Page 32 of Magic in My Bones

Erasmus hovered his translucent hand over Ren's forehead, ghostly fingers tracing the air above the rune. Ren remained perfectly still, though I could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight furrow of his brow.

“This mark, it is of ancient Celtic origin,” Erasmus intoned, his voice taking on a distant quality, as if he were peering into the mists of time. “A sigil used by an ancient cult that worshippedthe eldritch god Dagon. They were known for their... unsavory practices.”

A chill ran down my spine at the mention of Dagon. The very name seemed to darken the air, the candles flickering nervously in their pools of melted wax. I had come across whispers of this deity in my studies, always in the most obscure and esoteric of texts. A primordial being associated with the depths of the ocean, with madness and transformation. Never had I imagined it would have a connection to Ren.

“Unsavory practices?” I prompted.

Erasmus nodded gravely. “Yes. The mark upon your brow, young Wickens, is a sigil of selection. It designates you as an intended sacrifice to Dagon, a vessel through which the cult believed they could channel the god's power.”

A wave of cold dread washed over me. A sacrifice. Ren, my brilliant and determined apprentice, marked for such a grim fate. It was unthinkable.

I stepped closer to Ren, my hand coming to rest on his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance and protection. He glanced up at me, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of fear and resolute bravery. Even in the face of this chilling revelation, he held himself with a quiet strength that never ceased to amaze me.

“Erasmus,” I said. “Tell us more about this cult, their practices. How was the sacrifice chosen? What did the ritual entail?”

The ghostly linguist regarded me solemnly, the weight of centuries heavy in his gaze. “The cult of Dagon was known for their obsession with immortality. They believed that by offering a worthy vessel to their god, they could gain eternal life. The selection process was complex, involving a series of arcane rituals designed to test the potential sacrifice's strength of will and purity of spirit.”

He drifted closer to Ren, translucent fingers hovering just above the rune. “This mark is but the first step. It identifiesyoung Wickens as a candidate, but the process is not yet complete. Another ritual must be performed, one that will bind his soul irrevocably to Dagon.”

The words hung heavy in the air, a chilling portent of what lay ahead. I could feel Ren's tension beneath my hand, and all it made me want to do was scoop him up, squeeze him tight, and tell him everything was going to be all right.

“Is there a way to remove the mark?” I asked, my voice steady despite the dread coiling in my gut. “To sever the connection before the final ritual can be performed?”

Erasmus' translucent brow furrowed, his gaze distant, as if consulting some unseen library of arcane knowledge. “It may be possible,” he murmured after a long moment. “Not all marks hold fast. There are tales of bonds greater than those forged by dark gods... yet they are rare indeed. When a soul knows its own name, its true shape, and finds itself mirrored in the heart of another, it becomes a force not easily claimed. Such a soul may even defy promises made to the old ones.”

Ren's eyes widened as he absorbed Erasmus's cryptic words. I could practically see the gears turning in his brilliant mind, trying to parse out the meaning behind the riddle.

“Bonds greater than those forged by dark gods,” Ren repeated softly. “A soul knowing its true shape...” He glanced up at me, a glimmer of hope and something else, something tender and unnamed, flickering in his dark eyes.

My heart stumbled in my chest. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to gather Ren in my arms, to shield him from the sinister forces that sought to claim him. But I couldn't. Not yet.

I cleared my throat, turning back to Erasmus. “Thank you, Master Cavendish. Your insight has been invaluable. Is there anything else you can tell us about the cult, or the rituals involved in the sacrifice?”

The ghostly linguist shook his head, his form beginning to flicker and fade at the edges. “I fear my time grows short. The veil between worlds is not easily held open. But know this: the cult of Dagon was not easily thwarted. They were patient, calculating, and utterly ruthless in their pursuit of immortality. If they have marked young Wickens, they will not rest until the ritual is complete. Remain vigilant. Hold fast to that which is dearest and you may yet thwart them.”

With those final, ominous words, Erasmus Cavendish's spectral form dissipated, his translucent robes dissolving into wisps of ethereal mist. The candles sputtered back to life, their warm glow a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in my bones.

I turned to Ren, my hand still resting on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Ren drew in a shaky breath, his gaze meeting mine with a vulnerability that tugged at my heartstrings. “Dorian, I...” He swallowed, fingers twisting in the hem of his sleeve, a nervous habit I'd come to find endearing over our weeks of study together. His magic reached for mine unconsciously. “I know we said we'd keep things professional, but... would it be inappropriate for me to ask for a hug right now?”

A wave of tenderness washed over me, and I felt the corners of my mouth lift in a gentle smile. “My dear Ren, given the circumstances, I believe a hug would be wholly appropriate.”

I opened my arms, and Ren stepped into my embrace without hesitation. As I wrapped my arms around his lean frame, I was struck by how perfectly he fit against me. Like we were two pieces of an ancient puzzle finally sliding into place. His magic reached for mine instinctively, death magic recognizing death magic, creating a resonance that made the candles flicker and the dried herbs release their essential oils in gentle waves.Even the spirits seemed to hold their breath, as if recognizing something profound in this moment.

I could feel his heartbeat against my chest, steady despite everything, and found myself cataloging every detail: the way his fingers curled into my shirt, the subtle scent of ritual herbs clinging to his hair, the warmth of him seeping through layers of professional restraint I'd built up over the years.

I inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of him—a delicate blend of sage from the ritual, the earthy musk of graveyard soil, and something uniquely Ren, warm and inviting. It was a scent I knew I would forever associate with this moment, with the realization of just how much this brilliant, brave young man had come to mean to me.

We held each other for a long moment, the silence of the ritual chamber broken only by the soft crackle of the candles and the steady rhythm of our hearts beating in tandem. Ren's breath was warm against my neck, and I could feel the rise and fall of his chest pressed against mine. In that sacred space, with the weight of Erasmus' revelations still hanging in the air, it felt as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of us, entwined in an embrace that transcended the boundaries of teacher and student.

“Dorian?” Ren said at length.

“Yes, dear boy?”

“I’m not okay. I’m scared.”

My heart constricted at Ren's vulnerable admission. I tightened my embrace, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, my fingers threading through his soft, dark hair. “I know, Ren. I know. But you're not alone in this. We're going to figure it out together, I promise you.”

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