Amidst the dust and ruin, there laid a factory of death.

  The extraction chamber was vast enough to encompass the pelvic cavity—in the hanging dust, it almost went beyond his vision. The ceiling was lined with coffins, stretching down the massive room like fields of hanging insect pods. These coffins had glass doors, and he could see the remnants of skeletons trapped inside, most of their forms broken beyond recognition. The entire room seemed to be designed as an automated apparatus—the coffins had rusted tracks to slide along, and there were strange devices perched along these tracks like pincers and scythes. There were tools for injection, threshing, emulsifying. Collection, filtration. All of it connected to a complex lattice of pipework that crawled along the ceiling, twisting down the chamber walls in a snarl of valves, junctions, and ventilation grills, feeding deeper into the earth.

  Despite its age, the air reeked of mortality. Blood and viscera still stained the metal extractors like a grisly layer of sedimentary rock. At the floor, there were metal drainage gates that had turned as craggy as barnacles, stained black with rot and pulp. Bones littered the sluice gates like the straw matting of a barn.

  In the center of the extraction chamber, a large standard of the stripes and stars symbol hung limply in the cartilage light. Below the standard was the sorcerer and his army of thralls.

  He was human, and he wore flowing black robes that almost seemed to absorb the cartilage light, like someone had cloaked themselves in the void between the stars. The color of his garb was fuligin—magically treated cloth that blended the wearer into the darkness. This was expensive and specialized gear, worn by master level hunters of necromancers. The man stood on a raised platform, working at a bank of metallic devices with his back turned to them, and wisps of purple light coiled around his body like a grasping fog. His form was obscured by the haze. Isaac almost thought he could hear the souls crying in pain.

  At the sorcerer’s back, a ring of thralls stood unnaturally still, surrounding him in such a way that they seemed more akin to physical shields than bodyguards. Vacant eyes watched the corners of the room, as if they expected their enemy to enter through the pipes rather than the door. In the distance, through the dust and metal, he could see more of the robed thralls moving along the drainage shafts and retention tanks. The glowing sigils on their faces reminded Isaac of the dots that came from staring into a candle, like sunspots burned into his eyes. He could see a constellation of them moving through the chamber.

  The puppeteer had many thralls under his control. Thirty or more, at the least, all spread out like an army. Patrolling a perimeter, defending the leader.

  If he spotted them now, they were dead.

  Zaria’s hand came to his shoulder, pushing him down. The entrance to the chamber had a tiny foyer that was shielded from the cartilage light. None of the thralls seemed to notice them. It was plain that their attention was focused on the pipes and drains, places where bones might slither through. The actual door to the room seemed to have been forgotten.

  “Isaac,” she whispered, grabbing the flat of her axeblade so it would not glint in the light. “Do it. Now.”

  “What?”

  She flailed one arm like a wet noodle and shot it towards the sorcerer.

  The puppeteer had not noticed their entrance. Whatever he was doing on the row of devices, it was absorbing his attention. His back remained turned, crawling with purple fog.

  “I can’t,” Isaac said. “The thralls are in the way.”

  Zaria looked at the ring of humans surrounding the black-robed man. “They’re already dead, aren’t they?”

  “No. If I kill the sorcerer, they can be saved.”

  Her eyes moved to the patrols roaming through the dust and machinery. “Prudence might suggest we kill some to save the many.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  She gave him a stern look. He shook his head. A sharp breath came through her teeth.

  Zaria examined the room, checking angles and sight lines. Isaac glanced behind them. The bronze double doors had closed, but he could still hear the necromancer just behind them. There was a tide of scraping bone, growing louder as it condensed. All of it came like the hissing of beasts, dividing and multiplying. She would be listening. Waiting. Looking for chances to strike.

  “Right,” Zaria said. “Here’s the plan. I’ll scamper through the pipes, get as close as possible. On my signal, hit the coffins above their head. Area of effect, loud and hard. I’ll rush in towards the robed cunt there, and—”

  The sorcerer turned. He looked silently at a knot of thralls. The parasite sigils on their foreheads burned a little brighter, and they fanned out to opposite ends of the chamber, heading out on patrol with small flames held in their palms.

  For a moment, Isaac saw the sorcerer’s face. His heart skipped in his chest. The glinting dust in the air seemed to shudder to a halt. The man’s features were highlighted clearly, erasing all doubt as to who they were, and it was the most horrible thing he had ever seen in his life.

  It couldn’t be. It was not possible. He didn’t have the specialty—how had he managed—where had he found—

  No.

  No.

  Zaria squeezed his shoulder. “Hurry now, love, before he gets any smarter with patrolling. You’re gonna—”

  Isaac stood up. He didn’t feel able to breathe. He didn’t feel in control of his body.

  “Isaac! Get down! What’re you—”

  “Uncle!” Isaac shouted.

  Ahead, below the tattered stripes and stars standard, the sorcerer froze in place. The purple clouds shimmered to nothingness with a dying gasp. The thralls surrounding him seemed to become animate, thawing back to life.

  Isaac marched forward. “Uncle Berith!”

  Slowly, as if it was the last thing he wanted to do, the sorcerer turned to face him.

  Berith the Bone Hunter was a tall, imposing man. Even in his stark black robes, he casted a long figure, like a stretching shadow. His shaved head reflected the golden cartilage light, the bare skin still pink and peeling from sunburn, and his square, scar-lined jaw was dropped in horror. He had the same eyes as Isaac—pale blue, like the edges of the sky. They looked at his nephew with shock, blinking and wide.

  “What’re you doing here?” Isaac yelled, still heading forward. “Did you come to aid me?”

  Berith pressed himself back into the powered device. All at once, the hanging coffins on the ceiling began to shake. Their glass lids shattered, and bones flew through the air in fits and swarms. They wrapped around his fuligin robes, lying flat against his limbs and torso like bars of armor.

  Isaac stopped. He became aware of the thralls around his uncle. Thirty pairs of hands glinted with ice and fire. “What is this? How are you practicing parasitism? Why are you doing this? There’s dozens of people—”

  “Silence!” Berith shouted.

  He flinched. In an instant, he had resumed the standard posture—head bowed, shoulders hunched, casting hands open. Like he had never left.

  Berith walked to the edge of the raised platform. Around him, dozens of thralls returned from their patrols, marching into rigid columns. Their puppeteer casted a shadow over their faces. “Isaac. How did you—” He breathed out, staring down at his nephew. “How did you get here?”

  Isaac dared to make eye contact. “What—what do you mean? You taught me—”

  “Isaac!” Berith’s roar echoed down the extraction chamber. “Answer me! How did you get here?”

  “I—I—” He swallowed. “I’m sorry. You said—I just followed—th-the map, the seal on the letter, the—the—”

  “Did you not follow my instructions?” He looked down at his nephew like everything he had ever known was shattering before his eyes. “Did you disobey me again?”

  “Sorry,” Isaac said. “I’m sorry. I-I don’t understand. Why are you asking—”

  A presence came to his shoulder. Zaria stood with her poleaxe held out towards the thralls, glaring up at Berith with a curled lip. “He’s asking why you’re still alive.”

  His uncle turned his attention to the hyena, as if only noticing her now. “Who is this, Isaac?”

  “Oi, cockwipe,” Zaria said. “I’m standin’ right here.”

  Berith made a noise in his throat. “A pirate, then. Should’ve expected as much from one of the savage races. That explains why there was an entire regiment of them blowing up the necropolis.” He turned to his nephew. “Are you making alliances with brigands and murderers?”

  Isaac wasn’t sure where to look. His uncle, the empty faces of the thralls, the floor. “I—I had to—she—I’m sorry—”

  “Stop apologizing,” Zaria said. “Your bilge rat of a mentor is trying to find an answer for his failed attempt at kinslaying.”

  The layers of bone armor on Berith’s robes began to twist. “You will not speak to me like that, pirate.”

  “I’ll bloody well talk to cunts like you how I wish.” She stepped closer to Isaac. Her presence made him stand a little taller. “If you must know, your nephew’s still alive ‘cause I was there to give him water before he perished of thirst. Can’t take credit for him surviving the sandwyrms, though—that was all his doing.”

  Something compelled Isaac to look up. He saw a changing mixture of expressions in his uncle’s face. Surprise, confusion, apprehension. But the strongest emotion made his blood run cold.

  Fear. His uncle was afraid of him. He had the face of someone caught in the middle of a crime. The armor of bones crawled over his fuligin robes, protecting his vital organs, and the parasite sigils on the faces of his thralls were all glowing bright. Berith the Bone Hunter was watching him like violence had become inevitable.

  Isaac felt there was a knife piercing through his heart.

  “Say it aloud, then,” Zaria said. “You tried to kill your kin. Told him to walk through a pit of dragons with barely any water.” She spat on the floor. “You may have caned him into thinking better of you, but I had you pegged from the fucking start, you gutless coward.”

  Berith clenched his fists. His pale blue eyes glowed. Below him, in ranks and files, his thralls raised their arms. Thirty spears of ice and fire aimed themselves at Zaria. Above, more of the glass coffins shattered, entire starfields of bone flitting through the air until they were posed motionlessly above him, held in wait like bolts in a crossbow.

  “I am talking to my nephew, pirate. Not you. Speak another word, and it will be your last.”

  Isaac stepped in front of Zaria, shielding her with his body.

  Berith’s eyes continued to glow. “Get out of the way, Isaac.”

  He did not move.

  “Get out of the way!”

  He remained in place. His heart was pounding, his palms were slick with sweat, and he could already feel the memory of the cane burning across his back. At the same time, he felt the strongest storm in the world could not have budged him a single inch.

  Berith’s sneer was lighted from below by the flaming hands of his thralls. “Why are you defending this cutthroat? She’s a murderer! A common thief!”

  Isaac did not answer. He knew his voice would crack. It always did, whenever he spoke in defiance. A weak reply was worse than none. It would bring punishment. Most of all, he did not want Zaria to see it happen.

  “What have you been doing behind my back, Isaac? Are you throwing your allegiance in with these savages?”

  His hands were shaking. After all he had done, they still shook. He was still weak.

  He thought he had changed.

  “Let me guess,” Berith said. “She ambushed you, out in the dunes. Never mind how some illiterate beastwoman managed to get the better of you, but she did, and she stuck a knife in your neck, and she made you spill the Diet’s secrets. You told her what you were doing, and she probably stabbed half her friends to death just for the chance to steal the treasure. Am I right?”

  “No,” Isaac said. “There was not—it was my fault—”

  “I’m right, aren’t I? You betrayed your mission! You let some pirates plunder the tomb!”

  “No. No! That’s not—”

  “How many Diet contacts are in danger because of you, Isaac? Did you betray the trust of the guild just to save your own neck?” The bald necromancer snorted in disbelief. “You had my letter. They would’ve just taken you hostage. Sold you for ransom. You should’ve kept your mouth shut!”

  “That’s not how it happened!” Isaac shouted. “She—she—she saved my life! I would’ve been dead without her! She’s—” He turned his head, just enough to glimpse her from the corner of his vision. It was enough to steady his voice. “She’s helping me. I trust her.”

  “Oh, truly?” Berith said. “Have you grown fond of her? Is that it? Forgiven her for sticking a dagger to your throat?” His laugh was angry and hollow. “You were always like this. Always fawning over every visitor I brought to the tower. Practically begging all your instructors for attention, like some sniveling dog. It was embarrassing.” The bones above his head shook in the air. “Of course you’ve grown attached to the first mongrel that showed you the slightest kindness. I suppose you’re just too weak to help yourself.”

  “Is it true?” Isaac asked. “Did you trick me into walking through a nest of sandwyrms?”

  Berith’s glowing eyes pierced into him. Below, his thralls held their elemental spells in wait like a field of statues.

  Slowly, making the movements deliberate and obvious, Isaac adopted the first mnemonic position for a fireball.

  “Watch your hands, boy.”

  He did not drop his stance. Without noticing, his posture had grown straight again.

  His uncle’s eyes never left his face. “Yes. It’s true. I knew your knowledge of geography was lacking. That was by design. You were supposed to die in the desert. You were never meant to make it this far.”

  He wanted the word to come out loud and angry. Instead, it was almost a whisper. “Why?”

  Berith stayed silent, the red stripes of the standard billowing behind him.

  Isaac adopted the second mnemonic position. Flames began to trickle from his palms. “Why?”

  “I didn’t think I could bear seeing your corpse,” Berith said.

  Isaac almost lost his casting stance.

  “I could’ve done it a number of ways,” his uncle continued. “I could’ve sabotaged the wax symbol on the letter, allowed the sphinx to kill you. I could’ve poisoned your food. I could’ve weakened the ropes you’d need to clear obstacles, altered your phylacteries with explosive reagents, or even just ruined the sigils on your scrolls, causing the catalyst to backfire. I had many options.”

  Isaac felt like he was living a nightmare. Like the words pouring from his mentor’s mouth could not possibly be real.

  “But I couldn’t. . . .” Berith clenched his fists, and the bones above his head shook in the air. “But I could not stop myself from imagining what your body would look like, when I entered the tomb. Seeing your form twisted and crumpled, riddled with maggots and decay. Every time I thought of it, the image would—” His breath came through gritted teeth. “I was certain the experience would break my resolve.”

  Behind him, Zaria placed a hand on his shoulder.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “So,” the Bone Hunter said, “I arranged your death to occur outside of the tomb. I hoped the sandwyrms would swallow you whole. I hoped the dunes would cover your remains. I hoped that I would never have to see your body. I had to hide the evidence of your murder, anyway, but . . . the truth is, I just wanted to spare myself the anguish.” The bones on his robes twisted like snarling skin. “I was a coward. I was weak. I tried for decades to avoid these feelings, and I . . . I still could not help myself. With you.”

  “How long were you planning this?” Isaac asked.

  Berith glanced down at the neatly rowed heads of his thralls. “I’ve known I would have to kill you since the day you were placed in my care.”

  There was silence in the extraction chamber. The glinting dust seemed to shiver. Somewhere below, further beneath the earth, there seemed to be some rumbling. A deep thrum of power. A massive chorus of screams.

  “Pirate,” Berith said.

  Isaac felt the hand on his shoulder tense.

  “Thank you for saving my nephew’s life.”

  Zaria scoffed. “Clearly wasn’t to your benefit.”

  “No,” he said, looking down at Isaac. “It was. Thank you.”

  “Get fucked, cocknobbler.”

  “Isaac,” Berith said. “Leave the tomb.”

  Isaac didn’t feel capable of responding. He was afraid he might faint on the spot.

  “You’ll have to travel far outside the Diet’s jurisdiction. An ocean or two, at least. If the Archons discover you’re still alive, they will send assassins after you.” Berith gestured towards the bronze doors, the bones on his fuligin robes sliding over each other. “Go on. Head out past the hinterlands. Live the life I could not give you.”

  “The Diet of Nine ordered my death?” Isaac asked.

  “I gave you an order, boy. For your own sake, follow it.” The glow in his eyes shined brighter. “I cannot allow you to interfere with my mission.”

  “Your mission?”

  “Yes,” Berith said. “My mission. Not yours.”

  The trickles of flame at Isaac’s hands grew into spouts of fire. “Why are you here? Why did the Diet send you in secret? Does the necromancer possess some arcane knowledge? Does she have some ancient technology that the Diet wants for themselves?”

  Berith paused. “The necromancer?”

  “Yes! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re here to kill her in my stead!”

  His uncle took a deep breath. “Isaac. Leave. Now. I would spare you from this.”

  “No! I have spent my entire life preparing for this moment! I will hear the truth from you!” The fire in his palms licked towards his face. “What does the Diet want from the necromancer?”

  “There is no necromancer!” Berith shouted. “The sorceress is dead! Your father killed her decades ago!”

  The flames began to die in his hands. “What? What do you mean—”

  “Isaac!” His uncle’s roar echoed through the extraction chamber, just like it did in the tower. “Are you sure want to know this? Do you truly wish to learn the fates your father inflicted upon us?”

  He blinked, his feet rooted to the ground.

  “Answer me!”

  “Y-yes!”

  “Fine!” In the dusty air above Berith’s head, the constellation of bones shifted and swirled. “Then tell me! What is the definition of mnemonics?”

  “I—uh—they are—”

  A salvo of bone shot themselves into the ground at his feet, showering him in splinters. “Answer me, boy!”

  “Mnemonics!” Isaac said, his posture rigid, his voice shaking. “A device—a learning technique designed to aid the memory!”

  “Adequate! And why are casting incantations called mnemonics?”

  “Because—because the energy dynamics require altered pathways in the body! The—the—the brain and the body!”

  A screaming arrow of bone flew past his shoulder. The piercing crack it made on the pipework sent shivers down his spine.

  The cane. The cane. The cane—

  “Magic changes the body,” Berith said, pacing back and forth on the raised platform. “That is why we practice! That is why we train! The simplest spell requires years of effort! Not because the incantations are hard, but because the body and mind must alter themselves! You are different from the common peasants. Your brain and body are forever changed with your powers. It is a physical stamp on your very form.”

  Zaria gripped his shoulder a little tighter. He could see the steel of her axe in the corner of his vision, ready to rise.

  “But the soul is distinct from the body, is it not? One is the essence, the other is a vessel. They are entwined, but separate. And, with effort, they can be separated from each other.”

  He had to hide. He knew this tone of voice. The punishment was coming. The lecture was a prelude to pain.

  He was a boy again. He was small. He was afraid. He had to protect himself. There was only pain.

  Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain—

  “Take your father, for example,” Berith said, his bone-armored robes flowing over the heads of his thralls. “When he travelled to this tomb before your birth, he slayed the sorceress, as was his command. But he was arrogant. Foolish. He thought he could excavate this ancient empire without the aid of specialists.” His laugh came with a sneer. “I know my brother well—he just wanted the sole claim on all its discoveries. These long lost necromancers were experts at soul extraction. Far beyond our current capabilities. This city burnt legions of prisoners like oil in a lantern.”

  Zaria came out to his side, shoulder to shoulder. She glanced at him, full of concern. Right then, he feared her gaze as much as his uncle’s.

  “He blundered into a trap,” the Bone Hunter said. “Had his soul sucked from his body like the tens of thousands before him. But he was lucky. The device that captured him was specially designed by the sorceress as an emergency reservoir, in case her life was ever threatened by intruders. It gave him control of her forces. He became the new necromancer, in her stead. Now it was his turn to reign over the city of the dead, buried beneath an empty desert.”

  Isaac stepped forward. “What does this—”

  “Do not interrupt me, boy!”

  He flinched. He couldn’t help himself. The reflex was as natural as drawing breath.

  “His body was destroyed,” his uncle said. “He told me so, himself, when the Diet managed to triangulate his soul energy. He needed a new body to escape, and he would not allow us to enter this tomb without assurances that we would provide him with one. His stolen oceans of bone would kill us if we tried.” He shook his head, curling his lip. “He wanted his freedom again. He wanted safety from those who would kill him to steal the bounty for themselves. And, of course, we could not sacrifice just any person for his livelihood.”

  His glowing eyes centered on Isaac.

  “Why is that, Isaac? Why can a soul not be implanted into any body we choose?”

  He swallowed. “Core rejection.”

  “Core rejection,” Berith said. “The soul and vessel must be related. Close family members.”

  The dust seemed to swirl around him. The air reeked of blood.

  “Your father was trained in dual disciplines, wasn’t he? Elements and anti-necrotics. He was famous for it, in fact.” Berith worked his jaw, his adventure scars glinting in the light. “Of course, it was only natural that his son should be trained the same way. No one would bat an eye.”

  Isaac’s mind raced and raced.

  “Did you never think it odd that the Diet would send only you to rescue your father?” Berith gestured at him, his hand barely visible from the cuffs of his robes. “You. A single journeyman pitted against the might of an ancient necromancer. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? They could’ve sent dozens of guild members. Wizened masters, armies of students. The kingdoms of the Diet could’ve drowned this tomb in bodies. But, instead, they only sent you. One little boy against the last survivor of a fearsome empire.”

  His uncle stopped. His shadow spread across the hanging standard.

  “It’s almost as if you were never meant to succeed. As if, all along, we were only delivering a body, not a savior.”

  Isaac’s breath stopped in his lungs.

  “I did not raise a child,” Berith said. “I raised a vessel. A vessel for your father.”

  Somewhere deep below them, by the feet of the giant corpse, the earth rumbled and shook. Thousands of voices screamed in agony.

  “That was the deal we struck.” His uncle casted a black shadow as he paced. “He would allow us access to this ancient tomb once his son had been trained in the ways of sorcery. This could not be faked. The transmutation training is a physical mark on your form. The knowledge of your studies has changed the structure of your brain. Only a body similar to the original would allow his soul to survive.”

  His uncle glanced downwards, the direction where the obelisk would lie beneath the floor. Where his father was.

  “You should’ve seen his desperation. He begged me to save him. Wouldn’t hear of allowing the Diet access to the tomb. He didn’t trust the Archons—for good reason—and, besides, what little he’d gleaned from these necromancers had told him this was the only solution. It was your life or his, and he was sorry—blubberingly sorry—but he had chosen himself.” Berith snorted. “In the same breath that he condemned your life, he became very adamant that I must not provide him with a weak vessel, in case his enemies in the Diet thought of betrayal. He did have to wait until you were fully grown, anyway. Why not train his son to be a worthy sacrifice?”

  The thralls kept their hands cocked with ice and fire. Their eyes were empty, their forehead sigils glowing underneath ancient machinery.

  Parasitism. Stealing someone’s body.

  “Needless to say,” the Bone Hunter said, “this was unprecedented. Catastrophic would be a better word. The guild almost fractured. Your sacrifice would’ve violated every ethical principle that the Diet was founded to protect. All the dukes and regents that provide our autonomy would’ve demanded censure, imprisonment, execution. Not even the prize of this tomb would save us—in fact, if what lies in this dead city was ever made public, it would destroy the peace that our forebears strived so hard to achieve. Every kingdom in the region would wage war to attain it. It is not exaggeration to say that, if the prize of this tomb ever fell into modern hands, it would change the world forever.”

  His gaze roamed over the metal extractors. Glass coffins. Retention tanks.

  “Debate raged for days. Stunningly little of it was about you. The Archons were solely concerned with the reports of what your father discovered. The consequences of making it public knowledge.” He glared down at Isaac. “It’s amazing how quickly people murder their fellows, if they stand to gain from it. It happened to your father. It happened to the Archons. And I suppose it happened to me, too.

  “Thus, in the end, they agreed. They would meet your father’s demands. Half those old codgers could barely supinate their arms to sign a document, let alone a casting, but they agreed.” He folded his hands behind his back, still pacing. “Of course, they kept it all a secret. Couldn’t let anyone else claim the prize. Couldn’t let the royal regulators know that they planned to violate the most basic statutes of our assembly. Couldn’t let the petty fiefdoms develop their own ambitions to power.”

  The coffins above his head rattled on their tracks.

  “And, of course, I was assigned to the task of training you. They needed to maintain the lie. The story was spun—an ancient and powerful necromancer, holding your father hostage. A tragic orphan, taken in by his uncle, raised in the ways of his sire. Dedicating his life to rescue his father from the clutches of evil.” Berith gritted his teeth. “I wanted to vomit every time one of your father’s friends told me how much you resembled him. How excellently you were taking to the incantations. What a good man you were growing to be. If only they knew.”

  Isaac remembered all the lessons he had received from his teachers. His father’s friends, looking at him with pity. The sadness in their eyes.

  “Of course,” Berith said, “that was not enough. It would’ve never been enough. Before you had even dried from the blood of your mother, some of the Archons approached me with an offer. A conspiracy within a conspiracy. They wanted to claim the prize of this tomb for themselves. They wanted to kill your father to get it. And, again, I was the perfect choice.”

  The bones on his robes twisted and crawled.

  “I had the most experience in scouring ancient tombs of necromancy. As little as I care for it, the moniker of ‘Bone Hunter’ was not ill-earned. Your father’s stolen army was formidable. Something only a master could handle. But, in the end, it was not a question of skill. The issue was mass. Energy. My body alone could not store enough power to face a horde of his size. That’s why he needed more bodies. Much more.”

  The Bone Hunter’s eyes glowed, and the thirty pairs of eyes below his feet responded in turn.

  “Parasite magic. That was the agreed solution to your father’s forces. The Archons wanted to explore the discipline further, anyway. Outside the guild regulations. The conspirators signed the lesson grants with smiles and cheer, as if the ink on the military contracts was already dry.”

  He waved over the heads of his thralls, like he was displaying them for inspection. “Once again, I was the only reasonable choice. I had tenure at an elemental college. Taught there for years—had many students begging for research positions. All I had to do was offer a dangerous expedition into the desert, something that no one would bat an eye at if the entire roster was slaughtered, and, suddenly, I had my pick of the litter.”

  The thralls were dressed in short robes. They were young. And they were all capable of elemental spells.

  “And that’s how our routine came to be, Isaac. That was the reality of our little family. In the mornings, I would supervise your training, all to ensure that your father’s vessel was progressing as planned. In the afternoons, I would indulge in my own training, learning to spin the lives of others like a spider in a web. For the past few decades, I’ve had to dedicate all my time to ruining lives—whether that be yours, the students under my tutelage, or the man I am disgusted to call my brother.”

  Berith stopped pacing. He glared down at Isaac, his shaved head shining in the light, his scarred jaw clenched. Isaac knew the expression well. It always signaled punishment.

  “The entire thing disgusted me beyond expression. The injustice of it all was staggering. They ordered me to kill my own brother. They ordered me to raise his child, and then let him die. I would be forced to sacrifice dozens of lives in the pursuit of naked betrayal. The conspirators threatened me with censure, exile, even death. I’ve had assassins shadowing my every step, ever since your bundled form was placed in my arms. That was the only way they could ensure my compliance.”

  His uncle continued to watch him. Isaac struggled to return the gaze.

  “It was not enough,” Berith said. “When you were born, I demanded your death. I used ever favor I had to try and escape this fate. If necessary, I would’ve walked to the river behind my tower, tossed you in the wakes, and never thought of it again. I spent many nights over your crib, watching you slumber as a babe, daring myself to bring the knife down.”

  “You’re fucking scum,” Zaria said.

  A trio of femurs screamed past her face.

  “It would’ve been a kindness,” Berith said. “It would’ve saved you from a life of imprisonment. A life spent in service of greed and malice. Many times, I was close to doing it. Not once in all your years did I stop considering the option.”

  The necromancer’s gaze peeled off his nephew. He looked around the room. Glowing eyes roamed over coffins, ancient bloodstains, and the curving walls of a colossal pelvis.

  “But I knew what was in this tomb. I knew the rewards that would be bestowed upon me. And I knew history would never be the same again. My own petty morals were nothing in comparison. This would be the plunder of legends.”

  The bones on his black robes settled together, wreathing across his heart.

  “It happens all the time. Family members will kill each other for inheritance. Companies will wage war for profit. And kings will slaughter entire bloodlines to fulfill their ambitions. The world is a cruel and ruthless place. Why should I be any different?”

  Berith’s vision continued to travel around the room . . . before slowly settling on Isaac.

  “And then they told me I would have to kill you. It was not enough that I must raise you. It was not enough that I must spend hours, every day, teaching you magic that I knew you would never use. It was not enough that I must lie about the purpose of your training. It was not enough that I should keep you caged in my tower, lest you obtain friends and lovers who would miss you when you were gone.” Berith clenched his fists. “No. I had to kill you myself. All to shield the conspirators from blame, in case their plot was ever discovered. All to make sure your father never received his vessel. After everything I would have to do for you, after everything. . . .”

  The bones in the air shuddered through the dust.

  “How could anyone raise a child and not grow fond of them? How could I spend decades molding you into a man and still remain so heartless? How could. . . .”

  His uncle gazed down at him from the platform, and, for just a moment, his face softened, just like it always did in the yard, whenever he did not strike with the cane.

  “How could I ever stand the sight of your body?”

  The smell of blood. The glint of metal. Thirty pairs of magic sigils.

  “If what lies in this tomb would not change the world,” Berith said, “then I would’ve forsaken the guild for you.”

  The ground rumbled beneath them. Dust flitted through the air, as if with a mind of its own.

  “What were you thinking?” Isaac asked, his voice trembling. “All those times you—”

  Berith’s face was highlighted beneath the hanging glass coffins.

  “You brought me books,” Isaac said. “I knew you went out of your way to find them. It—” He had to swallow. “I would be so happy every time you bought a new one for me. I looked forward to it. It was the only thing I looked forward to. Every time you ate a meal with me, every time you’d joke, every time you’d smile, I thought—I thought I’d made you proud. I wanted to impress you. I wanted to earn all the time and effort you spent on me. Even when I hated you, I thought there would be some—some purpose to your cruelty. I thought if I tried hard enough. . . .”

  Berith looked down at his bone-armored robes.

  “The letter. The—” He almost reached for his pack. “The letter you wrote me, before I left. I carried it with me the entire way. I read all the words until the parchment was in tatters. You said—” He swallowed the sharp knot in his throat. “You said ‘your father will be proud of you.’ Was that just a joke to you?”

  Berith glanced backwards, into the floor. Towards the sound of screams.

  “What were you thinking?” Isaac asked. “Every time you looked at me, every time you deigned to be nice—what was crossing your mind? Did you feel sorry for me? Was it pity? Remorse?”

  His uncle took a deep breath.

  “I had nothing.” Isaac’s vision blurred with tears. “Only you. Nothing else. No friends, no travels, no experiences. Nothing! You denied me everything! You took my potential away from me! You robbed me of my life!”

  Berith’s glowing eyes met his gaze.

  “Did my mother really die giving birth to me?”

  His uncle remained silent.

  For the first time in his life, something snapped inside of him.

  “The Archons ordered it,” Berith said. “She would’ve interfered—”

  Isaac shot the raw sound directly at his uncle. In the second or two of casting time, as if he’d been expecting it since the start, Berith piled all the bones in the air into a solid wall in front of him. When the sound struck, it shattered dozens of corpses in a sphere of shrapnel. His uncle stumbled back, clutching his ears, and the thralls directly in front of him were shredded into pulp and blood.

  Zaria charged forward. Isaac casted a hurricane of wind, strong enough that it roared across the ground like a tsunami. The Khador students were battered and flung to the side, streams of ice and fire flailing through the air. She dashed through the gap in their ranks, the tip of her poleaxe held down in a spearing thrust, leaping onto the raised platform.

  Berith shot his arm forward. Above, the coffins hanging on the ceiling rattled and shook. They wrenched themselves from their ancient tracks, the bones inside providing all the thrust, and the coffins began to shoot through the air like the heavy stones of a trebuchet. Zaria flung herself to the floor, narrowly avoiding the sepulchral missiles. Dodging, weaving, she closed the distance to his uncle, her axe blade glinting in the cartilage light as it struck hard and fast.

  A swirling cloud of bone erupted from Berith’s armored robes. The sheer force of the strike knocked him to the platform floor. Zaria took a direct hit from a flying coffin, stumbling back as the ancient casket shattered across her body. She regained her balance, snarling at the pain, raising her axe blade high over Berith’s scrambling form.

  A sea of bone encased her, flying from all directions, rushing and frenzied. She flailed, bashing off showers of body parts, but the bones buried her form entirely, and she began to collapse to the ground, screaming in pain.

  Isaac casted the anti-necrotic light, burning it into a brilliant lance in his hand.

  “Stop!” Berith yelled.

  His uncle struggled back to his feet. His face was studded with white shards of bone, his arm limp at his side. On the floor of the platform, the bones slithered back just enough that Zaria’s head emerged. She gasped for air, blood leaking down her face.

  “Cast again,” Berith said, “and she dies.”

  Isaac held the shining white lance in his palm. If he loosed it now, the sheer energy would slice Berith in half, the wound burned shut before it could bleed. But anything less than a headshot would give the latter time to react.

  Zaria was forced down flat, a crown of sharpened bone poised at her neck. Her struggles could barely be seen through the writhing carpet of bodies.

  Around him, the Khador students picked themselves up off the ground like mindless automatons. Their hands churned with elemental magic. Above the rows of young heads, their puppeteer braced himself against the device he had been working on and bashed his shoulder into the metal. The bones covering Zaria frenzied as the socket popped back into place.

  “This is your last warning,” his uncle said, rubbing his shoulder. Blood leaked from the shards of bone in his face. “Leave, and I will not pursue.”

  The bones constricted around Zaria, sharp and swirling.

  “If you continue forward, then I will not fail to kill you again.”

  The lance in his hand grew into a shining star.

  “Start a new life, Isaac. This is the only chance you’ll ever have.”

  Slowly, without turning away, Berith paced over to the edge of the platform. His blue eyes grew brighter, the sigils on the Khador students responded, and they helped him climb down to the floor like servants dressing a king. They gathered around him, shielding him with their bodies. Berith’s face became lost in a sea of many.

  The bones continued to swirl around Zaria, sharpened limbs sliding past her throat. His uncle moved further back into the chamber, watching for the slightest sign of casting motion. Isaac never lowered his hands. After a minute, Berith had traveled far enough down the pelvic cavity that he and his thralls had almost disappeared into the tangle of coffins, pipework, and dust.

  For just a moment, all Isaac could see of his uncle were his eyes. Glowing bright with parasite magic, peeking out from behind the faces of his thralls. Still locked tightly onto him.

  “I consider you my son,” Berith said, voice echoing down the chamber. “He’s not your father anymore. I am. And . . . I’m proud of you.”

  His black robes vanished into the dust and gloom. The sound of marching footsteps slowly drifted away. The bones around Zaria died, falling to the floor like dry reeds. She gasped, clutching at her neck. In the air above her, the stripes and stars standard barely fluttered, displayed over a factory of death, like it bared the approval of the gods.

  All that remained was the smell of blood.