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Chapter Six

Haron

For being a royal of the Hilj family, not much is known about the Princept Morrette. Beyond studying as a skilled

spellcaster and general of the army, the details of Morrette’s life remain unclear. Even the gender is unknown to us,

as the Julran society did not place emphasis on this aspect of their lives. Among the refugees living in the City of

Scholars, some do not identify as strictly male or female in regards to gender roles we, as scholars, are familiar with.

I am curious to learn more about their social structure in this regard.

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

I t was rare—exceedingly rare, unless they were looking for money—that the necromancer's guild sought me out.

Females in the profession of death were not looked upon fondly, typically seen as inferior to their male counterparts due to their gods-given task of bringing forth new life.

Some bullshit about "clashing energies and the feminine influence" that most necromancer guilds believe were logical reasons to block us from practicing.

And since I was an agent of chaos and thrived in anarchy, I thoroughly enjoyed snatching jobs out from under those crotchety old wretches' noses and undercutting their mandated rates.

The only reason they didn't kill me themselves was solely for my income value.

Given the trap I thwarted the last time I went to deliver my tithe, I was sure that wily old Nebold would abandon secrecy entirely and put a bounty on my head if he couldn't lure me back with a formal invitation.

I've had more than my fair share of experience with men like him.

Nebold couldn't stand the thought of someone of my skill not being under his control, doubly so as a woman.

And I knew he was doing some shady shit with the dead buried beneath the guild in its catacombs.

Every time I even came close to the guild hall, it burned my senses like curdled milk in my nose.

There was some rancid magic being practiced under his lackluster supervision.

Needless to say, the Gilamorst Necromancy Guild was hardly who I expected to leave a request to meet so soon after my last visit, in the form of a very heavily warded scroll Gaion had sitting on the bar for me.

One of the Highlan had a family member lost in Ber’s Forest a day’s ride from Gilamorst, and he had asked for my help in finding his body.

The Highlan, Fint Von Zalon had nearly lost his lunch at the sight of his ravaged nephew’s body.

It didn’t take a resurrection to tell he had been killed by a rinhound and left for the other forest scavengers.

Their family were members of the Gilamorst Terramancy Guild, so I was appointed to coordinate the body’s retrieval and burial services with Guildmaster Chaol Woren.

If Nebold ever found out I didn’t come to him for burial services, I’m certain steam would come out of his hairy ears.

Just the visual made a smile curl my lips, making Gaion’s brows rise in question as he poured me a tankard of ale.

I sat heavily in the chair across from him, dropping my heavy sack at my feet with a sigh.

The Hanging Cat was not technically open until lunchtime, so the tavern was empty of its usual bustling crowd and chaotic noise.

However, Gaion knew not to criticize my choice of a drink this early in the morning, bless him.

"Some little pipsqueak of a boy dropped this off just after high noon yesterday.

" Gaion nodded his head to the scroll. "Seems very urgent.

The boy was prepared to go hunt you down in the city until I finally convinced him you'd be back sometime today, and I'd get it to ya.

Could have used some more meat on his bones, that one.

He looked like a walking skeleton hisself. "

Besides the dark purple ribbon edged with black and sealed with the wax stamp of the guild—a large bird in flight holding a sprig of frilly haronhock in its beak—the sharp zip of magic was just as much of a tell the scroll came from some particularly powerful spellcasters.

The active magic made the tips of my fingers numb with its intensity as soon as it left Gaion's hand.

It was taking my measure to see if I was the intended recipient.

"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 loud thwack to accent my point. "And those sappy fantasies make 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 was loneliness 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 sizzling hiss of 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."