They say that the Age of Sorcery is dead. They say the practice of harnessing Souls is confined to the hands of the few, that the Wonders of old are all fading Ruins. It is now the mundane, the material that must arise to replace what I consider sacred. The Age of Sorcery is dead, they say, and the Age of Iron and Man has risen in its place. But I am not so easily cowed. For over a day now, I’ve shut myself inside a long-abandoned hovel on the outskirts of Levanska, a city along the way to Drazivaska, beyond the walls and amongst the fields only worked in the lukewarm summers. Most of the others chose to recuperate inside the relative safety of the walls. Only Feia stayed with me, as she was now, crouched like a wild thing in the corner, occasionally watching intently as I worked the weave of Sorcery over a tied and bound Shell. Instead of the ancient, fraying robe they’d found me in, I now wore the garb of a wandering warrior. Wraps covered my lower legs, containing bunches of cloth that clung to each leg they called breeches, multiple layers of tunics necessary for the cold and harsh winds of the north, and an open front cloak that clasped at the top. Much of this was from the leftover gear from two men who died in Rotaalan, so that now I not only had their language but their clothing. And, of course, it was all too short for my long limbs, requiring modification.

  The journey from Kresimir’s Folly to the outcropping city-state of Levanska was a tiring, cold one. We had sailed across the sea to land on the northern shore, then marched south, encountering little but remnants of roads; empty, stretching fields the others called the Duman Plains; tiny hamlets; and an occasional ancient Shell roaming the windswept tundra. They were crude but useful tools. Thus far, my cautious attempts at diagnosing the blockage in Sorcery through careful probing and analysis had been less conclusive than I’d hoped for. Controlling the Dead, for instance, was more laborious than it ought to be by a fair margin—meaning vast armies of my creation were no longer an option unless I found some concentrated pool of Souls for my disposal. Like something in Drazivaska, for instance.

  Indeed, Emalia had spoken of the Ruin’s potential for Artifacts but also the histories that might reside there, loosing light upon the fleeing, hazy facts of my people’s fate. Though she knew little, she swore to help me find what could be recovered in the ruinous city, where folly had led to a necrotic disaster unprecedented in my times.

  “It’s a gut-speak,” Feia said as she idly worked away at a piece of wood with a small blade, “the language of the mind. Don’t listen, but feel the magic. It speaks through me, not I through it.”

  I squinted at the Shell. It was missing half its flesh, with more bone exposed than optimal. The energy of Souls was bound to its bones, yes, but when lacking its original structure, the imbued Soul would slowly leak energy, requiring higher upkeep. Still, it would have to do. “The language of the mind? There is no such thing. All thoughts are born from the framework of spoken language as we understand it. That is why I was able to absorb the language of your dead companion.”

  “His name was Sadoch, and he was a warrior of the band,” she said, pausing in her whittling. “You’d do well not to disrespect the dead who’d given their lives for your resuscitation, Soul-speaker.”

  “He was gone. There was nothing left in him. To make use of him is respect.”

  She cackled a laugh that spoke to her secret humor. “You have a scavenger’s mind. But perhaps his richly-flavored hate for the Vasians is well carried in your flourishing, Magistros.”

  I glared up from the Shell. “Do not use titles with me. Those who should speak it are bones and dust and lost memories.”

  “My apologies then.” She resumed her carving. “Do not let me keep you from your experimentations. The gods watch on hungrily for a return, as do I.”

  A return, you say? I thought, shaking my head. This woman was a curious thing, speaking in odd riddles as if she knew all the answers but wouldn’t speak them aloud. Regardless, she was right. I imagined whatever gods of my people remained watched on hungrily from their home of ruins for my delivery of justice. And it started here. With this lone Shell. Well, this Shell and the pile of dead I’d dug from the earth, stacked carefully in the corner, with one subject adjacent to my undead specimen. I smiled. For all the dangers in committing what Feia amusingly assured me was a crime, the payoff could be immense. Besides, based on the information Nifont had provided me, it might also net another fortunate windfall.

  I dragged a fresh body over and aligned it alongside the Shell. True to form, the Shambler stopped writhing toward me and instead tried to bite at the body beside it. Trying to consume the flesh hosting heavier traces of Soul, are you? Well, I shall give you something more, Dead one. Raising my hands to the fallen heavens, I closed my eyes to see the world of Spirits. They flowed like water currents through the mundane, thicker as one rose higher towards the sky, where they would eventually coalesce in that distant realm I’d tried so hard to pierce long ago. The Spirits were restless, writhing like their embodied companion upon my floor. What had done this to them? Why were they so… desperate? Regardless, I allowed myself to become their temporary vessel, their waterwheel—and through me, they flowed. But controlling the stream was far more difficult than it had any right to be, rushing through me like a white-water river, threatening to Corrupt. But I kept the Soul energy moving, directing it into the fresh corpse and, from it, to the Shell. Enriched with the vitality of the recently killed, the Shell strained against its bondage with a renewed vigor. But that was not the only change. Its muscles, once dilapidated strings allowing for only the smallest infusion of Soul energy, grew into bulky cables. Its bones thickened, the hollow deposits where marrow once sat now filled with the stuff of raw death, thick and heavy and dark, like shadow given solidity—a mixture of black rot and sterile, gleaming skeletons. The Shell, slowly becoming more, let loose a deathly scream. It lacked the organs to make noise, but this was a voice of Sorcery, not biology. And to this, I smiled.

  Before me, renaissance. Before me, resurrection. Before me, possibility.

  With one final push of Sorcerous death, I filled the roaming, mindless dead as much as I dared, bending its bones, cracking and reforming its face, making its coagulated blood thump through its veins in a mockery of anatomy. Instead of vitality, Sorcery was circulated through its form. The bindings burst apart as it heaved and twisted to its feet. And rising, standing upright, my creation was a thing of wonder to a world without memory of beauty. It was taller than I by more than a hand, with skin pale and lifeless and sectioned up by dark veins, eyes an unnatural black; it looked like a mockery of my kind. As it should, for the process of its construction was designed by my people, centuries ago. It was the bane of the Vasians who had stolen me from my home, who’d killed my sister, who’d erased my people from history. It was the equivalent of a professional backbone to any levy-filled army.

  An innovation upon the Reapers, or what were now called Greyskins. It was a Soulborne.

  “Rotaal’s Fire,” Feia muttered. “What is this Greyskin?”

  “It is a Soulborne.” I stepped up to it, pushing my will into its mind, overwhelming its innate desire to snap out at me. Immediately, it stood straighter, head lowering like a beaten pup’s. Understand your place, your purpose. You are a tool for my end, creature of Souls. I stared up at it, whispering, “And I shall name you Protis. First-born of many.”

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  “And what does this Soulborne reveal about the mysteries of Sorcery?”

  I blinked, cutting off the flow of mind-mapped instructions I was inscribing into my creation’s slow mind. Right, the questions of Sorcery. “Its form is maintaining, which indicates imbued objects do not suffer the same difficulties of Soul decay and instability we experience with Spells.” I closed my eyes, peering through the unseen layers. Indeed, the Soul bound to its bones seemed stable and secure. “Which then suggests this difficulty is experienced primarily due to casting and the matter of controlling the active flow of Sorcery. Or, pulling it down from the heavens.”

  “And what revelations does this uncovering uncover?”

  I gave the grinning witch a look of contemplation. “It means the path forward is not through grand spells and spinnings of Soulfire, but through the Dead. And of necromancy, as you understand it, I will have to do it all the slow way. No pulling hordes of Dead from the soil as I once did.” I looked back at the Soulborne and into its empty, black eyes. “No, I will have to craft each one of my weapons of war as I did this one.”

  “Certainly a lengthier process,” she muttered. “But it may offer a chance for preparation and reflection. The path before you, before us, will be long and treacherous, with the consequences nearing monumental. This much is clear.”

  I was silent for a long moment, the urge to question her odd declarations almost overpowering. Instead, I paused and considered. “You believe we can help each other?”

  “More than that, Daecinus Aspartes. The trail has emerged, open and promising.”

  After a heavy sigh, I turned from the Soulborne and leaned against the wall, instructing it telepathically to stand watch by the window. It did. “Emalia has spoken some of the havoc wreaked by out-of-control Sorcerers in the history following my capture. Pethya’s legacy will not be a single final scream of anger and the utter destruction levied by its one final survivor. I will do better… Whatever path you believe is before us. But first, I must find the truth of what happened. And when it is done, only then will I attempt to administer justice.”

  “Justice,” she repeated, words hollow as old bone, spoken with some intention beyond my insight. “The sounds of this word are euphoric to the ears of the victims. I, too, wished for fire and blood to those who’d crossed me, Daecinus Aspartes. I wished it with my heart and the heart of the gods.” That empty look disappeared, faded as a strange expression crossed her face—it was one of exposed hesitance, of caution, of vulnerability. “But when I had those men strung up on trees, cut open to bleed, begging for forgiveness, for mercy… My Soul did not taste the salve it had been wishing for.”

  I observed her carefully. “What happened to you?”

  “A tale older than yours. A suffering ancient and undying as Sorcery itself.” She smiled at me, but it was cold and empty, a veneer if I’d ever seen one. “Yet, my justice was not enough. It was temporary, skin-deep.”

  I pushed from the wall and came closer to her. “Are you telling me that my pursuit is one of folly? Because hear this, Feia, I yearn for this vengeance not for my own satisfaction, but for the lives of those lost. Of those dear to me.”

  “As did I,” she said, unsettlingly calm and self-possessed. “But more is yet to be done. And you must be ready for the path ahead if you are to take it. I will not join the half-hearted.”

  My response was cut off, for there was a knock at the door.

  “Ah,” I said, striding away from the closest thing I had to a friend in this new world, eager to escape the moralizing, “that would be Nifont.”

  And indeed it was. He stood in the doorway, breathing heavy, his dark, hooded eyes flicking up to me. “Here.” He nodded back to a mule-drawn cart where a few of the other men were guarding, wary expressions on me, likely judging if it had all been worth it. Oskar had encouraged participation under Nifont, offering some meager pay for their efforts today, and they were likely regretting it, sweaty and haggard as they were. But in the covered cart were the sounds of the Dead. More Shells. More Soulborne. I felt a smile creep across my face. This isn’t much, but it’s a beginning. Every army must start from somewhere, and even if I lack the Sorcerers and resources as before, I will not be stopped so easily. My mind was racing. Yes, this was a slow beginning, but suppose I could find others amiable to my cause, others with training in Sorcery. Even Feia could be trained to assist, though she lacked the strength to control many Soulborne herself…

  “So, Sorcerer,” one of the mercenaries to the side said, “what are all these for? You raising Dead? Isn’t that dangerous? Conspicuous?”

  One of the others elbowed him in the side, shutting him up. I thought his name was Waker, but I could’ve been mistaken. “We don’t mean to pry, Daecinus. Apologies.”

  “No, no,” I said, a calming hand out, “while we met in unfortunate circumstances… I am with you now, so you need not treat me as a threat to be avoided.” My words seemed to ease Waker’s tensed shoulders, but the other men still looked at me with an ill-disguised guardedness. So it seems puppetting one of their own was not erased by our time together these last weeks. I see. “I could make a corpse into a Shell, but it is far easier with the recently killed.” That didn’t help anything. I decided to move on quickly. “And it is also draining. So, utilizing the ‘wild’ Shells, as it were, allows me to focus my energy elsewhere. Would you like to see the product of your efforts?”

  There were a few shrugs, Waker nodded, and Nifont put a hand on a long knife at his hip. “It under your control?”

  I frowned at him. “Of course. And, if you prefer, call it Protis.”

  He grunted but didn’t take his hand off his blade. So to that, I closed my eyes, testing the range on my mental commands. Through the walls, some ten paces away, there was no issue, and my Soulborne responded promptly. Its footsteps could be heard from outside as it stomped forward. It was inaccurate to call it a lumbering creature, for it was, in fact, quite dexterous. Before too long, I felt its presence over my shoulder.

  As one, the men outside took a step back, only Nifont didn’t shift, just squinting up at it. “What is this? A Greyskin?”

  “Not quite,” I answered, turning to take in my creation. It was truly a monstrous thing, especially to those unprepared for it. Feia was close by, too, I realized, watching everyone’s reactions with a smirk and a glint in her eye. “It is more than a Greyskin, as you call them. It is smart, obeying vague instructions with reasonable logic, following the perceived intent of its creator. It is about as physically capable, but, as you can see, has some size advantages. It can also use weaponry when outfitted properly. We tried many formations and compositions with Soulborne. Indeed, we had high hopes for hoplites, though they lacked the cohesiveness necessary to form a proper shield wall. In the end, they work best as a sort of heavy, shock infantry armed with blades or bludgeons…” I trailed off, realizing they were staring. Right. A different time indeed. “Ultimately, my goal is to reach a half dozen of them before we leave the city. By my current estimations, my capacity shouldn’t be reached until I have two score of them. Though Drazivaska may have a Sorcerous object that could change this projection.”

  “Do they eat?” Nifont asked.

  “They eat Soul energy. Flesh has some, but the environment holds trace amounts that can typically suffice. Still, they do tax me. So an influx of Soul-dense material is certainly… helpful.”

  “Hm.”

  Waker cleared his throat. “Um, so you’re saying we should let them eat people?”

  “Just the ones we kill. Animals work too, though they are less efficient. But even other raised Dead would suffice.”

  “Ah, huh.”

  Feia stepped past me, glaring at everyone. “You lot are always afraid to bloody your blades, but when you see the chance at riskless violence you squirm and squeal? Rejoice, for you’ve found yourself a potent broodfather of death to rid you of your enemies.”

  A broodfather of death? I thought with a half-smile. “I can understand this is a great shift in thinking. To have fought the Dead for so long, unaccustomed to seeing them as tools, but as monsters to fight and fear… But not anymore. You saved me from my imprisonment, put me on a path towards understanding and redemption. For this, I will repay your kindness with gifts of my own.” I bowed, which made Feia snort in disbelief, and more than one of the others try to stifle a gasp. They knew me as an ancient lord of sorts, one wrapped in mystery and magic, but to humble myself before them must appear odd indeed. I straightened with a smile. “Now, Nifont, before you had left, you’d mentioned something about inquisitors in town?”