Page 26 of Magic in My Bones

I forced a smile, the gesture feeling hollow upon my sweat-dampened face. “Nothing a little tea won’t fix.”

I waved off Ren's concern with a dismissive flick of my wrist, but the young man was not so easily deterred.

He set the papers down on my cluttered workbench. “Dorian, you're clearly exhausted. Please, let me help you.”

Before I could protest, Ren was at my side, his fingers gently grasping my elbow as he guided me toward the worn leather armchair in the corner of the laboratory. The unexpected contact sent a jolt of electricity coursing through my veins. His touch was gentle, but sure. It had been so long since anyone had dared to care for me this way, to treat me as something more than the austere Professor Crowe. The simple press of his fingers against my arm threatened to undo my carefully maintained distance.

I could feel the whisper of his magic too, a subtle resonance that made my own power stir in response. Like recognizing like, death magic calling to death magic, but there was nothing cold or dark about it. His energy felt like autumn sunshine on old stones, like the last warm day before winter sets in.

“Ren, really, I'm fine,” I managed to say, my voice sounding far less convincing than I had intended. “You needn't trouble yourself on my account.”

But Ren merely shook his head and became more determined than ever. “It’s no wonder you’re exhausted. You’ve been in here every day this week working on something, plus you have all your classes and papers to grade. There’s no way you’re getting enough sleep.”

As he eased me into the armchair, I couldn't help but marvel at the gentle strength in his hands, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric of my shirt. Ren busied himself with preparing a cup of tea, his movements graceful and efficient as he navigated the cluttered space of the laboratory.

As I settled into the well-worn leather, I couldn't help but marvel at the tender attentiveness Ren displayed. I found myself hyper-aware of his movements, the graceful efficiency that belied his usual awkwardness. He'd grown more confident in recent weeks, coming into his own not just as a necromancer but as a young man. The change was subtle, but profound. It showed in the way he carried himself, the sureness of his hands as he worked, the quiet strength in his voice when he spoke of his theories.

When he reached across me to grab a book, his sleeve brushing my arm, I caught the scent of autumn leaves and ancient paper. It was the same scent that lingered in the necropolis after our evening lessons, when the line between student and teacher blurred into something dangerously close to partnership. When his magic would reach for mine without conscious thought.

It was as if, in this moment, I was the sole focus of his world, and the weight of that realization settled upon me like a warm blanket on a cold winter's eve.

The tea he prepared was perfect, exactly the way I liked it. He'd noticed, somehow, in those quiet moments after class when we'dshare tea and discuss necromantic theory. Just as he'd noticed how I preferred my books arranged by subject rather than author, how I always kept my chalk in the left drawer, how I took my tea stronger after particularly draining magical work.

These small observations of his, these quiet ways he'd learned to anticipate my needs, were more dangerous than any spirit could ever be. They made me want things I shouldn't want, hope for things I had no right to hope for.

“Thank you, Ren,” I managed to say, my voice rough with an emotion I dared not name. “Your kindness is a balm to my weary soul.”

A faint blush colored Ren's cheeks, and he ducked his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It's the least I can do after you’ve done so much for me.” He sank into the chair opposite me. “Dorian… I don’t know what it is that you’re doing in here all the time, but if I can help…”

His words, spoken with such earnest sincerity, struck a chord. It wasn't just his natural talent for necromancy that drew me to him, though that was remarkable enough. It was the way he approached death magic with reverence and compassion rather than desire for power. The way his magic felt when it brushed against mine during demonstrations, like finding a harmony I didn't know I'd been missing.

Every instinct I possessed as a necromancer told me our magics were compatible in a way I'd never experienced before. The kind of magical resonance that comes once in a lifetime, if you're lucky. The kind that the old books spoke about in terms that sounded suspiciously like love poetry.

In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to unburden myself, to lay bare the fears and doubts that plagued me, to seek solace in the steadfast strength of Ren's presence. I'd grown too accustomed to his presence in my daily routine—the way he'd appear in my office doorway with questions that grewincreasingly insightful, how he'd somehow know exactly when to push a fresh cup of tea across my desk, the quiet companionship as we worked side by side in comfortable silence. Each small kindness, each shared moment of understanding, wore away at my resolve like water smoothing stone.

My grandmother would say I was being foolish, trying to deny something as natural as the turning of seasons. “Magic knows what it wants,” she'd tell me in that knowing way of hers. “And so do hearts, if we're brave enough to listen.” But listening to my heart had proven dangerous before.

I hesitated, the specter of propriety and the weight of my position staying my tongue. To cross that line, to blur the boundaries between mentor and student, would be to invite a host of problems, none of which my young student should have to bear.

I drew a breath, steeling myself to deflect Ren's offer of assistance, when a sudden, bone-chilling shriek rent the air. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I leapt to my feet, the teacup tumbling from my grasp. In an instant, the laboratory erupted into chaos, as a maelstrom of unbound spirits burst forth from the ether, their ghostly forms twisting and writhing in a macabre dance of anguish.

They came for him first. These tortured souls recognized something in Ren that called to them, some echo of their own pain perhaps, or simply the depth of compassion that made him such a gifted necromancer. Their ethereal fingers reached for him with terrible purpose, and in that moment, I felt a fear more profound than any I'd known before.

Time seemed to slow as I moved to shield him.

The spirits' cold touch burned where they passed through me to reach for him, but I barely felt it. All I could focus on was Ren's presence behind me, the warmth of him, the soft catch of his breath as he realized what was happening.

I pushed Ren behind me and thrust out my hand, fingers splayed. I began to weave a complex pattern in the air, the arcane syllables of a binding incantation falling from my lips in a desperate torrent.

The spirits, twisted and tormented, surged forward in a relentless tide of anguish, their spectral forms flickering with an eldritch light that seared the eyes and chilled the soul. I poured every ounce of my will into the binding incantation, my voice rising above the cacophony of ghostly wails and shrieks. Yet for all my mastery of the necromantic arts, the spirits seemed to slip through my grasp like wisps of smoke in a gale.

Ren froze as the angry spirits swirled around him, grasping at his clothes, his hair, his very essence. The color drained from his face, and his knees buckled under the weight of the spirits' collective despair.

“Hold on, Ren!” I cried, my voice raw with desperation as I redoubled my efforts to contain the maelstrom. The arcane syllables tumbled from my lips in a frenzied torrent, each word imbued with the full force of my will, yet still the spirits pressed forward, their hunger insatiable.

And then, in a heart-stopping moment, Ren's eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been severed.

“Ren!” With a roar of desperation, I thrust my hands out, pouring all my power into the containment spell. It was enough to push the spirits back, away from Ren. The air crackled with eldritch energy, the hair on my arms standing on end as I wove the ethereal strands of power into a net, a gossamer-thin barrier against the onslaught of tormented spirits.

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