Page 5 of The War of Four Winters

The memory of my death sleep made me shiver. My throat tightened. "Do what must be done."

Daraith nodded once, then began the ritual. He selected the longest of the silver needles and, with a surgeon's precision, inserted it at the base of the messenger's skull. The temperature dropped instantly. Frost crackled across the stone floor as he placed six more needles in specific points along the body's meridians.

My fingers brushed the hilt of my sword, seeking reassurance in its solid weight. An empty gesture. Steel meant nothing against what stirred in this place. Beside me, Elindir stood perfectly still, but I felt the tension radiating from him. He had been fully dead when Daraith carved out a piece of my living essence to bring him back. This was different. A violation rather than a restoration.

The necromancer worked in absolute silence, but the air itself seemed to vibrate with tension. The silver needles began to turn, rotating slowly in place without being touched. Black fluid seeped from the punctures. Not blood, but something older, something that existed between life and death. The shadows above us thickened, becoming almost solid, drawn to the working. The air grew heavy with the smell of old graves.

Then the messenger's chest rose suddenly with a sharp, indrawn gasp. His eyes opened, revealing only blackness where whites should be. A soft sigh followed as the spirit settled into its vessel.

"He is between worlds now," Daraith said, his voice tight with concentration. "Ask your questions, but be respectful. The dead offer their knowledge freely, but their time here is brief."

I stepped closer to the table, conscious of the sacred nature of this moment. "How many fighting men has Michail brought to Homeshore?"

The messenger's lips parted, his voice distant yet clear. "Three... thousand. Steel and... crossbows. Siege engines." His body trembled slightly, not in pain, but as if the physical form struggled to contain the ephemeral spirit.

"What of their defenses?" I asked. "Where might they be vulnerable?"

The dead elf's head turned slightly toward me, but no answer came. I looked to Daraith.

"He doesn't know the answer," Daraith said, adjusting one of the needles with careful fingers. "The spirit can only share knowledge it possessed in life. Choose another question before the connection weakens."

"Their leader. The one in the mask." I leaned closer, keeping my voice gentle despite my urgency. "What does Michail want? Why has he invaded now?"

"I heard him speak of..." The messenger's voice faltered, searching for memories. A single drop of black fluid traced a path from the corner of his mouth. "Eradication. Purification. Perfection." The messenger's body shivered. Black fluid began to leak from his eyes, nose, ears as the connection to the spirit world weakened.

"Something's changing," Aryn said, breaking his silence. He moved toward Daraith as the necromancer's expression grew strained. The shadows above us began to shift and flow, responding to some unseen disturbance.

"Daraith?" The concern in my brother's voice was evident.

"The spell..." Daraith's voice was strained, his face pale with exertion. "It's reaching its limit. I can't sustain it much longer." His words faltered as blood began trickling from his nose.

The messenger's body arched, his jaw opening wider as if trying to say more. The last words that emerged were barely audible, carried on a breath that seemed to come from the deepest reaches of the otherworld: "He wears a mask... to hide what he's becoming."

Then he was still. The unnatural darkness receded from his eyes, and his features relaxed into death's final peace. The shadows above diminished, and the oppressive cold began to lift.

"He's gone," Daraith said quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion. "The connection is broken." He sagged against the stone table. "Rest now, honored spirit."

Aryn moved to steady him, one hand coming to rest on the necromancer's shoulder.

I stepped back from the messenger's now still form. The body looked smaller somehow, more fragile in death's final embrace. Whatever spark of consciousness we had briefly called back had returned to wherever souls went when they truly passed.

Elindir stepped back from the table, his face tight with frustration. "That's all we get? Cryptic nonsense?"

"The dead rarely give straight answers," Daraith said, wiping blood from his nose with a shaking hand. "They see things differently. What seems clear to them comes to us in fragments and riddles."

I started to thank Daraith, but Aryn cut me off. "He needs rest." My brother's voice was quiet but carried an edge of steel as he steadied the necromancer. "No more workings. Not today. Not tomorrow." He did not add, 'or I will gut you myself,' but the message was clear in the way his hand lingered on Daraith's shoulder.

"Have the body prepared for proper burial," I ordered as we turned to leave. "With full rites."

Daraith bowed his head. "As you command, my king."

We left Daraith and Aryn in the undercroft to handle the ritual cleanup. The climb back to the surface felt longer than our descent, each step carrying us further from that realm of shadow and whispered secrets. Neither Elindir nor I spoke until we reached the top of the stairs.

The winter sunlight streaming through the fortress windows was too bright after the darkness below. My eyes watered as they adjusted, but I welcomed the momentary discomfort. It felt cleansing after what we had witnessed. I flexed my hands at my sides, trying to work away the lingering chill that had seeped into my bones. My fingers found the scar beneath my ribs without conscious thought, tracing the spot where Daraith had carved out his price months ago.

"You feel it too," Elindir said quietly, watching my hand. Not a question.

I nodded, letting my hand fall away from the old wound. "It never quite leaves you. Death magic."

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