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Ironically, with most of their husbands dead and the pitiful penance paid out under the stingy rule of the late King Henton, women were driven to hone their own magical talents in what became the very lucrative market of spellcasting, again left with a void due to most practitioners being called to the front linesin every war. Respar was but an infant as far as countries were concerned—it had formed just over a hundred years ago from the debris of Golath and Julra tearing themselves apart in the Frigid War—but it made up for its infancy with a fair share of resilience inherited from the Julran refugees who fled south from the war. While some Julrans chose to stay in the City of Scholars, most journeyed further south and joined the hunter-gatherer tribes they found to create the city of Gilamorst. The tribesmen were eager to learn of magic practices and social structure the Julrans brought with them, and together created the blended country of Respar that spanned the southern third of Erewen's diamond-shaped land.

An unfortunate carryover of the more archaic tribal mindset had been the unfounded belief that women were seen as less than their male counterparts. Regardless of the amount of wars that dwindled their population, Resparian men held firm to their values that women could not be reliable spellcasters, effectively shunning them from a majority of professions managed by guilds dedicated to the six major branches of magic. The ruling Gailish family did little to correct the outdated viewpoint, surely realizing it helped keep their patriarchal rule if half the society was repressed by the other. King Henton and his father, King Olsten, had been the worst perpetrators. They actively passed laws to suppress female spellcasters and discouraged guilds from allowing them to join, under the guise of concern for their mental wellbeing under the strain of manipulating wild magic.

The fact the Gilamorst Necromancy Guild relied on my particular skillset was a constant thorn in their feet. I was the most reliable necromancer known in Respar for being able to communicate clearly with the dead. Therefore, I made it a point to dig in just that extra bit by paying my tithe in person whenever I was in the city. Of course, there was an option to request a carrier from the guild to meet me and pass the moneyalong—a service I’d only used a handful of times in my five years of membership—but it was immensely satisfying to watch the treasurer squirm when I met in person to turn in the rather exorbitant amount I owed them. Unless I knew I would be gone for months at a time, I would make the guild wait until I was damn good and ready to pay. Otherwise, the guildmaster had every right to put a bounty on my head to collect their money elsewhere, something I'm sure the old guildmaster Nebold was foaming at the mouth to be able to enact at my first wrong step.

The building was everything one would imagine when thinking of a guild for necromancers. Soaring arches reached up to top the four-storied building constructed with dark stone, complete with flying buttresses connecting the lower roofing up to the top of the fourth floor and narrow dark stained-glass windows meant to block the curious eye from outside. Ominous ribbed pillars as wide around as the oldest trees in Ber's Forest lined the front of the hall, bracketing the archways, holding up the roof upon which stood grotesque sculptures of various night dwellers of the Old Religion. No one had seen those creatures in over one hundred years, simultaneously with the fall of the Julran empire and stout practitioners of the Old Gods, but they still lived on in cautionary tales to children warned to come home after dark.

Even the long stone staircase leading up to the massive dark wood door reinforced with iron filigree that doubled to keep from being cut down screamed standoffish. It was ostentatious and over-bearing architecture at its finest. Definitely the opposite of subtle. Like, how many phallic spires did one guildhall need? The place could be repurposed as a fortress.

And the most offensive piece of this guild? A horribly inaccurate and effeminate statue of Wira placed squarely at the base of the guild’s staircase for all to see. Honestly, I would be doing the goddess a favor by taking a war hammer to it.How it was possible to take the only warrior goddess and turn her into this benevolent, peaceful-looking entity with billowing skirts and folded hands baffled my mind. I hoped the artist got whatever was coming to him, portraying the Goddess of Death and Darkness like this.

I took a wide berth around the statue just in case the goddess herself finally decided to deal with it.

The scuff of my boots against the stone broke the choking silence that loomed around the guild. Even on a main thoroughfare in the bustling city, casual traffic avoided walking in front of the guild as if it was cursed. Just another obvious perception of society and their natural aversion regarding necromancers. Or maybe it was the hideous statue of Wira. We were not exactly the most popular or even well-received magic practitioners. Guild halls for the other practices—broadly split into light, dark, then by elements such as fire, earth, water, and air based on their patron gods—were bustling with life and almost always hosting client meetings from the public who visit to ask for aid. Really, it felt more like I was visiting a dead relative in the family crypt.

Two hooded figures stood on either side of the massive door as I finally crested the last step. I knew that they knew I was coming in with purpose, but neither moved from their spot nor even offered to open the door for me.

"Make way, boys. I'd hate for you to get hit with some basic courtesy." My snark could not be contained, nor could my stride be slowed by the likes of these snobs. I planted my right foot on the door as soon as I was close enough to reach, and that finally got a reaction from one of the silent guards.

"Get your foot off—"

His gruff command was cut off by the blast of wind propelled from the bottom of my boot, knocking them both straight onto their asses as the heavy door flew open to slam noisily againstthe wall. The clattering of stone hitting the floor echoed through the hall's cavernous entrance, announcing my presence.

"Just leave the door open, I won't be long," I threw over my shoulder and continued on my merry way down the long carpet runner leading to the branching hallways further inside the guild.

Along either side of the grand foyer, the walls were lined with larger-than-life paintings, full body portraits of every notable contributor to the study of necromancy. Most of them were larger than life in more ways than one. I was pretty sure Nebold the Great over there didn't stand much taller than the desk he was placed beside in the painting. Nor was he carrying the considerable… package bulging from the front of his ceremonial robes. The most entertaining, though, was the artist's portrayal of the first documented necromancer, Prince Morrette Hilj of the Royal Julran Family.The Father of Necromancy, according to the gold nameplate etched with the subject and artist's names.

“Prince?” I scoffed. “They still haven’t changed the nameplate, huh? No respect for Julran titles, these people.”

Their portrait stood in a place of honor, bracketed by everflame wall sconces on either side and set in a very lavish, very tasteless gilded gold frame. Like whoever had made that decorative decision wanted to draw attention to the guild's wealth and dominance. They might as well have just mounted an oversized dick on the wall beneath the portrait.

I stepped up to the painting and craned my head back far enough to take it all in. How the artist even knew what Morrette looked like was beyond me. Considering they lived over a hundred years ago and this guild had only been established in the last seventy-or-so years, the portrait was more of a generic representation of someone with Julran heritage. Blue-black hair, dark eyes, almost-translucent pale skin, and overall delicate features were common traits of ancestors to Julranrefugees still living in Respar. The Princept—not a prince, as I had repeatedly told Guildmaster Nebold—had a mysterious look in their eyes, like they were staring straight into the viewer's soul.

"Looking good, friend." I gave a mock salute to the esteemed ‘Father of Necromancy’ and with a chuckle to myself, turned to make my way through the main hall to meet the treasurer.

Other guild members wandered the main hall, but they all gave me a wide berth as I walked across to one of the four branching hallways. Gaunt, pale faces stared out from black hoods like they had been brought to life to wander the guild. I was the only one dressed in traveling clothes, a simple brown tunic tucked into black leather pants with my worn riding boots and a light cloak. I was also the only necromancer who actually traveled to meet clients. Everyone else expected clients to come to the guild to request services.

It was likely the reason I made triple their monthly earnings, until I was dragged back in to pay my tithes.

Tithes were classified as ten percent of the month's earnings. Mine counted in the thousands of drummons every single month, enough to put a hearty down payment on a reasonably sized family home or fund a stupid misogynistic guild so they could brag about their successes in a monthly report to the royal advisor. Nebold Briton, the current Gilamorst guildmaster going on fifty-odd years of leadership, had no qualms in voicing his displeasure at my membership in the guild. The only reason he couldn't vault my ass off the highest parapet of the hall was the bold fact I was the most reliable and successful necromancer, despite not following his archaic and backward ways of teaching the art, and I passed all his stupid tests when I approached the guild five years ago.

I was the embodiment of everything against his teachings, proving just how useless and silly his blabbering was. Hebelieved those who practiced magic associated with the dead should look the part, dressing in drab mourning colors and starving themselves nearly to death, so one foot was already set in the grave. And here I was, full of vitality and willful motivation, setting my own rates far more fair than those he established for the members and actually following through with my services. Honestly, someone needed to throwhimoff the throne of lies he'd built in the once-prestigious guild hall. It wasn't going to be me, so I didn't really bother with fighting him. As tumultuous as our personal relationship was, we had an understanding—Nebold left me alone, and I brought in my tithes as required.

Regardless, I tried my best to avoid running into the decrepit guildmaster when I could help it. Not that I wasn't good for a brawl, but I didn't want to draw any more attention to myself than I already sat under with his watchful eye. All it took was one fabricated report to the royal advisor overseeing the trade guilds, and I would be put under an investigation I couldn't afford.

Unfortunately, luck was not on my side today.

"Haron, are we in a rush today?" My hand was set on the cool iron knob of the guild treasurer's office, and I could hear him rustling papers at his desk just on the other side. Nebold's shuffling steps with slipper-clad feet, combined with the lightthudof his staff hitting the black marble floor, had my shoulders hitching up in irritation.

Slowly, with a fake smile I only saved for cretins like Nebold, I turned to the left where he was hobbling down the broad hallway. He wasn't alone, walking alongside a taller blonde man until they both stopped at my side. His guest was richly dressed, with a stiff blue tunic cut to flatter his broad chest and narrow waist over a pair ofwhitepants paired with shining black boots that reached his knees. A black overcoat clung tightly to his shoulders, the right breast adorned with medals denoting hisstatus as minor Resparian nobility. Thick looping chains draped from his neck, and even with his hands pulled behind his back I could imagine every finger adorned with rings. The man tilted his head slightly and his gaze skimmed down my stiff body.

Something about that look made my stomach churn. Or maybe it was the man in question. Not that I was unused to lecherous looks, especially in a country that treated women like commodities, but there was just something… off about him. Something that brushed along my skin like the slimy slither of a poisonous snake, making me stiffen in apprehension until the feeling passed. I couldn't even tell what kind of practitioner he was. Anyone who used magic had a faint, hazy aura that clung to them, and even the ones who didn't would have some tinge of it from exposure. Magic was hard to escape in Respar. But with this man, there was no trace of magic at all. It almost felt like hesuckedin whatever residual magic that would normally cling to a person.

His dull brown eyes finally managed to find their way back to my face, and a slow smile crept onto his full lips.

"Not at all, Guildmaster." I kept my tone cordial, despite keeping a crushing grip on the knob. "I know the treasurer's time is valuable, so I make my appointments short. And I see you're busy with your own meeting, so I'll just be on my—"

"Introduce me," the man demanded, turning to Nebold and completely ignoring the rest of my words. His voice was low, but not as deep as I'd imagined. And his tone brokered no argument.