Someone was speaking to him. It was a woman he knew very well. She had styled her hair so it had white on the fringes. She didn’t approve of the trend of white hair that Feren liked, but she did borrow his dye. She was laughing, trying to tug him up, but he was obstinately sitting.

“Doesn’t it sound like a wonderful idea? Esche’s got no talent. But I thought—a dancing skeleton? Why not an undead that only dances? I’m working on a new face. I will teach it to dance—nothing else. No biting, no fighting. Doesn’t it sound amazing?”

Feren pretended to be reluctant. He glanced up.

“I would much rather you help create that Fencing Ghoul we’re trying to make.”

“I don’t feel like murdering people, Feren.”

“Purely self-defense. Why does Pisces know courtly dances?”

“He watches the other nobles. He’s a handsome young man—”

“And I’m not?”

Gewilena laughed. She took Feren’s hand.

“You’re older. Don’t be angry. He can still go home.”

“He’s not one of us. Not yet.”

“Then let him never be. But come dance. Or did Az’kerash never dance? Did he never smile? You don’t have to be him in every way.”

Feren sighed, or again, pretended to. He followed her more quickly.

“Az’kerash danced. I have it on good authority. I practice [Flash Step] every day, and he was a master.

Don’t you see me teaching Pisces? Now he thinks he’ll teach me footwork?”

“Well, isn’t he teaching you fencing?”

Feren huffed, muttering, and she laughed. He followed her towards the barn. Inside, he would watch the others stumble around, maybe step out to practice, then offer her a dance. It was a flawless plan.

Instead, that day, he watched her burn.

There was no trial. No imprisonment.

[Necromancer].

Feren remembered waking up in the forest by their burning farmstead, bodies lying around him. He dragged himself up and ran past the carnage, thinking he was dreaming, having a nightmare…too late.

He saw it all happen from the top of a hill. He only found Gewilena later.

The [Necromancer] looked up, kneeling in the grass. He stared at the distant town and the keep.

“I had no power that day. I have no power today, to change the past. I will never have that magic, if I search a thousand years. If it were possible—he would have changed his dark fate. We all would.”

He looked around. The dead stood silent. Feren was bleeding. He was slightly drunk.

But she was right.

“The power to change what truly matters. What did they do to you? This continent is so weary. So old.

Nothing ever changes.”

Feren stared at his hands, wearily.

“Then let it end. Pisces, my friend. You…”

He bit back old curses. Old hatred.