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The only equalizer in this world was death. And they would all learn that lesson if it was the last thing I did in this life.

The letters I stole from Jinon Pid’s study were not at all what I hoped to find. At the same time, I was likely one of the few people in this hellhole of a city who would give a shit about their contents. Just thinking about it made my hair thrash in the air from unbridled magic slipping through my grip. The walls creaked ominously in their attempt to contain the pressure growing inside the room from my brief lack of control, spiderweb cracks breaking and spreading across the plaster, and whispers of the dead grew louder in response to the bloodthirst. Wild magic gulped down my emotions like the sweetest goldtine—its hungry draw taking the edge off my more violent emotions and using them to turn more corporeal, becoming angry whips of darkness lashing out at the furniture and gouging the ceiling. Its greedy pull on my lifeforce was enough to drag me back from the brink of a full rampage, and I seized the distraction to steady myself.

Falling too far into madness wouldn’t do me or poor Trisne any favors.

There was incriminating evidence written in those letters. Blackmail against Highlan Pid regarding his only daughter. Letters that implied the writer knew Jinon, and his intent to marry Trisne off to the prince. The sender had obviously used a fake name, but their messages were plain enough, even without decoding. From what I gathered, Trisne had been assaulted at a social function she had organized just over a month ago. Several times. And whoever was involved thought to rub it in her father’s face in the form of blackmail and an arranged marriage. Just the thought of it had my blood flash to boiling all over again.

Pid did not fulfill the blackmail, it seemed, which ended in his only daughter’s death. A daughter I assumed he had wanted me to find.

The most recent letter from the despicable human-shaped garbage was dated ten days ago, when the rumors of her disappearance started to circulate in the lower streets of Gilamorst. That was shortly after Trisne’s documented disappearance from court gatherings she had agreed to attend. Pid’s antagonist threw all caution away with encoding it, leaving his message bare and plain for anyone to see.

My stomach churned at the implications. If he wasn’t hiding, the worst possible outcome had already come to pass.

Highlan Pid,

If you are not amicable to my offer of marriage, given Trisne’s unfortunate circumstances, I will be forced to take more drastic measures. Measures that ensure she will be unable to marry anyone else. Come find your crest in the graveyard, Highlan Pid.

F

I tossed the stack of threats violently on the small desk, sending the letters scattering in all directions and falling to the floor on either side. My right hand lifted to bite the thumbnail almost to a bloody nub, gears grinding in my mind in its attempt to pick apart the mystery. The author obviously knew Jinon Pid well. At least, well enough to know his daughter was on the cusp of marriageable age to prey upon. And the fact Pid kept these letters bundled inside a weakly warded drawer instead of burning them was evidence enough he failed to take their words seriously.

Jinon knew his daughter was dead. He either wanted to reveal her secrets or bury them deeper than her grave. And I intended to find out which was true.

Us necromancers had a less-than-savory reputation, but not for entirely unfounded reasons. No one thought having their loved one resurrected from the dead was particularly natural. Half the country of Respar was brainwashed to think the souls of the resurrected would haunt their families for the rest of their lives. The number of times someone had come to me in the dead of night, hidden by darkness to ask for my services, was so numerous I switched my working schedule to accommodate. It had nothing to do with ‘working better necromancy magic at night’ and everything to do with the unfounded fear of being seen employing a necromancer. Nonetheless, it was a necessary evil in some cases. Most of those cases involved unresolved mysteries linked to hidden wealth or illegitimate children, with the occasional suspected murder to break the monotony of family feuds. Typically, I avoided raising the dead without the explicit consent of the closest family member—maybe the one idea both myself and the guild agreed on—but this time I was immensely tempted to break my own policy in the name of vengeance.

Just like anything else the populace at large didn’t understand, there was a considerable amount of superstition behind this profession. And none of those misconceptions have been squashed by the royal family of Respar or the Gilamorst Necromancy Guild. It was almost as if theywantedthe worldto think finding the truth from the dead was forbidden. How convenient for them.

The most common practice to keep a body from being resurrected was ensuring it was burned to ash. What most did not realize was that human bones were highly tolerant of heat, so unless a family could afford a pyromancer to vaporize everything, reanimation of a skeleton was still possible. And as long as some part of the body was recoverable, it could call back the soul. People in the more rural areas of the country believed that planting haronhock and weeping jurlans, named for the country of necromancy’s origin, would protect the corpse from necromantic spells. While the lacy white petals of haronhock mixed with the vibrant blue teardrop blooms of weeping jurlans made for a beautiful gravesite, they were only as effective as the thorny brambles they created in keeping the dead in their grave.

I stood over one of those graves now. A nondescript, plain headstone with the Pid family crest etched roughly onto the back of it and nothing else. Bars of an iron cage encasing the grave was barely covered by the freshly-disturbed dark soil. None of the typical accoutrements, like coins or mourning cakes, were laid at the head of the deceased. Those were more old superstitious beliefs, meant to help the soul bargain for safe travels with the goddess Wira through the gates of Genma, the realm of the Old Gods. Old as those practices were, it was still common to leave some kind of offering at the grave regardless of beliefs.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say whoever made this grave was being intentionally disrespectful. Someone less knowledgeable would assume the condition of it was due to superstition or ignorance. To a trained necromancer, this was an obvious attempt of a person uneducated in the art at deterring necromantic spells. However, fresh graves have a particular… aura about them. The feel of disturbed magic of the earthmingled with the residual energy of a soul, leaving behind an earthy tinge to the air mixed with old blood and the indescribable flavor of death that coated my tongue with every breath. Hence the secondary function of such fragrant flowers, to try and mask that distinct scent from a necromancer. That smell of death was what drew me to the back of the old cemetery, past the neat rows of more recent burials and into the wilder part, where graves sat forgotten and overgrown with wild haronhock.

“What kind of secrets are you keeping?” I whispered to the chilled air, puffs of white breath drifting from the spaces between the deep blue scarf wrapped around the lower half of my face. “Or rather, who is trying to silence you?”

Low murmurs from the guards walking the perimeter of the Gilamorst Cemetery signaled my time to leave. Not that it was extremely challenging to squeeze through the iron fence surrounding the grounds, or blend with the shadows to creep my way around to the main road, but nevertheless I did not want to be rewarded for my efforts with a raised alarm from the dopey guards.

I reached out to pick a dainty haronhock bloom from the tangled bushes, its white petals seeming to glow in the dark. One of the thorns hiding in its bushes nicked me on my pointer finger knuckle, taking its payment in blood. I lifted my hand for inspection and watched the wound well up until the blackened-red blood flowed over, dripping back onto the grave of a woman whose life was cut too short.

“As a memento of my visit, Lady Trisne. Whoever put you here will pay with their life, I swear it.”

Chapter Three

Haron

Magic, it seems, is a zero-sum system. Nothing can come from nothing.

There is always a cost.

Spells cost power and materials, and neither of those are limitless.

Thus is the natural order of the world.

-"The Tragic History of Julra," by High Scholar Yuret Wend, Year 37 of Ber's First Reign

Nothing spoke of the disparaging difference between male and female necromancers more than the required monthly tithe demanded from either gender. Or, more notably, the lack of tithes entirely from men just because they were—and I quote from the Gilamorst Necromancy Guild handbook—"…more suited for the practice of necromancy, and therefore less of a liability to the guild in terms of support and resources requested.” Firstly, the entire notion of gender playing into magical proficiency was a grossly outdated ideology. If the guilds would pull their collective heads from their asses, they would realize the lack of women practitioners had less to do with innate talent, and more to do with the greater demand of women growing families in the wake of several devastating wars in the last century.

The War of the Wilds was hardly twenty years ago, and Respar still licked its wounds cut deep by the Hollows tribes of the north trying to reclaim their borders. And ten years before that was the self-inflicted war among Respar's own citizens, when a group of nobles tried to overthrow the ruling Gailish family. It took a lot to repopulate one whole country from the aftereffects of war. Respar only survived off the backs of women not being called to the front lines, and therefore available to rear the next generation. Julra, and what was formerly Golath, were not as fortunate with their female survivors.