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T he stone stairs spiraled into darkness. Each step felt worn beneath my boots, centuries of use smoothing the rough edges until they gleamed like polished glass. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick as spilled ink, broken only by the cold blue light of ritual markings. The necromancer walked ahead of us, silver Silfein tattoos catching what little light there was.

Aryn moved silently beside him, my half brother's silver hair gleaming faintly. Their shoulders nearly touched as they descended, a closeness that spoke of growing familiarity. The sight made something in my chest tighten. Aryn had always held himself apart, fiercely guarding his privacy and personal space. Even among family, he maintained careful distance. Yet here in the darkness, he seemed to gravitate toward Daraith with an ease that made me wonder what had changed between them.

My boots scraped against stone as we descended deeper. The sound echoed back wrong, distorted by the curve of the walls and whatever magic lingered here. Beside me, Elindir's breathing grew measured, controlled. He was forcing himself to stay calm. I wanted to reach for him, to offer some anchor against the oppressive weight of this place, but touch felt forbidden here. The dead had their own rules.

The temperature dropped with each turn of the spiral, until our breath clouded in front of us. Not a natural cold, but the deep chill that came with death magic. My skin prickled with it, an instinctive rejection of what we were about to do. The copper taste of old blood filled my mouth, though I knew it was just memory. My own death sleep had left marks that resonated with this place.

We reached the bottom, where the passage opened into the true undercroft. Centuries ago, this had been a temple to Náthella, goddess of unsanctified dead. Now it served a darker purpose. The circular chamber stretched away into darkness, its ceiling lost in shadow. At its center stood the ritual table where I had died for Elindir. My fingers found the spot beneath my ribs where Daraith had carved out his price, the phantom pain as sharp as memory.

The messenger's body lay there, already stripped and prepared. His skin had the waxy pallor of recent death, but the wounds that killed him were clean now. Someone had arranged his hands at his sides, closed his eyes. Just as they had done for me, those small attempts at dignity felt obscene in this place. My jaw clenched as I forced myself to look at the table, to master the instinct to flee from this place that had claimed part of my soul.

"We eased his passing," Daraith said, his voice barely above a whisper. The sound carried, bouncing off the curved walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. "He was given cloudwine before the end. His spirit lingers willingly to speak with us."

Aryn moved to stand beside him, their shadows merging in the ritual light. His usual silence held, but his ice-blue eyes fixed on the corpse with cold understanding as he reached for one of the silver needles. His hand brushed Daraith's arm as he passed it to him, the gesture casual but lingering.

I caught the way Daraith's expression softened when Aryn's fingers brushed his, a glimpse of warmth in this cold place that made me look away, suddenly feeling like an intruder. Whatever understanding had grown between them felt private, precious in its rarity. Aryn had spent years building walls between himself and others, accepting touch from almost no one. To see him willingly bridge that gap now stirred both hope and protective concern in my chest.

Elindir moved closer to the table, his face set in hard lines. The sight of the dead messenger seemed to pull him back to darker memories, and I saw how his hands clenched at his sides.

The necromancer began laying out his tools while Aryn assisted. They moved in practiced synchronization, as if they had done this dance countless times before. Silver needles caught what little light was available. A bowl of water so dark it looked like liquid shadow. Bones, carefully arranged in patterns.

Each item increased the wrongness in the air until breathing felt like swallowing ice.

"You've both experienced death," Daraith said, not looking up from his preparations. "You know the risks of calling someone back across that threshold. Even briefly."

The memory of my death sleep made me shiver. My throat tightened. "Do what must be done."

Daraith nodded once, then began the ritual. He selected the longest of the silver needles and, with a surgeon's precision, inserted it at the base of the messenger's skull. The temperature dropped instantly. Frost crackled across the stone floor as he placed six more needles in specific points along the body's meridians.

My fingers brushed the hilt of my sword, seeking reassurance in its solid weight. An empty gesture. Steel meant nothing against what stirred in this place. Beside me, Elindir stood perfectly still, but I felt the tension radiating from him. He had been fully dead when Daraith carved out a piece of my living essence to bring him back. This was different. A violation rather than a restoration.

The necromancer worked in absolute silence, but the air itself seemed to vibrate with tension. The silver needles began to turn, rotating slowly in place without being touched. Black fluid seeped from the punctures. Not blood, but something older, something that existed between life and death. The shadows above us thickened, becoming almost solid, drawn to the working. The air grew heavy with the smell of old graves.

Then the messenger's chest rose suddenly with a sharp, indrawn gasp. His eyes opened, revealing only blackness where whites should be. A soft sigh followed as the spirit settled into its vessel.

"He is between worlds now," Daraith said, his voice tight with concentration. "Ask your questions, but be respectful. The dead offer their knowledge freely, but their time here is brief."

I stepped closer to the table, conscious of the sacred nature of this moment. "How many fighting men has Michail brought to Homeshore?"

The messenger's lips parted, his voice distant yet clear. "Three... thousand. Steel and... crossbows. Siege engines." His body trembled slightly, not in pain, but as if the physical form struggled to contain the ephemeral spirit.

"What of their defenses?" I asked. "Where might they be vulnerable?"

The dead elf's head turned slightly toward me, but no answer came. I looked to Daraith.

"He doesn't know the answer," Daraith said, adjusting one of the needles with careful fingers. "The spirit can only share knowledge it possessed in life. Choose another question before the connection weakens."

"Their leader. The one in the mask." I leaned closer, keeping my voice gentle despite my urgency. "What does Michail want? Why has he invaded now?"

"I heard him speak of..." The messenger's voice faltered, searching for memories. A single drop of black fluid traced a path from the corner of his mouth. "Eradication. Purification. Perfection." The messenger's body shivered. Black fluid began to leak from his eyes, nose, ears as the connection to the spirit world weakened.

"Something's changing," Aryn said, breaking his silence. He moved toward Daraith as the necromancer's expression grew strained. The shadows above us began to shift and flow, responding to some unseen disturbance.

"Daraith?" The concern in my brother's voice was evident.

"The spell..." Daraith's voice was strained, his face pale with exertion. "It's reaching its limit. I can't sustain it much longer." His words faltered as blood began trickling from his nose.

The messenger's body arched, his jaw opening wider as if trying to say more. The last words that emerged were barely audible, carried on a breath that seemed to come from the deepest reaches of the otherworld: "He wears a mask... to hide what he's becoming."

Then he was still. The unnatural darkness receded from his eyes, and his features relaxed into death's final peace. The shadows above diminished, and the oppressive cold began to lift.

"He's gone," Daraith said quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion. "The connection is broken." He sagged against the stone table. "Rest now, honored spirit."

Aryn moved to steady him, one hand coming to rest on the necromancer's shoulder.

I stepped back from the messenger's now still form. The body looked smaller somehow, more fragile in death's final embrace. Whatever spark of consciousness we had briefly called back had returned to wherever souls went when they truly passed.

Elindir stepped back from the table, his face tight with frustration. "That's all we get? Cryptic nonsense?"

"The dead rarely give straight answers," Daraith said, wiping blood from his nose with a shaking hand. "They see things differently. What seems clear to them comes to us in fragments and riddles."

I started to thank Daraith, but Aryn cut me off. "He needs rest." My brother's voice was quiet but carried an edge of steel as he steadied the necromancer. "No more workings. Not today. Not tomorrow." He did not add, 'or I will gut you myself,' but the message was clear in the way his hand lingered on Daraith's shoulder.

"Have the body prepared for proper burial," I ordered as we turned to leave. "With full rites."

Daraith bowed his head. "As you command, my king."

We left Daraith and Aryn in the undercroft to handle the ritual cleanup. The climb back to the surface felt longer than our descent, each step carrying us further from that realm of shadow and whispered secrets. Neither Elindir nor I spoke until we reached the top of the stairs.

The winter sunlight streaming through the fortress windows was too bright after the darkness below. My eyes watered as they adjusted, but I welcomed the momentary discomfort. It felt cleansing after what we had witnessed. I flexed my hands at my sides, trying to work away the lingering chill that had seeped into my bones. My fingers found the scar beneath my ribs without conscious thought, tracing the spot where Daraith had carved out his price months ago.

"You feel it too," Elindir said quietly, watching my hand. Not a question.

I nodded, letting my hand fall away from the old wound. "It never quite leaves you. Death magic."

Elindir's face was still unnaturally pale, shadows lingering beneath his eyes that hadn't been there before the ritual. He ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of discomfort. "Is that what it was like? When you..." He trailed off, unable to finish.

"No," I said softly. "My death sleep was quiet. Peaceful, even. This was something else entirely." I didn't add that watching the messenger's body convulse on that stone table had stirred memories I'd rather forget, brought back the copper taste of my own blood in my mouth. Some burdens weren't meant to be shared, not even with him.

Elindir moved to the nearest window, pressing his palms against the cold stone of the sill. He closed his eyes briefly, seeming to ground himself in the solid reality of the fortress around us. When he opened them again, I could see him pulling his tactical mind forward, burying whatever emotions the ritual had stirred.

Somewhere outside, I could hear the clash of steel on steel as the training yard came back to life. The normal sounds of a fortress at war felt like an anchor, pulling us back to the world of the living. I drew a deep breath, tasting the sweet winter air instead of the musty smell of the undercroft.

"Three thousand men," he said quietly, his voice carefully controlled. "And that's just the first wave. More will come. He also brought siege engines. He means to stay."

"His intentions trouble me more than his numbers," I said.

Elindir frowned. "The Michail I knew never showed interest in any gods or beliefs. He cared only for power."

"You think he's using your people's faith as a shield?"

"A shield and sword," Elindir muttered, pacing in front of me.

"We need more information." I pushed away from the wall. "I will call the war council. We need to know exactly what we face before we commit our forces."

Elindir's pacing stopped abruptly. "While we sit in council, he fortifies his position. Every day we wait gives him time to spread whatever lies he wishes."

"And charging in blind gives him exactly what he wants. A quick victory over an unprepared enemy." I kept my voice level, though his frustration was understandable. "We need to understand what's happening in Homeshore."

"You don't know him like I do, Ruith. He murdered our father. Andrej. Everyone who stood in his way. Then he had me collared and sold. Michail is a snake. He will not stop until he gets what he wants, and he will pursue that at any price."

"What do you want me to do?" I pushed off the wall with a hip. "Vinolia's army is still camped at Valdrenn, and that's to say nothing of my father's forces. Holding Vinolia off here decimated our forces. We are still trying to rebuild. We don't have the resources to fight a two front war. Not until Khulan returns with his Yeutlanders. Not until we grow our forces."

"The Redrock clan hasn't declared for either side," Elindir said, his tactical mind finally engaging with the larger problem. "And Turtlefall might be persuaded after Michail's forces invaded their lands."

"If there's anything left of Turtlefall to persuade." I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated by the weight of what we faced.

"How solid are the other clans supporting Taratheil?" he asked. "Do you think we could sway some of them?"

"I don't know." I sighed and shook my head. This was not at all what I had envisioned when I decided to become king. "We have too little information, and our spy network is not large enough to have that kind of detailed information."

Elindir was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. When he turned back to me, his expression had changed.

"Aryn," he said simply. "This is his domain. He knows things, has ways of gathering information that we don't."

I nodded slowly. "My brother has always moved in shadows. Even before he joined our cause."

"He’ll want to stay with Daraith as he rests after today's ritual," Elindir said, "but at tomorrow's council, we should ask him to deploy his resources. If anyone can get more information, it's Aryn."

We fell silent, each lost in our own thoughts. Outside, the training yard grew quiet as soldiers sought warmth and rest. Night was falling, the last light fading from the clouds. The snow continued to fall beyond the window, transforming our fortress into something out of legend.

I reached a decision. "We'll speak with him first thing tomorrow. Before the council."

Elindir's hand found mine in the darkness. We stood at the window together until the torches were lit in the yard below, thinking of the war to come.