Once they were out, he slammed the door after them, catching a glimpse of his brethren, their shadows hesitant and wavering, stumbling towards the sickle-waving Rippers. He locked the door to their screams, and half-stumbled down the steps.

Six Necromancers remained down here, plus the White Cleaver and Craven himself, all looking towards Melancholia, who sat with her head down, the hood covering her face, making it impossible for Craven to judge her mood. If any kind of a pattern had emerged, her mental instability would have grown along with her power, and he didn’t want to be on the receiving end the next time she lashed out. He motioned to the Necromancer nearest him.

“Solus,” he said. “Make sure the Death Bringer is able to stand.” Solus stared at him. “Me?”

“Do not make me repeat my instructions,” Craven said tartly, making sure he stood beside the White Cleaver.

Solus hesitated, then took a step, and another, until he stood before Melancholia.

“Um,” he said. “Death Bringer? Are you, uh… Are you OK? Do you need anything?”

Melancholia didn’t look up. Outside the door, there were more screams and howls of pain.

“Only,” Solus continued, “we don’t have an awful lot of time, and… and we really need you to initiate the Passage at your earliest convenience.”

“Are you telling me what to do?” came Melancholia’s soft voice from beneath the hood.

Craven watched Solus go pale. “No,” he whispered. “I’d never presume to…” His words failed him, and he stood there, and a tear actually rolled down his cheek.

Melancholia’s shoulders rose and fell in a weary sigh. “Oh, Solus,” she said.

“Please don’t kill me,” Solus said.

Melancholia stood up slowly. “But your death will add to my strength.”

“Please, I want to stay alive.”

“You’re a Necromancer. You’re meant to embrace death.”

“I… I don’t embrace it… I’m scared of it…”

“I know you are. I know you all are. Which tells me that none of you truly understands.” She took her hood down, and when she opened her eyes to look at the gathered Necromancers, they were glowing red. “You’re hypocrites. All of you. You talk of the stream of life and death, you talk of the beauty of it. But the true beauty is to become part of it, to flow from this existence into the next. Yet the Passage is meant to block the stream. Why?”

Craven forced himself to step forward and inject some authority into his voice. “Melancholia,” he said, hoping no one noticed how high-pitched he sounded, “these are philosophical discussions best left to the scholars in the classrooms. You have fulfilled your potential at such a young age that you have not yet had the opportunity to see these arguments resolved. Therefore, you must trust in our judgement and wisdom that this course of action is best for everyone.”