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I couldn’t hold back the waves of laughter that exploded from my chest. It was almost enough to bend me in half from how ridiculous Nebold sounded. By the time I recovered and wiped the tears to clear my eyes, he was hovering over his desk with his palms firmly planted on its polished black surface. Nebold looked an inch away from murder.

“Sorry, sorry,” I fanned myself, trying to compose myself. “The fact you think you are mymasteris the best joke I’ve heard from you yet! Tell me, in what way does aguildmasterelevate themselves to that kind of status? Because the last time I checked, my profession has nothing to do with my personal life. And what proof do you have that I was ignoring your missives? Did you think maybe I was, oh I don’t know,working? A message a day for two moon phases is a bit much, don’t you think? That's fourteen pieces of paper, wasted! Think of all the diary entries you could have used that paper for! I'm sure you'd need them to feed the ever-hungry appetite of your ego.”

“You come when you are summoned, no matter the assignment you are on.” It was impressive how many shades of burgundy Nebold’s face had managed to turn in the short time of our conversation. If I didn’t hate every fiber of his measlyexistence, I’d be concerned about his health. “You are a member of the Necromancy Guild, and as such are duty-bound to obey me–”

“I’m going to stop you there, Nebold.”

He sputtered at the lack of formality, using his given name.

“Ichoseto join this guild because I happen to do most of my business in this city, and was under the assumption I would get some mutual benefits from bringing my tithes in exchange for referrals. If we are being blunt with each other, I am more likely to get jobs by not mentioning any association with your twisted little union over here. So spare me the ‘bow down and obey’ shit you press on all your little followers and leave me be, or I will take my tithe elsewhere.”

The study felt like it had become a vacuum with how the air stilled at my open threat. Even the sawing breaths from Nebold’s lips cut short. Maybe he thought he was being wily, building his magic in silence for some kind of nasty spell, but he grossly underestimated how underwhelming his talent was.

For men like him, strength only came in the form of blind loyalty from the weak-minded.

“Keep your curse to yourself, Nebold. It will not end well for you to cast it my way.” I reached for the knob of the right door and yanked it open effortlessly. One of his lackeys stumbled in as if he was eavesdropping. “And stay out of my way in the future, if you don’t want to see just how well-studied I am.”

My foot barely touched the hallway floor when a strong grip caught my wrist. A snarl, wholly inhuman even to my ears, ripped from my mouth as I twisted it around in an effort of self-defense. “Don’t touch me again, if you want to keep that hand.”

There was a commotion in the study—mostly Nebold barking orders to his followers to make sure I didn’t leave—that I left behind as I sprinted down the hall. Other guild members loitered in the grand hall, exclaiming as they were pushed asideby the growing crowd trying to catch me. My hand just barely rested on the main entrance door when I was yanked back again.

This time, I whirled around and snatched the man’s arm at the wrist. “I told you not to touch me.”

Chapter Four

Irin

Today, a staff of the Clifftombs was found among the Julran refugees who gave an interesting insight to the royal

family. Of King Vin and Queen Mila Hilj, there were two children, Maura and Morrette. For royals with more than one

child, a choice is given as to who will succeed the previous ruler. Maura assumed the role of successor as future

queen and Morrette took the role of Princept, a gender-neutral position dedicated to leading the Julran military and

training in the art of war.

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

The royal carriage rolled to a stop in front of the only guild hall I could safely say I'd never visited, even when touring the city with my father in my youth. The sheer oppressive force of the monolithic Gilamorst Necromancy Guild seemed to push away anyone walking along the bustling street running in front of it, the normal passersby giving the dark stone steps a wide berth without even sparing them a glance. Avoiding anything associated with death was an instinctive choice, apparently.

Staring up at the pointed spires topping the hall, the heavy steps of my personal guard passed by to stop at the carriage door. Beolf, brows drawn low in a disapproving scowl, made sure I could see the full effect with his helmet held under the opposite elbow. The livid pink scar over his left temple looked even deeper as the skin pulled around it. "Are you sure you don't want me to come in with you?"

I scoffed and brushed his concern away as I exited the cabin, Behar jumping after me with his tongue lolling out happily. He didn’t care that we were going to a literal house of death. He was just happy to be outside the palace walls. The scruffy black rinhound wove through the street traffic with no hesitation and took the guild’s staircase two at a time. He stopped halfway up before turning to sit on the step, large ears perked up and head tilted to the side as if asking, ‘what are you waiting for?’

"I can hold my own, Beolf. If I were you, I'd be more worried about the possible reduction of your wages to make up for the horrendous cost of submitting a request to the necromancers."

"Greedy bunch, the lot of them," Beolf harrumphed. "Necromancy is unnatural. I'm just waiting for the day these practitioners get stricken down by an angry god." He kept running his hand along his jaw where a beard used to be, clearly uncomfortable without it. His last assignment in Highlan Pid’s house required him to be clean shaven, so he was not as noticeable as my personal guard. “Speaking of, that is theworstversion of Wira I have ever laid eyes on. Did the sculptor even know who he was making?”

Every guild in Gilamorst had a statue of their patron Old God—Joles for the pyromancers, Hira the hydromancers, her twin sister Wira for the necromancers, Ber at the terramancers’, Zintar at the aeromancers’, and Colleter for the healers’ guild. Most of them were larger than life, replicas of the statues at the Eternal Pantheon in the City of Scholars. They usually carried their weapon of choice or a tome representing their wisdom, as for Colleter. Wira was the only one who carried both sword and tome, as the Goddess of the Night and Keeper of the Dead.

This depiction of a goddess who was usually portrayed as a fierce warrior was… sadly lacking. Instead of the armor Wira was believed to don, this version chiseled in a light grey stone wore a diaphanous dress with neither a tome nor sword in hand. Her hands were folded demurely in front of her waist, and a look that could only be described as doting was carved into her face. If not for the only accurate piece, the delicate tiara mounted with a red stone to represent a Wiran ruby, there would be nothing about this statue that represented Wira at all. Even her hair was loose and cascading down instead of tied in a long braid as it normally was.

I wasn’t a stout devotee of the Old Gods, beyond respecting their authority over magic beyond my comprehension, but this statue of the goddess made me balk at the femininity of it all. The way she looked down at the guild’s visitors with that peaceful, loving expression made my skin crawl.

“It’s definitely an… interesting take,” I hedged. “Maybe the artist was trying to make her look more approachable.”

Beolf snorted. “I guess. Still looks unnatural seeing her look so… nice.”