty be placed on your head for punitive action.

Your presence is expected on the twenty-second day of the month of Berth at the fifth hour of the evening.

Signed,

High Necromancer Nebold Briton, Gilamorst Necromancy Guild

"Pretentious asshole, indeed," —was my initial response, noting today's date as the twenty-first day of Berth— "expecting me to drop everything and just come when called. I thought Imade myself clear the last time that I parted ways with that fucking cryptcrawler."

At the very bottom of the scroll, beneath the High Necromancer's flourished and elaborate script of a signature, was a simple circle made of small runes. For those educated in the Old Language, they could read the directions to prick a finger to place their blood print in the center to confirm receipt of the important message. It was not an uncommon tool used for confidential letters. And it didn't really matter which finger was used, as long as the blood belonged to the recipient. The spell would zip on back to the sender and notify them of receipt and how far away the recipient is, yet another unfortunate method the guild will use to track my location.

That wouldn't stop me from being cheeky, though.