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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 it likely 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 I made 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.

The letter opener came out again, and I pricked the middle finger of my right hand as a final "fuck you" and pressed it with unnecessary pressure on the scroll until the blood leaked through the parchment.

It didn't make a difference how much blood was offered to the spell, but I figured since the Gilamorst Necromancy Guild was not above breaking the backs of its more talented members to gain a profit, they wouldn't mind the extra contribution to their stupid scroll.

Nebold must be beyond desperate to give the royal family some kind of measurable result to be reaching out to me for an audience.

We hadn't clashed since my entrance ceremony to the guild five years ago.

And I may have raised the entire mausoleum beneath the guild hall to prove a woman could be a skilled necromancer, after he made a back-handed comment about hoping the guild could help me achieve my dreams to be a passable necromancer.

The thoughtless statement completely invalidated the rigorous practical and written examinations I passed to even set foot through the doors, much less several more rounds of interviews and presentations to validate my skills.

The spell activated, a pale green fire sprung from the rune circle and quickly spread across the parchment, twisting and changing form to that of a small, shadowy bird hovering in front of my face and leaving a small pile of ash behind.

It hovered for a moment before turning to sail straight through the wall, as if responding to a call.

I leaned back in the simple wooden chair until the front two feet lifted off the floor, holding one elbow in the palm of the other hand as I watched the small wound on my fingertip stitch itself back together and absorb ruby-red droplets back beneath my skin.

"Let's dance, Guildmaster."

For it being the first days of the Chilled season, the nights were hardly cool enough to warrant a coat.

Nonetheless, I donned a light one to avoid the strange side glances as I made my way down the cobbled roads to the Gilamorst Cemetery.

Tucked under my arm was a vibrant bouquet of wiranblood flowers, completing the look of a mourner going to visit a loved one’s burial site.

I was going to visit someone, just not in the traditional sense.

Trisne’s unmarked grave was one of the furthest back from the main gate, like someone had tried to tuck her away out of sight.

The Pid mausoleum was prominently placed in the front of the burial grounds for everyone to admire its intricate architecture, like every other noble family.

Not many families, the rich included, could afford the amount of gold-cast decorations and stained-glass windows as that obnoxious creation.

It sickened me to think of all the things those people wasted drummons on.

It sickened me even more when I learned Jinon didn’t even have Trisne listed on the plaque mounted to the front of the mausoleum, or any indication of her ever existing as part of the family.

Her plot remained untouched from my last visit.

From how far back it was hidden in the burial grounds, that was not much of a surprise.

The haronhock and weeping jurlans had taken over the entire area with their thorny vines, spreading unchecked to creep over nearby gravestones long left untended.

Truly, it was a beautiful display of nature overtaking this little corner of a grim piece of land.

“Hello again, Lady Trisne.” I bowed at the foot of her plot. “I hope you are amenable to helping me with terrorizing some entitled old men. What do you say?”

A light breeze teased the overgrown bushes, making it seem like they shuddered with excitement. I took that as a yes.

“Excellent.”

Gently, I laid the wiranblood flowers at my feet.

Against the dark soil they looked like their namesake, as if Wira herself had cut her wrist over this poor girl’s grave.

It was a moonless night—no sight of the double Wiran moons ideal for necromancy—so I had to bring along some tools of my trade to help with my ceremony.

From my satchel I pulled a silver chalice, haronhock oil, dew collected over a moon phase, a simple dagger in a hardened leather sheath, and a red woven throw to lay everything out on.

Because of my… condition, the temperature of the ground as I knelt was almost negligible.

Most temperatures, hot or cold, were difficult to feel.

I sat back on my ankles and reached for the chalice and haronhock oil to begin the ritual.

With my teeth I pulled the glove of my right hand off to drip oil along the inside walls of the heavy cup and spread it with my fingers.

The analgesic properties set my fingertips tingling.

“Dark Goddess Wira,” my voice was heavy and low in the night.

“I beseech you, please grant me your blessing.” I set the chalice down at the foot of Trisne’s grave and lifted the dagger.

The drag of its blade against the sheath as it was pulled out was the only sound that dared be heard.

Everything else had fallen silent, like the goddess was walking among the tombstones.

“Let me borrow your strength and temper it with your immeasurable wisdom. Let me borrow the body this soul once belonged to, and I will lend you my soul in return.”

The wicked-sharp blade barely touched my skin to split it open.

Dark red blood dribbled slowly down my wrist to land in the anointed chalice.

Every drop that touched the oiled metal sizzled as if feeding a fire, magic sparking in bursts of indigo and burgundy as the spell was fed.

Runes of the Old Language lit along the outside of the chalice and cast a silvery glow across the dark soil and dead grass.

I flexed my hand a few times to keep the sluggish blood pumping enough to give the spell its fill.

It didn’t take long, the spark fizzled out to signal it had received enough.

I didn’t bother with compressing the cut, it would stop bleeding on its own soon, and brought over the dew in its thin bottle.

“Quench your thirst, Lady of the Dead. I welcome you to the mortal world.”

At the first touch of dew dripping into the chalice, a blast of air blew my hair back and threatened to topple me straight onto my ass.

An unhinged grin pulled my lips back as wild magic poured through my veins, sending my blood to boiling and lighting me up from the inside.

It was exhilarating, like riding a kisteral without a bridle or jumping from the tallest tower in Respar.

It was partly terrifying and partly freeing, a feeling that would never get old no matter how many times I invoked Wira’s help.