Page 8 of Magic in My Bones

He didn’t respond further, but gestured to the gathering students. “Come, gather round,” he called, and they formed a semi-circle.

“Welcome to necromancy,” Professor Crowe said. He raised his hand, and glowing spirits floated near him, surrounding him like a constellation.

“I imagine many of you come here with a bit of fear,” he continued, “or at least the weight of a hundred whispered warnings from friends or family. ‘Why study death?’ they may have asked. ‘Why take on the grim and the dark?’ But death, my friends, is not a horror. It is a soft threshold, a quiet passage. And beyond it, a new world awaits, full of possibility.”

The spirits began to gather around him in earnest, slowly forming a delicate halo. They hovered close, as if basking in his gentle presence, as he spoke on, his face lit with the faint glow of their ethereal light.

“The dead do not fear; they do not yearn,” he said. “Their souls are a flicker, faint but warm, resting where light and silence meet. In that place, the heart finds rest, and the spirit unfolds like a bud in the sun. We are more than flesh and bone, my friends. We are souls, woven of starstuff, born to dance inthe endless night. Sorrow fades, and pain, once held so close, dissolves like mist. We, as necromancers, honor that transition.”

The spirits pulsed, gathering around us like curious little things.

“Necromancy is not meddling with some forbidden force,” said the professor. “It is listening to what remains in the quiet. It’s about bridging the world of the living and the world of the departed, gently, carefully. It’s about learning to cradle memory, to find peace in that inevitable stillness. Remember this well: the art of necromancy is not about defying death. It is about understanding it. Loving it. Embracing it as a part of life. For death is not the end; it is a transformation, a release, where voices soften to whispers and the heart’s last thrum finds, at last, sweet rest. So let us honor this transition. The field beyond is not dark. It is vast, it is beautiful. And if you look closely, you may yet find the stars.”

The orbs of light drifted upward, slowly rising above him, their faint light casting a soft glow over the room. I stood transfixed, my heart thrumming in my chest as I watched the spirits dance above us, their gentle light reflecting in Professor Crowe's emerald eyes. His words had struck a chord deep within me, resonating with a truth I had always known but never quite had the language to express.

Death wasn't something to be feared or reviled. It was a natural part of the cycle, a doorway to a new kind of existence. And as necromancers, it was our duty, our privilege, to guide souls through that transition with compassion and respect.

As I stood there, bathed in the gentle glow of the spirits, I felt a sense of belonging wash over me. It was like finding a book written in a language you didn't know you could read until you opened it. Everything Professor Crowe said about death being a transition, about it being something beautiful rather than fearsome, resonated with the quiet truth I'd always felt but beenafraid to voice. Maybe that's why I'd been drawn to necromancy in the first place. Not because I was morbid or dark, but because I understood, somehow, that death was just another form of change. Like the way autumn leaves had to fall before spring could come again. Like the way I'd had to let parts of myself die so that other parts could finally live.

For the first time since arriving at Blackstone, I didn't feel like an outsider, a misfit stumbling my way through an alien world. Here, in this hidden city of the dead, surrounded by the whispered stories of the departed, I felt a sense of kinship, of purpose.

“Think of it this way,” Professor Crowe continued, absently straightening his sleeve cuff, a surprisingly human gesture for someone who radiated such otherworldly grace. “Every spirit has a story, just like every cup of tea has its own character. Some are bold and forthright, others subtle and complex. Our job isn't to force them to tell their tales, but to create the right conditions for sharing, just as one might warm the teapot before steeping.”

A few of my classmates exchanged confused glances at the tea metaphor, but something about it clicked perfectly in my mind. Maybe Luca's plant-based way of looking at the world was already rubbing off on me.

Professor Crowe's voice drew me back to the present. “And so, my dear students, we begin our journey together into the mysteries of death and what lies beyond.” He waved his hand, and a stack of papers on a nearby table began to distribute themselves, floating gently through the air to each of us.

I plucked mine from the air, my eyes scanning the elegant script. It was a syllabus, outlining our course of study for the semester. Communing with spirits, interpreting whispers from beyond the veil, rituals of remembrance and release. I couldn’t wait to dive into all of it.

“We will meet here, in the heart of the necropolis, every day Monday through Thursday,” Professor Crowe continued, his eyes meeting each of ours in turn. “I expect you to be prepared, both mentally and magically, to delve into the depths of necromantic arts.”

His gaze lingered on me for a moment, and I felt a flush creep up my neck.

As the class drew to a close and the other students began to file out, I lingered, pretending to study my syllabus as I snuck glances at Professor Crowe. He was gathering up his notes, the spirits still hovering around him like a celestial entourage.

I was just working up the nerve to approach him, to thank him for his beautiful words about death and necromancy, when he looked up, his emerald eyes locking with mine. My breath caught in my throat.

“Mr. Wickens,” he said, a soft smile playing at his lips. “Was there something you wished to discuss?”

“I... um...” I stammered, cursing the way my tongue seemed to tie itself in knots in his presence. “I just wanted to say thank you. For what you said about death and necromancy. It really resonated with me.”

Professor Crowe's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made my heart do a little flip in my chest. “I'm glad to hear that, Ren. May I call you Ren?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Ren,” he repeated, as if savoring the sound of my name on his tongue. “I know that it can sometimes be difficult for new students to settle in here, especially since you had so little notice before you were summoned.”

He was right. I had barely had time to pack a bag before being whisked off to Blackstone, my head still spinning with the revelation that I possessed a natural affinity for necromancy. Ithad all happened so fast, like a whirlwind of change sweeping me off to a strange new world.

“It's been a bit of an adjustment,” I admitted, fiddling with the edge of my syllabus. “I keep feeling like there's been some kind of mistake, like I don't really belong here with all these legacy students who have been preparing for this their whole lives. When I first discovered I could sense spirits, I thought I was going crazy. No one else in my family has any magical ability, unless you count my aunt's uncanny knack for finding lost keys.” I managed a weak smile. “Then when the invitation came... it felt like finally finding the last piece of a puzzle I didn't even know I was solving. But now I'm here, and everything's so grand and ancient and full of tradition, and I just...” I gestured helplessly at my worn hoodie and scuffed boots. “I feel like I'm play-acting at being a proper necromancer.”

Professor Crowe's expression softened further, a glimmer of what might have been recognition flickering in his eyes. “Ah, I see. You know, the most powerful magic often comes from those who had to discover it on their own, who had to learn to listen to the whispers of their own soul rather than simply following the well-worn paths of tradition. Ren, I assure you, there has been no mistake. The Arcanum does not extend invitations lightly. If you are here, it is because here is where you belong.”

I bit my lip, a well of emotion rising in my throat. “I just... I feel like I have to prove myself, you know? Prove that I deserve to be here, that I can keep up with everyone else despite my background.”

“And who are you trying to prove this to?” Professor Crowe asked gently, his head tilting slightly as he regarded me. “Your classmates? The other professors? Or is it perhaps yourself?”

He took a step closer, and I found myself caught in the gravity of his presence, like a moon trapped in the orbit of some greatcelestial body. The spirits around him seemed to pulse and shimmer, as if echoing his words.

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