Page 16 of Magic in My Bones

I'd spent countless evenings here, grading papers while perched on one of the wrought iron benches, a thermos of Irish breakfast tea at my side. The garden had a way of settling restless thoughts, and more than one student had found their way here during moments of doubt or struggle.

“Speaking of maintaining the status quo,” Dean Vane began, his voice taking on a more serious tone, “I've been meaning to discuss the performance of that scholarship student of yours. Wickens, I believe his name is. How does he fare among the more... traditional members of your cohort?”

A flicker of protectiveness ran through me at the mention of Ren Wickens. The young man had shown remarkable promise in his studies, despite the whispers and sideways glances from those who believed he didn't belong at Blackstone.

“Ren is doing quite well, actually,” I replied, keeping my tone even. “His natural affinity for necromancy is undeniable, and he approaches the craft with a level of reverence and curiosity that is truly refreshing.”

Dean Vane hummed, unconvinced. “Natural affinity or not, one cannot ignore the fact that he comes from a decidedly...mundanebackground.”

I bristled at the implication, my jaw clenching slightly. “Blackstone is open to all, regardless of their lineage.”

Dean Vane raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild amusement. “Ah, yes. The noble ideal of equal opportunity.” He paused, plucking a stray leaf from his immaculately tailored coat. “But let's be realistic, Dorian. Talent will only get him so far. The boy lacks the proper foundation,” Dean Vane continued, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the way my jaw tightened at his dismissive tone. “Though I suppose I can see why you've taken such an... interest in him. He has a certain earnest charm, doesn't he? Those expressive dark eyes, that passionate dedication to the craft—”

“That's quite enough,” I cut in, perhaps more sharply than I intended. The mere suggestion that my appreciation of Ren's abilities might be colored by something inappropriate made my chest tight with indignation, and perhaps a touch of guilt, given how often I'd caught myself noticing exactly those features Eamon had mentioned. “My interest in Ren's development is purely professional, though I won't deny that his approach to necromancy is... refreshing. He sees beauty where others see only darkness, possibility where others see limitations. It's rather remarkable, actually...” I trailed off, realizing I was perhaps revealing too much in my defense.

The knowing look in Eamon's eyes made me want to hex him on principle. “And your interest is purely professional, of course,” he said dryly.

I stopped in my tracks, turning to face Dean Vane directly. A surge of indignation welled up within me, and I couldn't help but let a hint of it seep into my voice. “With all due respect, Eamon, I strongly disagree. Ren's potential is vast, and it would be adisservice to him, and to the craft, to dismiss him so readily. You should see him with the spirits, Eamon. He has this... natural empathy that can't be taught. Just yesterday, I found him in the necropolis, helping two lost souls find peace with such gentle skill that—” I caught myself, realizing I was perhaps revealing too much of my admiration. “The point is, magical legacy isn't everything. Sometimes the most profound understanding of death magic comes from those who have had to transform themselves.”

“You've got a soft spot for this one, haven't you? Reminds me of how you used to talk about...” Eamon's knowing smirk made me wish I'd brought my grandmother's cursed tea set to this meeting. The one that made rude guests' tea taste like seawater. “Getting involved with students and co-workers is dangerous, Dorian. Did you learn nothing from Alistair?”

The mention of Alistair's name sent a jolt through me, as if I'd been struck by a particularly nasty hex. Old wounds, long buried, threatened to resurface. Memories of another garden, another time, when I'd been younger and more naïve about the politics of magical academia. I took a deep breath, steadying myself before responding.

“Alistair was... a different situation entirely,” I said, my voice tight with carefully controlled emotion. “And I'll thank you not to bring him up in this context.”

Dean Vane held up his hands in a placating gesture, though the glint in his eye suggested he was rather pleased to have struck a nerve. “Of course, of course. My apologies. I only meant to caution you against getting too... invested. We both know how that tends to end.”

“My interest in Ren is purely academic,” I snapped, unable to keep my irritation from bleeding through into my tone. “The boy has a gift, and it is my duty as his professor to nurture that talent, regardless of his background.”

The dean opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, a sudden chill swept through the ossuary garden, causing the delicate flowers adorning the skeletal displays to tremble and wilt. The air grew heavy with an unseen presence, a palpable sense of malevolence that set my senses on high alert.

“Do you feel that?” I murmured, my eyes scanning the surrounding area for any sign of spectral disturbance.

A bone-chilling shriek pierced the tranquil atmosphere of the ossuary garden. The sound was unlike anything I'd ever encountered in my years as a necromancer, a primal, agonized wail that seemed to emanate from the very depths of the underworld itself.

The skeletal displays rattled and shook, as if possessed by some unseen force. Delicate flowers, once so lovingly arranged, were ripped from their places and scattered to the winds. The towering spiral of bones that had so recently captivated our attention began to unravel, each gleaming ivory piece tumbling to the ground with a sickening clatter.

The malevolent wind only grew stronger, coalescing in a swirling vortex of spectral energy at the center of the garden. Tendrils of sickly green light lashed out, striking at the surrounding displays and sending shards of bone flying through the air.

Dean Vane and I sprang into action, our hands moving in practiced gestures as we wove counterspells to contain the rogue spirit. Intricate patterns of glowing sigils hung in the air between us, a complex tapestry of necromantic energy designed to bind and banish the malevolent entity.

Yet despite our combined efforts, the spirit continued to rage, its fury only intensifying with each passing moment. The sigils we wove shattered like fragile glass, unable to withstand the sheer force of the entity's wrath. It was as if the spirit hadbeen driven mad by some unspeakable torment, its very essence twisted and corrupted beyond recognition.

“By the gods, Dorian, what manner of spirit is this?” Dean Vane shouted over the cacophony of shattering bone and howling winds. “I've never seen anything like it!”

I gritted my teeth, my mind racing as I delved deep into my vast repository of necromantic knowledge. This was no ordinary specter, that much was certain. The level of raw, unbridled power it possessed was staggering, far beyond anything I had encountered in my many years of study and practice.

“It's not just one spirit,” I realized with a sudden, chilling clarity. “It's an amalgamation, a fusion of multiple souls that have somehow been bound together against their will.”

The realization hit me like ice water. This was exactly the kind of dark magic my parents had been experimenting with before their deaths. The same twisted manipulation of souls that had led them to their doom. But they were gone, their research destroyed. Unless... unless someone had found their notes. Or worse, unless someone else had independently arrived at the same forbidden knowledge.

The implications of this revelation were staggering. Someone, or something, had performed an act of necromancy so vile, so utterly reprehensible, that it defied all laws of nature and morality. To forcibly merge the essences of the dead, to strip them of their individuality and autonomy... it was an abomination of the highest order.

As if sensing my understanding, the amalgamated spirit let out a pained shriek. My heart clenched. The spirits were in agony, lashing out at anything that came near. I had to do something to ease their pain.

With a deep breath, I reached out with my magic, weaving tendrils of soothing energy that sought to envelop the raging spirit. I poured every ounce of compassion and empathy Ipossessed into the spell, hoping against hope that I could provide some measure of solace to these tortured entities.

The spirit continued to thrash and howl, its anguish reverberating through the once-tranquil ossuary gardens like a discordant symphony of misery. Shards of bone and withered petals swirled through the air, caught up in the storm of the spirit's fury. Even my best efforts weren’t enough to relieve the spirit of its pain.

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