Even the strongest hands cannot hold what time has promised to take.
By the time I stepped through the door, the sky outside had deepened to indigo. The house was quiet—too quiet, considering who I lived with.
Rolo practically skidded into the living room, hair tousled, a smear of ink across his cheek. His eyes darted over me.
"Shay!" His voice cracked. "What did you find out?"
I shrugged off my coat.
"Did you get anything about Aelric?" Rolo pressed, stepping closer. "Anything at all? His methods? His journals? Even some half-baked theory—"
Without answering, I pulled the small glass orb from my pocket and tossed it to him.
"That's all there is," I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "Just that."
His brow furrowed, mouth parting as if to ask more questions—but then he looked down at the sphere, saw the soft swirl of silvery light within, and fell silent.
"What's on it?" he whispered.
"His death."
Rolo's head snapped up, eyes wide. "His—death? That's it?"
"Yes." I moved past him, suddenly exhausted. Somewhere behind me, I heard him let out a shaky breath.
He stood there in the dim corridor, clutching the globe like it might vanish. The silence stretched between us, taut and brittle. I half-expected him to protest, to rant about wasted time and lost opportunities—but instead, he just swallowed hard, eyes bright with something raw.
"Alright," he said, voice catching. "I'll watch it."
Rolo didn't say another word. He just turned and walked off, gripping the memory globe like it was the only thing keeping him upright. A moment later I heard his door shut.
That was Rolo for you. Hide away with his books and papers and pretend it was all still manageable.
I stood there for a while in the empty living room, listening to the silence settle again. Then I climbed the staircase, each step a dull echo.
At the top, I paused outside Alex's room. The door stood ajar, washed in a dim wash of lamplight.
I pushed it open.
Inside, it was quiet but for the faint sound of Mose's breathing. He lay on the bed, pale and unmoving, blankets pulled up to his chest. Someone—probably Alex—had left fresh water and changed the linens. The faint scent of herbs lingered in the air.
I stepped closer, hand ghosting over the bedpost. There was no change. No twitch of an eyelid, no catch in his breath. Just that same troubling stillness.
"You're missing all the excitement," I murmured, trying for levity. It didn't quite land.
Mose didn't answer, of course. He just lay there, caught in whatever dream kept him from waking.
I stayed a few minutes longer, watching his chest rise and fall, then left as silently as I'd come. I didn't make it far down the hall before the temperature dropped. The air grew thin, brittle, like frost creeping over glass.
I stopped.
"Simon," I said quietly.
He stood just beyond the pool of lamplight, more a distortion of the shadows than a figure. Eyes like hollow lanterns fixed on me, the rest of him blurred at the edges.
"You've been busy," he said, voice thin and echoing with that undertone of the grave.
I sighed, weary. "If you're here to lecture me—"
"Not this time." His shape shifted closer, the cold wrapping around my shoulders. A spectral hand lifted, and something tugged at the back of my mind.
The hall dissolved.
I stood in the narrow, crooked streets of the lower quarter. The air was damp, heavy with mildew and old ash.
Alice stumbled into view, thin and pale beneath his heavy cloak. His breath wheezed, each step looking like it cost him far more than it should.
He paused to glance over his shoulder, wary. Des had stationed hunters near the house to keep him in bed, but clearly it hadn't worked. The stubborn idiot had slipped past them.
Alice pressed on, coughing into his sleeve, until he reached the gates of the old cemetery. The rusted iron stood half open. Beyond it, gravestones lay in crooked rows, half-sunken in moss. Lanterns flickered weakly against the growing fog.
At the far end of the path loomed a crumbling chapel—its stone walls streaked black with age, its windows dark hollows.
Alice climbed the cracked steps, every movement strained. He paused before the heavy door. Then he knocked—sharp, urgent.
The door opened with a hollow sigh.
The Necromancer stood there, draped in his funereal black attire. No polite greeting. Just that empty stare, ancient and patient. Then, slowly, the Necromancer stepped back, pulling the heavy door open wider. "Come inside."
Alice hesitated on the threshold. His breath steamed in the cold air, shoulders tight with hesitation. Then he stepped over, drawn by something in the Necromancer's hollow regard that wasn't quite unkind.
The Necromancer gestured to one of the chairs. "Sit. You look as though the wind might carry you off if I let it."
Alice sank into the chair, coughing softly into his hand. His pallor seemed sharper in the firelight, dark circles bruising his eyes.
The Necromancer sat opposite, folding long fingers together. "Now. Tell me, child—why did you come here?"
Alice swallowed, throat working. "Because you're the only one left who might give me an honest answer."
The Necromancer was silent for a long time, the fire popping between them. Then he leaned back, eyes glinting with something that might have been regret.
"And what will you do," he murmured, "if the truth I offer isn't the one you wish to hear?"
"I need to know." Alice leaned forward, shoulders trembling, eyes fever-bright in the firelight. "I've come because I can't see anymore."
"Answer me this," he said, voice catching. "Why can't I see it anymore? Why can't I look into the future? Is it because something is blocking it? Because something worse is coming?"
The Necromancer's gaze settled on him, deep and sorrowful. "No," he said at last, his words almost tender.
At last, he spoke, voice low and edged with something close to pity. "Because you no longer belong to this world."
Alice recoiled as if slapped. "What—what does that mean?"
"It means you are caught between life and death, neither here nor there," the Necromancer said, folding skeletal hands in his lap. "The future will not reveal itself to one who is already half-claimed by the beyond."
Alice sat frozen, the words hanging heavy between them. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows over his gaunt face, but he didn't seem to feel its warmth.
The Necromancer leaned forward, voice softer now. Not cruel. Just inevitable.
"You should have died twice already."
Alice's head snapped up. "What?"
"The poison from the half-blood—it was meant to stop your heart in three days. It nearly did. And again, when you fought Liou and Pitou you should have died in the battle."
Alice looked away, jaw tight, throat bobbing.
Alice swallowed hard, eyes wide.
"But Shaytan changed your fate," the Necromancer went on, voice gentle, almost regretful. "Again and again, he reached into the threads and pulled you back. Elongated your path, even if by a few steps. A few years. But fate is not so easily cheated."
He leaned forward slightly, the shadows deepening in the hollows of his face.
"You see, every soul is born with a certain measure of life. Imagine it as timber set aside for your fire. Some are given great towering stacks, enough to burn bright and long. Others only a modest pile. Once that timber is spent, the flame must go out, no matter who tries to feed it."
Alice's eyes shone with moisture. His lips parted, but no sound came.
"So yes," the Necromancer finished, voice soft as burial cloth. "Shaytan spared you then, and then again. But it did not add wood to your fire. It only meant your fuel was burned more slowly, carried forward when it should have already been ash. Now, there is little left. That is why your sight fails you—because there is no more future for your gift to reach."
The Necromancer's voice dropped lower, steady but heavy.
"Today is the third time I should have ended your life."
Alice's breath caught, but he didn't move. He didn't try to flee, didn't reach for some desperate escape. He simply sat, pale and weary.
For a long moment, the Necromancer was silent—his unnervingly green eyes distant, pensive, as if weighing the weight of centuries. Then he spoke again, softer this time.
"You have suffered much. More than I expected when I first glimpsed your thread. I will grant you a peaceful life. A chance for your soul to rest."
Alice closed his eyes.
Alice's lips curved into a faint, weary smile—a fragile thing, like a candle flickering in the dark.
"Please," he said softly. "Don't grant me a new life just now."
The Necromancer's hollow eyes widened, a flicker of something close to surprise—or maybe disbelief—passing over his face.
"Why?"
Alice's gaze drifted toward the flickering fire, shadows dancing in his pale eyes.
"I'm waiting for someone."
A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths.
The Necromancer leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin, studying the young seer as if seeing him for the first time.
The seer caught a flicker of understanding in the Necromancer's eyes, yet no smile followed—only a profound sorrow. When the Necromancer rose silently and stepped toward him, icy fingers brushing gently against his cheek, Alice was certain that touch was meant for someone else. As the darkness claimed him, he offered no resistance. He knew—this was death.
"You have one last chance," the Necromancer's voice echoed, though Alice couldn't tell from where. The words reverberated deep within his skull. Slowly, he opened his eyes to an all-consuming darkness. Though nothing was visible, it felt like standing on solid ground.
"This," the Necromancer began as Alice instinctively turned his gaze aside, "is the remainder of your life force."
In the summoner's palms rested a tiny spark, an ember-like bead glowing faintly. Alice stepped closer and extended his hand. The Necromancer dropped the warm, comforting spark into his palm.
"This little life force means nothing to me," the Necromancer said. "If you choose, I will leave it with you. It won't grant much time, but at least you can say goodbye."
Alice met the Necromancer's eyes—dark, deep, and devoid of emotion, yet somehow filled with pain lurking beneath the surface. He sensed this kindness wasn't truly for him; the Necromancer sought to save himself, not Alice's soul. Still, Alice was grateful.
"But be warned," the summoner said softly, "if you take this path, your life and your death will be painful."
Alice nodded, resolute. Even if only for a few days, if he could spend them with his love, he would endure any suffering.
The Necromancer chuckled—though joy was absent from his voice. "You are truly special, child. I have never heard of anyone who evaded death three times."
A gentle smile touched Alice's lips. He inhaled deeply and softly blew on the ember, which burst into a slow, lazy flame. When he looked up, the faint smile remained. Gironde Mehisto, that night, gazed again in surprise at the hunter before him. Then he laughed—genuine amusement this time—and Alice swore he glimpsed a flicker of emotions dancing in his eyes.
"Thank you," Alice whispered, closing his eyes.
When consciousness returned, Alice stood before the gates of Somogy cemetery. No ominous mist, no Necromancer in sight; the gates were closed. Yet a warmth stirred deep in his chest—more real than anything he'd known. Tentatively, he placed his hand over his heart, smiled faintly, and stepped into the night.
Gironde Mehisto sipped the last of his tea and glanced at the cracked transparent pawn resting on the chessboard. The piece seemed ready to shatter at any moment. His gaze then shifted to the skull lounging in the armchair, lips curling slightly.
"This child really resembles you, Nancy," he murmured.
The cold grip around my hand loosened abruptly. Simon's touch faded like a shadow retreating at dawn, leaving me gasping for breath as though I'd been underwater far too long.
I blinked against the darkness lingering behind my eyelids, struggling to ground myself in the silence of the empty hall. My heart thundered in my chest.
I could have gone to the Necromancer myself. I had thought about it, more than once. But I hadn't. I was too afraid of the truth.
Because of that, Alice had to face it alone.
"I should visit him," I said quietly.
"Yes," Simon said, his voice a whisper like frost cracking on stone. "You should visit him."
His words were simple, but they struck deeper than any rebuke.
A cold hand hovered briefly near my shoulder—not quite touching, yet I felt the chill sink into my bones all the same.
Then Simon faded, leaving only the echo of his hollow presence behind.
My jaw tightened.