Page 7 of Magic in My Bones

I snorted. “Wouldn't want you exploding all over our new room.”

Luca grinned. “Nope. These stone walls have seen enough bodily fluids over the centuries.” He paused, then added, “Seriously, Ren, your identity is yours to share or not. I’m just glad we’re roommates.”

A lump formed in my throat, the relief overwhelming. “Thanks, Luca. That... that means a lot.”

Luca shrugged, smiling softly. “Anytime. Now, let’s get breakfast before the good muffins are gone. Blueberry ones are to die for.”

I glanced at the clock. “Shit, I’m going to be late for class!” I grabbed my bag, text, and compass. “Thanks again. I’ll see you later?”

Luca gave a thumbs up. “Absolutely. Go conquer the afterlife!”

I rushed out, letting the door slam behind me. The stone corridors were already busy with students hurrying to their first classes. I tried to ignore the curious glances and whispered comments.

“Who's that?” a girl murmured.

“Must be one of the scholarship kids,” her friend replied. “I know all the legacy families and I don't recognize him.”

I gritted my teeth and kept walking, cheeks burning with embarrassment and indignation. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard comments like that at Blackstone. The school was known for its elite student body, the scions of ancient magical families. And then there was me: Ren Wickens, the working-class kid from the wrong side of the tracks.

I hurried down the hall, comparing myself to the other students. They seemed confident, self-assured, their uniforms crisp. I tugged at my hoodie, wishing I could disappear into its folds.

I ducked into the graveyard on the north end of campus, a shortcut to the necromancy building and a place where I felt strangely at home. The noise of the academy faded, replaced by the heavy silence of the dead.

The graveyard was ancient, the headstones worn smooth by centuries. Gnarled oaks twisted overhead, their leaves whispering secrets only the dead could understand. The air smelled of damp earth and decaying flowers, both melancholy and comforting.

As I walked, I felt the spirits tug at my magic, like ghostly fingers plucking invisible strings. It was a sensation I'd grown used to, the hum of death magic in my veins. Some necromancers found it unsettling, but to me, it was soothing, like a lullaby.

Small patches of glowing moss traced patterns between the headstones. Midnight bluebells nodded in a breeze I couldn’tfeel. A spectral raven perched nearby, its eyes gleaming with intelligence that made me wonder if it was really a raven.

I was so lost in the melody of the dead that I almost walked past my destination. Nestled between two mausoleums was a small, weathered door.

I paused, heart thrumming with a mix of trepidation and anticipation. This was it, the entrance to the necropolis beneath Blackstone Academy. I grasped the cool iron handle and swung the door open, revealing a stone staircase descending into the earth.

I stepped forward, my footsteps echoing as I descended into the unknown.

At the bottom, I emerged into a vast underground cavern, a macabre city stretching before me consisting of tombs, mausoleums, and catacombs carved from bedrock. Ghostly wisteria vines draped over the mausoleums, casting shifting shadows. Gardens flourished with plants thriving in death magic. The air was thick with dark earth and ancient stone, mingled with something sweeter.

Paper lanterns floated, marking pathways, and spirits swirled like mist in the spectral light. Despite the deathly atmosphere, it felt oddly homey, like stepping into a peculiar neighborhood.

I marveled at the sight, my heart pounding. The scale, the intricacy, the raw power of it all, was exhilarating.

I wanted to explore, to commune with every spirit, but I accidentally collided with someone. Stumbling back, I found myself face-to-face with a tall, imposing figure in a black uniform. One of the first-year legacy necromancers.

“Watch where you're going, scholarship boy,” he sneered, his icy blue eyes raking over me.

My cheeks burned, but not from embarrassment. Anger flared instead. Just once, I wished these legacy kids would see past their pedigrees to recognize talent.

“Sorry,” I said, voice neutral. “Still learning my way around.”

His lip curled. “Clearly. My family has walked these halls for generations…”

“And now they're being walked by others, too,” I cut in, surprising myself with my boldness.

Professor Crowe appeared, moving with grace like a raven, his green tie slightly crooked and grave dirt on his sleeve. Spirits seemed to dance around him, swaying to an invisible melody.

Professor Crowe’s piercing green eyes seemed to see right through me. “Ah, Mr. Wickens,” he said with a warm smile. “Welcome to the necropolis.”

I closed my mouth. “Thank you, Professor.”

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