Page 11 of Magic in My Bones

With practiced movements, I began drawing a small containment circle, incorporating both traditional Celtic knotwork and more modern protective runes. “A good necromancer,” I murmured, remembering Gran's lessons, “always creates a safe space for both the living and the dead to meet. Like setting a proper tea table, but with more skull motifs.” I stood up, back creaking. “Next time, make sure you do your rituals from inside the safety of a circle.”

He flushed slightly. “I…I will.” He turned his head away. “The way you talk about necromancy…. You make it sound like a gift, not a curse.”

I squeezed his shoulder gently. “Itisa gift, Ren. Never doubt that. Your compassion and your empathy are your greatest strengths. They will guide you on this path, help you navigate the complexities and the moral quandaries that come with our calling.”

Ren smiled then, a genuine, heartfelt smile that lit up his face and made my heart skip a beat. In that moment, I saw him not just as a student, but as a kindred spirit, someone who understood the joys and the burdens of our shared path.

“Thank you, Dorian,” he said softly. “For understanding. For not judging. It means more than you know.”

I returned his smile, letting my hand linger on his shoulder perhaps a moment longer than was strictly appropriate. The warmth of his shoulder beneath my palm sent a flutter through my chest that I firmly told myself was purely professional admiration. Still, I couldn't help but notice how the spiritlights seemed to dance around him like stars finding their constellation, how his eyes held depths of understanding that made him seem far older than his years.

“Though I must admit,” I found myself saying, unable to suppress a smile, “if you're going to break school rules, at least you're doing it with proper form. Gran would approve… After scolding you about not having tea ready for the spirits, of course.”

Ren nodded, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Of course. I won’t do it again without supervision. You have my word.” He glanced around the necropolis, taking in the dancing lights and the whispers of the dead. “I should probably head back. It's late, and I have your class first thing in the morning.”

I chuckled softly. “Indeed you do. And I expect your full attention and participation, no matter how late you may have been out communing with spirits the night before.”

Ren grinned, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes. “I wouldn't dream of anything less, Professor. Your lectures are far too engaging to even consider dozing off.”

“Flatterer,” I accused with a smirk. “But I'll take the compliment. Now, off to bed with you. Even necromancers need their beauty sleep.”

Ren laughed at that, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the necropolis. It was a lovely sound, rich and warm, like honey in hot tea, and it stirred something in my chest that I hadn't felt in far too long. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the slight dimple that appeared in his left cheek—I found myself cataloging these details against my better judgment, storing them away like precious artifacts.

“You have an old soul,” I found myself saying, the words slipping out before I could catch them. “It's rare to see someone so young with such an innate understanding of death magic.”

The flush that colored his cheeks at my words was... problematic. As was my immediate desire to see it again.

“Goodnight, Dorian. And thank you again. For everything.”

“Goodnight, Ren. Sleep well.”

I watched as he made his way out of the necropolis, trying not to notice how the ghostly lights seemed drawn to him, trailing in his wake like lovesick stars. Even the spirits had better sense than I did about maintaining professional boundaries. Still, I couldn't help tracking his movement until he disappeared from view, the warmth in my chest entirely inappropriate for a professor observing a student's exit.

It was a dangerous feeling, that warmth. Like the first sip of perfectly steeped tea, or the way magic felt when it resonated perfectly with one's soul. The kind of feeling that made one want more, even when one knew better.

Bones bumped against my leg, his bone-rattling somehow managing to sound knowing. “Oh, hush,” I muttered, though I couldn't quite keep the fond smile from my face. “I know exactly what you're thinking, and you can stop it right now. He's a student, and I'm his professor, and that's all there is to it.”

I let out a breath and smiled down at him. “Ah, mo chara,” I murmured to Bones in Irish, falling into my mother tongue as I often did when tired or distracted. “What would Gran say about all this? Probably something wise and terribly inconvenient about following one's heart while keeping one's head.”

I pulled my grandmother's old silver pocket watch from my vest. She'd scold me for keeping such late hours. “Come, Bones. Let’s have one more crack at the Chain before we turn in for the night, shall we?”

5

Familiar Struggles

Ren

I stepped into theArcane Familiars classroom, my stomach doing backflips worthy of the Blackstone acrobatics team. It was the end of the second week of the semester and everything had gone well so far. I was performing well in all my classes, Luca and I were getting along great, and I’d even figured out a decent routine to get breakfast and get to class on time every morning.

But it could all come crashing down today.

The air practically crackled with anticipation, mixing with the smoky incense Professor Dance always burned, dragon’s breath since it was Tuesday. The room itself was a cozy chaos of mismatched cushions and hanging plants, with cages and perches of various sizes lining the walls.

Freshmen mages of every style and specialty packed the amphitheater-style seats, their chatter rising to the arched ceiling in an excited babble. Small wisps of various magical energies drifted through the air, remnants of previous summonings that hadn't quite dissipated. They looked like soapbubbles filled with shifting colors, each one carrying the echo of a different student's magic. Professor Dance called them “familiar footprints” and said they helped attract the right spirit to each person.

The walls themselves seemed to hum with anticipation, the ancient stones having absorbed centuries of familiar-bonding magic. Even the carved wooden desks bore marks of past ceremonies in the form of tiny paw prints and talon scratches that glowed faintly when new magic filled the room.

“I'm totally getting a raven,” declared Jasper Stone, resident gothic pretty boy. Though actually, despite his carefully cultivated dark aesthetic and tendency to quote Edgar Allan Poe at breakfast, Jasper was one of the few people who'd been consistently nice to me since arrival. He'd even shared his contraband coffee stash one morning when I'd been running on empty after a late night of studying.

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