Page 10 of Magic in My Bones

I passed a line of student projects including spirit lanterns, memorial portraits, and a device translating spirit whispers into music. Each project reflected a different approach to death magic, a reminder that there’s no single way to honor the departed.

Bones dashed ahead, chasing glowing orbs. I chuckled at his antics, but my mind kept returning to the Chain. Its beauty was undeniable, the runes dancing in the candlelight. I’d spent countless evenings tracing them, telling Bones stories about the ancient necromancers who’d crafted it.

The Chain’s true purpose was one of compassion, allowing the living to say goodbye, offering the departed a chance to impart wisdom. But in the wrong hands, it had been twisted for power.My parents had sought immortality by corrupting its magic, forcing unwilling souls into their service.

Gran had taught me differently: death is a partner, not a servant. I wondered what she would say about my attempts to restore the Chain.

As I ventured deeper into the necropolis, I noticed a faint glow from a cluster of spirits. Bones padded silently at my side.

I paused when I saw Ren Wickens standing in the necropolis a short distance away, his dark hair tousled, his pale skin glowing with an inner light. He extended his hands, and a soft glow emanated from his fingertips, enveloping a spirit. His power flowed freely, sharing his essence to give the spirit temporary form so that it could embrace another spirit waiting nearby. It was a remarkable act of compassion.

I watched, captivated. Ren's skill was undeniable, but it was his empathy that struck me the most. He wasn’t just a talented student; he was a being of extraordinary grace.

As the spirits embraced, I felt a warmth spread through me, a reminder of the deep, instinctive talent that Ren possessed. His connection to the dead wasn’t just arcane; it was personal, profound. I could hardly tear my eyes away from him, admiring the way he worked, the way he connected with the spirits.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I muttered to myself in Irish, scolding myself as Gran would. Ren was too young. But the age gap, while significant, wasn’t as dramatic as I wanted to believe.

The spirits, reunited in love, swirled around Ren as he whispered a final incantation: “Be at peace. May your love light your way.”

The spirits turned to face Ren, their ethereal features alight with gratitude and reverence. They bowed their heads in unison, a gesture of profound respect and thanks, before their forms began to blur at the edges, dissolving into wisps of shimmering mist. The light around them intensified, growing brighter andbrighter until it filled the chamber with a radiant, otherworldly glow.

And then, in a breathtaking moment of transcendence, the spirits ascended, their essence spiraling upwards in a flash of shimmering light. They rose higher and higher, their forms growing ever more luminous as they neared the vaulted ceiling of the necropolis. With a final, dazzling burst of brilliance, they passed through the stone and into the realm beyond, leaving behind only tiny glowing orbs of light, echoes of the spirits that once were.

The orbs drifted lazily through the air, joining the other spirit lights that decorated the necropolis like stars. They cast their gentle glow on the walls, illuminating the countless mementos left by visitors over the years from pressed flowers to handwritten notes sealed with wax and magic. Each item told a story of love and remembrance, of connections that refused to be severed by death.

I'd encouraged the practice among my students, believing that death magic worked best in a space that remembered it was still connected to life. Even now, I could spot fresh offerings: a bouquet of dried wildflowers tied with black ribbon, a worn book of poetry left open to a beloved passage, a delicate teacup filled with honey wine.

Ren watched them go, a wistful expression on his face. There was a quiet satisfaction in his eyes, a sense of fulfillment that came from using his gifts to bring comfort to the departed. It was a beautiful thing to behold, a shining example of necromancy at its most noble and altruistic.

I must have made a sound, a sharp intake of breath or the scuff of a shoe against stone, for Ren suddenly turned, his eyes widening as they met mine. A flush of embarrassment colored his cheeks, his posture stiffening as if he'd been caught in some private, intimate act.

“Dorian!” he stammered, his hands fluttering nervously at his sides. “I didn't see you there. I was just...” He trailed off, his gaze darting back and forth as if in search of an exit. Then his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I know first-year students aren’t supposed to perform rituals, and I know I’m not supposed to be down here…”

I raised a hand, a gentle gesture meant to put him at ease. “Peace, Ren. You have nothing to apologize for. In fact, I dare say that was one of the most remarkable displays of necromantic empathy I have ever had the privilege to witness.”

Ren's eyes widened, his flush deepening at the unexpected praise. He ducked his head, dark hair falling forward to obscure his face. “I... thank you, Professor. That means a great deal coming from you. I know I'm not supposed to be practicing unsupervised, but when I sensed their longing, their desperation to connect one last time, I couldn't just walk away.”

I nodded, understanding dawning. “You have a rare gift, Ren. The ability to perceive the needs of the dearly departed, to connect with them on such a profound level. It's not something that can be taught. It's innate, a part of who you are.” I stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What you did here tonight, the solace you provided those spirits? It's the very essence of what necromancy should be. It reminds me of an old Irish tale my grandmother used to tell,” I found myself saying, “about a young witch who could see the threads that connected souls across the veil. They said she could weave those threads into bridges, allowing loved ones to meet one last time in dreams.” I smiled at the memory. “Gran always said the old stories weren't just stories. They were instruction manuals disguised as folklore.”

“The old ways of teaching were quite different from our current curriculum,” I explained, warming to the subject. “Before formal academies like Blackstone, necromanticknowledge was passed down through family lines, each tradition adding its own unique interpretations. My grandmother taught me by having me tend graves and leave offerings, learning the personalities of different spirits before ever attempting to communicate with them.”

I gestured to the formal classroom setup visible through one of the archways. “Now we have standardized testing and proper syllabi, which has its merits. But I try to incorporate some of the old ways too. Hence the tea offerings and ritual gardens.”

Ren nodded thoughtfully. “Is that why you have us write reflection journals instead of just standard essays?”

“Precisely. Magic, especially death magic, isn't just about memorizing incantations and drawing correct sigils. It's about understanding the deeper connections, the emotional resonance of what we do.”

Ren's eyes lit up with interest. “Did the witch in the story ever get in trouble for unauthorized dream-weaving?”

I couldn't help but laugh. “Actually, yes. The local fairy court was quite put out about not being consulted first. Apparently, there's quite a bit of paperwork involved in cross-dimensional soul-bridging, even in folklore.”

Ren lifted his gaze to the wisps of light dancing above our heads. “I've always felt drawn to them,” he confessed softly. “Always been more at ease in a cemetery than a park or a playground. Even before my magic manifested.”

I nodded, understanding all too well the sense of kinship with the departed that Ren described. It was a feeling I knew intimately, a bond that had shaped the course of my own life.

“For those of us called to this path, the pull of the other side is a constant companion,” I said. “It's what drives us to understand, to connect, to offer solace where we can. It's a heavy burden to bear at times, but also an incredible privilege. Tostand as a bridge between worlds, to offer comfort to those who can no longer seek it for themselves. It is a sacred duty.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my ritual kit, a small leather pouch that held the essential tools of my craft. There was the silver bell, a packet of dried herbs, and a piece of chalk blessed by three generations of necromancers.

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