The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the small clearing behind Azrath's home. The air was thick with the sweet scent of early spring, the faint hum of bees weaving between flowers that bloomed around the edge of the clearing. It was a perfect, lazy afternoon, a rare moment of stillness in the lives of the two young boys who had grown accustomed to the secrets and shadows of necromancy.

  Azrath, at just eight years old, sat cross-legged on the grass, surrounded by a circle of open, worn books. His sharp eyes skimmed over arcane symbols, the pages filled with detailed sketches of spells and rituals he’d memorized from the moment he could read. His brow furrowed as he absorbed the knowledge, and the spark of curiosity that had lit within him years ago only grew brighter with each passing day.

  Beside him, Potabeau—his ever-jovial companion—sat upside down, his legs stretched across a low tree branch, his head dangling so that his wild brown hair nearly brushed the ground. His hands were busy tossing a small rock into the air, catching it with no effort at all, and then tossing it again, like he was playing some nonsensical game that only he understood.

  "So, Az," Potabeau called out, breaking the silence, "how’s the big, mysterious magic going? Still figuring out how to bring the dead back to life?"

  Azrath paused for a moment, fingers tracing the edge of a particularly difficult page in the book. Mouth askew, but only slightly—he was too absorbed in his thoughts. “It’s... complicated,” he admitted. “There are limits. But the potential to push them—well, that’s where it gets interesting.”

  Potabeau rolled his eyes theatrically, pretending to be bored. “Limits. Always limits with you. You sound like my grandmother when she tells me not to throw frogs into the well. If you ask me, there’s no fun in ‘limits.’”

  Azrath looked up at his friend, a bemused expression on his face. "You don't understand, Potabeau. Necromancy isn't like any other kind of magic. It's... it’s more dangerous. The dead don’t belong here anymore. You can’t just play around with them."

  Potabeau chuckled, flipping off the tree branch and landing lightly on his feet. He dusted off his pants and approached Azrath, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the book. “So what you’re saying is…if you can bring back the dead, you’ll want to, right?”

  Azrath bit his lip, caught in the crossroads of his ambition and his caution. “Well, if I could, maybe I’d bring back...” He hesitated. There were so many possibilities. “Maybe I’d bring back someone important. Someone who could help me understand more about... the boundaries of life and death.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Right, right.” Potabeau gave a dramatic sigh. “I get it. You’d go all ‘super necromancer’ and *raise the world,* right?” His voice dropped into a deep, mock-heroic tone. “’Behold! I have conquered the very essence of mortality! I am Azrath, master of life, death, and everything in between!’”

  Azrath shot Potabeau a sidelong glance, his lips curling into a grin. “Exactly like that.”

  Potabeau snorted with laughter, slapping his knee. “And what would you do with all that power, Azrath? Once you’ve mastered all the death and magic, what comes next? What’s your legacy?”

  Azrath’s brow furrowed, the lightheartedness fading as the thought took root. “What do you mean, legacy?”

  Potabeau flopped down beside him in the grass, propping himself up on his elbows. “I mean, after you raise the dead, what happens next? Do you get bored? Start a necromantic school? Conquer the world? Open a bakery that only sells skeleton-themed pastries?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Azrath stared at the sky, his mind spinning with possibilities. “I don’t know. I guess... maybe I’d do something big. Something no one else could. Maybe I’d rewrite history to be remembered forever.”

  Potabeau snorted again, not in laughter this time, but in mock exasperation. “Oh, please, Azrath. That’s the oldest trick in the book. ‘Rewrite history, become a legend, be remembered forever.’” He waved his hands dramatically. “You’ve got to do something more than just be remembered to make an impact. And if you keep going with this whole ‘master of death’ thing, all you’ll leave behind is a bunch of cranky, reanimated corpses.”

  Azrath raised an eyebrow. “So what’s your idea of a legacy, then, if you’re so clever?”

  Potabeau grinned wide, eyes sparkling with mischievous energy. “It’s simple, really. Forget being remembered. Forget immortality. The real legacy is in the fun you have. Forget death and bring life—bring stories, adventures, chaos, and laughter. Be the kind of person people talk about for generations because you were the one who made them laugh, made them feel alive, made them forget about the rules for just a little bit.”

  Azrath blinked, taken aback by the simplicity of the idea. For a moment, the seriousness of his pursuit of necromancy faltered. “You think... that’s the best way to leave a legacy?”

  “Of course!” Potabeau replied, sitting up with exaggerated flair. “Who wants to be some stiff old legend in a dusty book? Why not be the guy they tell stories about at campfires? The one who made everything ridiculous. If you want to leave a mark, make people laugh so hard they can’t forget you—even after they die.” He grinned mischievously. “Especially after they die.”

  Azrath chuckled despite himself. Potabeau always had a way of turning serious things into a joke, and maybe there was some wisdom in it. His ambition was always about achieving something grand, something world-changing, but maybe Potabeau had a point. Maybe legacy wasn’t just about power or control. Maybe it was about what you left behind—something more than just magic.

  “Alright, alright,” Azrath said with a sly grin, “maybe I’ll start a skeleton troupe. Get everyone to remember some music.”

  Potabeau howled with laughter. “That’s the spirit! See, Az, you’ve got it in you. Just don’t let the whole ‘raising the dead’ thing go to your head.”

  Azrath thought for a moment, his grin fading as his mind wandered back to the texts in front of him. “But Potabeau... I think I do want to learn everything about life and death. I want to understand why we die, how we can control it, and what lies beyond. I want to know how far necromancy can go... how far we can go.”

  Potabeau paused, his laughter subsiding as he studied his friend. “You’ll get there, Azrath,” he said quietly. “But just don’t forget: you can’t have too much fun with this stuff. You’ve got to leave room for the ridiculous—otherwise, it’ll swallow you whole.”

  Azrath glanced at him, half-smiling, half-lost in his thoughts. "Maybe you're right. Maybe a little ridiculousness wouldn't hurt."

  The two young friends sat in the clearing deadpan, one dreaming of controlling life and death, the other dreaming of laughs and mischief. The sun dipped lower, casting the world in a golden glow, and in that moment, neither could know just how far their intertwined destinies of necromancy and good cheer would lead.