Like Flowers Off the Backs of Corpses

by Ramen_Dad

Summary:

“Service to her suits him just fine.”

He’s undead, bound to her magic.
She’s a necromancer who doesn’t share.

Together, they’ll clean up the rot the world pretends not to see. In a world of stolen bodies and forbidden spells, they hunt what should stay buried. But what rises between them may be far more dangerous: trust, yearning, and a bond that neither of them can name without trembling.

Notes:

I have the Biggest Thoughts on these two.

Chapter 1

Profound
adjective.

1. Having or possessing great knowledge or insight.
   
   
2. A depth not only measurable by intellect, but by burden.
   
   

Necromancy, contrary to public horror and whispered myth, was no different from any other magic—no more strange than divination or conjuring, no darker than weatherwork or charm-making. It was, like anything of value, a learned trade. It had regulations, rules, and rites. It had laws.

The laws were simple:
Do not turn the unwilling.
Explain the process in full.
Take responsibility for the dead.

It was clinical. Detached. No fangs. No forbidden thrill. Just scalpel and stitch, ether and silence.

For Phanora Kristoffel, it was as natural as breathing. She didn’t think when she brought the needle through skin, when she stitched the body back together. It was rhythm, not rapture.

Fix what was broken.
Mend what was torn.
Perform the rites.
Maintain the soul.

Her foremothers had done the same. Witches before her—Profound Witches—descended from the coven that etched life and death into law. They didn’t haunt crypts or dance beneath moons. They wrote policy. They kept records.

Phanora had spent her childhood with embroidery hoops and anatomy books. Her stitches, whether through velvet or flesh, were immaculate. If necromancy ever lost its shine, she could’ve made a small fortune in lace.

Before she touched a corpse, she’d spent years practicing on linens, clothes, dolls with ruined seams. When she was twelve, her mentor let her touch her first creature.

It had been a cat. Tied in a bag, tossed into a pond.
Children, probably. Or men who drank too much and still had too little.

It was raining that day. Steady. Invasive. Everything was soaked.

The cat had been laid out on the slab, bloated and still. Phanora, small in her gloves and white smock, stood before the tools. She listed them aloud as she always did:

“Mayo scissors. Suture edge. Metzenbaum one and two. Forceps—one, two, three, four.”

They were arranged in use order, lightest to heaviest. Beside her, the tanks hummed—clean blood and sterile fluid waiting for transfusion.

Less blood in necromancy than surgery, depending on the time of death. Still, trocars and cannulas were always prepped. Fluids could surprise you. Death had no manners.

She drained the lungs. Flushed the abdomen. Hooked the cat to the system and began transfusion.

And then—came the hard part. The soul.

Some souls ran. Some screamed. Others came quietly.

It was always the worst part. The calling.

To resurrect a person fully—with free will, cognition, and memory—was the height of the craft. A full-body, soul-bound return.

One in a thousand mages could do it.

It took energy. Time. Magic so thick it left scars. And most didn’t bother. Because why create a real person when you could have a worker?

Semi-autos were easier. You planted a command and the body executed it, single-minded. Shoemakers. Sailors. Guards. They walked, they worked, and when they broke, you tossed them.

Then there were manuals. Controlled directly, the soul puppeted like string. Lifeless, except for what you fed them.

Phanora despised both.

She could raise thousands if she wanted. But she didn’t.

Only the willing.
Only those who understood.
Only what she needed.

Resurrection wasn’t escape from death. It was a theft. A rupture in the cycle. When a soul was torn from its rest, it didn’t go back to life—it went somewhere else. And when the magic failed?

It didn’t go forward. It didn’t go back.

It went nowhere.

Not even hell.
Just void.
A cavernous, unending silence.

That was the price. That was what people never understood.

And worse—there were those who didn’t care.
They trafficked the dead.
Used debt to buy bodies.
Raised strays—unwilling, screaming corpses.

These strays rotted alive, minds caged in meat, magic binding them tight while they howled silently.

Most of those who raised them were eventually killed by their own creations.

Phanora had no pity for such casters.

But the strays—
Yes. Her heart, if witches had such things, ached for them.

That was why she joined the Order of Magical Resonance.

Magia, pro magica, et magicis.
By magic, for magic, and of magic.

The Order worked in shadows. Outside local law. Inside necessity. They cleaned what others feared. Restored balance where power tilted too far.

And when undead were involved, they sent her.

Her—and Johan.

---

She sat by the fire, cardigan draped over her shoulders, a book on burn wound treatment in her lap. The hearth crackled softly, her tea steaming beside her.

“Come in, Johan,” she said before he could knock.

He entered with messy curls and sleep in his one visible eye. Suspenders hung from his hips, shirt wrinkled. In his hand—a letter sealed in wax.

All correspondences from the Order of Magical Resonance came in sealed envelopes delivered by familiars—small creatures bound by spells potent enough to self-destruct, should the wrong hands dare to interfere.

It was a rare occurrence. But when it did happen, the Order wasted no time uncovering the who, what, when, and why.

Despite the public-facing mission of preserving magical stability and working in tandem with local enforcement, the Order’s first loyalty was always to itself. Its secrets were sacred. Its inner workings, sealed tighter than any warded envelope.

Contact spells. Blood-bound pacts. Names buried behind layers of sigils and ciphered communication. Even most members weren’t sure who else was on the payroll. What they knew was limited—need-to-know referrals, whispers passed from one mission to the next. Only the upper echelon of mages saw more.

Phanora and Johan had encountered some of them. Occasionally, there was a summons from the infamous crow mage, Ashaf—and wherever Ashaf was, his... companion wasn’t far behind.

---

It had been a distastefully chilly day, the kind where Phanora’s breath lingered in puffs and the cold bit into bone. She didn’t complain, but Johan, as always, had something to say.

“Look at how clear the sky is!” he chirped, shielding his eye with one hand and pointing toward the clouds. “That one looks like a horse, don’t it?”

Phanora, pulling her coat tighter, didn’t slow her pace. “Johan, please do keep up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hoisted their luggage trolley with practiced ease and returned to his place behind her, holding her parasol aloft to shield her from the burning sun piercing the clouds.

It had been late summer—years ago now—when Ashaf first requested a face-to-face with the Profound Witch. He’d warned her then: the partner was new. Bad manners. Worse temperament. But the matter at hand was serious, and they could talk over tea after, on his coin.

The meeting was arranged for a secluded field on the outskirts of the city. Open skies. Empty paths. No witnesses.

They had barely arrived when it happened.

“You witch!”

A blur shot toward them, barreling on all fours. Phanora, calm as ever, grabbed her parasol from him before Johan threw off his coat and lunged. Grabbing the charging form out of the air and tossing them aside like an unruly animal.

The person landed in a crouch, feral and snarling. “Look at me!” they growled, hands digging into the dirt. “Do you know this face?”

Johan lunged again, managing to grapple them briefly before the two were on the ground in a scuffle. They fought like something possessed, and he struggled to pin them, reaching for the blade at his back.

Then, with a snap, they flipped their positions and slammed his head into the ground before he could curse.

“Now, now, children,” came Ashaf’s smooth voice as he strolled into view, cigarette already lit, eyes unimpressed.

Phanora didn’t move. “Johan, please stop playing around. You’ll ruin your suit.”

A flick of Ashaf’s fingers summoned a runic leash, binding the feral one mid-swing and yanking them off the battered man below them. 

Johan sat up, rubbing his skull with a groan. “Miss Phanora, they started it.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know that face,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. She reached into her coat and pulled out a folded handkerchief. “Please clean yourself up.”

Johan blinked at the offering, dazed. For a moment, he looked like a knight accepting a token of favor. Then he took the cloth and began dabbing at the blood and dirt on his cheek with solemn precision.

After that, when Johan and Guideau crossed paths, it was like two guard dogs being walked by separate masters—neither one keen to share the sidewalk, but neither foolish enough to ignore a command.

They didn’t get along.

But they understood one another.

---

A white envelope from the Order often meant a simple case or notice.

Johan broke the wax seal with the edge of his signet ring and unfolded the letter one-handed, already halfway through a yawn.

“There’s word of illegal necromancy at a shipping port—state over,” he muttered, eyes scanning. “Undead labor. Semi-autos, probably. The Order wants us to verify and clean it up.”

Phanora didn’t look up from her tea. “Please start packing my things.”

He blinked. “You’re not gonna help?”

“Johan,” she said, voice calm, “aren’t you my servant?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then serve me.”

That was that.

He retreated with the casual obedience of a man who’d packed this particular set of luggage a dozen times before. Her wardrobe went first—dresses, traveling coats, gloves for polite society. Then came his own: a single small bag crammed full of pressed shirts, sturdy slacks, maintenance supplies, and half a dozen spare gloves. Lastly, he lifted the lacquered case from beneath her desk—a reinforced medical-grade trunk lined with velvet compartments.

Inside: her tools.

Scalpels, cannulas, sutures, fine scissors so sharp they could shave the edge off breath itself. All custom-made. All polished to gleam. A lantern wrapped in blackout fabric nestled carefully in the center, cradled like something holy. She’d insisted it ride with them in the passenger car. Johan didn’t argue.

He packed snacks for the train, mostly for himself, though she always took the shortbread if it was lemon.

By the time she rose from her chair, everything was ready.

Because of course it was.

_______________________________________________________________________

Johan rarely liked it when they chose to travel traditionally rather than magically. Portals were faster, less cramped, and didn’t involve vendors trying to overcharge him for lukewarm coffee and tasteless bread rolls. But Phanora insisted. She preferred the quiet stretch of countryside, the lull of motion, and the slow, uninterrupted time to think.

“It’s good for reflection,” she once said.

He thought it was good for making his back ache.

Still, she wasn’t wrong. Traveling this way gave her a buffer—time to recalibrate before diving headfirst into the next crime scene, the next body, the next wailing family demanding miracles. And Johan, for all his complaints, never minded the quiet if she was near.

This case seemed simple. Local authorities already had enough evidence to prove necromantic labor was being used at the Southport docks. The undead were being forced into semi-autonomous servitude—cheap labor, expendable, tireless. But the true culprit, the necromancer pulling the strings, remained elusive.

Without a suspect, without a caster, the operation could vanish in a day and pop up in the next town over.

So the Order sent Phanora.

Johan was pleased when she booked first-class accommodations for them both. The first few times they’d traveled by train, he’d been relegated to the common cars—sweaty benches, screaming toddlers, a man who once drooled on his shoulder for a full hour.

After that trip, he’d come to her dripping in other people’s sweat and despair.

“What if something happens to you?” he’d said dramatically, dabbing his jacket with a napkin. “As your resplendent right-hand man, I just couldn’t live with myself.”

“Johan,” she’d replied, unbothered, “please collect my things.”

From then on, he rode in first class with her. He discovered only later that the suite had an attached servant room he hadn’t known about.

“You didn’t think to tell me?” he’d asked, scandalized.

“If you had raised a fuss earlier,” she’d said, sipping her tea, “I would have.”

Her excuse was that he didn’t care for the temperature she kept her rooms at. Which was true.

Johan often felt like he was melting inside the manor. The fireplaces were always lit, even in summer. The air around Phanora was cold, naturally, magically—always cold. Her breath misted indoors, her fingers were like ice. When he first arrived to serve her, he made the mistake of lighting every hearth in the house, trying to bring the chill to heel.

Eventually, he’d complained. Quietly. She’d relented.

Now, only the parlor and her study remained lit. The rest of the house was left to the creeping cold. She wore her cardigans and shawls and fingerless gloves, and Johan was left mostly sweat-free.

The train rocked gently through flat, endless prairie, the sky a steel grey dome over wheat and windmills. On the third day, it dipped toward the sea. Southport appeared just after dawn, cradled in fog and salt air.

Phanora stepped off the train, wrapped in her sweater and silence.

She didn’t look back to see if Johan followed.

He did, of course. Dutiful as always. Hefting their luggage in one hand and holding her parasol in the other, shielding her from the early morning sun.

Southport was a crumbling jewel—a weather-beaten fishing town built on salt, wind, and old stories. Its streets were laid in cobblestone that had long since bowed with age. Stone shops leaned into each other like gossiping widows, their roofs patched with tar and hope. The sea glimmered just beyond, waves hissing softly against the dock walls.

“The air is quite cold here,” Phanora said, voice distant.

Johan took a deep breath and smiled. “Nah. It’s beautiful.”

---

They checked into a modest inn. She buried herself in texts on fish-skin grafts for burn victims. There was a new medical paper circulating—fish skin as a viable graft dressing for burn wounds. Phanora had skimmed it once before, but now, curled on the chaise in their inn, she read it carefully. The logic was sound. Fish skin, properly prepared, could accelerate healing, reduce infection. Particularly effective for delicate grafts—hands, face, anything exposed.

She turned the page slowly. Burned tissue remained just that, even after resurrection. Not even a witch could will scar tissue back into softness, not immediately. At least, not without wasting her kiss.

A kiss from a witch was more than sentiment. It was a covenant.

A witch's kiss could do what no incantation or sigil could. It could lift a curse temporarily. It could allow the kissed to wield magic beyond their own. It could grant a fraction of the witch’s power.

One kiss. Once. A gift given only once in a witch's lifetime.

Some never gave theirs. Hoarded it. Saved it for the moment they might need it most. Phanora had never used hers. She never needed to. She was a Profound witch—one of seventeen, direct descendants of the original coven. Her lineage alone made her feared.

Some whispered that witches were monsters in disguise, twisted creatures born of bile and bone. Others called them gods. Most simply kept their distance—respectful, wary, afraid.

The door opened with a gentle creak.

“Great news,” Johan announced, his voice cutting through the quiet, “there’s a shop down the road that sells carved rocks.”

He held up a paper bag of still-warm bread and a small cloth pouch, grinning.

They didn’t travel much besides work. When they did, Johan always looked for a rock to bring back. Once, as a child, it was all he could afford. A pebble from a riverbank. A stone kicked along a dirt road. He’d kept them in a jar beside his bed.

Now, he had a shelf for them. One from every case. One for every place she brought him.

Phanora folded a corner of the page. “I see.”

“Look how polished it is.” He handed her the stone. Smooth and warm from his palm, the agate had a tiny skyline etched into its surface—the Southport harbor, glinting with the curl of waves.

“I think it’s an agate,” he added, proud.

“I think you’re right.” She didn’t look up.

“You barely looked.”

He brought the stone to her line of sight, holding it flat in his palm, careful not to touch her book. She plucked it with a gently hand and studied the smooth weight of it.

“I think it is an agate,” she repeated, and passed it back.

Johan beamed.

---

Johan had grown up in the village just beyond the woods surrounding the Kristoffel estate.

His family lived on the outskirts, farmers by trade, though they also ran a modest grocery in the village proper. He was the fourth of seven brothers—John, Josiah, Joseph, Johan, the twins Jonas and Jonah, and the baby, Jonathan.

“All sons!” their father would proclaim, slapping his hat against his knee like it was the punchline to a well-worn joke.

“And thank the stars,” their mother would mutter from behind a laundry line or a stew pot. “They grow fast enough to work early.”

The boys spent their mornings and evenings tending to pigs, hauling produce, or shelving stock at the store. Whatever time wasn’t claimed by duty was devoted to boyhood chaos: wrestling matches, races down dirt roads, and headlocks tight enough to bruise. Even Jonathan, barely four and still in crooked sandals, got tackled if he wandered into the wrong yard.

“Call me Nathan!” he’d shout, desperate to stand out, even as Jonas dragged him into another dogpile.

They were a feral, loyal pack. Anyone foolish enough to take a swing at one found themselves surrounded by six more in a matter of seconds. Outsiders in the village learned quickly that the Jo-boys were to be avoided or befriended—there wasn’t much in between.

Their favorite game was a dare: who could get closest to the Kristoffel estate?

The manor stood atop the moor like a mausoleum, cold and palatial, cloaked in brambles and fog. No one from the village wanted to admit they feared the witches inside, but they all did—parents and children alike.

Still, bravado made fools of them all. They dared one another to touch the iron gate. To press a hand to the old stone fence. To climb a few feet and shout a name.

Johan remembered the first time he truly saw her.

He was twelve, standing near the wrought-iron gate with muddy shoes and grass in his hair, when he spotted her in the garden beyond. She wore white, pale as frost, like a ghost walking beneath the yew trees. Her mother knelt beside her, gathering something from the ground—a dead bird, maybe.

They both turned to look at him.

Their gazes were cold. Curious. Heavy.

Johan bolted.

So did the other boys.

His heart pounded all the way back to the village, a lump of shame in his throat. But what stayed with him most wasn’t the fear. It was the scent drifting from the garden on the breeze.

Chamomile.

Soft. Herbal. Unexpected.

He’d never smelled anything like it in all the grocery store’s bins and jars.

Chapter 2

The meeting with the officer was about as productive as one could expect under the circumstances.

This was a country where necromancy was outlawed—officially, at least—so there were no sanctioned resurrectionists and their charges for the officer to report.

“Obviously, that doesn’t mean people aren’t practicing illegally,” Officer Broyle offered, his tone apologetic and tired.

Phanora sipped her tea in silence, offering nothing in response. Her expression remained impassive, but the delicate clink of porcelain as she set her cup back on its saucer was a quiet punctuation of disapproval.

Johan picked up the slack in the conversation, as expected. He met the officer’s gaze with a polite but unreadable look, calm in the way that always unsettled people used to dealing in bureaucracy.

“You said you had several people in custody?”

“Er... bodies, yes,” Officer Broyle clarified. He leaned forward, elbows creaking on the table’s edge as he steepled his fingers. “We have four currently locked down in the morgue at the station. Unfortunately, they aren’t capable of speech.”

Phanora did not react—at least, not outwardly. But Johan, seated beside her, glanced down. He noticed the tension in her hands where they rested on the arm of the chair—knuckles tight, fingers twitching once.

“What level of maintenance has been kept?” she asked, voice cool as glass.

Broyle hesitated. “Just... the bare minimum to keep them mobile, from what our coroner could tell. But they’re lacking jaws.”

“Then they can still point,” Phanora said. Not a question—an expectation. She stood without ceremony, her chair scraping softly against the floor. Johan moved with her in perfect synchronicity, sliding her chair fully back, retrieving her cardigan, and placing it gently around her shoulders.

“I’d like to see the victims.”

“Yes, of course,” Broyle said quickly, rising to follow. “I can take you there now.”

But before he got far from the table, Johan placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. The motion was casual, almost friendly. Almost.

“Hey man,” Johan said, leaning in just enough that the words wouldn’t carry. “Just a heads-up.”

Broyle blinked.

“You’re gonna want to stop pissing her off,” Johan murmured. “She doesn’t discriminate between the living and the dead.”

He gave the man a single, unblinking look, then followed after his mistress.

At the front of the café, Phanora stood poised near the door, her posture still and expectant. She did not look back.

“Johan,” she said.

“Coming,” he called lightly, passing Broyle without a glance. He caught up in three long strides, and with the finesse of someone who had done this a hundred times before, opened the door, stepped into position, and raised her parasol in one fluid motion.

Not a sliver of the afternoon sun touched her.

________________________________________________

 

The station's morgue was noisy.

From behind their steel lockers, the dead groaned and banged—barely coherent sounds rattling through warped vocal cords. A few drawers trembled in place from the force within.

Johan’s gaze flicked to Phanora’s hand.

It twitched.

The first body was rolled out with a reluctant screech of metal. Officer Broyle took an instinctive step back, but Phanora and Johan leaned in, unmoved.

The victim was strapped to the gurney, bound tight with thick corded fabric. He strained weakly against the restraints. His jaw was missing. So were his nose, ears, and several fingers. His ribs pressed sharply against parchment-thin skin.

“Johan,” Phanora said, her voice quiet but crisp. “Open the shirt, please.”

He moved without hesitation, loosening the buttons and folding back the stained cloth. She took what remained of the victim’s hand in her own.

The body was starved—possibly the cause of death. But it was the wounds that caught their eye. Ragged and deep, punctuated by unmistakable arcs.

“Dogs, for sure,” Johan said, fingers grazing the edge of a bite. “You think this happened after they brought him back?”

“The tissue is raw,” Phanora replied, her voice low, thoughtful. “Yes. This was after.”

She gave a small nod, and Johan buttoned the shirt again with mechanical care.

“How many are here?” she asked.

“Four,” Officer Broyle answered. “We have IDs on the first three. Missing persons—all locals.”

“And the fourth?”

He hesitated. “We haven’t found a match. Not much to go on.”

Phanora dropped the corpse’s hand and stepped back. The drawer closed with a clang, and they moved to the fourth cabinet.

Johan drew in a breath through his teeth.

“Damn.”

The figure was wrapped in gauze, or what was left of him was. No limbs. No eyes. No ears. No jaw. Not even a throat—his larynx had been carved out. The bare skin showing beneath the bandages was sallow and marbled with deep bruising. His stomach bulged unnaturally.

Gaseous bloat. Bile buildup. Rot.

Whoever had done this hadn’t intended him to last. He’d been discarded.

“Where was he found?” Phanora asked.

“Twin Ponds,” said Broyle. “Small park near the shipping district. We caught two men dumping him on surveillance. A child swimming found the body.”

Johan cursed under his breath, already unzipping the satchel slung over his shoulder. He unfurled the black-out cloth and revealed the lantern.

He didn’t need to be told.

“Just dumping them when they can’t work,” he muttered, fingers brushing the latch. “Not the type you could convince to keep up maintenance.”

“Not the type deserving,” Phanora said. She opened the lantern's glass door and reached inside. Her fingers curled around the flame, pale and flickering. It pulsed once, then swelled.

The other corpses in the drawers thrashed harder, moaning at the scent of the light. Undead could sense it. It called to them.

She placed her hand gently on the ruined man’s chest.

The flame flickered again.

The body seized.

What was left of his face twisted, his ruined mouth opened in a silent scream, desperate to reach the light in her hands.

“Hey,” Johan said softly, leaning close. “It’s okay. Just fall asleep.”

The body gave one final twitch, then went limp. A wet, sickly scent filled the room—decay reasserting itself as the magic holding him unraveled.

“Have the families been notified?” Phanora asked as she slipped the flame back into the lantern. Johan closed the drawer and locked it.

“Y-yes,” Broyle said. He looked shaken. “What... what is that thing?”

Phanora didn’t pause. She stepped to the next drawer, opening the glass again.

“It’s a special lantern,” Johan answered. “They can wait in their bodies, slowly breaking down, or choose to dissipate into the flame.”

The body bucked once as the light touched him, then stilled forever.

It was the rite that set Phanora Kristoffel apart.

The profound rite.

The sacred inheritance of her bloodline.

The lantern was a relic, passed from matriarch to matriarch, held only by the descendant bearing the full force of the original Profound Witch’s magic. It could not be handled by another. Not truly. The flame would not obey anyone else.

It held the souls of the willing dead—those too afraid of the void, of oblivion, but who still sought peace. The light welcomed them. It was a harbor, a lighthouse in the cold black sea of death.

The cloth that covered it was stitched with barrier wards, ancient symbols buried in thread. Nothing escaped it. No flicker of warmth or glow. No shimmer to betray the souls within.

But when it was uncovered, when Phanora brought it into the world—

Even the most mindless of undead knew it.

All four victims chose it. Chose peace.

Their bodies sagged in place. Silent. Freed.

“I think we’ve gathered all the information we need,” Phanora said at last, standing. Johan helped her wrap the lantern, his hands brushing hers as he passed it back.

For just a moment, the tension in her knuckles faded.

And in that moment, Johan thought he saw something else flicker too—like the flame between her fingers.

Not pity. Not relief.

Resolve.

_______________________________________________

The warehouse was relatively remote and flanked by sharp, salt-choked wind. The police had asked The Order’s help with handling the undead. Any mages were a concern, Phanora’s only focus. The humans involved were typical trafficking trash. Nothing special to the local PD in a shipping town.

Phanora and Johan stood just beyond the grounds, speaking in hushed tones with the police team. Fog clung to the earth in patches, clashing against the black iron fence and the dead grass beneath their feet.

“No other undead were called by the lantern,” Phanora said evenly. Her voice curled into the air like frost. “So it’s fair to say they are all present and accounted for here.”

“At least the ambulatory ones,” Johan added.

“Yes.” She pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders, though her tone hadn’t shifted in the slightest.

“What should we do about the undead?” asked an officer with the sort of voice people used around witches—respectful, with an edge of fear.

“My assistant will deal with them,” Phanora replied.

“And the mage?” someone else added.

She didn’t even blink. “I will deal with them. Personally.”

The officers turned toward the warehouse. Behind the shattered windows, movement stirred—sluggish, uneven. Moans, low and gurgling, drifted through the slats like heat from a stove.

Then—

Phanora summoned her lantern flame into her hand. It flickered pale gold, brighter than it should’ve in daylight, and she pressed it against Johan’s back like anointment.

“Activated it when we arrived,” she said absently, just as the silence shattered.

A window exploded outward.

The undead poured from it in a loose wave—emaciated forms, some missing limbs, others riddled with bite marks and rot. Their movements were jerky, driven more by instinct and hunger than intent. No order. No precision. Just clawing bodies, eyes wild with fractured purpose.

Johan sighed, stripping off his jacket in a single motion.

“Every time,” he muttered, knife already drawn from its sheath behind his back. The steel gleamed in the light, dulled only by blood still clinging to it from maintenance.

“Don’t mind him,” Phanora told the officers with quiet authority. “Focus on the traffickers.”

She stepped to the side, out of the way. Johan, left alone, crouched low—and then surged forward into the tide.

The first body lunged at him—a child-sized thing with a cracked face and missing jaw. He ducked, grabbed it by the throat, and slammed it into the concrete. Another came at his side, arm raised like a club. Johan caught the wrist mid-swing, twisted until bone snapped, and shoved the blade upward through its eye socket.

The pile thickened.

Hands clawed at his shirt, nails breaking against the buttons. One creature’s mouth—little more than exposed teeth in mush—gnashed against his forearm. Johan yanked free, spun, and drove the heel of his boot into its head with a sharp crunch.

Blood sprayed. His sleeves soaked through. Bile and half-digested filth clung to his pants.

“I’m gonna reek for days,” he barked, cutting down two more with a wide, arcing swing.

From the building came the sound of gunfire—then screams. The police had breached the side door, spells exploding in sigils of silver and blue, setting up barriers and containment runes. The criminals inside returned fire, but poorly. Most of them weren’t fighters—they were runners, pushers, cowards hiding behind others’ pain.

Still, there were too many.

“Phanora—!” Johan shouted.

He was buried—ten, maybe twelve bodies dragging him down. Their strength was mindless, but immense. He dropped his knife and grabbed one by the skull, fingers digging into empty sockets, then another with his boot.

A broken hand caught his jaw—dug in.

Phanora turned. Her flame pulsed against her palm.

And still, she didn’t move.

She didn’t need to.

Johan roared, bursting from the center of the writhing mass. He was smeared with blackened blood, one eye shut against the grime, breathing ragged and hot.

“Wouldn’t kill you to help once in a while!” he spat, shoving one last body aside with the butt of his knife.

“You’re doing fine,” Phanora said, her tone like silk folded in frost.

One officer flinched as another undead body groaned nearby, caught in a trap sigil. Johan stomped its head before it could rise again, blade swinging cleanly in his grip.

He turned and grinned, breath fogging.

“Show off,” muttered one of the cops.

Inside, the warehouse was chaos. Metal shipping crates stacked high in rows, half-fallen shelves, cages filled with bones and shackles, arcane residue scrawled along the floor like graffiti. Some crates rattled. One toppled. Inside—more bodies.

Slumped. Waiting.

The police squad pushed forward. The mages were gone—cowards who’d never intended to stay. But the scene spoke clearly enough: this was industrial necromancy. No reverence. No care. Just meat and labor and the stink of rot used like oil to grease gears.

Phanora exhaled once.

Even now, no magical signature remained.

Gone.

Slipped through again.

She moved through the blood-slick corridor, her boots immaculate, her eyes sharp as razors.

And behind her, Johan emerged again—panting, but victorious.

He opened his mouth.

Then—

 

The shot cracked.

 

A pistol in the hand of a half-finished undead—someone he’d missed in the pile, dragging itself forward by one arm—twitched, and a bullet tore straight through Johan’s throat.

He fell without grace.

Phanora spun instantly, her parasol dropping from her hand. Johan collapsed, face first, and blood spread fast—thick, dark, arterial.

It sprayed across his shirt. Across the floor. Across her boots.

“Johan!” she called, already moving, already kneeling beside him.

Officers scrambled behind her. Someone shouted for a medic.

“Shit! Get a medic!” Broyle shouted, already following. The two dropped beside Johan, who now lay crumpled on his side, face pale and still. Broyle rolled him onto his back. “Kristoffel, I—”

His throat was open. Ripped. A bloody maw gaping at the sky.

Phanora didn’t flinch.

“Get me my bag from the van,” she ordered, voice like frostbite.

“Ma’am, he’s—”

“Get. Me. My. Bag.”

Broyle hesitated only a second longer before barking the order to an officer. Moments later, Phanora snatched it from their hands and unzipped it in a single practiced motion. The bag rolled out into a full field kit. Scissors, clamps, sterile wraps.

With speed born of habit, she poured sterile water over her hands, pulled gloves on, and reached for the forceps.

Two clamps. One for each artery.

“Hold these,” she barked at Broyle, who obeyed in numb silence.

She worked fast—sutures for the interior vessels first, the filaments nearly invisible. Then thicker, absorbable stitches for the outer flesh. Her hands moved like a tailor finishing an intricate hem.

“What are you—?” Broyle tried.

“Take the clamps out,” she snapped.

Then, gently, her gloved hand cupped Johan’s cheek.

“Johan,” she said, voice steady. “That’s enough.”

Silence.

“Johan.”

A long beat.

And then—

“You never fuss over me,” Johan croaked, cracking a grin. “Might start getting ideas.”

“Was he—?” Broyle staggered back, staring. “He was dead?!”

“’Twhole time,” Johan wheezed, licking his cracked lips. “Unlike that sorry lot, my resurrectionist keeps a maintenance schedule.”

Broyle looked completely lost.

“If an undead goes down and no maintenance is performed,” Phanora explained coolly, stripping her gloves and cleaning her tools, “they stay down. Doesn’t mean they’re gone. Just… on pause.”

She stood, dusting off her skirt. Her sleeves were damp with blood. Her hair remained pristine.

"Johan.”

“Yes, Miss Phanora?” he beamed.

“Sterilize my tools properly once we’re home.”

“Yes, Miss Phanora.”

His glow dimmed slightly. But only slightly.

And Phanora—well, she said nothing. But her hand lingered at the edge of his sleeve before turning away.

_________________________________________________________________________

The precinct was too warm.

The old radiator ticked in the corner of the viewing room, and Johan could feel the slow sweat gathering at the back of his neck under his collar. Still, he didn’t move from his post beside Phanora, who stood with arms crossed, silent as ever. They stared through the one-way glass at the man on the other side.

He looked ordinary—too ordinary for the damage his indifference had wrought. Middle-aged, balding, wore a shirt a size too big, and drummed his thumbs nervously against the metal table. His face was lined not from hardship but from years of convincing himself nothing was ever his fault.

“He didn’t know they were undead,” Johan muttered under his breath. “Sure. And I don’t know how to swing a knife.”

Phanora said nothing. Her gaze didn’t waver. The flame of the lantern, though sealed and quiet at her side, pulsed once—subtle but sharp. She had already heard enough.

The man inside the room spoke with a shrug, eyes darting everywhere but the mirror.

“I mean, I ain’t proud of it,” he said to Officer Broyle. “I didn’t know at first, alright? Guy says it’s a cargo job, hush-hush, pays in full. Then he shows me a sack of gold—real stuff. No counterfeits, no enchantments. And it’s not like I opened the crates. I just docked the ship, signed the papers. It was already loaded.”

His voice cracked a little, like he wanted to feel guilty but couldn’t find the muscle in his soul.

“Saw one of ‘em moving, though,” the man continued, quieter now. “One slipped out. Shambled right across the deck. Arm just...hanging. No skin. Eyes sunken. Smelled like death. I almost puked.”

He shifted in his chair, eyes falling to the floor.

“But gold’s gold, you know? And I figured—who’s it hurting? Wasn’t like they were screaming or nothing.”

Behind the glass, Johan’s jaw clenched.

“That’s the excuse?” he said, turning slightly toward Phanora. “They weren’t screaming?”

Phanora remained motionless. Her eyes were cold and still, like she was watching a particularly ugly insect writhe under a pin.

“I should’ve let one of them scream,” Johan muttered. “Just so he’d have the memory.”

The door to the viewing room creaked open and Officer Broyle entered. He looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes were heavier than before, and his posture had sunk by several degrees.

He let the door shut behind him and faced them.

“Well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s about the size of it.”

“Money,” Phanora said.

Broyle nodded. “A lot of it. More than I’ve seen in thirty years of service. All off the books. No names. Just a docking time, a location, and a gold-stuffed satchel to make it all feel worthwhile.”

He looked back through the glass, then to them again.

“Claims it was the first time, swears it. But even if it was...he never questioned it. Just took the coin and looked the other way.”

Johan scoffed. “No names, no face, no questions.”

“Exactly.”

Phanora finally moved—just a shift of her weight, her fingers brushing the edge of her lantern. Her voice came quiet, clipped.

“The real necromancer is still out there.”

Broyle grimaced. “Yeah. And if this was just a middleman job, they’ll burn the whole setup before we ever find them.”

“He wasn’t part of the process,” she said. “Only a cog. The rot is deeper.”

Johan looked over at her, his expression thoughtful beneath the usual edge. “So we’re still hunting.”

Phanora nodded once, finally stepping away from the glass.

“Always.”

Chapter 3

“Mom!” Joseph shouted as the brothers raced up the hill toward their simple farmhouse, boots thudding across the packed earth. “Johan touched the gate!”

“Don’t go running through the kitchen!” their mother scolded, glancing over her shoulder from where she was scrubbing dishes at the sink. Water sloshed over the edge of the basin, ignored. “What gate are you talking about?”

“The Kristoffels’ gate!”

Her face drained of color. The dish slipped from her hands and clattered into the sink, forgotten. She moved fast, faster than any of them expected, wiping her hands roughly on her apron as she shoved past the gathering tangle of brothers piling in after Joseph.

She was out onto the porch in seconds, her bare feet skidding against the wood, and grabbed Johan by the shoulders with a force that jolted him.

“Hey—Mom—” Johan started, startled.

“Did anyone in the house see you?” she asked sharply, hands locked tight around his shoulders. Her voice dropped, shaking. “Did anyone see you?”

“Ma, it was just a game—just chicken—”

“Did. Anyone. See. You.” The grip tightened. Her voice was grave, low and urgent.

Johan faltered, the beginnings of a grin slipping away. “N... no, Mom,” he said finally. He tried to hold her gaze, but her eyes were wide and wild with something close to panic. He looked down. The tips of his ears flushed red, betraying him.

“Oh, Johan,” she breathed. Tears pricked at her eyes. “Oh, my boy.”

She dragged him inside without another word, calling for his father.

The Kristoffels were witches. That was the unspoken truth that passed between every villager like weather: constant, inevitable, best left undisturbed.

There had always been an agreement. The witches stayed in their manor, and the village kept its distance. No torches, no pitchforks, no foolish curiosity. A pact, of sorts—kept for six centuries. For the villagers, dozens of generations had come and gone. For the Kristoffels, only three.

Witches aged slowly, beautifully, impossibly. They kept their youth until their two-hundredth year, and then the decline came quickly—decay rushing in like a tide. Phanora’s mother was nearing that mark now, but still looked as radiant and composed as ever. Regal, even. Untouched by time.

To Johan, it was jarring. He expected something monstrous—horns or teeth or sulfur in the air. Instead, the witches looked like anyone else. Phanora herself looked no older than him.

“Just stupid boys being boys,” Johan’s father had muttered later, half-scolding as they piled goods into the cart. “But they need to learn. We’ll bring them an offering.”

A gesture of goodwill, of no harm meant. A peace offering. A pig—fresh butchered. A dozen eggs. Tomatoes, squash, onions. Enough to make a proper apology. The town council had advised it. An offense to a witch couldn’t be mended with words alone. It needed something valuable. Something that cost the family.

They approached the manor on foot. The iron gate groaned open, slow and heavy with old magic. Johan carried the vegetables, his father leading the way with the pig bundled in burlap.

When the Kristoffels appeared on the stone steps of the manor, Johan’s father stepped forward, bowing low as he presented the offering.

“Children are often only as good as their parents allow them to be,” Phanora’s mother said, accepting the parcel. Her voice was smooth and clipped, each word weighed like a coin.

She took the pig. Phanora stepped forward silently and took the bag of vegetables from Johan.

Their hands brushed.

It wasn’t much. Just a moment of skin—his calloused, hers like winter silk. She recoiled, startled, dropping the bag. Onions and squash rolled across the stone.

“I’m so sorry—” Johan’s father began, horrified.

“My bad, Miss Kristoffel.” Johan had already dropped to his knees, scooping up the fallen vegetables, brushing dirt from them gently. He held them up to her again—palms open, careful not to touch her this time. Reverent.

“They’ll just need a rinse.”

Phanora took the bag again. “As fresh-picked vegetables do,” she murmured, studying him. Her voice was low and distant, touched with something unreadable. The air around her was colder now, like the air before a frost.

Her eyes met his—ice blue, endless and quiet.

And in that instant, Johan saw the sky for the first time.

_______________________________________

 

The week following the Southport case passed quietly.

 

Phanora spent it methodically combing through reports, newspapers, and any available ledger she could get her hands on—scouring for hints of irregular magic, undead anomalies, even whispers of minor curses or unsanctioned rituals. Anything that might help identify the mage responsible. Anything that smelled of rot and greed.

 

The police had managed to contact most of the families tied to the recovered undead. The majority had claimed their loved ones had been properly buried for months. Only a few were officially marked as missing persons.

 

It was sloppy work.

 

Unrefined, rushed, unfinished—just animated meat arranged in the shape of people. That kind of carelessness was one thing. But it was the motivation behind it that aggravated her more than the inept execution: someone out there was trading lives for coin. Raising the dead not for restoration, not for duty, but for profit.

 

It was offensive.

 

Most states had outlawed necromancy on either moral or ethical grounds—many citing historical abuses, others using it as political leverage. The few that allowed it did so with suffocating regulation. Phanora didn’t care much about the laws themselves—what she did care about was intent.

 

Necromancy, when done right, was sacred.

 

The decision to become undead was one she believed belonged solely to the dying. Not to grieving spouses. Not to children grasping at the hem of what once was. And certainly not to any debt-ridden government body seeking unpaid labor.

 

Resurrection wasn’t revival—it was extraction. It tore a soul out of the cycle and bound it to something unnatural. When the magic eventually failed, the soul didn’t return to the flow. It didn’t ascend. It didn’t reincarnate.

 

It fell.

 

Into the void.

 

A cavernous nothingness—a sensory deprivation so complete it fractured the idea of time and thought. No pain. No joy. No light. No sound. Just silence and stillness in endless pitch.

 

Even the lantern flame, the one she carried and guarded, offered only a different sort of quiet. No eternity, no continuation—just warmth without direction. A waiting place. A hush. A comfort for those who could no longer be carried by the river.

 

Neither was salvation. Only choice.

 

And that—choice—was what Phanora believed in. Not mercy. Not justice.

 

Agency.

 

And there was someone out there who had stolen it. Again.

________________________________________________________

 

Phanora’s mother had once likened the lantern to a womb—coddling the souls inside like unborn children.

 

Phanora had always disliked that analogy. Still, she accepted it for what it was: an imperfect metaphor for something ancient, sacred, and terrifying.

 

“You are to learn what I know,” her mother had told her, standing over the corpse of a dog. Phanora was ten. She had her tools laid out in a tidy row. The suture thread was waxed, the gauze boiled and dried, the scissors polished to a mirrored sheen. “And in time, you will add your knowledge to the lineage.”

 

Sterilize. Repair. Invoke.

 

The dog had whined when it returned—muscles twitching, limbs stiff, the breath shallow and uneven. The pain of death lingered in the nervous system for the first few hours. Even with herbs and tonics prepared in advance, resurrection was not a painless process. The muzzle kept him from biting, but he strained at it, whimpering until he grew too tired to resist. Phanora placed her hand gently on his head, coaxing calm from cracked memory.

 

“Good,” her mother said. “We will check back tomorrow.”

 

Now, years later, Phanora sat with one elbow propped on her desk, flipping slowly through the obituaries of Southport and its surrounding cities. She scanned for anything unusual—bodies resurfacing, strangers with familiar faces, vanishing townsfolk later marked as “suddenly returned.” So far, nothing. But she kept watching.

 

The odds of the necromancer relocating were possible. But unlikely. Southport had too much appeal. The shipping lanes, the constant turnover of workers, the natural isolation offered by the sea—all of it made it the perfect place to disappear people. To acquire bodies. To run a supply chain built on rot.

 

Human trafficking wasn’t new.

 

As long as there had been people, there were those willing to buy, sell, and trade them. Necromancy didn’t create that cruelty—it just gave it new avenues. Now, with death no longer the end, there were new profits to be made in reanimation. And that made undead trafficking the more common trade. Easier to justify. Easier to hide.

 

Sex trafficking was rarer. The work required too much upkeep. Too much maintenance. You couldn’t glamorize decay—not easily. And unless a caster was truly skilled or wealthy, the dead couldn’t pass for living. Not for long.

 

There were always tells: the chill of their skin, the lack of breath or pulse. Most had no real appetite, no bodily warmth, no spontaneous reaction. Simulating those took enormous reserves of magic. Most casters didn’t have that to spare.

 

Phanora did.

 

That was what made Johan different. He could pass. He could eat. He could breathe. He could sweat and bleed and flush with embarrassment.

 

Because she was a witch. Because she had power to burn.

 

Phanora sighed, leaning her cheek against her palm. Her eyes drifted half-lidded to the flickering fire in the hearth.

 

If someone pressed their ear to Johan’s chest, they would hear the steady thrum of a heartbeat. They would feel the rise and fall of his lungs. He chewed his food. He enjoyed it.

 

“Nothing in this world connects us more than food,” he’d once said, lying back on a marble slab in the Kristoffel manor’s basement, bare, a towel draped modestly over his hips.

 

He liked to refer to these maintenance checks as “physicals,” said with a lopsided grin, always trying to make it sound more routine than ritual. 

 

Clinical for her, ceremonial for him.

 

“My mother would be beside herself with embarrassment if she found out her son was gallivanting about nude in such a fine house,” he teased, raising one arm in a dramatic pose, affecting the voice of a stage actor.

 

“Johan, please put your arm down,” Phanora had replied evenly, flipping a switch on the blood flush machine. “Your circulation won’t hold if you keep it elevated.”

 

Still, she always made sure his digestive tract was intact. His lungs free of clots. His nervous system humming. His bones dense and unfractured. She gave him what others wouldn’t give the undead—time, care, dignity.

 

The bare minimum, he insisted. But from anyone else, it would’ve been a miracle.

 

And from her, he accepted it like sacrament.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

The chime of the grandfather clock echoed through the manor, announcing six o’clock with a slow, solemn resonance.

Phanora closed the book in her lap, carefully folded her papers, and began tidying the scattered tomes and parchment across her parlor table. With a smooth movement, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and stepped quietly out of the room, the soft whisper of her slippers gliding down the hall toward the kitchen.

If the weather allowed, she preferred to dine outside on the veranda. The crisp air, the scent of moss and stone, the rustle of wind through the hedges—all of it helped her unwind from the day’s detachment. Tonight, however, the rain had turned to a steady hush against the windows, so the breakfast nook overlooking the southern garden would suffice.

Johan had already set the table.

A small bowl of squash soup steamed gently beside a plate of slow-roasted chicken and dressed greens, the arrangement minimalist and meticulous. A glass of dry red wine accompanied her plate. Across from her, his place mirrored hers, save for the wine—he preferred a sweet ale, already poured and frothing lightly.

Phanora often thought, if fate had nudged him just slightly left or right, Johan might have found himself as some chef du jour in a faraway cosmopolitan city—fêted by critics, drowning in accolades.

Instead, he insisted on making dinner for her.

Eating alone, he often said, was something only sad, lonely people did.

They ate quietly. The only sound was the clink of silverware, the occasional rustle of linen, and the rhythmic patter of rain against the window panes. Phanora held her wine loosely in one hand, gazing out into the southern garden, the glass suspended between sips.

In the far corner of the garden was a small plot of bare earth, surrounded by roses.

It was not marked. Not with a headstone. Not with a monument. It didn’t need one.

That space—soft, turned soil and ringed by climbing roses—was where her family’s ashes were scattered. It was where test subjects were buried. Creatures she had raised and returned to rest. A sacred space only she and Johan ever entered.

The roses this season were especially red.

________________________________________________________

 

Phanora was tasked with burying the dog herself.

 

Once, the Kristoffel estate had employed several servants, but as the family thinned—generation by generation, bone by bone—so too did the household help. Now it was just her mother and herself, the great manor echoing with silence and cold.

 

The dog had been a success, in theory. She had taken her time mending every laceration, every puncture and tear, reweaving flesh like embroidery. But they didn’t need it anymore. So, as was custom, they put it back down.

 

It was a dreary day, the sky spitting drizzle that came and went with the wind. The ground was slick and cold, the soil heavy and stubborn. Her shoes were caked in mud, and she could barely find traction as she struggled to dig. Every clump of earth was a fight.

 

“Ya need help?”

 

Phanora looked up, startled.

 

A boy—messy curls plastered to his forehead, dark eyes too big for his face—stood just outside the iron fence. She recognized him. He’d been lingering near the estate for weeks now, ignoring whatever warnings his parents surely gave. Sometimes he ran a stick along the bars, sometimes he tested their strength, as though debating whether he could climb them.

 

“No…” she replied softly, turning back to drag the tarp toward the hole. She slipped, her foot giving out beneath her. Her skirt and apron soaked with mud as she landed hard.

 

Before she could push herself up, he was already climbing over. He landed in the garden with a thud and jogged toward her.

 

“I asked if you needed help,” he said again, closer now. He offered her his hand. “I’m Johan.”

 

Phanora hesitated, then reached up.

 

His hand was warm. Calloused. Rough from work. He was a year or two older, already shaped by a life of manual labor—gangly, clumsy in the way boys become just before their limbs make sense. Her skin flinched at the warmth, at the foreignness of it, but she let him pull her to her feet.

 

“S…sorry,” he said, sheepish. “Bet they’re dirty, huh?”

 

She didn’t answer. He didn’t mention the cold around her, the way her breath misted even when the air wasn’t quite cold enough for it.

 

“Whatcha burying?” he asked, already moving to the tarp.

 

“...A dog,” she murmured, wiping her hands on her apron.

 

He paused, casting a somber glance at the bundle of linen and limbs. “Your dog, huh? That sucks. I had to bury mine a few years back. We were tryin’ to trap some rats, and he got into the poison.”

 

He didn’t wait for permission. He pulled the tarp the rest of the way to the hole and laid it in with surprising gentleness. Then, shovel in hand, he began covering the body. He worked with focus—careful scoops of earth, tamped down with the back of the blade, like he’d done it before.

 

Once the job was done, he handed her the shovel without a word. Then he walked over to the rose bushes, their blooms bright even under gray skies, and plucked two flowers from the thorns. He returned, holding one out to her.

 

“Do you have any last words?” he asked, quiet now.

 

Phanora took the flower with careful fingers.

 

“Phanora,” she said.

 

He blinked. “Huh?”

 

“My name.” She stepped forward and tossed the flower onto the freshly filled grave. “Is Phanora.”

______________________________________________________________________

 

Johan tore a piece of bread with his teeth and leaned back slightly in the chair, letting his legs stretch under the table. Across from him, Phanora sipped her wine slowly. Dinner had ended some time ago, and they lingered in the way only people comfortable with each other could: without urgency or expectation.

They sat like that for a while, letting the quiet fill in the space between small talk—remarks on the weather, the state of the garden, the dismal quality of ink delivered in their last shipment. Nothing serious, nothing sharp.

“Would you like me to draw up your bath?” Johan asked eventually, voice soft, the question routine and familiar.

Phanora hummed, a faint note of contentment. She turned her glass a few degrees on the table and looked down into the red shimmer. “I’ll manage,” she said at last. “You’ve done enough today.”

He nodded once, not pressing further. That was always her way—when she wanted help, she’d ask. Otherwise, the hours between 8 p.m. and 8 a.m. belonged to him. She didn’t say it aloud, but it was a rule they’d fallen into naturally.

She stood and excused herself, wrapping the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

 “Goodnight, Johan.”

“Goodnight, Miss Phanora.”

He waited until her footsteps faded down the hallway, the muffled close of the door sealing her into that wing of the house. The manor settled again. Heavy. Familiar.

The quiet was a companion here, one that didn’t demand small talk.

Johan cleaned the dishes and tidied the space with a practiced efficiency. The way he moved in the kitchen was almost ritualistic—he set the bread to proof every night, without fail. Tomorrow’s breakfast depended on tonight’s labor.

The house smelled faintly of roasted squash and warm herbs, but the scent of flour and rising yeast soon overtook it. He floured the counter lightly and began kneading the dough, palms pressing in firm and sure, folding, turning, pushing again. The rhythm was soothing. Grounding.

Baking, oddly enough, had become something sacred. A moment of clarity in a life built around servitude, death, and quiet waiting.

He’d once asked her why there was no housekeeper. No cook. No butler to answer the door.

“Then what would I need you to do?” she’d said, cracking her egg with a spoon.

He’d laughed, taking a bite of toast. “I mean, I’m a real pro, though. Don’t even need a fancy hat.”

Back then, when he first started coming around—before he was hers, properly—he’d asked a lot of questions. Why the herbs in the garden were half-wilted, why no one cleaned the second floor, why someone with so much power didn’t use it for convenience.

“For such a fancy garden,” twelve-year-old Johan had remarked, holding up a withered sprig of basil, “some of these herbs are in terrible shape.”

Phanora had looked at him from where she knelt, gloves on, trimming back a rosemary bush. “Then what business would you have here, farm boy?”

“You might be magical or whatever,” he grinned, tugging at a stubborn weed, “but I got that magic touch.”

And he did. The garden thrived after that. He’d asked fewer questions.

The present kitchen’s amber-hued lights flickered softly against the brass fixtures and dark-stained wood. He shaped the dough into rounds and transferred them to their ceramic bowls, then covered them with tea towels and set them atop the warm oven to rise. One last swipe of flour across the countertop, a final rinse of his hands in the deep stone sink.

He walked the house, checking each door, each window, every lock.

Of course, it wasn’t necessary.

If someone crossed the property line, Phanora would know. She always knew. It was part of her presence—her magic curled into the walls, woven into the curtains, drifting with the steam of every cup of tea. The estate was alive with her. And he? He was just the hands and feet of it all.

Still, he liked the ritual of it. Walking the long halls. Listening to the creak of old wood underfoot. Ensuring the stillness remained intact.

Outside, the night deepened. The wind moved through the trees like a whisper.

Johan paused at the back door, peering out at the dark silhouette of the garden. The southern plot where the roses were always red, where the family ashes had long since been scattered. Where he'd once stood beside a girl too pale for summer, watching her bury a dog she didn’t even need.

The image came to him clearly, as if it were yesterday. Her small hands in gloves. The clinical calm she tried to wear like armor. The muddied edge of her apron. His voice, younger, higher, breaking the hush with his name and a grin: “I’m Johan.”

That moment had never really left him.

Back then, she hadn’t needed him. But she let him help anyway.

Now, he wasn’t sure she could say the same.

With a quiet breath, Johan clicked the last lock into place, dimmed the lights in the kitchen.

The quiet, for now, was enough.

_____________________________________________________________

 

Johan thought maybe tomorrow he’d take a walk into town. Gather some supplies, check on the apothecary, maybe pick up the good bread from that little bakery near the square. Phanora usually stayed behind. The Kristoffels rarely left the manor. Even before him—when she was a child, when her mother still lived—leaving the grounds was not something they did without reason.

He used to wonder why. Why such powerful people seemed to prefer solitude, preferred stillness.

Now, he didn’t question it. Some homes were built like shrines—places not just of comfort, but containment. And the Kristoffel estate had always been more than a house. It was a mausoleum. A sanctum. A spine of silence and unspoken rules.

He leaned his arms against the countertop, still faintly dusted with flour, and let his mind drift.

It had been cold that day on the farm.

Late fall. Frost silvered the grass and clung to the corners of the barn roof. He and his brothers had split into their usual chore teams, preparing for the harvest and the colder months to come.

His father and John, the oldest, were running hay bales from the wagon to the pig pens, fortifying the shelter for the winter. Josiah and Joseph were inside with their mother, deep-cleaning the potato cellar and separating the good from the gone-soft. The youngest three were fighting over who got to scrape the chicken coops and who got to boss who around.

Johan had been left with the compost work. He didn’t complain—at least, not out loud. Old straw, rot, discarded plant matter. He scooped it all into a rough burlap sack, dragged it over his shoulder, and hauled it toward the burn pile on the edge of the property.

His overalls were splattered in muck. He stood straight once he reached the edge of the field, rolled his shoulder, and sighed. Cold air rushed into his lungs. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and happened to glance down the long stretch of the dirt driveway.

Someone was walking toward them.

Framed by a parasol, haloed by the stark brilliance of white garments, the figure cut a sharp contrast against the brown-grayed world of their farmland. Johan squinted—long blond hair, pale shape.

Phanora.

No. Not her. Her mother.

“Dad—” he started, but didn’t finish.

“Boys!” their father barked.

The call was sharp and immediate. Everyone dropped what they were doing. Like well-trained dogs, they rushed over. Johan joined them, sweat cooling on his neck, and stood with the others as the matriarch of the Kristoffel estate arrived.

She did not look like she belonged. White shawl, white gloves, white skirts that didn’t touch the mud, pristine in the way that seemed impossible. Her gaze landed on Johan.

“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice as even as always.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” their father replied, stiff as the wind. His voice was thin, just a hair away from cracking. “What brings you ‘round here?”

“Your son,” she said, pausing just slightly, “was on my property.”

Johan stiffened. His brothers all turned to look at him.

“Now miss, whatever he did, we can fix it,” his father offered quickly, hands up like he was trying to corral the air. “I’ll get you some pigs, or a cut of meat, or—whatever you want, really. Just say the word.”

“There’s no need,” she interrupted, producing something from the folds of her coat. A cloth, hand-stitched. A small image of a dog, careful work. “He helped my daughter. And she felt it important to give thanks.”

Johan wiped his hands aggressively on his pant legs. It wasn’t enough. He turned and yanked the back of one of his brother’s shirts, rubbing the cleaner fabric over his calloused palms.

“Hey!” his brother protested.

He didn’t apologize. Just stepped forward, approached her, and accepted the gift with both hands. He took care not to smudge the embroidery.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Tell her it was no problem.”

Phanora’s mother gave the barest incline of her head. Then, wordlessly, she turned to leave.

Johan stood there, watching her form shrink down the long road, until she disappeared into the horizon like a ghost swallowed by fog.

He turned back toward the others, wanting to joke, to say something about the tea towel, to show them the stitching up close.

But the words caught in his throat.

His brothers were looking at him like he’d grown horns. Like he was suddenly someone else. Like he’d crossed some invisible line they hadn’t realized existed.

And his father—his father wasn’t looking at him with awe.

Johan had never seen his father so red in the face.

Shame flushed up his own neck like a fever. He gripped the towel tighter, tried to keep his mouth shut, his body still.

He wasn’t sure what made his father angrier.

That he’d touched the gate.

Or that he’d been welcomed past it.

_____________________________________________________

 

The morning came early, cloaked in a damp blue mist that clung to the cobblestones and dulled the edges of sound.

Johan left before the sun had properly risen. The manor was still and silent behind him, the great house sleeping in its usual solemn quiet, windows shuttered and heavy with fog. He didn’t need to light the path—he could walk it blind, boots crunching on gravel, the chill of the pre-dawn air bracing against his skin.

The town had once been a sleepy village tucked against the coast, but now, it played dress-up for tourists. What had been a quiet harbor town of shipwrights, fisherfolk, and old farms now bustled with daytrippers and money-chasers—souvenir stands opening where there were once grain silos, old inns turned boutique hotels with flower boxes in every window. The bones of the old city still held strong beneath the gloss, but Johan liked it better in the early hours. Before the fog burned off, before the sidewalks filled with city folk in linen suits pretending to be local.

The baker was his first stop, tucked into a crooked little alley beside the apothecary. The awning was already rolled back, warm light spilling into the street, the smell of sweet cream and butter thick on the air.

“Johan,” the old woman behind the counter greeted him, sliding a tray of pear tarts into the display case. “You’re up early.”

“As ever.” He tapped the glass. “You set any of the cherry almond aside for your favorites?”

She raised an eyebrow but slid open the case and handed him a small white box wrapped in twine.

“Just don’t eat them all before dinner.”

“No promises,” he grinned, passing her a few coins before heading back into the misty streets.

He moved quickly from shop to shop, ducking into the clothier to pick up a few swatches of linen that looked durable enough for hand towels or maybe curtains, then down to the candle shop to replace what had burned low in the bath room. They carried a scent Phanora didn’t hate—white tea and sea salt—and that was good enough for him. A few small trinkets followed—he always found himself pocketing something carved or polished, tiny offerings he left on the windowsills or in the study. Markers of time, little proof he’d been somewhere, done something.

The sun crested the waterline slowly, and with it came the tourists.

By the time Johan turned back toward the manor, the streets had begun to swell with sound—carts rolling, cafe chairs clattering onto cobblestones, voices high and chipper. He watched as an old man—real local, boots crusted with dried sea salt, pipe clamped between yellowed teeth—turned up the collar of his coat and disappeared into a side street, unwilling to share the road.

Johan understood the feeling.

The bag over his shoulder was heavier now, the smell of sweet pastries and new linen mixing in the morning air. He quickened his pace.

There were only a few hours left before Phanora would rise.

And he had breakfast to make.

_______________________________________________________

It was during breakfast when another letter from the order arrived. A bird sat on the fence railing of the back veranda, envelope in beak. Johan stood to collect it, the bird taking off as soon as it was firmly in hand. 

Setting it down on the table Johan pressed his ring into the wax seal and unfurled it. 

“Reports of graverobbing in Bredon,” he continued to skim the letter as Phanora drank her tea. “Some of the bodies are popping up as undead, others are still missing…”

“Bredon is quite a ways from here.” Phanora set her cup down. “We’d be best to set off on the earliest train.”

“Or we could use magic….”

“The trees are beautiful this time of year, I’d prefer to see them.”

Johan worked in the rhythm of habit, his motions efficient and exact, each movement quiet but practiced: sponge across porcelain, rinse, dry, stack. The soft chime of cups meeting their shelves was the only sound in the manor kitchen aside from the soft rustling of the morning breeze through the open door that led to the veranda.

Phanora remained seated for a while longer, watching the pale steam curl from the remnants of her tea. Outside, the mist that clung to the grass had begun to lift, trailing in wisps across the garden’s carefully manicured beds. Her gaze lingered not on the trees—though they were indeed lovely—but somewhere farther. Deeper.

“Bredon has always had problems with its cemeteries,” she murmured, finally, as Johan passed behind her with the dish towel still in hand. “Soft soil. Shallow traditions. Their mages are rarely certified past apprentice level.”

Johan set the towel down and leaned on the counter. “What do you think we’ll find?”

“Hopefully nothing,” she replied. “But I doubt the Order would bother if that were the case.”

She rose from her chair with quiet elegance, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. Johan moved to grab her shawl from its hook before she could even reach for it.

“You really are determined to make me useless,” she said, not unkindly, as he stepped behind her to settle it over her shoulders.

“On the contrary,” he replied, lips quirking. “If you’re busy thinking, I’ll stay busy doing. Keeps us both sharp.”

They made their way down the hall together, the manor creaking slightly in its old bones as the morning grew brighter. The scent of fresh bread still lingered faintly in the air, joined now by the subtle aroma of witch’s soap and clean linen.

“I’ll pack the cases,” Johan said. “One for you, one for me, and the small trunk.”

Phanora gave a single nod, already running through lists in her head—tools they’d need, references to pull, potential contacts in Bredon. She paused just before turning the corner, glancing back at him.

“Don’t forget the lantern,” she said.

“As if I would.” He gave a half-bow. “We’re chasing ghosts, after all.”

And with that, the house stirred into motion again, its stillness broken. The day had begun. And somewhere far beyond the manor’s quiet edges, the dead were restless.

________________________________

 

The early morning air was crisp as Phanora and Johan stood on the train platform, the scent of damp earth lingering from the previous night's rain. Johan adjusted the luggage strap on his shoulder, glancing over at Phanora, who stood with perfect poise, her cardigan wrapped tightly around herself to ward off the chill.

 

"You sure you don’t want to just teleport there?" Johan asked, shielding his face as a gust of wind sent stray leaves whirling around them.

 

"The trees," Phanora reminded him. 

 

Johan exhaled, shaking his head with a knowing smile. He eyed the train pulling into the station, steam hissing from its undercarriage, and stepped forward to lift Phanora’s trunk, carrying it on board as she followed without hesitation.

 

The ride was peaceful at first. The rhythmic clatter of the rails, the gentle rocking of the carriage—it was a stark contrast to their usual investigations, where things tended to unravel in bursts of chaos. Phanora had settled into her seat by the window, gaze fixed on the passing countryside, while Johan stretched his legs, balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten pastry in the other.

 

“Bredon’s a ways out from here,” Johan mused between bites. “You think this is another trafficker?”

 

Phanora considered his question for a moment before replying, “If bodies are missing and some are rising, it’s either someone learning or someone hiding. Neither bodes well.”

 

Johan tapped his fingers against the table, glancing at Phanora over his coffee cup. "Guess that means we won’t be taking the scenic route for long."

 

As if on cue, Phanora reached into her bag and retrieved a notebook, flipping through its pages. It was filled with reports—clipped articles, handwritten notes, bits of speculation tied together with precise ink strokes. Johan watched as she studied them carefully, piecing together patterns before the crime even presented itself in full.

 

“Strays don’t just appear like this,” she murmured. “Someone is raising them and discarding them.”

 

Johan wiped his mouth with a napkin, pushing his now-empty plate aside. “You got a hunch?”

 

Phanora’s eyes flickered with something close to frustration. “Not yet.”

 

Their train began to slow as they neared their stop, the countryside giving way to the outskirts of Bredon—a town with its fair share of history, but none that included widespread necromantic crimes. Johan adjusted his suspenders, watching as the landscape shifted from rolling fields to brick-lined streets.

 

"Well, let’s see what kind of trouble we’re walking into this time." He sighed, standing up and reaching for Phanora's luggage.

 

Phanora gathered her things, adjusting the fabric over her shoulders before stepping onto the platform. The air was sharper here, something acrid lingering beneath the otherwise unassuming town scents of bread baking and salt in the wind.

 

Something was already wrong.

 

Johan adjusted his grip on Phanora's steam trunk, the weight familiar in his hands despite the ache settling in his shoulders. He kept his pace steady beside her, the parasol angled carefully to shield her from the sun's glare.

 

The streets of Bredon were alive, but something in the air made Johan stiffen. The market should have been bustling, the hum of conversation layered with the sounds of traders haggling and the scent of baked goods mingling with the ocean breeze. Instead, voices were hushed, eyes darted toward strangers with guarded hesitation, and every movement carried a cautious edge.

 

“This place feels weird,” Johan muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the feeling. “People here look like they’re waiting for something bad to happen.”

 

Phanora, as expected, remained silent. Her expression was unchanged, unreadable. She didn’t acknowledge the shift in atmosphere with words, but Johan knew better than to assume she hadn’t noticed it. Phanora noticed everything.

 

They passed through the cobbled streets, the murmurs of conversation fading as they neared the inn where they would be staying. The sign above the door swayed slightly in the breeze, weathered from years of exposure to salty air. The building was sturdy enough, but there was an undeniable tension in the way the innkeeper stood behind the desk, his gaze flickering toward them before quickly looking away.

 

Johan exhaled through his nose, setting down the trunk by the entrance as he brushed dust from his sleeves. “If the town’s this on edge, whatever we’re looking for is probably closer than we think.”

 

Still, Phanora said nothing, simply stepping forward, the parasol lowering as they entered the dimly lit lobby. Johan didn’t push for a response—he knew he’d get one when it mattered.

 

The innkeeper was a wiry man, his thinning hair combed neatly to one side and sleeves rolled to the elbows as he stood behind the counter. His smile was polite, though the tension in his posture betrayed the unease beneath it.

“Welcome to Bredon,” he said, voice warm but restrained. “You’ll be staying for a few nights?”

Phanora nodded once, letting Johan handle the rest.

“Yeah, just passing through,” Johan replied, setting their trunk down with a controlled drop. He cast a glance around the lobby, taking in the dim lighting and aged wooden beams overhead. “Nice place you’ve got here—feels cozy. Any good spots to grab a drink?”

The innkeeper cleared his throat, shifting slightly as he retrieved a set of keys from a drawer. 

“There’s a pub a few streets down, The Salty Mare. Good ale, quiet crowd.”

Johan hummed in approval, leaning against the counter. 

“That so? What about markets? Seems lively out there, but folks look a little… on edge.”

The innkeeper hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the polished wood. “It’s been a strange season,” he admitted. “People have gone missing, and now... well, there are whispers, rumors. Some say things are—” He stopped himself, shaking his head before sliding the keys across the counter. “You’ll be in the east wing, second floor. Breakfast is included.”

Johan picked up the keys, tossing them once in his palm. “Missing folks, huh? Shame. Hope they turn up soon.”

The innkeeper nodded, a flicker of discomfort in his expression. “Yes. We all do.”

Phanora took her key without a word, heading toward the stairs with Johan falling into step beside her. He cast one last glance back toward the keeper, watching as the man busied himself with paperwork—anything to avoid lingering on the conversation.

Johan sighed, stretching his arms overhead.

 “Well, that wasn’t ominous or anything.”

Phanora remained silent, her grip firm around the handle of her parasol as they ascended the stairs. Whatever unease had settled over this town, she was already dissecting it in her mind, waiting for the moment when silence gave way to answers.

Phanora pushed the door open with a practiced ease, taking a measured glance around the space. The room was modest but well-appointed—a testament to a time when Bredon likely saw more prosperous travelers passing through.

 

She stepped forward, the wooden floor creaking under her weight, and examined the small stove tucked neatly into the corner. Johan would light it before he turned in, ensuring the room remained warm enough for her comfort. Though the air in the town carried a distinct unease, the inn itself was well-kept, a fragile pocket of normalcy amidst uncertainty.

 

Her gaze drifted toward the adjoining bathroom, its clean tile gleaming under the lantern light. The linens were crisp, fresh, and carefully folded atop the shelf—a subtle luxury that hinted at the town’s dwindling reach for refinement.

 

Johan entered a moment later, setting her steam trunk down beside the wardrobe with a muted thud. He rolled his shoulders, casting a glance around before letting out a low whistle.

 

"Not bad," he remarked, inspecting the space. "Feels like someone put effort into keeping things nice—even if the rest of the town is hanging onto its nerves."

 

Phanora didn’t respond immediately, instead setting her parasol aside and smoothing a hand over the edge of the writing desk. The wood was polished, though worn, as if countless hands had traced the same grooves over the years.

 

Johan sighed, stretching his arms overhead before gesturing toward the stove. "I’ll get this lit for you. No point in freezing through the night."

 

She inclined her head slightly, the closest thing to acknowledgment he would get, and stepped toward the window, watching as dusk settled over Bredon. Even from here, she could feel it—the weight of something unseen pressing into the town’s bones.

 

Something unnatural lingered. She could sense it waiting.

 

Chapter 4

Johan pressed the ragged edge of his sleeve against his split lip, the sting sharp enough to make him inhale through his nose. It had only been a few hours since the scuffle outside the feed store, and he hadn’t exactly walked away victorious. He’d fought well enough, but the numbers had worked against him, and now his mouth throbbed in time with the headache brewing behind his eyes.

 

Still, work had to be done.

 

The family grocery store was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerators lining the back wall. Johan balanced a crate on his hip, the worn wooden edges digging into his side as he crouched to load milk into the shelves. His hands worked mechanically—lift, place, adjust—but his mind was elsewhere.

 

It had been months since the rumors started, whispers slipping between idle chatter whenever Johan walked past.

 

"Johan spends too much time near the Kristoffel estate." 

"You think he’s working for them?" 

"Bet he’s cursed. Maybe he ain’t even human anymore."

 

That last one had been tossed around more than once. Ever since he’d started keeping to himself, ever since people noticed that Phanora knew his name, they’d decided he wasn’t worth their trust.

 

He could hear the front door creak open—the shop was supposed to be closed, but he had yet to bolt the entrance. A sigh scraped at the back of his throat.

 

“Alright, store’s shut. Get what you need and be quick about it,” he muttered, shoving the last milk jug into place before standing up.

 

The air shifted.

 

Johan turned, already knowing who it was.

 

A group of boys leaned against the counter, grins sharp and unpleasant. The same ones he’d tangled with earlier, their bruises fresh but their spirits far from dampened.

 

“Didn’t know you ran the shop all by yourself now,” one of them—Dale—said, crossing his arms. He was lanky, all angles, and had the kind of smile that always meant trouble. “Maybe your folks finally wised up and threw you out.”

 

Johan exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders to release the tension creeping up his spine. 

 

“Store’s closed. Leave.”

 

Another boy—Tim—clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “That’s no way to greet your customers, Johan. We just wanted to check up on you.”

 

Johan ignored him, stepping behind the counter to retrieve the keys. He knew what was coming—had seen it enough times to recognize when someone was looking to start something. But that didn’t mean he was in the mood to entertain it.

 

Dale gestured toward the rag still clenched between Johan’s fingers. “What’s that you got there?”

 

Johan stiffened.

 

He knew what they were after.

 

The handkerchief Phanora had made him—it was old now, the stitching slightly worn, but he’d kept it, kept it safe. A ridiculous thing to be sentimental over, maybe, but it had meant something when he got it. And these idiots knew it.

 

“Don’t start,” Johan warned, pocketing the keys and turning toward the door.

 

They followed him out.

 

The street lamps flickered against the worn cobblestones as Johan stepped onto the sidewalk, the air carrying the distant scent of hay and damp earth. He gripped his jacket tight, willing himself to just keep walking.

 

But Dale wasn’t having it.

 

“So, what’s it like?” Dale called after him.

 

Johan didn’t stop.

 

“What’s it like working for a bitch, sorry, witch ?”

 

Johan’s jaw locked. The familiar burn of frustration settled deep in his gut as he turned, slow and deliberate. “You wanna say that again?”

 

Dale grinned, tapping his heel against the pavement. “I said—what’s it like being their little errand boy? You cursed yet?”

 

Tim laughed. “Bet he is. Look at him—not even bleeding proper.”

 

Johan clenched his teeth.

 

Then, in a flash, Dale lunged.

 

Johan had braced for it, but the moment he moved to block, another boy swiped something from his pocket.

 

“Hey—” Johan snapped, twisting, but the damage was done.

 

The handkerchief Phanora had made—white with delicate embroidery—was clenched between Tim’s fingers, already being waved around like some kind of trophy.

 

“Well, well,” Tim laughed, holding it up to the dim light. “She really did make you something, huh?”

 

Johan saw red.

 

He threw the first punch.

______________________________________________________________________

 

The quiet hum of the evening settled around Phanora as she sat at the writing desk, fingers idly tracing the grain of the wood. The soft glow of the lantern flickered against the polished surface, illuminating scattered papers and notes from the day’s findings. Outside, the town murmured with subdued life, but within these walls, the atmosphere was still.

 

A knock at the door.

 

“Come in,” she called, not bothering to turn as the latch clicked open.

 

Johan stepped inside, carefully balancing a tray in his hands. He moved with a practiced ease, setting it down atop the small table near the window with precise care. The arrangement was simple—light fare, nothing too heavy after a long day. A selection of teas, each steeping in its own delicate pot, and a cup of coffee prepared just the way he liked it—milk, sugar, warm enough to ease the chill clinging to the air.

 

He glanced at her briefly before settling into the chair opposite. “You got a plan for today, or am I flying blind?”

 

Phanora reached for a teacup, letting the steam curl against her fingertips before speaking. “We’ll begin our search near the graveyard first. If bodies have gone missing, the disturbance will linger.”

 

Johan took a sip of his coffee, nodding. “Right. Start where the dead should be and see who’s been messing around where they shouldn’t.”

 

Phanora gave a slight incline of her head, an acknowledgment rather than agreement. Johan studied her carefully, the way she carried the weight of their work without ever showing strain. It wasn’t detachment—it was precision. Cold calculation honed to perfection.

 

Still, he worried. Even if she didn’t.

 

“Well, here’s hoping we don’t run into any surprises,” Johan muttered, setting his coffee down. But he already knew better.

 

With necromancy, there were always surprises.

 

______________________________________________________________________

The graveyard stretched before them in quiet elegance, a testament to time and tradition. Ornate iron gates framed the entrance, winding ivy curling around the stone pillars like fingers grasping at the past. Marble headstones stood in regimented rows, their surfaces worn smooth by years of rain and wind, yet lovingly maintained. The scent of damp earth and autumn leaves lingered in the crisp evening air.

Johan let out a low whistle, adjusting his grip on the lantern as they strolled deeper between the graves. "Gotta admit, this place has a certain charm," he mused, the soft glow of the lantern casting long shadows across the well-kept pathways.

Phanora remained silent, her gaze flickering between the tombstones, searching.

At first, there were no signs of disturbance. The graves remained untouched, undisturbed by careless hands or hurried footsteps. But as they ventured further, the soil shifted—subtle at first, almost easy to miss. Then Johan spotted it.

Upturned dirt. Boot prints pressed deep into the mud, evidence of someone having worked here recently.

"Here we go," Johan muttered, lowering himself next to the disturbed grave. He rested his hand against the cool stone, fingers trailing along the carved name etched across it. He squinted against the dim light of the lantern, reading aloud. "Alistair Gaunt. Died… thirty years ago."

He glanced toward Phanora for confirmation, but she was already moving, her steps soundless over the damp earth. Something had caught her attention.

Without a word, she drifted toward a crypt nestled near the far edge of the cemetery, its entrance shrouded in thick ivy and shadow.

Johan cursed under his breath, scrambling up from the grave to follow, lantern swinging at his side. "Phanora?" he called, voice low but urgent.

She didn’t respond.

She was already gone into the dark.

The air in the crypt was wrong.

Phanora stepped forward, her boots barely making a sound against the cold stone floor. The familiar scent of damp earth, aging wood, and decay was absent—replaced by something unsettlingly sterile. No dust-heavy stillness, no stagnant traces of time settling into the cracks of old coffins. It was too clean.

She moved deeper, her sharp gaze flickering over the signs of disturbance. The remnants were subtle but undeniable—shuffled cobwebs, the faint outlines where coffins once rested, and scuffed floor markings betraying where bodies had been lifted from their final place. This wasn’t ordinary grave-robbing. This was deliberate, methodical.

And then she saw it.

In the center of the crypt, embedded into the stone, was a staircase door. The heavy iron lock had been popped, hanging loosely against the frame as if someone had wrenched it open in haste—or perhaps left it that way intentionally.

Footsteps echoed behind her.

Johan caught up, his breath coming slightly heavier from the rush, lantern swinging in his grip. He didn’t need to ask—he could feel it too, the unnatural disruption that clung to the air like a presence lurking just beyond sight.

“Well,” he muttered, gaze dropping to the open doorway beneath them. “This sure ain’t standard grave robbery.”

Phanora didn’t answer. She was already moving forward, slipping into the depths below, her form swallowed by the shadows.

The catacomb was tight, but its craftsmanship hinted at wealth and status. The walls were adorned with ornate carvings, delicate filigree framing ancient names etched into polished stone. Whoever had been laid to rest here had once carried prestige—and yet, their final sanctuary had been intruded upon, disturbed by hands with little reverence.

Johan let the lantern’s glow sweep across the chamber, exhaling slowly. “This is how all the bad horror movies start, you know. Two people poking around where they shouldn’t be, stumbling into something they can’t explain.” He shot Phanora a sidelong glance. “Except we actually can explain it, which is worse.”

Phanora moved forward, her steps methodical as she surveyed the space. The air was stagnant, thick with something more than time—a lingering residue of magic, unnatural and recent. Then, her gaze flicked upward.

A portion of the ceiling had been carved away, the stone crudely chiseled to create an opening. Through it, faint light poured in, illuminating the dust motes swirling lazily in the air.

Phanora stopped, turning to Johan. “Go through it.”

Johan stared at her, then at the hole, then back at her. “You’re joking.”

She said nothing.

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “You know, one of these days, I’m gonna start saying ‘no’ to these ridiculous requests.”

Phanora remained unmoved.

Johan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before gripping the edge of the opening, testing the stone for sturdiness. He looked back at her, one last attempt at reasoning. “You do realize that you can float, right? You could easily —”

“Go,” she interrupted, voice steady.

He grumbled something under his breath, but he hoisted himself up anyway, pushing through the narrow passage with a grunt. Whatever was waiting on the other side, he was about to find out firsthand. Lucky him.

______________________________________________________________________

 

Johan winced as he crept through the kitchen, moving with the slow, deliberate steps of someone who had done this a hundred times before. The house was quiet, the smell of simmering stew from dinner lingering faintly in the air. He rubbed at his aching jaw, flinching when his fingertips met the deep split on his lip. His black eye pulsed angrily under the dim lantern light, and the dirt crusted along his arms and collar would be impossible to explain.

 

He should have just washed up outside.

 

But the ache in his ribs told him he needed sleep more than anything.

 

He made it past the kitchen, past the dining room, and was almost to the stairs when the wood creaked under his step.

 

Damn it.

 

Still, no sound of movement followed, no irritated voice demanding to know why he was sneaking in so late. Maybe he got lucky.

 

That hope lasted exactly three more steps.

 

As soon as Johan pushed open the door to the bedroom he shared with three of his brothers, he froze.

 

His mother was already inside.

 

Waiting.

 

A slipper sat loosely in her grasp, and though she hadn’t yet swung, her grip was firm enough to make Johan briefly reconsider every single choice he had made today.

 

The worst part?

 

The three brothers who shared the room were pretending to sleep.

 

Very badly.

 

Jonas was shoving his face into a pillow to suppress laughter. Joe was visibly shaking from his attempt at restraint. Jonathan, the youngest, had the blanket pulled too high—like that would protect him from witnessing the chaos about to unfold.

 

Their mother sighed, long and slow, looking Johan up and down.

 

"So," she said, adjusting the slipper in her hand. "You wanna tell me why you look like you lost a fight with the entire hog pen?"

 

Johan swallowed. "Didn’t lose."

 

Her brows lifted.

 

"... Oh, you won, did you?"

 

Johan deeply regretted opening his mouth.

 

Jonas snorted.

 

The slipper moved.

 

________________________________________________________________________

 

Johan barely had time to process the fingernails embedded in the earth—the small, jagged remnants of a desperate struggle—before he pulled himself through the opening and back onto the graveyard’s surface. His breath was steady but shallow as he scanned the disturbed bushes, their broken branches and uneven ground telling a story he wasn’t quite ready to piece together.

They knew where the bodies were coming from. But why?

That lingering question sat heavy in his mind as he turned, gripping the edge of the carved hole to begin his descent. He’d barely made it a step when the sharp, sudden impact cracked against the back of his skull.

The world tilted.

His vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping into his peripheral like ink spilling across parchment. His knees buckled, and the weight of his own body felt foreign—detached, sluggish—as he attempted to turn, to fight, to do something. But his limbs wouldn’t cooperate.

The last thing he saw before the darkness took him completely was the indistinct shape of a figure looming over him.

And then—nothing.

_______________________________________________________________________

The Void was the fate worse than death—the great nothingness that awaited souls torn from their cycle. It wasn’t fire and torment, nor was it peace or reincarnation. It was absence. A vast, cavernous purgatory where the dead did not sleep, did not dream, did not exist in any way that could be comprehended.

Once a soul was thrown into The Void, it was lost. Irretrievable.

It was the reason necromancers tread carefully, why those who studied resurrection knew better than to meddle recklessly with the laws of life and death. The magic required to tether a soul back to its body was delicate, intricate. Failure meant severing something irrevocably—meant damning a spirit to the great emptiness, stripped of sensation, thought, identity.

For many, the threat alone was enough to ensure caution.

But not all.

Johan groaned as consciousness crept back into his limbs. The ache in the back of his head pulsed with a dull, throbbing pain, his body stiff from whatever position he’d been left in. He stirred, the rough fabric beneath him scraping against his skin. It smelled of disinfectant, stale air, and lingering cigarette smoke.

He cracked his eye open, vision swimming as he took in the dim holding room—the stark cement walls, the worn-out cot beneath him, the single metal chair against the wall.

A precinct.

His lip curled in irritation.

“What the hell…” Johan muttered, pressing a hand against his forehead, trying to will the dizziness away. He didn’t remember getting here, but whoever had dropped him on his head had made sure he wasn’t going anywhere fast.

Johan groaned as he fully regained consciousness, his head still throbbing from the entirely unnecessary force of impact. He blinked sluggishly against the dim light, forcing himself up onto his elbows as the room spun slightly around him.

 

Outside the cell, Phanora sat with all the grace and composure of someone entirely unbothered by the situation. She was drinking tea—because of course she was—and discussing the case in low, measured tones with an officer, her posture perfectly at ease as if she had personally selected this station for its hospitality.

 

Johan pressed his fingers against his temples. “Oh great, she’s having a tea party while I’m concussed.”

 

The officer, finally noticing Johan stirring, leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Ah—Johan, you’re awake. I, uh—” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting toward Phanora before settling on Johan with something that vaguely resembled guilt. “I wanted to personally apologize. It seems our new groundskeeper mistook you for—well, something else and struck you with his shovel.”

 

Johan gave him an incredulous stare. “Something else? What, a grave robber?”

 

The officer visibly winced. “In his defense, you were crawling out of a hole.”

 

Johan threw his hands up. “Because that’s where I was sent!” He turned his glare toward Phanora, who merely took another sip of tea before offering a casual, almost apologetic nod.

 

“I should have alerted them first,” she admitted, though her tone held little urgency. “But the error has been corrected, and the officer assures me it won’t happen again.”

 

Johan scoffed. “Oh, fantastic. My skull appreciates the sentiment.”

 

Phanora placed her cup down with delicate precision and met his glare with the same unwavering serenity. “You’re fine, Johan.”

 

Johan clenched his jaw, muttering under his breath as he sat back against the cot, rubbing the sore spot at the back of his head. “Nothing worse than getting your head bashed in and then gaslit about it.”

 

The officer shifted uncomfortably before pulling out a notepad. “Now that you’re awake, we should go over what happened. Miss Kristoffel has already explained some details, but I’d like to hear your account.”

 

Johan sighed dramatically, throwing an arm over his face before letting out a resigned, “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

 

Phanora refilled her cup. Johan was sure that whatever real apologies he deserved were poured straight into that teapot, never to be spoken aloud.

 

The officer sighed, flipping through the notes in his worn leather-bound pad. He tapped the edge of the page, glancing between Phanora and Johan before leaning back in his chair.

"The bodies weren’t reported missing at first," he admitted, voice tinged with frustration. "We only realized the extent of it when they started showing up—working in the fields, stacking crates in the docks, even sweeping the damn streets." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "At first, people thought it was some elaborate trick, some cheap labor scheme no one had caught onto yet. But then… we started recognizing faces."

Johan rubbed the back of his sore head, throwing Phanora a side glance. "Let me guess—same story as Southport?"

Phanora took a slow sip of her tea, unimpressed by Johan’s dramatics but letting him speak.

The officer nodded, flipping through more notes. "Nearly identical. The bodies are barely maintained, just enough to keep them moving. No concern for preservation, autonomy, or well-being. From what we've gathered, they're being raised en masse, used until they break down, and then discarded." He paused, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "We don't know who's behind it yet, but whoever they are—they're sloppy."

Johan scoffed, crossing his arms. "Sloppy? More like careless. Hell, even a half-decent necromancer would know better than to leave their handiwork wandering the streets like lost dogs."

Phanora set her cup down with deliberate precision, finally speaking. "Careless is dangerous."

The officer nodded grimly. "And it's only getting worse."

Johan exhaled, dragging a hand through his messy curls. "Yeah, well. Looks like we’ve got another mess to clean up." He glanced at Phanora again, the unspoken understanding lingering between them.

_________________________________________________________________

 

Johan put on a show of suffering, throwing himself onto the small couch in Phanora’s quarters with an exaggerated groan.

"What's the point of it all if my skull is cracked?" he lamented, pressing a hand dramatically against his forehead. "What if my brain—what’s left of it—is just right there, leaking out? Wouldn’t that be a tragedy?"

Phanora, seated at her writing desk, sighed softly, barely sparing him a glance.

"You’re fine."

"I might not be fine," Johan argued, shifting to his side, his voice taking on a petulant whine. "What if I need emergency maintenance? Immediate surgical intervention? A full reconstruction? I could be dying!"

Silence.

Then, finally, Phanora relented.

With a patient, measured grace, she rose, crossing the space between them before kneeling slightly to take his head into her hands. Her fingers, delicate but firm, brushed carefully along the back of his skull, searching, assessing. She lingered just enough for Johan to revel in the rare moment of attention.

His grin was impossible to hide.

Satisfied, she smoothed his hair back into place, the best she could given how wild his curls tended to be. Phanora moved back to her desk as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Johan remained frozen, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Phanora carried on, seated comfortably at her desk.

 

 "We'll need to be up early tomorrow, go to the city morgue and speak with the coroner." 

 

Johan moved with methodical ease, ensuring the small stove was fully stocked and warming properly for the night. He kept his focus on the flickering fire, the steady glow giving the room a comfortable warmth despite the crispness lingering in the air.

 

Phanora, seated at her desk, continued her musings aloud, her voice quiet but unwavering.

 

“The cases are too aligned for coincidence,” she murmured, absently flipping a page in her notes. “Southport and Bredon both suffering from the same careless necromantic work, both riddled with expendable undead labor… There’s a pattern forming, but I don’t yet see the shape.”

 

Johan listened, his hands working deftly as he picked up the hairbrush resting nearby. With practiced ease, he stood behind her, carefully running the bristles through the long cascade of pale blonde, untangling strands with gentle precision.

 

“Maybe it’s not a singular necromancer,” he offered, smoothing his palm over the silken strands before continuing his work. “Could be a group—traffickers teaming up, moving between cities, setting up where the laws against necromancy are weakest.”

 

Phanora hummed, not yet dismissing the thought, but not fully settling into it either. “Possible. But then, why such inconsistency? Some raised bodies are barely held together, while others persist past their usefulness.”

 

Johan shrugged, focusing on his task. “Could be different skill levels between them. Some are sloppier than others. Just because they’re working together doesn’t mean they’re all equally competent.”

 

Phanora didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she exhaled slowly, the weight of the case folding deeper into her thoughts. Johan, ever mindful, continued brushing, his movements slowing as he reached the final strands.

 

Then, absentmindedly, in that quiet tone that almost went unheard, she muttered—

 

“Good boy.”

 

Johan’s hand twitched.

 

The way she said it was entirely without thought, more of an automatic praise—like she would to a creature she’d spent years training. But it hit somewhere deep in his chest, lodging itself there like a brand.

 

Still, he said nothing.

 

He only resumed brushing, careful and deliberate, as if the moment hadn’t happened.

 

But his mind refused to let it go.

 

Chapter 5

Phanora Kristoffel was not a morning person.

 

She had never admitted it outright—never grumbled about the early hours or cursed the rising sun—but it was written in every slow, deliberate movement she made upon waking. It was in the way she dragged herself from bed, the way she sat at the edge of the mattress for a long, silent moment, staring at the floor as if contemplating the sheer audacity of existence at this hour.

 

She never fought against it, never whined, never lingered under the blankets when duty called—but her begrudging acceptance of morning was palpable.

 

The summer sunlight filtering through the window did nothing to warm her bones. Even now, wrapped tightly in her robe, she felt that ever-present chill—a constant reminder that her body carried the weight of something beyond mere humanity.

 

Luckily, she never had to endure the routine alone.

 

Johan had been awake for some time already, effortlessly slipping into the rhythm of the morning as though it had never been a challenge for him at all. It was instinct, embedded deep from years spent on his family’s farm—where early rising wasn’t a choice, but a necessity.

 

He entered without hesitation, carrying a tray with practiced grace. The tea was steeped to perfection, the light breakfast arranged with careful thought. He set it down in front of her with a familiarity earned through years of service, the subtle understanding between them requiring no words.

 

“You look thrilled,” Johan noted dryly, watching as Phanora sat stiffly at her writing desk, fingers curling around the warmth of the tea cup.

 

She didn’t respond.

 

She merely took her first sip.

 

Johan smirked. "Glad to see you survived waking up."

 

Phanora exhaled slowly, settling deeper into her seat, allowing the warmth of the tea to anchor her against the morning’s demands.

 

Johan waited—patient but ever observant—until finally, she spoke.

 

"The morgue."

 

Johan blinked. "…Come again?"

 

She set her cup down with precise care. "We go to the morgue first."

 

Johan sighed, stretching his arms overhead. "Right. Straight to the dead people. Excellent way to start the day."

 

Phanora took another sip of tea, utterly unbothered.

 

For her, it was just another morning.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

The mortuary smelled of sterile linens and herbs , a faint trace of antiseptic hanging in the air. The quiet hum of preparation surrounded Phanora as she carefully wiped down instruments, each blade and suture set placed with methodical precision. Her mother had deemed her ready for another practice run—another step toward mastering the delicate balance between restoration and reverence.

Johan sat slumped in the corner, his knuckles raw and bruised, his expression carrying that worn-out edge he had started wearing more often. He was talking, though—rambling in that way he did when he needed to fill the silence, even if he didn’t realize why.

“School’s the same,” he muttered, absently flexing his fingers, wincing slightly. “Math’s a nightmare, as usual. Pretty sure my teacher is out to get me. And the farm? Well, the pigs still stink, the chickens still hate me, and Jonas keeps trying to rope me into nonsense I explicitly do not have time for.”

He didn’t mention his family as much anymore. Not like he used to.

Phanora didn’t press him for details. She let him talk.

She finished aligning her tools, moving with careful ease, letting his words wash over the room like background noise—something steady, something familiar. The scent of chamomile steeped into the fabric of the space, mingling with the dim lantern light.

Johan sighed, leaning his head back against the wall, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling. "You ever think about what it’s gonna be like years from now?" His voice was quieter now, less playful. "When all this—the training, the work—it’s not just learning anymore, but life?"

Phanora turned slightly, brushing dust from the edge of her sleeve before responding, voice even. “I don’t think about it. I already know.”

Johan huffed a small, amused breath. “Right. Of course you do.”

For a while, neither spoke.

Johan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, absently flexing his bruised knuckles. He rambled, filling the quiet air with idle complaints about school and exaggerated theories on the town’s baker secretly hoarding sugar to control the local economy.

Occasionally, between his nonsense, he threw out a joke. Some more absurd than others.

And Phanora—though she kept her back to him—smiled. Just barely. Johan noticed the subtle shift in her shoulders, the way her fingers stilled momentarily over the instruments she had been methodically laying out. He didn't call her out on it.

He let the moment settle before his voice dipped into something quieter.

“Have you ever worked on a person before?”

Phanora’s hands halted—not for long, just briefly—but enough to show she had heard him.

Johan waited.

She was careful with her words, precise with her answers. He had known her long enough to recognize when a question carried weight—when it demanded thought before response.

Finally, she spoke.

“No.”

Johan blinked, sitting up slightly. “Huh. Thought for sure—”

“It isn’t about skill,” she interrupted, adjusting a set of scalpels, aligning them just so. “It’s about necessity.”

Johan exhaled, nodding as if confirming something in his own mind. He didn’t push for more.

And Phanora didn’t offer it.

___________________________________________________________________________

The town’s morgue was unlike the cold, sterile institutions found in sprawling cities—it was a part of something older, something personal. Connected to the modest town hall and the small church that had stood for generations, it carried an air of quiet reverence, a place where final rites were still seen as sacred rather than bureaucratic.

 

Inside, the scent of aged wood and faint traces of incense mingled with the cooler air that preserved the dead. It wasn’t imposing or harsh, just solemn.

 

The embalmer, a woman well into her years, stood near the counter, inspecting papers through a pair of delicate wire-framed glasses. She was small and round, her presence soft in a way that made her seem as if she had always been here—as if this place and its purpose had molded itself around her instead of the other way around.

 

She had an uncanny ability to soothe those who entered, not in the way that demanded words or explanation, but simply by existing in the space, by carrying an unwavering gentleness that reassured even the most grief-stricken visitors.

 

When Phanora and Johan stepped inside, she lifted her gaze, smiling warmly despite the nature of their inquiry.

 

“You must be here about the bodies,” she said, voice smooth as honey, lacking the weariness others might carry when dealing with such matters.

 

Johan glanced at Phanora before nodding. “That obvious?”

 

She chuckled, gathering a set of files, carefully flipping them open as she spoke. “Everything in this town moves slower than it should, except for whispers. People have been worried, wondering what could be disturbing the dead. I’ve seen enough of it in my time to know when something is wrong.”

 

Phanora took a measured step forward, her presence unhurried. “We need to see them.”

 

The embalmer nodded, gesturing toward the back rooms, where the bodies awaited their final observations. “Of course, dear. Follow me.”

 

Johan exhaled, stuffing his hands in his pockets before following.

 

The elevator hummed as it descended, the chill in the air growing sharper with each passing floor. The embalmer stood between Phanora and Johan, her hands clasped gently before her as she spoke in that smooth, reassuring voice—one laced with an unspoken sorrow.

 

“It never gets easier,” she murmured, her words carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much, who had cared too deeply. “Losing them is hard enough, but having their final rest disturbed? It’s cruel.”

 

Johan exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his arms as the cold sank into his bones. He wasn’t easily unnerved, but something about this—about the way the embalmer spoke with genuine grief—made him quiet.

 

“They were taken, used, discarded,” she continued, shaking her head. “Not even treated with the smallest dignity. No proper rites, no care. Just left to rot after their purpose was served.”

 

Phanora’s expression remained unreadable, but Johan could feel the tension in her posture—the way her fingers curled just slightly at her side.

 

The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the basement morgue, dimly lit and chilled beyond comfort. The embalmer stepped forward, leading them toward the rows of preserved bodies, each one carrying the scars of their wrongful resurrection.

 

“They deserve peace,” she whispered. “And if you two can bring them that, I’ll be grateful beyond measure.”

 

Phanora took a step closer, surveying the bodies, calculating—already piecing together the next move.

 

The bodies laid before them carried all the telltale signs of crude resurrection—stiff limbs, mottled skin slipping free like wet paper, a lack of true care in their reanimation. Yet, something was different. Unlike the mindless, wandering undead left to decay in Southport, these corpses had been put down again—not fully restored, but silenced, as though someone had attempted to correct the mistake before it spread too far.

 

Phanora took slow, measured steps, scanning the rows of unrested dead with eyes that missed nothing. Her gaze landed on one in particular—a man positioned in the center, his form ragged and bloated with the stagnant fluids of rot. Soggy skin barely clung to the tissue beneath, loose and curling at the edges where decomposition had taken its toll. His clothes were ruined, fibers torn and stained with the aftermath of careless necromantic work.

 

She tilted her head, studying him—not with disgust, but with something deeper, something far less obvious. A quiet calculation, the wheels of thought spinning behind those cold blue eyes.

 

Then, she leaned back, deliberately slow, exhaling evenly before speaking.

 

"When we find who did this, I'll be sure they do the maintenance on this one. Get their statement."

 

The words carried weight, an unspoken promise that Johan, standing just beside her, understood perfectly.

 

The body remained still—but the soul did not.

 

Phanora could feel it, lingering just beneath the surface. Trapped. Suspended between the remnants of a broken body and the unfinished thread of magic tethering it to this realm.

 

The embalmer—a woman of steady hands and unshaken devotion—crossed herself before clearing her throat. Her voice was softer now, tinged with the kind of grief that did not fade with time.

 

"His name is Henry," she murmured, a reverence in the way she said it. "I laid him to rest several years ago."

 

Johan shifted, his initial instinct to offer some measure of comfort. He had seen how hard this was for people—the disruption of the final farewell, the ache of having a loved one disturbed, stripped of dignity. He had barely moved forward when—

 

Phanora beat him to it.

 

She reached out, carefully taking the older woman’s hand, ignoring the way she flinched at the frigid chill of her skin. Her grasp was steady, neither firm nor hesitant, simply present—an anchor against the sorrow hanging in the room.

 

The morgue was quiet, save for the faint hum of the cooling system, the still air heavy with the weight of disrupted rest. Phanora held the old woman’s hand gently, though her touch was cold enough to make the embalmer flinch ever so slightly. She ignored the reaction, offering a measured squeeze—an anchor in the uncertainty of what lay before them.

 

“He will be tended to,” Phanora murmured, tone even, assuring. “Not left in this state.”

 

The embalmer swallowed thickly, her weathered fingers tightening around Phanora’s just slightly. Her grief was subtle, buried beneath a lifetime of tending to the dead, but it was there—woven into the way her voice wavered when she said, “He was a good man.”

 

Johan watched the exchange, his hands twitching at his sides as he fought the urge to step in, to offer his own reassurances. But Phanora had already taken the lead, and Johan knew better than to interrupt when she was like this—when her presence was less clinical and more intentional, when she leaned just slightly into the softness of moments like these.

 

“We’ll find who did this,” Phanora added, voice steady. “And they will do right by him.”

 

The embalmer exhaled, nodding once, her lips pressing into a thin line as she pulled her hand away, rubbing her fingers together as if to chase away the lingering chill.

 

Johan sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “So, we’ve got a lingering soul, a stolen body, and a town sitting on edge. Fantastic.”

 

Phanora tilted her head slightly, studying Henry’s ruined form one last time before stepping back.

 

“Let’s get to work.”

 

____________________________________________________________________

 

The docks stretched into the quiet dark, the scent of salt and damp wood clinging to the cold night air. Lanterns flickered unevenly along the weathered piers, their dim glow casting long, wavering shadows across the water. Most of the fishing and shipping boats had settled for the evening, tied neatly against the mooring posts, but a few still rocked gently with the shifting tide—silent, unmoving, like sleeping beasts.

Phanora stepped forward, gaze sweeping over the scene, calculating.

Johan, slightly behind her, adjusted his coat, rubbing his arms as the chill sank into his skin. “You know, I was hoping for something a little more exciting than poking around crusty old boats,” he muttered, keeping his voice low as he scanned the vessels. “Maybe some dramatic rooftop chase? A fight in an alley? Anything besides wet shoes.”

Phanora ignored him.

They moved carefully, keeping to the quieter parts of the docks, the wooden planks creaking faintly under their weight. The scent of fish—fresh and rotting—mixed with the briny tang of the sea, curling in the air as they approached a cluster of boats near the far end.

Johan ran a hand along the edge of one, fingers brushing over the frayed ropes securing it in place. “If they’re moving bodies through town, a dock would be the perfect place to get shipments in and out without too much attention.”

Phanora nodded, barely acknowledging the observation as she focused on the ground beneath them.

Then, she crouched.

Johan followed her gaze—at first, it looked like nothing. Just damp wood, the usual grit of the dockside coating the surface. But then, as his eyes adjusted, he noticed it.

Boot prints.

Fresh enough to still hold their shape, pressed deep into the grime leading toward one of the larger shipping boats.

“Guess someone’s been busy,” Johan murmured, kneeling beside her.

Phanora reached out, pressing her fingertips lightly against the faint traces of disturbed filth, testing its consistency. The moisture clung to her gloves, confirming what she had already suspected.

This wasn’t just normal foot traffic.

Someone had been here recently—moving something heavy.

Johan exhaled, shaking his head. “We’re looking at transports, aren’t we?”

Phanora straightened, casting a glance toward the boat resting silently ahead.

“Yes.”

Johan stood, rolling his shoulders, already bracing himself for what was next.

“Then let’s see what they’ve been hauling.”

Johan raised a hand, signaling Phanora to hold back as he stepped forward, his movements slow and calculated. The boat loomed ahead, its dark silhouette rocking gently in the quiet harbor, lanterns casting uneven pools of light across the damp wood.

 

He kept to the shadows, shifting past stacked crates and weathered barrels, his boots barely making a sound against the worn planks of the dock. The scent of salt and fish lingered in the air, but beneath it—faint, almost imperceptible—was something else. Something wrong.

 

He exhaled quietly, steadying himself as he approached the boat’s loading ramp. No guards. No movement. Just the gentle slap of waves against the hull.

 

Still, too easy never meant safe.

 

Johan reached the edge, pressing himself against the side, listening.

 

Nothing.

 

He cast a glance back toward Phanora—she remained unmoving, watching, waiting. Trusting him to make the first move.

 

He hated when she did that.

 

Bracing himself, he stepped forward, carefully placing a hand against the railing as he prepared to climb aboard.

 

Then, just as his fingers curled around the edge—

 

A faint groan from somewhere deep within the ship.

 

Something was alive in there. Or at least, something was moving.

 

Johan swallowed down the immediate spike of unease, schooling his expression into something carefully neutral.

 

“Well,” he muttered under his breath, “guess we’re doing this the hard way.” And he climbed aboard.

 

Johan pressed himself against the worn wooden railing, keeping low as he crept forward. The boat had all the markings of a standard fishing and transport vessel—nets coiled in their proper places, crates stacked neatly along the deck—but something about it felt off.

 

Then, voices.

 

He froze, crouching just behind a stack of barrels, listening.

 

Two men spoke in hushed tones, their conversation cutting through the quiet night air like a blade. The waves lapped gently against the hull, masking some of their words, but Johan strained to catch what he could.

 

“…shipment was bigger this time. More trouble than it’s worth,” the first man grumbled, his voice thick with irritation.

 

A pause. Then, the second man sighed. “Don’t matter. We were paid to move ‘em, and we did. Ain’t our problem once they leave the dock.”

 

Johan’s jaw tightened. He had been right. Transport.

 

Phanora would want details—who was paying them, where the bodies were going, whether they knew exactly what they were hauling.

 

He shifted slightly, preparing to get closer—but the deck groaned under his weight.

 

The voices stopped.

 

Johan held his breath.

 

Then, the sound of footsteps. Coming toward him.

 

"Shit."

 

Johan barely had time to think—barely had time to breathe—before the footsteps grew heavier, closer. He pressed himself against the damp wood of the crate, the scent of old fish guts and saltwater clinging to his skin. His pulse thudded dully in his ears as he crouched lower, trying to silence his breath, willing himself to become nothing.

 

Then—it moved.

 

A ragged body, slumped between the stacked nets and barrels, lurched forward with a slow, unnatural pull. The dim lantern light flickered against its sagging flesh, casting deep shadows where the skin had peeled away, revealing raw, bloated tissue beneath. The stench of decay thickened, sinking into the heavy air like rot too old to be disturbed.

 

Johan stiffened.

 

It hadn't been moving before.

 

A long, wheezing exhale rasped through its ruined throat. The body swayed, almost as if sensing something—sensing him. It twitched, jerking forward in uneven bursts, its limbs awkward, too stiff to function properly but still trying.

 

Johan swallowed hard, shifting just slightly as the voices from before grew more distant, their conversation fading beyond the upper deck.

 

He wasn't alone down here.

 

The rotten thing let out another ragged breath, its exposed teeth clicking together as its jaw slackened. A mindless movement—no true control, just habit, something left behind in the hollow remnants of its existence.

 

Johan had seen plenty of undead.

 

This was different.

 

This was wrong.

 

The body twitched again, shuddering violently before falling unnaturally still.

 

Johan didn’t dare move.

 

The lantern swung slightly overhead, the shadows shifting as the waves rocked the boat beneath him.

 

Then, in the suffocating silence—

 

It turned its head.

 

Johan’s breath hitched.

 

The milky, sunken eyes barely held recognition—barely held anything—but they locked onto him all the same.

 

Johan moved.

 

Fast. Too fast.

 

The barrels rattled as he shoved past them, his foot catching for a fraction of a second before he stumbled forward, reaching for the railing.

 

The groan behind him deepened, warping—like wet lungs expanding in the cold air.

 

Johan didn't look back.

 

"Phanora is gonna have a field day with this."

 

He climbed—scrambled—back toward the docks.

 

Johan barely registered the shouting from the shiphands before the unmistakable snap of bone cracked through the air—a grotesque, wet crunch that sent something cold slithering down his spine.

 

The body—the thing—lurched violently, its decayed limbs moving with a sudden burst of intent. No more sluggish, mindless swaying—this was purposeful, a force being exerted through muscle that had long since rotted away.

 

The men on board weren’t prepared.

 

A strangled cry rang out as one of the shiphands stumbled backward, trying to escape the reanimated corpse now bearing down on him, its broken jaw hanging slightly as it twitched forward. The other man fumbled for something—a weapon, anything—but the chaos was already consuming them.

 

Johan felt Phanora beside him before she spoke, her voice sharp, commanding. "Go back. Get the other one."

 

Johan blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. "Are you insane?"

 

She turned her head slightly, gaze steady. "We need a witness."

 

Johan cursed under his breath. He didn’t argue—he knew better. This wasn’t just about saving some terrified dock worker. This was about proof. About answers.

 

He sucked in a sharp breath, squared his shoulders, and turned back toward the deck, feet moving before his brain had fully caught up.

 

Johan barely had time to react before the corpse lunged.

 

It moved with that same unnatural, wrong sort of force—no hesitation, no clumsy, zombie-like stagger. This thing had been given intent. The weight behind its movements was too deliberate, too sharp, and when its half-rotted fingers swung for Johan’s throat, he barely had time to twist out of the way.

 

It hit the crate behind him with a wet crunch, splinters flying as the force of the impact rattled the deck.

 

Johan gritted his teeth, shifting low, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Fast. Too fast. He had fought a lot of things—thugs, mercenaries, the occasional hungry stray—but this? This was something else. Something that wasn’t supposed to be this strong.

 

The shiphand—what was left of him—lay crumpled near the hull, blood pooling beneath him. Johan scanned briefly—one dead, the other barely hanging on. No time to waste.

 

The corpse lurched forward again.

 

Johan dodged, grabbing the nearest rusted pipe from a pile of discarded fishing gear and swinging with everything he had. The impact was solid, sending the undead thing staggering back with a grotesque, wet snap of dislocated muscle—but it didn’t stop.

 

It never stopped.

 

"Fine." Johan growled, adjusting his grip. "We do this the messy way."

 

The creature lunged, but this time Johan didn’t retreat. He stepped into the attack, catching the thing by the shoulders and using its own momentum to shove it backward, pinning it against the splintered crates. He drove his knee into its gut—not that it had working organs anymore—but enough force could disrupt whatever necromantic strings were keeping it moving.

 

The thing shuddered, its movements growing erratic, twitching violently as it lashed out. Teeth snapped too close to Johan’s face, its stench choking the air between them. He grit his teeth, shifting his weight just right—then drove the pipe straight into its throat.

 

A sickening crack echoed.

 

The corpse went still.

 

Johan exhaled, yanking the pipe free, watching as the thing finally collapsed, its reanimation severed.

 

Not wasting another second, he grabbed the bloody—but still breathing—shiphand and hauled him toward the dock, tossing both the terrified man and the lifeless body onto the pier in a single, exhausted motion.

 

His own legs followed—almost.

 

Just as he moved to jump off the boat, his heel caught the edge of the slick deck.

 

He slipped.

 

The last thing he heard before plunging into the freezing, salt-heavy water below was the sound of Phanora’s exasperated sigh.

"Oh, come on!" Johan thought bitterly, barely registering the shock of the cold.

Chapter 6

The deckhand sat stiffly on the edge of the pier, his soaked and bloodied shirt clinging to his skin as he darted frantic glances between Johan and Phanora. He knew better than to fight—his nerves were already shot, his body aching from the chaos on the boat—but that wasn’t what had him rattled.

No, it was her.

Phanora stood before him, calm, composed—utterly unbothered by the mess they had just pulled him out of. But when she spoke, her tone carried something thinly veiled, something he understood immediately as a quiet, polite threat.

"I would be happy to pry into your brain about everything that happened," she said, voice smooth, matter-of-fact. "It would be… illuminating, I’m sure."

Johan, sitting on a nearby crate nursing his bruised ribs, couldn’t help but smirk.

The deckhand swallowed hard. "Alright, alright—hell, fine!" He exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands over his face. "I’ll talk, alright? Just—none of that magic nonsense, please."

Phanora tilted her head slightly, silently granting him that mercy—for now.

The deckhand ran a shaking hand through his damp hair, sighing. "I don’t know who’s in charge. We were just given orders—to move cargo along the shipping ports. Nothing more."

Johan leaned forward slightly. "Bodies?"

The deckhand nodded grimly. "Yeah. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t want to. They were delivered, packed up, and we just… got ‘em where they needed to go."

Phanora’s gaze sharpened. "Southport?"

He blinked, surprised. "Among other places. Wherever the shipments were meant to go. We're just cogs in the machine—never met anyone important, never saw who ran things."

Johan sighed, shaking his head. "Figures."

Phanora studied the man carefully, weighing his words—determining whether there was anything else useful before letting him breathe.

"Cogs in the machine still leave marks," she murmured, crossing her arms. "We’ll find who’s turning them soon enough."

The deckhand exhaled shakily, nodding. "Good luck. You’ll need it."

Johan shifted, tossing the guy a dry look before groaning and stretching out his stiff limbs. "Yeah, yeah. Story of our lives."

But now, at least, they had confirmation.

_____________________________________________________________________

The officer arrived with purpose, his boots clicking against the wooden planks of the dock as he took in the grim scene before him. He had come expecting reports, paperwork, maybe another headache about missing bodies.

What he hadn’t expected was this.

His breath hitched slightly as his gaze landed on the corpse—slumped unnaturally on the dock’s edge, its warped and sagging flesh clinging to decay like wet cloth. It wasn’t fresh, but it was still wrong, still held together by whatever necromantic force had been fueling it before Johan had put it down.

His hand twitched near his weapon. Reflexive. Uncertain.

Johan—soaked, bruised, and visibly unimpressed—caught the motion and smirked, shaking seawater from his sleeve. "Not what you expected, huh?"

The officer exhaled sharply through his nose, straightening slightly as he rubbed a hand over his jaw. "No." His voice was even, measured, but there was no masking the flicker of unease in his tone. "I mean—I’ve read reports. Heard stories. But this…"

His gaze lingered on the corpse, a deep unsettled edge in his stare. "This is different."

Phanora—calm as ever—watched him carefully, assessing his reaction. Her voice was smooth when she spoke. "You’re going to see more of it."

The officer swallowed, nodding once, forcing himself to steady. "I figured."

Still, despite his discomfort, he tried. He wasn’t here to reprimand them or shut them down—he wanted answers.

Johan, stretching stiffly, tossed him a dry look. "The deckhand spilled his guts. They were moving undead through the ports, trafficking them like cargo. Southport included."

The officer frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Southport’s report didn’t mention transportation."

Phanora inclined her head slightly. "Then the network is larger than expected."

Silence. Heavy, thoughtful.

The officer sighed, shifting his weight before glancing at Phanora. "I won’t pretend I understand necromantic practices. But if I’m going to file this properly—going to help—I need you to explain it to me."

Johan raised a brow at that.

Phanora, surprisingly, didn’t dismiss him.

Instead, she studied him for a moment before giving a slow, considering nod.

Johan smirked, rolling his shoulders. "Welcome to the mess, officer."

Johan huffed as he gathered Phanora’s things, his movements stiff with lingering soreness, but he didn’t protest. He set the case down near the lifeless body with a quiet thunk, stepping back as Phanora knelt beside it, her expression composed, her posture precise.

The officer stood near Johan, watching with thinly veiled unease, shifting slightly as Phanora set to work.

She unlatched the case with deft fingers, rolling back the lid to reveal an assortment of carefully arranged tools—silver implements, delicate strands of enchanted thread, vials of preserved essence. Each item had its place, and Phanora moved through them as if performing a ritual older than the town itself.

Then, she spoke.

"Necromancy is often mistaken for reckless resurrection," she murmured, selecting a thin, needle-like instrument and adjusting its placement against the corpse’s ruined chest. "In truth, it is far more than that. It is about control. Understanding. The tethering of essence and matter."

Johan crossed his arms, watching her hands move—deliberate, methodical, never hesitating.

Phanora continued, eyes scanning over the traces of magic still lingering in the body’s structure, dissecting the craft as though peeling away layers of a corrupted blueprint.

"This one was raised crudely. The magic was forced, ripped through channels that should never be disturbed. That is why the decay is uneven, why the movement was jagged rather than fluid. They did not care to preserve—it was about function, about use. Not about longevity."

The officer shifted beside Johan, his brow furrowing. "It sounds… unnatural."

Phanora inclined her head slightly. "It is. But necromancy is not inherently malicious. Like any craft, it depends on the hand that wields it."

The officer swallowed, watching her work but struggling to process it fully. The intricacies were lost on him, on Johan too, but the careful consideration Phanora carried was palpable. It was in the way she handled the corpse—not as a ruined object, but as something that had been someone, that had suffered the consequences of being torn from rest.

Johan exhaled, running a hand through damp curls. "So, what now?"

Phanora’s fingers paused over the corpse’s throat. She studied it for a moment longer before looking up.

"We find the one responsible," she murmured. "And ensure they never do this again."

The weight of her words settled between them.

Johan sighed. "Yeah. Figured."

The officer, still visibly unnerved but determined, nodded. "Then let’s make sure we do this right."

Phanora resumed her work.

__________________________

The inn was quiet, save for the faint scratching of Phanora’s pen against paper and the distant, muffled rush of water from their shared bathroom. The notes provided by the officer lay scattered before her, neatly arranged yet thoroughly dissected under her sharp gaze. She read with the same precision as when she performed her craft—methodical, unwavering, utterly absorbed.

Each detail, each inconsistency, each thread connecting the case to something larger—it all wove itself into her mind, piecing together the pattern before her.

Behind the door, Johan was steaming himself alive, the shower running nearly hot enough to peel the layer of exhaustion clinging to his skin. He had been wrecked by the events of the night—the frigid water, the fight, the bruised ribs—and yet, his only priority seemed to be boiling himself into recovery.

Phanora didn’t acknowledge it. Not yet.

She knew he was processing, in his own way.

And she had her own work to do.

The scent of ink thickened in the room as she underlined a key detail, fingers pressing against the edge of the page with quiet intensity. The deckhand had been cooperative, but the information they had wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

She needed more.

Johan dropped into the armchair with a heavy sigh, his damp towel draped over his shoulders as he lazily ran it through his curls, more concerned with drying than any attempt at proper grooming. His missing eye remained shut, the exhaustion in his frame evident despite his efforts to mask it under something casual.

Phanora watched him for a moment, silent, calculating.

She didn’t ask if he was alright. She already knew the answer.

Johan leaned back, letting his head rest against the worn fabric of the chair, his breathing evening out as the warmth of the inn fought against the cold that had settled deep in his bones.

"You look miserable," she noted, her voice smooth, devoid of sympathy but not entirely unkind.

Johan huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing his temple. "Yeah, well. Almost drowning tends to do that to a guy."

Phanora didn’t react beyond the slight shift of her gaze—lingering on the bruises forming along his ribs, the stiffness in his movements, the way he hadn’t started complaining yet.

"You should rest," she murmured, returning her attention to the scattered papers before her.

Johan snorted. "Oh? And miss all the fun?"

Phanora didn’t answer.

Johan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, letting the quiet settle between them.

She wasn’t telling him to sleep because she thought he needed it. She was telling him because, for once, she actually wanted him to.

And that was the part that made him pause.

He sank further into the chair.

Maybe he’d close his eye for just a little while. Just until she needed him again. Just until the bruises stopped aching so much.

_____________________________________________________________________

The roses were in bloom again—deep crimson and soft ivory, petals unfurling in the quiet warmth of the estate’s garden. Phanora sat in the worn wooden chair beside the trellis, carefully threading a needle with steady hands, while Johan perched on the stone bench across from her, his injured arm resting atop his knee.

It wasn’t the first time.

Every time he showed up, he carried more injuries—fresh bruises, deeper cuts, a new ache worn into the way he held himself. He never said where they came from, and Phanora never asked.

But she noticed.

Now, she worked silently, stitching the newest wound—a too-clean slice along his forearm. Johan had given an excuse, one of many, "Barbed fence. Took a bad fall," but Phanora didn’t correct him.

She simply sutured, fingers careful, movements precise.

Johan shifted slightly, his free hand brushing against the petals of a nearby rose. He wasn’t tense, but he wasn’t at ease either. "You don’t have to do this, you know. I’ve survived worse."

Phanora didn’t look up. "Obviously."

Johan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "No bedside manner, huh?"

Phanora tied off the final stitch, her gaze flicking briefly to his knuckles, raw from something else—then to his ribs, just barely visible beneath his shirt, bruises deepening beneath fabric that hid too much.

She didn’t press. Didn’t push.

"And yet you keep showing up."

Johan scoffed, shifting his weight before muttering, "Yeah, well. Guess you’re the best option."

Phanora wiped her hands clean, placing the needle back into its case. The roses rustled softly in the evening breeze, carrying the scent of earth and warmth—a rare thing, a fleeting kind of peace.

Johan remained where he was.

For just a little longer. Until she told him to leave. Until he was ready to.

They walked together, to the entrance of the grounds. 

The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of chamomile like an unseen specter as Phanora stood before Johan, poised in the dim glow of the lanterns lining the estate gate. The soft cream fabric of her robe drifted slightly in the breeze, its delicate folds shifting like silk against the pale light.

“My mother will pass soon.”

Johan stared at her, his brow furrowing, lips pressing into a thin line.

"You can't run an estate by yourself."

Phanora remained still, her gaze unreadable, yet steady.
 
"I can."

The response wasn’t defiant, nor was it bitter—just simple, matter-of-fact, a truth she had already accepted long before she spoke it aloud.

Johan exhaled sharply, running a hand through curls, still stiff from the cold. He glanced toward the estate behind her—the towering structure, the garden blooming under careful hands, the weight of its history resting on her shoulders.

He shook his head. "Phanora, that’s—"

She didn’t let him finish.

"It was always going to be just me, Johan." Her voice was quiet, precise, carrying no expectation of protest. "This house was never meant for anyone else."

Johan clenched his jaw, shifting his weight, an argument forming at the back of his throat—but then, he saw it.

The slight shift in her stance, the fraction of tension behind her poised exterior, the truth she would never say, but had already accepted.

She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want comfort. She just wanted it understood.

Johan exhaled again, softer this time, rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead before muttering, "You’re impossible."

Phanora didn’t smile. But something in her posture eased, just slightly.

She stepped back, hands folding neatly at her sides.

"You should go."

Johan hesitated for half a second longer.

Then, with a tired shake of his head, he turned and stepped through the gate.

He didn’t say goodbye—he never did. But the look he gave her before walking away said enough. And Phanora let him go. Because she knew he’d always find his way back. Just as he always did. Just as he always would.

Like a faithful dog.

___________________________________________________________

The stillness of the room settled deep into Johan’s bones as he shifted in the chair, groggy with sleep, sore in places he hadn't realized until now. The lantern on the desk burned low, casting warm flickers against the papers Phanora had spent the night poring over.

His fingers ran absentmindedly over the thick fabric draped across his shoulders—Phanora’s robe. Soft, heavy. Warm.

Johan blinked down at it, his breath slowing, mind sluggish.

She had covered him.

The realization pressed at something in his chest, something quiet, something he wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

His grip tightened slightly, the cream-colored cloth bunching beneath his fingertips. It smelled like her—chamomile, faint traces of ink, something cold and delicate yet distinctly grounding. The scent was familiar, tied to countless late nights, whispered conversations, the quiet permanence of her presence.

Without thinking, Johan leaned into it, inhaling softly—just for a moment.

Then—mortified—he realized exactly what he was doing.

His shoulders stiffened, his expression twisting into something painfully embarrassed as he abruptly pulled the robe away, cursing under his breath.

"What the hell am I—"

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to gather himself, rubbing a hand over his face before meticulously folding the robe, smoothing the fabric with careful, deliberate movements—too deliberate for someone who definitely did not just bury his face in it like some lovesick fool.

He placed it beside her bed, standing slowly, stretching as if that would fix whatever just happened.

Phanora still lay curled against the pillows, undisturbed, unaware.

And Johan, still mildly horrified with himself, swore he’d never think about it again.

But he wasn’t cold anymore. And that was the part that lingered. No matter how much he pretended it didn’t.

___________________________________________________________

The morgue was still, the weight of the dead pressing into the heavy air as Phanora and Johan stood over the bodies, their gazes sharp with careful analysis. The embalmer lingered near the entrance, watching them with quiet unease, waiting for their conclusions.

Phanora spread the photographs across the examination table—Southport’s bodies, the dock corpse, the ones laid out before them now. Each image revealed patterns, familiar elements of necromantic craft, but the more she studied them, the more something clicked.

Johan tilted his head, running a hand through his damp curls as he scanned the ruined flesh before him. "They weren’t raised the same way."

Phanora nodded, tapping a finger against the edge of a Southport photograph. "Not just that. They weren’t raised at the same skill level."

Johan frowned. "Meaning?"

Phanora turned slightly, comparing the corpse he had put down on the docks with the ones stretched across the morgue’s tables. The difference was clear—Southport’s bodies were preserved, their decay slowed intentionally. The corpses here were unstable, carelessly resurrected, left to rot after their function was served.

Her jaw tightened slightly. "These were the first trials."

Johan’s breath stilled.

Phanora motioned between the photographs, fingers tracing the edges of each image as she spoke. "Whoever is responsible has been learning. Experimenting. The bodies here were crude, messy. Southport’s were refined, made to last longer, to function properly."

Johan exhaled, realization settling in. "One person. Not a whole operation—just one necromancer, getting better each time."

Phanora looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "Yes."

The embalmer inhaled sharply from across the room, her posture stiff with quiet dread.

Johan ran a hand down his face. "That means they’re still evolving. Still testing. And by the time we find their next project—"

Phanora folded her arms, her expression unreadable but unwavering. "It may already be perfected."

Silence hung between them, thick with the understanding that they were chasing something—or someone—who wouldn’t stop.

Johan leaned against the edge of the table, shaking his head. 

"Fantastic. Love when criminals get smarter."

Phanora didn’t humor his sarcasm. She gathered the photos, stacking them neatly before speaking.

"We need to find them before they move forward."

Johan exhaled, stretching his sore muscles, glancing at the bodies once more.

_______________

The town market had begun to breathe again—not fully, not comfortably, but there was a shift in the air, a loosening of the tension that had weighed heavy upon its people. Some of the displaced bodies had been returned to their crypts, a few others laid to rest again in their proper places. Not enough to settle nerves completely, but enough that the market had resumed its rhythm—stall owners calling out wares, the scent of bread and spices curling into the morning air, voices weaving through the crowd like thread.

Johan and Phanora walked through the winding paths between stalls, careful but unobtrusive, their presence neither feared nor entirely ignored. They had become known in the town, recognizable in the way strangers turned their heads just slightly, acknowledging without interacting.

Then—movement.

A group of children darted through the square, their laughter sharp and bright against the murmur of trade.

"Witch! Witch! Run!"

They scattered, their game resembling tag, one child chasing the others, hands reaching but never quite catching. The witch. The hunted.

Johan paused, gaze flicking toward them, a brief hesitation in his steps.

Phanora did not miss it.

She watched him, expression unreadable, but intent in its focus, searching for something behind his absent stare, something beyond amusement or distraction.

Johan exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as the children blurred past, their laughter twisting into the wind.

"You ever play?" Phanora asked, voice quiet, measured.

Johan huffed a breath, shaking his head. "I was usually running for real."

Phanora tilted her head slightly, considering the response.

She did not press. She did not need to.

Johan moved forward again, casual, brushing off the weight of the moment like stray dust on his sleeve.

Phanora followed.

______________________________________

Phanora had never been out in town before—not like this, not unwatched, not untethered from the careful presence of her mother. The estate had always kept her hidden, tucked away like something fragile or troublesome—whichever one suited the day.

But today, her mother needed something. Something from town.

And Phanora had been told to wait outside while she spoke with the woman in the shop, words exchanged in low, careful tones behind the worn wooden door.

Phanora didn’t linger.

Instead, she drifted toward the side of the building, slipping into the narrow alley where the cracked stone met scattered refuse, where the smell of market spice and damp wood melted into something less welcoming.

Then—movement.

A small bundle of fur, weak, shivering, curled against the wall.

A kitten.

It barely moved, barely breathed, its body too tiny, too fragile, skin clinging tight to its tiny bones.

Phanora knelt carefully, her fingers hovering just above its trembling form, watching it breathe, watching its tiny chest rise and fall with aching effort.

Then—voices.

Sharp. Jeering.

"Witch! Witch! Stay back!"

Phanora stiffened, her head tilting just slightly as the shapes of children blurred at the alley’s entrance. Their faces twisted in something between fear and cruelty, an instinctive, thoughtless game rather than true malice.

They didn’t approach.

But they watched.

Phanora exhaled, ignoring them, ignoring the words. She turned her focus back to the kitten—just in time to see its tiny chest rise one last time.

Then, it was still.

Too still.

Her breath held in her throat, fingers hovering uselessly, watching as the fragile, broken thing failed to pull another breath.

The moment stretched, unspoken, unseen, except by her.

Then—the children saw it.

And their voices grew louder.

"She killed it!"

"She cursed it!"

"She’s a witch!"

Phanora did not move.

The words cracked against the air, sharp and meaningless, but they held weight, weight that did not belong to the kitten, did not belong to these children—but to something deeper, something that had followed her always.

Phanora had barely braced before the rock could strike her—shoulders squared, chin lifted, expression unreadable—but the impact never came.

Instead, a hand caught it mid-flight, fingers wrapping around the rough stone before it could meet her skin.

Johan stood between her and the girl who threw it, his stance sharp, aggressive in a way that left no room for hesitation.

The older girl—ruddy complexion, mouth tight with something between fear and defiance—had been the only one among them brave enough to act. To throw.

But Johan had stepped in without thinking.

And now, as his fingers curled around the rock, his knuckles white with pressure, his voice lashed out like a blade.

"Scram."

The smaller children froze, their wide eyes darting between him and Phanora, uncertainty creeping into the cracks of their bravado.

Johan didn’t move, didn’t let the rock drop from his grip, his stare fixed on the girl who had thrown it—challenging, unwavering.

The tension snapped when one of the younger kids stumbled backward, then another, then all of them, scattering like loose paper in the wind.

The older girl hesitated, fingers twitching at her sides, gaze darting toward Johan with something close to anger—not at him, but at herself, at what had just happened, at the way she had lost control before she could make something stick.

Johan did not waver.

"I said scram."

And this time, she turned and ran, her footsteps dull against the stone as she disappeared down the street.

Silence settled over the alley.

Johan exhaled, finally letting the rock fall from his grip, rolling his shoulder as if shaking off the weight of it all.

Phanora looked at him, her expression unreadable.

She did not thank him. She did not need to.

Instead, she dusted off her hands, turned back toward the shop, and walked away—just as she always did.

Johan watched her go.

And he did not follow.

Not this time. Not yet. But he would. Eventually. Just as he always did.

_______________________________________________________________________

Phanora did not like leaving when things didn’t feel final. When the air still carried the weight of unanswered questions, when the seams of the mystery felt frayed, unfinished.

But as far as the Order was concerned, things here were done.

Their findings had been submitted. Their observations recorded. And now—they would wait, while the Order gathered intel elsewhere, while bureaucracy pressed itself between their pursuit and the truth.

It was a familiar pattern. One that Phanora had never fully learned to tolerate.

Johan walked beside her, his pace unhurried, hands tucked into his coat pockets as they moved through the streets. The market behind them had begun its slow return to normalcy, but neither of them truly believed it.

Not yet.

"You hate this part," Johan muttered, breaking the quiet between them.

Phanora did not deny it.

Johan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Feels wrong just waiting, huh?"

Phanora tilted her head, gaze focused forward. "I don’t wait well."

Johan huffed a quiet laugh. "No kidding."

They continued walking, the familiar rhythm of their steps settling into something absentminded, something almost routine, despite the tension that lingered between them.

Somewhere, in another part of town, the Order would begin its work—gathering threads, making decisions, moving pieces without them.

And Phanora would feel that distance too much.

Johan watched her sidelong, noting the way she kept her shoulders squared, the way her fingers twitched slightly at her sides, like something held back—like something waiting to move before it was allowed to.

"We’ll be back," he murmured.

Phanora remained quiet.

Johan sighed, watching as she steeled herself against the unfinished edges of the case, against the feeling of walking away from something unresolved.

But this was how it always went.

And neither of them had ever learned to like it. Not really. Not ever.

The inn stood quietly against the murmuring streets, its worn wooden beams settled into the fabric of the town like it had been there forever—watching, waiting, indifferent to the movement of travelers passing through.

Johan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, fingers absently tapping against his sleeve. Phanora stood beside him, arms folded, eyes scanning the distant market as if something unseen pulled at her thoughts.

"I never picked out a rock I liked."

Johan spoke the words like a passing thought, a loose musing given form only because silence had stretched too long between them.

Phanora shifted slightly, side-glancing at him, expression unreadable but precise.

"That wouldn’t do."

Johan huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "Of course not."

Still, he didn’t move, didn’t continue with another quip.

Neither did Phanora.

Instead, something unsaid settled between them—an understanding, a shared hesitation, a reluctance to leave something undone, something unfinished.

Johan sighed, pushing himself upright. "We should stay a few more days."

Phanora didn’t argue.

Johan glanced at her. "See if we missed something."

Phanora simply nodded. "We did."

There was no doubt in her tone. No hesitation.

Johan exhaled, stretching his shoulders, soreness still clinging to his ribs. "Yeah. Figures."

He turned back toward the inn, heading inside, already preparing himself for another round of searching, of lurking, of chasing the unseen threads that still wove themselves into the town’s unsettled foundation.

Phanora sat at the desk, her fingers moving carefully over the copied notes, tracing the lines of sketches and observations, weighing each detail with quiet scrutiny. The layout of the crypt—the direct tunnel leading from the catacombs to the graveyard—it didn’t make sense.

If they were simply moving the bodies, why that route? Why go through the trouble of tunneling when they could have carried them out the main entrance, moved them upstairs easier?

She frowned, her pen tapping lightly against the parchment.

Johan, standing beside her, leaned forward slightly, gaze flicking across the diagrams. Then—his fingers brushed against one of the sketches, adding something she hadn’t written.

"The fingernails," he muttered, his voice low, thoughtful.

Phanora paused, the weight of those words settling against the paper.

She turned her head, looking at him—not with surprise, but with realization, sharp and immediate.

They weren’t moving the bodies.

They weren’t transporting them and resurrecting them later.

The bodies had clawed their way out.

Phanora slowly set down her pen.

Johan inhaled, straightening slightly, a flicker of unease crawling up his spine.

_________________________________________

The graveyard was too quiet.

Not the silence of mourning, but something deeper—something held breath, something waiting.

Phanora and Johan stood before the entrance to the crypt, the heavy iron door relocked, the worn sigils faint beneath layers of dust and neglect.

"Someone didn’t want us coming back." Johan muttered, rolling his shoulders, stretching out his bruised ribs before gripping the edge of the rusted latch.

Phanora said nothing, only watching as he braced himself and pried.

The metal groaned, resisting, but Johan had done this before. And after a few more moments of effort, the latch gave, breaking under his force.

The door swung open, revealing the dark below.

Phanora inhaled sharply, tilting her head, feeling something stir.

The air inside was wrong, thick with the scent of rot—but beneath that, there was another smell, damp and rich, earthy, something alive but not natural.

They descended.

The first chamber looked as they had left it—rows of stone slabs, some bodies returned, set neatly in their places as if nothing had ever happened.

But the deeper they went, the more things shifted.

An unease crawled along their skin, pressing into their bones before their minds caught up.

Johan exhaled softly, adjusting his stance, the instinct to brace settling into his frame without thought.

Phanora felt it first.

The lingering pulse of magic, hidden beneath the decay—something unfinished, something still breathing beneath the surface.

She stilled, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides.

Then—the ground cracked.

A breath of magic surged upward, splintering the stone.

And before Johan could react, hands—worn, broken, clawed—reached from beneath the slabs, grasping at his legs.

Phanora moved before she thought, reaching for him, but the grip was strong.

Johan cursed, twisting, trying to kick free, but the hands held fast, fingers digging deep, pulling, pulling—

The crypt had not been emptied.

It had been waiting.

The crypt breathed.

Not with the air of the living, but with the wretched pulse of necromantic intent, thick and cloying, pressing into the marrow of their bones as the stone cracked beneath them.

And then—the dead moved.

Rotting bodies lurched from beneath, forcing their way from the shattered slabs with limbs too stiff, too wrong, their motions familiar in a way that made Johan’s stomach twist.

The fail-safe.

Like the one on the boat.

They were not just dead. They were made to be discarded, built only for function, breaking down with every motion but still moving forward, still grasping.

Johan twisted, kicked, forcing himself free just long enough to shove Phanora backward, closer to safety—but the overwhelming number of them was suffocating.

Hands grasped at his coat, his sleeves—one wrapped too tightly around his calf before—

SNAP.

The pain was instant.

Johan shouted, his balance ripping from under him as he collapsed against the cold stone, leg bent wrong, agony sharpening his breath.

Phanora’s exhale was sharp, the magic pressing into her veins without hesitation.

The runic glow curled from her frame, markings winding like old scripture beneath her skin, deep and consuming.

Shadows stirred.

And from them—they emerged.

Two figures, armor black as starless voids, silent, watching, their presence heavier than the crypt itself.

The Death Knights.

They moved without hesitation, their blades cutting through the mindless husks, severing the tainted magic that had forced them awake.

Phanora did not blink.

Johan groaned against the pain, watching from the ground as the knights carried out their duty—calm, merciless, swift—until there was nothing left but silence.

The bodies did not rise again.

And Johan, breath ragged, laughed weakly through gritted teeth.

“Are you okay miss-”

"You broke your leg." Phanora turned to him, gaze sharp but controlled.

Johan sighed, pressing a hand against his forehead. "Yeah, thanks for the update."

Phanora knelt beside him, pressing cool fingers against his injury, assessing.

Johan winced, but didn’t pull away.

The crypt was still again.

Phanora worked quickly, her hands deft and practiced, but even she couldn’t do more than set the break—not here, not now. Proper maintenance would have to wait until they were back at the estate, where she could tend to it correctly, where she didn’t have to work under the assumption that someone else was watching.

Here, Johan had to look normal.

Human. Breakable.

If the necromancer was observing, it was best to keep some cards hidden, best not to reveal just how unnatural Johan really was.

"This is going to hurt," she warned.

Johan exhaled, already bracing, already gritting his teeth before she forced the bone into place.

The snap was sharp, brutal even, and he barely contained the noise that threatened to crack past his throat. His fingers dug into the stone beneath him, breath leaving him in harsh shudders as he forced himself still.

Phanora didn’t comment on the way his body locked up, didn’t soften the moment with reassurance or apology.

She simply finished the job, securing the limb with careful, methodical precision.

"It will hold."

Johan huffed a breathless, pained laugh. "Comforting."

She didn’t react. She only stood, smoothing the fabric of her sleeve before stepping back to give him space.

Johan refused to lie there longer than necessary.

He grabbed a torch pole, rough and splintering, using it as a makeshift crutch despite the deep insult it was to his pride.

Phanora hovered just slightly, hesitantly near enough to catch him if needed—but Johan would refuse her help, even if he fell flat on his face.

He staggered forward, exhaling sharply, adjusting his grip on the pole as he found some semblance of balance.

Phanora watched him, her arms folded, her gaze unreadable.

"This would be easier if you'd let me help."

Johan sent her a look, sharp and wry. "And ruin the illusion? Please."

Phanora inhaled slowly, her gaze flicking to the broken stone slabs, the remnants of the undead that had reached for him, that had almost dragged him under.

Something wasn’t right.

Something still lingered.

And Johan, limping but still moving forward, could feel it too.

"We need to leave." Phanora murmured.

Johan smirked through the pain. "Yeah. Figured."

So they left the crypt behind them, with more questions than answers, with more uncertainty than relief.

And if someone was watching, they had just played their part perfectly.

Chapter 7

The sleeper car swayed with the rhythm of the train, the muted hum of the tracks beneath them filling the quiet as the landscape blurred past the window.

 

Johan sat with his leg propped up, arms folded, suffocating in his own frustration.

 

He had wanted out of town as soon as possible, and wanted to keep moving before the Order tangled them in bureaucratic red tape. The officer had insisted on a hospital stay, or at least some extended rest, but Johan had refused.

 

Instead, he took the damn crutches.

 

Playing the part of a human meant accepting limits, meant letting injuries linger, meant not healing too fast, not pushing too hard, not revealing too much.

 

Phanora, on the other hand, didn’t have that luxury.

 

Everyone knew what she was—a witch, a necromancer, a figure woven into stories and warnings alike. It wasn’t something she could pretend away, not here, not anywhere.

 

But Johan could still be ordinary. Breakable.

 

And so he sat there, hating every second of it—because if there was one thing he loathed, it was being a patient.

 

Still, despite himself—despite the annoyance, despite the bruised pride, despite the damn crutches at his side—he had to admit, just a little, that there was something about Phanora tending to him.

 

Not in a gentle, overly sympathetic way, but in the effortless precision of her care—adjusting the bandages when needed, making sure he hadn’t shifted wrong, ensuring the break would hold until they were home.

 

She didn’t fuss over him, didn’t coo or soften her voice—but it was there, in the quiet way she ensured he was fine, even when he waved her off.

 

Johan grumbled, shifting slightly, testing his balance before grabbing one of the crutches and forcing himself upright.

 

Phanora watched from the opposite seat, her gaze careful but unconcerned.

 

Johan refused to ask for help.

 

Even if he fell flat on his damn face.

 

Phanora, ever composed, remained just close enough—not hovering, not waiting, but prepared, should he need her.

 

But Johan wouldn’t.

 

Not even if it killed him.

 

"Where are you going?" she asked, not looking up from her book. 

 

"Bathroom," he replied.

 

Johan froze mid-shift, fingers tightening slightly around the crutch as Phanora’s words hit him.

 

"Do you need help?"

 

The absolute lack of inflection, the smooth, unreadable tone, the way she didn’t even look up from her book—it was so deliberate, so effortlessly placed, that his face became lightning hot before he could even react properly.

 

"I—" Johan bristled, heat crawling up his neck, not indignation, not actual fury, but something close enough to embarrassment that he immediately hated it.

 

Phanora, still flipping a page casually, still maintaining the illusion of complete detachment, was absolutely teasing him—but the worst part?

 

She was doing it without doing anything at all.

 

Johan cleared his throat, gripping the crutch tighter, adjusting his balance before forcing himself forward toward the damn bathroom.

 

"I’m fine."

________________________________________________________________

 

"I’m fine." Johan muttered, tone flat, firm—too practiced, too prepared for the inevitable response.

 

Phanora didn’t respond.

 

She only continued tending to his knuckles, disinfecting the split skin with careful precision, working silently in the cold as the wind bit at their coats.

 

The cuts were easier to believe—rough, raw, the telltale signs of someone who worked too hard, too often, too young.

 

But the black eye, the way his ribs shifted differently when he moved—that told a different story.

 

Phanora knew.

 

Johan knew she knew.

 

And neither of them spoke about it.

 

They sat on the front entrance stoop, the stone cold beneath them, the estate looming behind Phanora like something too grand for him to belong in.

 

Her mother had never cared for letting farmhands—or anyone not meant for the house—inside unless there was work to be done.

 

Johan hadn’t minded.

 

The one time he had stepped through the estate doors, he had felt out of place, his coat too worn, his boots too dust-covered, the weight of what he wasn’t pressing into him with more force than the ache in his ribs.

 

He had wanted to run back home, grab his Sunday best, try to make himself fit.

 

But he didn’t have that luxury.

 

He was just hauling groceries for the Kristoffels, after all.

 

So, instead, he let Phanora clean his hands, let her pretend the bruises didn’t exist, let her treat what she was allowed to treat.

 

She tied the bandages neatly, fingers brushing against his wrist briefly, a fleeting warmth in the cold.

 

Johan flexed his fingers, testing the wrap, nodding once in approval.

 

"Thanks."

 

Phanora exhaled softly, wiping away the last traces of antiseptic.

 

"You need better gloves."

 

Johan snorted, shaking his head. "You buying?"

 

Phanora didn’t answer.

 

Johan sighed, pushing himself upright, adjusting his coat, ignoring the pull in his ribs.

 

She watched him.

 

Not like she was waiting for him to explain himself—but like she was simply waiting.

 

Johan ignored it.

 

And the moment passed.

 

Like they always did. Like it always would. Until the next time. Until the next bruise. Until she sat on the stoop again, tending to what she was allowed to fix. And nothing more. Not really. Not ever.

 

Johan hadn’t expected anything when he stepped through the front door, boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor of his family's house. He had been half-dead from the day’s work, ready to collapse onto the nearest surface that would hold him, when he noticed it.

 

A package, resting carefully at the edge of the small kitchen table.

 

He frowned, rolling his shoulders, flexing his sore fingers before approaching, dragging the paper aside with stiff, deliberate movements.

 

Inside—gloves.

 

Two pairs.

 

The first—warm fur lining, supple leather, made for the cold, made for protection, expensive enough that just looking at them felt wrong, like something borrowed, something not meant for hands like his.

 

The second—sturdy, built for work, thick enough to handle the rough labor of hauling, lifting, pulling, gripping. A farmhand’s gloves.

 

Johan stilled, breath catching for half a second.

 

He ran his fingers over the leather, the weight of them solid, real, something meant for him.

 

He didn’t have to ask.

 

He already knew.

 

Phanora never said a word about it.

 

And Johan never thanked her.

 

Not because he wasn’t grateful.

 

But because some things—some things meant too much, some things had weight, some things filled a gap that hadn’t been acknowledged before.

 

And this was one of them.

 

So he just pulled the work gloves on, tested the fit, flexed his fingers against the material.

 

And then—he kept moving.

 

Because there was always work to do. Because he would always need them. And because they had already served their purpose.

 

__________________________________________________________________

 

Johan lay on the cold slab of the basement morgue, the chill of the metal pressing into his back, a stark contrast to the heat still pulsing in his broken leg.

 

A towel was wound tight around his waist, the fabric still rough against his skin, while a blanket—thin, practical, barely enough—was stretched taut over his torso to ward off the creeping cold.

 

Phanora worked in silence, her hands moving with measured precision, careful but unrelenting as she set the bones in place, fixing them as needed. The fluorescent hum overhead buzzed softly against the sterile quiet, casting long shadows across the morgue’s tiled floor.

 

The scent of disinfectant and something older, something woven into the fabric of her craft, lingered in the space between them.

 

Johan exhaled slowly, his jaw tight, his fingers twitching against the edge of the slab—not from pain, not really, but from the unnerving quiet that always came with this.

 

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?" he muttered, voice dry, biting at the edges of amusement.

 

Phanora didn’t react.

 

Didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny.

 

She only continued working, fingers pressing against his skin, testing where the muscle would need more reinforcement, where the damage had settled deep.

 

Johan hated being a patient.

 

Hated feeling useless, hated the slow process of letting something heal the right way, hated the pretense of human fragility when the world forced him into its mold.

 

But—despite himself, despite the constant irritation, despite the **fact that he would never admit it—there was something about Phanora doting on him.

 

Something small.

 

Something he shouldn’t enjoy, but did anyway.

 

He closed his eyes, ignoring the way her touch lingered.

It wasn’t merely the physical repair he craved. In these sessions, which were supposed to be just pragmatic maintenance for a servant's wounded body, Johan found a secret joy—a forbidden pleasure he was meant to suppress. Yet, every time Phanora’s soft, cold fingers traced deliberate paths along his skin, every gentle caress that accompanied the steady, precise movements of her work, what was left of his hardened heart couldn't help but skip a beat.

He knew he shouldn’t feel this way. A servant was not meant to long for the tender ministrations of someone as extraordinary as Phanora—a witch whose very presence defied the ordinary confines of his existence. And still, with each touch that lingered just a moment too long, he felt more intensely than he cared to admit that, despite his duty, there remained an inexplicable hunger for the comfort, for the connection she granted him in those quiet moments.

It was a luxury he had no business affording, and yet it became the one bright part of his otherwise grim existence—a flicker of something raw and real amid the cold sterility of the morgue. For Johan, these moments were an indulgence; even if, as a servant, he was supposed to feel nothing beyond duty and endurance. But the way Phanora's fingertips gently roamed across his exposed skin, mapping out the scars and the new stitches alike, shattered his carefully maintained facade, making him feel staggeringly, achingly alive.

Johan sat up, the residual ache in his leg nothing more than a phantom now—gone, erased by her magic, set right like the injury had never existed at all.

 

Phanora turned, busying herself with cleaning the last of the tools, rinsing away what remained of her work, as if it were simply another mundane task and not the thing that had put him back together again.

 

He didn’t linger. Didn’t hesitate.

 

He stood, moving easily—too easily, as if the break had never been there, as if the wound had been nothing more than a bad memory, already fading.

 

And he wasn’t trying to rush—wasn’t trying to escape the moment, but the warmth pooling in his chest, pressing at his throat, at his face, was enough to make him wary.

 

A weight he wasn’t ready to sit with.

 

"I’ll start prepping dinner," he said, casual, too casual, the words slipping from his lips before they could settle in the space between them.

 

Phanora didn’t respond immediately—just glanced at him briefly, as if taking note of how completely repaired he was, as if measuring the ease of his movement before nodding once, returning to her cleaning.

 

Johan turned, moving toward the exit with deliberate normalcy.

 

His stride was smooth. His posture unaffected.

 

Like nothing had happened at all.

 

Like he wasn’t thinking about the way her hands had lingered.

 

Like his heart wasn’t beating strangely in his chest.

 

Like her care wasn’t something he enjoyed—just a little, just enough to unsettle him.

 

But he wouldn’t acknowledge it.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

Johan always believed his help was born of pure kindness—it was simply his duty to assist Phanora and her mother, nothing more. Their household was quiet, isolated from the rest of the village, and his work, whether hauling groceries or running small errands, was just what she needed. But his oldest brother, John, saw it differently.

 

"You've been acting like you're under some kind of spell," John growled one hot afternoon in the cramped space of their family’s grocery store. "Ever since you started helping her, you’ve been like a damn servant to a witch. I swear, it's as if they've cursed you!"

 

Johan’s patience frayed at the edges as John’s accusations pierced his pride. "I'm only doing what I think is right," Johan snapped, defensiveness flaring in his eyes. "It's just Phanora and her mother—she needs help, and I'm here to do it."

 

John’s scowl deepened. "Help? Or are you just putting yourself under their thumb? You're letting them control you, and it's starting to look like you're turning into one of their damned servants!" His voice rose, filled with a bitter mix of anger and disbelief.

 

Words gave way to fists as the tension finally boiled over. In the heat of the brawl, amid the clatter of overturned crates and scattered produce, Johan landed a clean, reverberating hit against John's jaw. Stunned, John stepped back, blood mingling with his outrage as he bellowed, "This is why Mom and Dad can't stand you!"

 

Those words, harsh and final, stung deeper than any physical blow. Johan’s anger surged, and without another word, he brushed off the confrontation. His brother’s disapproving eyes burned into his back as he stormed out of the store, leaving the murmurs of his siblings behind.

 

Outside, Johan walked away absent-mindedly. His mind swirled with a tumult of emotion—rage, hurt, and a growing sense of detachment. Each step carried him further from the bitter echoes of the fight, yet the sting of John's accusation lingered like a dark shadow over his thoughts. With every stride, his heart pounded with the weight of unspoken defiance, a silent promise that his kindness would not be tarnished by curses or demeaning labels.

 

But it wasn't just kindness. Deep down, Johan realized he simply enjoyed being around Phanora—even when it was just the practical act of helping her family. The bitter taste of the fight still lingered in his veins as he trudged along the familiar trail leading back to the farm. His thoughts, wild and conflicted, left him moving absentmindedly, each step a mixture of fury and something softer he could neither name nor deny.

 

Finding a quiet spot away from the well-beaten path, Johan sank down on a rocky embankment. He fumbled through his pockets until his fingers closed around a small, soft piece of cloth—a handkerchief intricately embroidered by Phanora years ago. That handkerchief carried more than just delicate stitches; it held the memory of secret smiles, fleeting touches, and quiet moments shared away from prying eyes.

 

As he unfolded the cloth, Johan’s gaze softened. Every embroidered pattern, every carefully chosen thread, reminded him of moments when her gentle care had transformed an ordinary day into something unforgettable. It wasn’t only about doing his duty; it was about the way her presence made him feel whole, despite the harsh judgments of his family and the expectations of a life he was supposed to lead.

 

The touch of the soft fabric against his calloused hands stirred something deep inside him—a bittersweet longing that warmed his chest, even as anger still pulsed through his veins. For a brief, stolen moment, all the noise of the argument, all the bitter words hurled in the heat of the fight, faded into silent insignificance. Here, with the handkerchief unfolded before him, Johan allowed himself to remember the subtle grace of Phanora’s care, and the risk he took every time he chose to be near her.

 

The echoes of his latest brawl still pulsed in his bruised skin, and every breath came with a sting of both anger and a secret, inexplicable longing. In his family—among seven brothers with faces so alike they might well have been painted from the same mold—he’d always felt he was just another indistinguishable part of the mass. But ever since Phanora had come into his life, that anonymity had begun to unravel.

It was exciting, being near a witch. The very presence of Phanora set his nerves on fire—her soft, cool fingers mending his wounds after fights, her gentle chastisements that rang with both scolding and care. There was magic in those moments that made him feel special, noticed. As much as the thrill of danger urged his heart to beat faster, what thrilled him even more was the privilege of being singled out—as if, in her eyes, he was not just another face among the sea of his closely matching siblings, but something unique.

He recalled every time he’d stood there, limping after another fight, waiting for her to tend to him. Each time, despite the sting of defeat, he was pulled into a soft space where her concern and even her mild reproach were all that mattered. It was in those moments that he let himself lose—not just in battle, but in the quiet admission that he craved those encounters. The more he lost, the more he found fleeting solace in her careful touch and the kind eyes that shone with both reprimand and something profoundly gentle.

Maybe that was why, over time, he stopped winning all his fights. The scars, the rushing adrenaline, and even the humiliation were no longer bitter defeats—they were tickets to those precious interludes. Every time he failed, he knew she’d be there—steadfast, calming his rage, patching him up with a mix of magic and tender expertise. And for Johan, the exhilarating risk of a bruise was far outweighed by the glow of spending that precious time with her.

Sitting there in the cool twilight, Johan let his heart speak in silence. Yes, the thrill of danger was ever-present. But more than that, the desire to stand out—to be remembered by someone as compelling as Phanora—had quietly reshaped his very nature. In the struggle for survival and in every bruise he wore, there was a secret, bittersweet acknowledgment: sometimes, to feel truly seen was worth every fallen blow.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Phanora sat at her timeworn oak desk, the flicker of an oil lamp painting restless shadows across a scatter of handwritten notes and arcane diagrams. Her mind was deep in analysis—a quiet battle with the details of two necromantic experiments.

 

Southport’s work, she noted in a flurry of precise script, was undeniably rough and hasty. The bodies, though preserved in a crude fashion, bore the marks of an urgent, if unsophisticated, effort. They were assembled with a speed that left little room for finesse—but somehow, that desperate method managed to hold a modicum of coherence. In her mind’s ledger, even the most basic preservation was preferable if it meant there was something tangible to work with.

 

Then there was Brenden. The results from Brenden’s crypt were, in her own blunt terms, pure shit—a botched ritual that left the bodies in a state so abysmal that they seemed to defy even the intent of necromancy. Within those stony confines, a counterspell had been woven into the fabric of the magic—a safeguard designed not to learn but to activate, much like the petulant, molting corpse on the boat. It was a stubborn, self-aware fail-safe that offered nothing but chaos when it awoke.

 

Phanora scribbled another note in the margins of her ledger, her pen capturing the very essence of her frustration:

 

Southport’s bodies: rough, hasty—but by God, better than Brenden’s. If Manure is better than pure shit at least, there’s hope.

 

"Manure" flickered across her thoughts—a reference to a refinement, a potential improvement over the abomination birthed in Brenden’s depths. Even if it was only marginally superior to the disastrous outcome there, it meant there was a foundation on which to build something more stable.

She paused, lifting her gaze to the dancing flames of her lone lamp, the shadows playing about the walls as if echoing her fury. Though her voice remained silent, her eyes burned with defiance. The necromancer’s brazen disregard for the sanctity of life was an offense she could no longer ignore. In her precise, boiling script, the passion of her inner revolt writhed against each curve of the letters.

Phanora knew that someday, this unchecked desecration—and the parading of these enslaved forms—would demand confrontation. For now, she recorded every detail, her notes a testament to her resolve. The study, lined with vellum and scribbled secrets, bore witness not only to ancient rites and modern curses but also to her unwavering determination to restore dignity to the dead.

Johan moved through the study with practiced ease, careful not to let his presence disturb the storm of papers sprawled across Phanora’s desk. Notes layered upon notes—ink-smeared annotations, hastily scrawled conclusions, and spell diagrams overlapping with historical accounts. The room vibrated with quiet intensity, a space where research had long since become something more—a battleground between knowledge and barely restrained fury.

 

He set down the tray with deliberate care, the porcelain and silver barely making a sound against the polished wood. Herbal tea steamed gently in its pot, fragrant with chamomile and something sharper—something meant to steady her rather than lull her into ease. Beside it sat a modest decanter of wine, a quiet indulgence for late-night study. The roasted chicken, simmering in a thin broth, carried the earthy scent of rosemary and black pepper, warmth pooling into the air between them.

 

Phanora did not immediately acknowledge his presence. Her fingers, ink-stained and tense, moved with sharp precision over the parchment, drawing calculated lines between scattered findings. She did not need to say she was livid—the way her pen carved into the paper made it painfully obvious.

 

Johan lingered for a moment longer than necessary.

 

He had seen her furious before—coldly, methodically furious—but this was different. This was quiet rage, the kind that festered under the surface, controlled yet dangerous, building with every word she inscribed.

 

"Eat," he murmured. It wasn’t a demand, nor was it an offering—it was just fact.

 

Phanora exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders before finally allowing herself to glance at the tray. Her fingers twitched slightly before she set the pen down, the weight of the past several hours pressing into her frame.

 

Phanora paused, her eyes tracing Johan’s features with quiet intent.

 

The dim light of the study made the sharp planes of his face seem even more severe, the shadows nestling into the curve of his cheekbones, the hollow beneath his dark eye. He was whole now—restored, steady, standing before her with the deceptive ease of a man untouched by injury. Yet, even knowing what she had done, even having remade him with her own hands, she couldn’t help the thought pressing against the edges of her mind.

 

The undead—ripped from the cycle. Taken. Held. Molded into something unnatural.

 

What drove a person to agree to that? To choose such a fate?

 

And worse—what kind of person took that choice away?

 

Her fingers moved without thought, padding gently at the divot of his collarbone, pressing just faintly against the solidity of his form.

 

Johan didn’t flinch.

 

He didn’t shift away.

 

He only watched her, his breath steady, his expression unreadable—but familiar.

 

Because he knew.

 

She didn’t have to say it aloud—he had seen her like this before. Had felt the weight of her silence, had stood under the weight of her scrutiny when she fell into these thoughts, turning them over like old artifacts, inspecting the edges, trying to name something that couldn’t be named.

 

"It’s fine."

 

His voice was low, unwavering, and though the words were simple, they were enough.

 

Phanora’s fingers lingered for just a moment longer before she withdrew, her gaze slipping back to the pages spread across the desk.

 

Johan exhaled softly, as if releasing something neither of them had spoken.

Chapter 8

Notes:

I just realized when I reread this here that the first 7 chapters have their formatting messed up T.T Oh well, it be like that lol

Johan’s hands moved rhythmically as he clipped the hedges along the estate’s edge, his youthful energy apparent in every well-aimed snip. He bantered with the air, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as he teased the tangled branches, as though they were old friends. The late afternoon sun glinted off the trimmed green, casting long, playful shadows on the ground.

 

Without warning, the lightness of the moment was interrupted by Phanora’s soft, measured voice.

 

“My mother is dying.”

 

The words, delivered as matter-of-factly as the changing seasons, carried the weight of inevitable doom—a fate accepted by every witch upon reaching her two-hundredth year. Phanora’s tone was neither mournful nor bitter; it was simple, resigned truth. Johan paused, his dark eyes meeting hers as he searched for more—a hint of sorrow or a plan for what came after—but Phanora offered no further answer.

 

In that silent interstice, Johan made his decision. With the certainty of a statement as plain as water being wet, he declared, 

 

“I want the room overlooking the water.”

 

The words were deliberate, stated with the same certainty as if he were speaking of the sun rising. He wasn’t asking for permission, wasn’t waiting for her approval—he was making the choice for her.

 

Phanora blinked, caught off guard only for a moment before responding, her protest measured but soft. "Johan—"

 

"You can't run an estate by yourself." He didn’t look at her as he said it, simply continued working, trimming away the excess, shaping the overgrowth into something better. "My brothers need more space in the house."

 

He wasn’t just moving in.

 

He was becoming her servant.

 

Phanora knew that—knew exactly what he meant, knew exactly what this choice entailed.

 

She pressed her lips together, looking at him, really looking at him, as if trying to find some crack in his resolve, some hesitation.

 

But Johan kept moving, clipping away the last of the unruly branches before stepping back and surveying his work.

 

Clean. Structured. Set.

 

Just like his decision.

 

And Phanora, ever logical, ever pragmatic, exhaled softly and nodded.

 

Because what other choice did she really have? Because Johan had already made it for her. And now, all that was left was to let him stay. Let him serve. Let him be here. Because that was what Johan had decided. And, like always—Phanora let him.

 

__________________________________________________________________

 

Phanora shifted deeper into the lounge cushions, arms resting lazily along the carved wooden frame as she watched Johan trim the hedges—hedges he had shaped, year after year, with steady precision. The rhythmic snip of the shears had become a signature sound of the estate, as familiar to her as the ticking of the grandfather clock in the study or the distant hum of the city beyond the estate walls.

 

She had never asked him to tend the garden. It had been his choice, a routine carved from habit, from duty, from something that ran deeper than obligation. His dark curls clung to his damp forehead as he worked, muscles shifting under his shirt with practiced ease.

 

Phanora exhaled softly, her thoughts drifting to Brenden.

 

That night at the inn, when she had pretended to sleep—when she had felt the faint brush of movement, the hesitant shift of fabric.

 

He had leaned in then, believing her unaware, and breathed her in.

 

Not cautiously. Not fearfully.

 

Deliberately.

 

As though her scent was something he wanted to remember, something to commit to memory, something that—perhaps—grounded him in ways neither of them had ever spoken aloud.

 

The thought had unsettled her then, lingering at the edges of her mind like a half-finished spell. But now, sitting here, watching him work, watching the years of service he had given her despite everything she put him through, she felt something close to understanding.

 

Johan tolerated everything—the stifling heat she preferred, the late nights, the silent studies, the relentless pace of their investigations. He followed her into crypts teeming with restless dead, into rooms that reeked of death and decay, into worlds where the very laws of nature bent under the weight of magic.

 

And he never hesitated. Never faltered.

 

Phanora’s fingers curled slightly against the armrest of the chair, a quiet, nearly imperceptible motion.

 

She never asked why.

 

Because some things were simply known.

 

Because Johan would never say it.

 

And because there was no need.

 

They were bound—not by obligation, not by servitude, not just by circumstance.

 

But by choice.

 

Johan had chosen this. And Phanora, for all her logic, for all her acceptance of fate— Had allowed him to. Had let him stay. Had never told him to go.

 

And in the quiet of the garden, with the evening settling in around them, the snip-snipping of the shears carried on as it always had.

 

As it always would.

 

Even when he grumbled, when he dragged his feet through tedious tasks, when he muttered under his breath about how none of this was necessary, all it ever took was the barest hint of praise to reel him back in. A simple acknowledgment of his work, a quiet compliment, and suddenly, the irritation faded as quickly as it had appeared.

 

Phanora had long since noticed the pattern—how easy it was to remind him of his worth, how quickly his defiance unraveled when the smallest reassurance was given.

 

"If I just handle the issue myself," she had once mused aloud, her tone deceptively neutral, "then what need do I even have for you?"

 

And that was always enough to make him bristle.

 

Johan would rebuke it immediately, like a reflex—shaking his head, scoffing, pushing back with a fierce, unwavering certainty.

 

"Of course I'd do it. I’m a pro. I’m an expert. Nobody has the same touch as me."

 

There was no hesitation in his voice, no flicker of doubt.

 

Because he believed it.

 

And Phanora? She let him believe it.

 

Let him own it.

 

Because it kept him close. Because it kept him here. Because it meant, despite everything—he stayed. Because Johan had already chosen this life. And Phanora had already chosen to let him.

 

Phanora watched him.

 

Watched as he wiped the sweat from his brow, as his throat bobbed with the long drink of water, as his fingers curled around the bottle with absent-minded ease.

 

But more than that, she watched his hands.

 

The first hands she had ever felt that were warm.

 

It had shocked her then—so much so that she had pulled away, like one recoiling from an open flame. The sensation had been alien, unnatural against the cool touch she had always known. But in that startled moment, in that abrupt realization, there had been something else.

 

Something welcome.

 

Now, as she lounged on the veranda and observed the steady rhythm of his movements, she recalled that first time—the way his warmth had seeped into her fingers, into her wrists, into her mind, forcing her to reconcile something she had never considered before.

 

Her kind did not feel warmth the way others did. Their magic ran cold, ancient, deliberate. And yet Johan had never hesitated to touch her, had never flinched at the sharp contrast between them.

 

It was something she still wasn’t entirely accustomed to.

 

But she let it happen.

 

Let herself watch his hands move, their warmth now familiar, now known—no longer startling, no longer something to shrink away from.

 

Maybe, she thought absently, it had never been something to fear.

 

Maybe, all along, it had simply been his.

 

Him.

 

Phanora’s gaze lingered on Johan, watching the easy rhythm of his work—the same careful movements he had performed for years. The inertia of their existence had settled into something inevitable, neither of them changing in any meaningful way. He had been a child when they first met, a few years older than her, and now he was a man, yet still caught in the same quiet cycle. Still here. Still hers, in all the ways she did not say aloud.

 

Her thoughts drifted backward, past the garden, past Johan, past the clipped hedges and the estate that is hers alone.

 

To her mother.

 

To the singular time she had asked about her father.

 

The answer had been dismissive, as smooth and effortless as a wave retreating from the shore.

 

" Unimportant ," her mother had said without hesitation, brushing off the question as if it carried no weight, no significance, no history worth remembering. Just a man.

 

Just someone who had given her an heiress—nothing more.

 

Phanora had never asked again.

 

Because there had never been anything else to ask.

 

Because her father, whoever he had been, had never mattered.

 

But Johan?

 

Johan was right there.

 

Still right there.

 

Still hers, whether by duty or by choice.

 

And that, at least, meant something. Something real. Something unchanging. Something that would remain—long after the past had faded into irrelevance. Long after names and bloodlines had lost their meaning. Long after her mother’s dismissal had become nothing more than a quiet echo in the back of her mind. Long after fate had settled them both into the inertia they could no longer escape. And long after Johan, despite everything, had continued to stay.

 

Her mother had likened him to the dogs they practiced on.

 

Strays—hungry, eager, grateful for a warm place to sleep, for a meal, for a purpose.

 

And maybe, maybe, to Phanora, that had been true once.

 

Maybe Johan had simply been comfort—a childhood dog, a creature that had wandered into her life and never left. A familiar presence, loyal and dependable, always responding to the barest hint of praise.

 

But as she watched him now—watched him wipe the sweat off his face with the edge of his shirt, watched the tautness of his muscles flex and shift beneath sun-warmed skin—she realized that she had only ever examined him clinically before.

 

Never aesthetically.

 

Never like this.

 

Phanora let the thought settle, measured and deliberate, like ink bleeding across parchment.

 

He was more than just a dog.

 

More than just something forgotten and taken in out of pity.

 

Johan had chosen this.

 

Had chosen her.

 

And maybe—just maybe—that meant more than either of them had ever truly acknowledged. More than either of them had ever dared to say aloud. More than a stray, happy for scraps. More than a servant, happy for duty. More than the simple fate her mother had assigned him.

 

He was here.

 

And maybe that was why it ached to see him injured.

 

Why it enraged her to see him mistreated.

 

Because Johan had become something permanent—something ingrained into the very fabric of her life, of her estate, of the quiet routines that neither of them spoke about but both implicitly understood.

 

She would bring this world to its knees if it meant protecting him.

 

But he would never allow that.

 

He loved this town, this city—in spite of itself. In spite of the rot beneath its cobbled streets, in spite of the corruption buried beneath its laws and dealings. He loved it unreasonably, stubbornly, the same way he forced himself into her home, the same way he took root in her life.

 

Like a weed—unwanted at first, intrusive, persistent.

 

And yet, now?

 

Now he was just as much a part of the landscape as the roses lining the estate. As the towering trees that swayed in the evening winds. As the shallow graves dug beneath the earth—where the bodies of stray animals had been laid to rest, where the ashes of the Kristoffels had long since scattered into the soil, forgotten except in memory.

 

Johan belonged here.

 

More than he should. More than was reasonable. More than was safe.

 

And Phanora—watching him now, watching the sweat dampen his skin, watching the quiet, natural way he carried himself across her veranda—felt the truth settle into her bones.

 

This estate had always been hers.

 

And yet, somehow—without permission, without question—Johan had made it his, too. Just as effortlessly as the earth swallowed the past, just as naturally as time rewrote history. Just as quietly as the dead had faded away, leaving only ghosts behind. And maybe, that was why she could never cast him out. Because he had already rooted himself too deep. And she had already let him.

 

Johan wiped the sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve, stretching his shoulders before standing before her. His routine was ingrained, so familiar that he barely had to think about it.

 

"Once I clean myself up, I’ll get started on supper," he said, rolling his shoulders, already mentally planning the meal.

 

Phanora watched him—quiet, thoughtful, unreadable.

 

He noticed the pause.

 

The tilt of her head.

 

Then, she spoke.

 

"I'd prefer we go out this evening."

 

Johan blinked, thrown just enough to hesitate.

 

Phanora wasn’t one for indulgence, not like this. Dining out was unnecessary, something they rarely considered. They had everything they needed here. Everything ran in a predictable rhythm, an efficiency built over years of routine.

 

But she had already decided.

 

And Johan—practical, steady, devoted to her whims no matter how unexpected—simply nodded.

 

"Alright," he said, adjusting his stance, rolling with the change of plans. If that’s what she wanted, then that’s what they’d do.

 

The thought lingered at the back of his mind—odd, unusual, different—but he didn’t question it.

 

Because Phanora had chosen.

 

And Johan, as always, would follow. Would make it work. Would adapt, just as he always had. Without hesitation. Without argument. Without ever realizing that, for once—this wasn’t about her at all. It was about him. But Phanora would never say that. And Johan, oblivious to the weight of her reasoning, simply accepted. As he always did. As he always would.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

The cab ride was quiet, save for the hum of the city beyond its windows, the slow crawl of pedestrians spilling out onto streets bathed in the lingering heat of early evening.

 

This city had changed.

 

Once a sleepy seaside town, its transformation had been steady, inevitable—tourists flocking in for the summer and autumn months, dragging with them luxuries Johan could have only dreamed of as a child. When he was younger, this world had been too far removed from his reality—something distant, something reserved for other people, not for boys who stocked shelves in the family grocery or carved out space where they could among the everyday necessities of small-town life.

 

But now, the shift was undeniable. The city had blossomed into something theatrical, something shimmering and decadent when the season was right—then, just as effortlessly, it sank back into quiet.

 

Outside the cab window, the restaurant loomed ahead, standing in stark contrast to the familiar streets surrounding it.

 

This wasn’t just any place.

 

This was elegance—glitz and glamor in gold and glass, a jewel cut from another time entirely, the kind of establishment made for excess, for artistry, for indulgence.

 

Its doors gleamed under the glow of hanging lights, the soft hum of laughter and jazz spilling onto the street from within. It was a place that whispered promises of refinement, of something carefully crafted for those who knew how to take up space.

 

The cab slowed to a stop, the city humming softly around them.

 

Johan was the first to move, stepping out into the warm evening air before turning back toward Phanora. Without hesitation, he reached for the door, his movements fluid, practiced. He extended a hand toward her, offering quiet assistance—not because she needed it, but because it was second nature now.

 

Phanora hesitated for half a breath before placing her cool fingers in his palm, allowing him to steady her as she stepped onto the street.

 

His grip was firm, warm, solid—an anchor against the ever-changing world around them.

 

Their hands lingered for barely a second before she withdrew, adjusting the hem of her coat with a quiet efficiency.

 

Johan didn’t comment on it, didn’t make note of the way their fingers had touched—just like he didn’t comment on the restaurant itself, its grandeur, its sheer contrast to the streets they had traveled together over the years.

 

Phanora moved through the restaurant, her presence a shimmering counterpoint to the soft glow of the ambient lighting. Johan, ever the attentive escort, guided her towards the host stand. 

 

Her gown, a lustrous creation of white satin, draped fluidly, clinging in all the right places before cascading to the floor. It exuded an understated refinement. The focal point of her ensemble, however, was the magnificent full-length fur coat, ermine, which cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. It was wide and voluminous, framing her face and lending an air of dramatic opulence. 

 

The coat was checked and the host eagerly showed them the way. 

 

As Johan led her to their table near the stage, the slow, soulful numbers from the jazz band seemed to underscore her graceful movement. The waitstaff, a blur of black and white ensembles, danced around them, an elegant ballet of service. At their table, Johan pulled out her chair with a practiced ease, and she settled into it, the satin of her gown whispering against the upholstery. He then took his seat opposite her, his own suit, though impeccably tailored, still feeling somewhat alien to him.

 

Johan drummed his fingers lightly against the tablecloth, glancing around at the lavish surroundings with barely concealed skepticism. The sheer opulence of the restaurant—gold accents gleaming under low light, polished glassware catching reflections of chandeliers, the slow drawl of jazz weaving through the space—felt a bit much. It wasn’t bad, per se. Just… unnecessary.

 

"This place is ridiculous," he muttered, leaning back in his chair, eyeing the waitstaff as they practically danced between tables.

 

Phanora didn’t even look up from the menu.

 

"It’s fine."

 

Johan scoffed, tipping his glass in absent thought, watching as the condensation trickled down the side.

 

"‘Fine’? We’re sitting in a damn cathedral of excess for food you could make yourself."

 

Phanora, unbothered, finally met his gaze, her expression as unreadable as always.

 

"I want Coq Au Vin," she said simply, turning her attention back to the menu, as if that one statement was explanation enough.

 

Johan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

 

"So that’s what this is about? You could’ve just said you were craving chicken instead of dragging me into a fever dream of chandeliers and overpriced nonsense."

 

Phanora didn’t dignify the remark with a response, merely flicked her eyes toward the waiter approaching their table.

 

Johan exhaled, resigned.

 

The city knew them.

 

The streets, the people, the history—it had shaped them just as much as they had shaped it.

 

To the locals, Phanora was the witch, the inevitable heir to her mother’s legacy, and Johan was the boy who had tangled himself into her life, the servant who had stayed despite everything.

 

But to the tourists?

 

To the passing visitors, the ones seeking fleeting decadence among gilded buildings and ocean air, they were simply an odd pair—a glamorous beauty draped in luxury and an eyepatched man who lingered beside her like some silent sentinel.

 

A mystery, a curiosity, something worth a second glance but never a deeper thought.

 

Phanora didn’t care. She wasn’t here for them.

 

She ordered coq au vin without hesitation, her voice steady, effortless—this was simply what she wanted.

 

Johan, still adjusting to the absurdity of it all, chose steak au poivre with an air of reluctant indulgence, as if acknowledging the extravagance but refusing to let it bother him.

The band played a slow number, the hum of conversation weaving through the rich, golden glow of the restaurant. At their table, amid the soft clink of silverware and murmurs of nearby patrons, Phanora tilted her head at Johan with a thoughtful gaze.

"How many boats do you think arrive here in town every day?" she asked quietly, her tone half in curiosity and half in challenge.

Johan, tracing a finger along the table’s edge as he considered her question, glanced around at the glistening surroundings and replied, "Maybe a dozen?" His response was casual—a rough estimate born of the vivid memories of his childhood, when the port was just another part of the landscape.

Phanora took a slow sip of her wine, letting the liquid linger on her tongue as she mused, "And how many do you think are carrying illegal cargo?" There was a softness in her voice that belied the edge of the question, hinting at secrets known only to those who had seen the underbelly of the town transform alongside its glitz and glamour.

Johan paused, the weight of her query shifting the conversation.

 "Illegal cargo?" he repeated, now with a slight tilt of his head. "Well, it’s not like every boat is clean sailing. I'd say maybe a third carry something they shouldn’t—smuggled goods, secrets, the kind of cargo that isn’t written down in any official ledger." His tone carried a mix of playful skepticism and genuine interest, as though the estimated fraction opened a door to stories hidden amid the city’s newfound opulence.

Phanora’s eyes softened as she regarded him, the ambient light dancing over her features. 

"There’s always more beneath the surface," she murmured, her words floating over the low, soulful strains of jazz. "These boats, these arrivals—they’re not just vessels carrying goods. Sometimes, they’re the keepers of buried histories and quiet rebellions that this city pretends not to notice."

For a brief moment, the bustling elegance of the restaurant melted away, leaving only the cadence of the jazz and the quiet intimacy of their shared speculation. Johan nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful.

 "Every ship has a story, I suppose.”

Phanora tilted her head slightly before asking.

 "How long by ship do you think it takes to get from Brenden to Southport?"

Johan, pausing just long enough to consider her question, replied.

 "Three days max—if the weather holds."

No sooner had his words faded than a waiter glided to their table with practiced finesse, setting down their plates with a gentle clink of porcelain on polished silver. Phanora's Coq Au Vin exuded an inviting aroma, its sauce rich and tangy, while Johan's steak au poivre sat temptingly beside a small mound of peppercorns and a smear of green relish.

They ate in companionable silence for a moment, the soft strains of the saxophone mingling with the murmur of nearby conversations. Then, as Johan savored a bite of his meal, Phanora leaned forward, her voice low and deliberate.

"The necromancer responsible has to travel with the bodies," she mused, her eyes searching his with a mix of curiosity and gravitas. "They're too mobile to not have magic directly affecting them."

Johan swallowed a bite of steak, savoring the sharp bite of peppercorns before chasing it with a sip of wine. The weight of their conversation lingered between them, a quiet presence beneath the hum of jazz and clatter of silverware.

He wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin, considering Phanora’s statement. "Makes sense," he murmured. "If the bodies are moving, they’re not just passive cargo. The necromancer needs constant influence over them—like a puppeteer keeping the strings taut."

Phanora twirled her fork idly through the dark sauce pooling beneath her dish, watching the light shift against the red sheen of her wine. "It also means they’re vulnerable while in transit," she observed. "Even the strongest magic has limits when stretched across distance. If we can find the right moment—"

Johan smirked slightly, shaking his head. "You want to strike mid-journey?" He leaned back against his chair, crossing his arms. "That’s risky. That’s guessing on weather, currents, schedules we don’t have full access to—"

Phanora took another slow sip of wine, unbothered. "You said three days max," she pointed out.

Johan exhaled through his nose, half amused, half exasperated. "Right. So, best case, that’s seventy-two hours of open water with nowhere to go if things fall apart." He stabbed at a piece of steak, chewing as he thought. "Do we even know which boat it is?"

Phanora’s lips curled at the edges, just slightly. "Not yet," she admitted. "But that’s hardly a problem."

Johan sighed, turning his attention back to his meal. "Of course it isn’t." He cut another piece of steak, shaking his head as he muttered, "Just another impossible task for the witch of the estate."

Phanora took the comment in stride, elegant and composed, as if it were nothing more than idle conversation. "There’s no such thing as impossible," she murmured, lifting her glass once more. "Only inconvenient."

Johan laughed, shaking his head as he leaned forward, resting his forearms against the table. "And when exactly do you plan on making this inconvenience our problem?"

Phanora tilted her glass slightly, watching the way the candlelight bent through the liquid. "Soon," she answered, her voice soft but certain. "Very soon."

Johan huffed, resigned. "Of course."

As if on cue, the rhythm of their quiet indulgence was interrupted.

A waiter approached their table with a silver tray, his movements precise, measured, as though handling something far more delicate than mere correspondence.

The letter rested atop polished silver—a pale envelope, its edges crisp and unmarked, its presence almost too pristine against the rich decadence of their surroundings. The red wax seal, bold and unyielding, stood in stark contrast to the soft glow of candlelight.

Phanora set down her glass with deliberate care, the warmth of her wine lingering on her tongue as she reached for the envelope.

Chapter 9

Phanora stood outside the flower shop, the hem of her black mourning attire trailing just above the damp cobblestone beneath her. The window displays were a riot of color—blush-pink roses, deep violet irises, pristine white lilies—all arranged with meticulous care, their vibrancy an aching contrast to the dull weight pressing against her chest.

 

She wasn’t looking at the flowers so much as through them, lost in the steady murmur of her own thoughts. The scent of fresh blooms and earth clung to the air, sharp against the chill of the day.

 

That was when the voice reached her.

 

"Well, if it isn’t the little ghoul herself."

 

Phanora didn’t move.

 

She knew that voice.

 

Dale. One of the boys from her youth—older now, meaner, but just as eager to flex whatever pathetic power he thought he had over her.

 

His buddies stood close behind him, some snickering, others watching with the kind of tension that suggested they weren’t sure how far this would go. One of them—Nathan, she thought—shifted uneasily, glancing between Phanora and Dale with clear hesitation.

 

"Dale, quit taunting her," Nathan said, his voice tight. "She’s a witch—you don’t want to mess with her."

 

Dale scoffed, rolling his eyes as he stepped closer, his grin sharp and mocking.

 

"Coward."

 

The word was tossed out with casual cruelty, meant for Nathan, meant to bolster Dale’s bravado, meant to remind Phanora that whatever respect she commanded in whispers and caution didn’t extend to him.

 

"What’s the matter, Phanora?" Dale continued, tilting his head in exaggerated curiosity. "Planning another funeral already?"

 

The others laughed—too nervous, too eager to follow his lead.

 

Phanora finally shifted her gaze, slow and deliberate, meeting Dale’s eyes with a flat, unreadable stare.

 

She said nothing.

 

Because she didn’t need to.

 

The silence was enough—the weight of it, the certainty of it, the slow, creeping realization that Dale’s bravado was nothing against the quiet, lingering certainty of who she was.

 

Dale’s smirk faltered—just slightly, just enough for her to notice.

 

Phanora exhaled slowly, turning back to the flowers.

 

That should have been the end of it.

 

But Dale wasn’t one to let a dismissal sit.

 

His indignation flared, sharp and ugly, fueled by the murmurs of his friends—some laughing, others watching with wary hesitation, waiting to see how far he would push.

 

"You think you’re too good to talk to me?" Dale sneered, stepping closer, his voice low but edged with something brittle.

 

Phanora didn’t so much as glance his way.

 

Dale’s lip curled.

 

"I should knock you flat, see if that gets a reaction."

 

His words were cocky—laced with bravado that relied entirely on the people surrounding him. But even he hesitated at the thought, some deep, instinctual part of him knowing better than to lay a hand on her.

 

And then—

 

The shop door dinged.

 

Dale barely had a second to register the sound before Johan stepped out, the weight of the bouquet balanced in his arms, the scent of lilies and hyacinths wafting into the open air.

 

Johan barely looked at Dale before shoving past him, shouldering him aside with a force that sent him stumbling half a step back.

 

"Watch it, you fucking—" Dale started, but Johan didn’t stop—didn’t hesitate, didn’t dignify him with anything more than a glance.

 

Until Dale pushed his luck.

 

"What, playing lapdog today? That’s all you’ll ever be, huh? Groveling after—"

 

Johan exhaled sharply through his nose, adjusting his grip on the bouquet with one hand while propping open the parasol with the other.

 

Then, flatly, without ceremony—

 

"Fuck off back to your cousins bed."

 

Silence.

 

Dale’s mouth hung open for half a second, the words catching at the back of his throat as his friends stiffened, some stifling quiet laughter, others shifting uncomfortably.

 

Johan didn’t wait for his response.

 

He turned, unfolding the parasol with practiced ease, settling it over Phanora as if the prior exchange meant nothing at all.

 

Phanora—who hadn’t so much as flinched—simply adjusted the angle of the parasol slightly, ensuring the sunlight wouldn’t catch her directly.

 

Then, without a word, she walked forward—Johan following, the mourning bouquet nestled in the crook of his arm, leaving Dale and his wounded pride behind them.

 

And just like that—

 

It was done. As if Dale had never mattered at all. As if none of them did. Because, in the end, they didn’t.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

Brentford was a city that never rested, never slowed—its sprawling ports pulsed with constant movement, a rhythmic tide of arrivals and departures shaping its lifeblood.

 

Gone were the sleepy docks of old, where fishermen once hauled their modest catches onto worn planks and the scent of saltwater mixed with the simpler aromas of fresh bread from street-side bakeries. In its place stood towering steel cranes and endless rows of shipping containers stacked like puzzle pieces, their contents ranging from mundane goods to whispered secrets buried beneath false ledgers.

 

The waterfront bustled beneath neon reflections rippling on the water, where business was conducted in hushed conversations over expensive cocktails, where fortunes were made and lost in the space of a single deal.

 

At all hours, the hum of the city thrived—boats slipping in under cover of darkness, anonymous figures exchanging brief nods before disappearing down narrow alleys. The tide carried both trade and treachery, and Brentford had long since learned to embrace both.

 

The duo had arrived, their journey facilitated—for once—by the Order. No trains. No hired drivers. No clandestine shortcuts. Just the quiet efficiency of sanctioned transport, swift and without complication.

 

Their hotel stood tall against Brentford’s skyline, an opulent structure that bore the weight of modernization without sacrificing the subtle elegance of old-world charm. It was new—sharp, polished, outfitted with the latest amenities—but it still held echoes of a city that had known centuries of trade, of wealth, of secrets.

 

Inside, their accommodations mirrored the establishment’s sense of quiet luxury: a spacious suite, lined with sleek furnishings and warm lighting. A shared living room, meticulously designed with plush seating and a panoramic view of the harbor, split the two bedrooms—a calculated separation, ensuring privacy without complete detachment. Each bedroom had its own en suite, stocked with fresh linens, pristine fixtures, and a quiet sense of indulgence.

 

Phanora set her bag down with practiced ease, already assessing the space with the cool detachment of someone who never expected to linger long in one place. This was not home. This was not permanence. But it would suffice.

 

Johan, less concerned with the setting than with the weight of their task ahead, exhaled slowly as he shrugged off his coat, letting it drape over the back of a chair.

 

"Not bad," he muttered, scanning the room before glancing toward Phanora. "Not exactly the kind of place I thought we'd end up."

 

Phanora barely flicked her eyes toward him before responding, smooth and effortless.

 

"Brentford’s grown. It adapts."

 

Johan scoffed lightly, rolling his shoulders as he stretched. "Yeah, well… adaptation doesn’t change what’s waiting for us outside."

 

The city thrived beyond their window, alive in its restless movements. And somewhere within that sprawl, somewhere between the shipments and the whispers and the boats that arrived with carefully concealed cargo—their answers awaited.

 

And whether Brentford wanted it or not—they had come to find them.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

Detective Patricia Jameson wasted no time.

 

The duo sat across from her in the dim glow of her office, the overhead light casting stark shadows against the papers scattered across her desk. The space was functional, not indulgent—wood-paneled walls lined with shelves stuffed full of old case files, a coffee machine humming quietly in the corner. No unnecessary decorations, no soft touches to make the space inviting. It wasn’t meant to be.

 

Jameson leaned back in her chair, her gaze sharp, assessing.

 

"Bodies have been found again," she stated, no preamble, no hesitation. She slid a file toward them, the manila folder thin but weighted with significance.

 

Phanora didn’t hesitate to pick it up, her eyes skimming the pages with practiced efficiency.

 

Johan, less eager to sift through grim details, leaned back against the creaking chair, his arms crossed.

 

"Same pattern?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

 

Jameson exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers tapping against her desk. "Just like the towns before. It’s never clean. It’s never subtle. Whoever’s doing this wants us to know."

 

Phanora turned a page, her fingers barely grazing the edge of the parchment. Marked. Twisted. Unnatural. The necromancer wasn’t hiding. They were moving. But they weren’t running.

 

"And the boats?" she asked, voice smooth, measured.

 

Jameson’s lips pressed into a thin line. "That’s the part I don’t like."

 

Johan’s eyes flicked toward her, interest piqued.

 

"Go on."

 

Jameson reached for her coffee, taking a slow sip before setting the mug back down. "We traced one body to a shipment that arrived four nights ago. Manifest claimed textiles. But what actually came off that ship?"

 

Johan hummed, already piecing together the obvious.

 

"Not fabric, I’m guessing."

 

Jameson nodded.

 

Phanora, flipping another page, murmured absently, "Necromancer has to travel with the bodies. They’re too mobile to not have magic affecting them directly."

 

Johan gave a slow nod, his gaze dropping to the file still open in Phanora’s hands.

 

"That means our culprit was on that ship."

 

Jameson exhaled, rubbing at her temple.

 

"And if that’s the case?" she muttered. "Then they haven’t gone far."

 

The office hummed with quiet tension, the distant murmur of the precinct just beyond the door.

 

"Do any of them have families?" Phanora asked while reading over the notes, looking at the coroner's photos.

 

Detective Jameson exhaled sharply, rubbing at the bridge of her nose before gesturing toward the file.

 

"Some."

 

Phanora flipped through the pages, studying the coroner’s photos. The bodies were better kept together than some of the previous cases—but still wrong, still warped in ways that suggested magic had not simply preserved them, but used them.

 

They were disposable—at least, that was what the necromancer had decided.

 

Johan, arms crossed, kept his gaze off the photos, choosing instead to watch Jameson carefully.

 

"What about the ones who don’t?" he asked.

 

Jameson’s jaw tightened. "Then they’re ghosts twice over. No one is looking for them. No one is asking questions."

 

Phanora hummed softly, pressing a fingertip to one particular image—one that showed remnants of something familiar.

 

A wedding band, still clinging to the discolored skin of a hand that had long since lost its warmth.

 

"Someone loved them once," she murmured.

 

Johan, quiet for a long moment, finally spoke.

 

"And someone decided that wasn’t enough to stop this."

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

The police lines flickered in the evening breeze, stretching between rusted bollards and stacked cargo containers, cordoning off the wreckage of yet another crime scene. The dockworkers had long since abandoned the area—only officers remained, muttering in low tones, their faces drawn, their expressions carrying the weight of what lay beyond the caution tape.

 

Phanora and Johan stood at the edge of the cargo hold, gazing down into the shadowed depths where the bodies had been found.

 

Detective Jameson stood beside them, her posture rigid, her hands tucked deep into the pockets of her coat. "Whatever you're expecting," she muttered, "it’s worse."

 

Johan exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. "We’re used to worse."

 

Jameson’s gaze flicked toward him, skepticism buried behind layers of exhaustion.

 

Phanora didn’t look at either of them. She simply studied the cargo hold, her eyes calculating, cool, deliberate. "You checked the ship’s manifest?" she asked.

 

Jameson nodded. "Nothing unusual. But the bodies say otherwise."

 

Johan clicked his tongue against his teeth, shifting his stance. "That’s how it always is, isn’t it? Paperwork clean. Cargo anything but."

 

Jameson didn’t argue.

 

The dock smelled of salt and rot—the brine of the ocean mixing with something that had festered too long in a confined space.

 

Phanora took a step forward. Johan followed without hesitation.

 

No amount of warnings, no amount of caution, would stop them from seeing for themselves.

 

Because they weren’t here to flinch. They were here to understand. To piece together what had been left behind. To track the trail of death back to the ones who refused to let the dead rest.

 

The metal groaned with every step beneath their feet, rust whispering its age in flakes that scattered under Johan’s boots. The cargo ship loomed like a gutted beast stranded in still water—silent save for the groaning of old hulls and the echo of distant seabirds, their cries thin and uncaring above.

Down here, in the cargo hold's belly, the air was stale with the scent of salt, oil, and rot.

Phanora moved first, her parasol absent for once, her lantern held low. The flame inside shifted restlessly, casting flickering light across stacks of rotted crates and shredded linens. Textiles once meant for trade lay ruined—mildewed, torn, soaked through with seawater and something darker.

Johan followed closely behind, shoulder brushing hers whenever they stepped through a tighter corridor. His sleeves were rolled up, a cloth tied over his nose and mouth, more for the psychological comfort than the stench. The deeper they went, the colder the air became—not a chill from the sea, but from something older.

“Step over that,” Phanora murmured, eyes fixed on a bundle of fabric slumped between two storage containers. Not fabric. A shroud. A rib cage, exposed through rotted flesh, half-folded like a forgotten puppet. Its mouth hung open in a rictus, lips gone, jaw slack with the final frozen scream.

“Used and discarded,” Johan muttered, his voice muffled. “Like packing materials.”

Phanora didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Her eyes scanned the ceiling, the bolts, the cold steel beams where hooks hung like skeletal fingers. Some swayed slightly. None from wind.

Then came the boxes.

Massive steel crates, each etched crudely with runes—faint, fading. Containment wards, but not ones Phanora recognized from any regulated magical texts. These were haphazard, smeared with blood and spit, desperation masquerading as craftsmanship. She approached one, brushing her hand over a faded sigil.

“Manual binding,” she said, voice hollow. “The caster fed them just enough to animate. Barely enough to control.”

Johan crouched and peeled back the bent door of a nearby crate, its hinges squealing in protest. Inside, a corpse slumped sideways, arms locked in rigor, eyes still intact and wide open—clouded but wet.

“Still got his eyes,” Johan whispered. “This one didn’t go easy.”

“No,” Phanora murmured, kneeling beside the open crate. “They never do.”

Her fingers brushed against the corpse’s temple. A shimmer of residual magic crackled at her touch—thin, brittle. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the arcane scent like ozone and wet clay. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she summoned a flicker of her flame.

It danced like a living thing, casting rippling shadows over the crate walls.

The corpse twitched.

Johan tensed, hand going to the blade on his back, but Phanora raised a hand—still, still—and pressed her fingers to the corpse’s chest. The flame dipped down, slid into the sternum, and the body lurched once more. Then it stilled.

The soul did not rise. It had already gone.

“Vacuumed out,” Phanora whispered. “Whoever did this… they didn’t just bind the bodies. They siphoned the soul. Fed off them.”

“Like a well,” Johan growled. “Used them until they went dry.”

The hold stretched deeper. Row after row of crates, some still sealed, others forced open, hollow inside—lined with the remnants of straw, old chains, dried blood. She stepped lightly over collapsed heaps of cloth and limbs, their shapes slumped like discarded mannequins.

And then they reached the last one.

This crate was newer. Blacker. The metal polished, unsullied by rust. No runes. No blood.

But the cold from it was palpable .

Phanora stepped forward and placed her palm on the side. It was colder than ice. Her fingers stuck for a second, pulling away with a hiss.

“Not a containment cell,” she said. “A feeder.”

Johan stepped beside her, brow furrowed. “Feeder?”

“Something was inside,” she continued. “And it didn’t feed on flesh. It fed on magic . On soul-energy. The undead were farmed for it. That’s why they broke down. They weren’t just neglected—they were drained.”

Johan exhaled slowly, the lantern light casting hollows beneath his eyes. “You think it’s still in here?”

Phanora turned to him, blue eyes reflecting firelight.

“No,” she said. “It’s gone.”

A hollow bang echoed somewhere above. Then another.

Johan straightened, knife in hand, flame dancing on his back.

“Or,” she added softly, “it’s not far.”

And somewhere, between rusted steel and stolen souls, something stirred.

The noise was like the howl of metal dragged through bone.

 

The far wall of the cargo bay buckled, then split, rivets popping like gunshots as steel bent inward. Johan barely had time to curse before something tore through—

a thing of rotten sinew and raw malice, a mockery of flesh held together by rusted nails and torn ligaments.

 

It was huge, twice Johan’s height, its body stitched with wire, straps of leather keeping limbs that didn’t belong to it lashed into a misshapen skeleton. One arm longer than the other, dragging behind like a club of meat and broken tools. Its face—or what passed for it—was a fused mass of skulls and jawbones, a crown of failed resurrection.

 

Its chest pulsed with a sickly green light.

 

Phanora’s expression didn’t shift, but her mind burned with assessment.

 

An attempt at a death knight, she thought, coldly. Crude. Brutal. No soul-binding, no blessed medium. No care for equilibrium. Just mass and might. No reverence.

 

No artistry.

 

The creature let out a wet bellow, a sound that echoed like a scream being drowned, and then charged.

 

Johan didn’t wait for orders. The lantern on his back flared as he threw himself forward, shoulder-checking Phanora out of its direct path before diving toward the side—blade already free.

 

The beast slammed into the space they had occupied, metal exploding outward. The ship groaned in agony, the hull cracking like dry wood. Containers crashed and slid; ruined fabric and bone went flying.

 

Phanora hit the floor hard but rolled with it, rising without breaking stride. Her flame danced across her palm.

 

“Careful,” she said evenly, brushing dust from her skirt. “It looks strong.”

 

“No shit,” Johan growled, already bleeding from the shoulder where shrapnel had caught him. He ducked under a second swipe of the creature’s massive arm, the blade singing as it carved a shallow line across its ribs.

 

The creature didn’t feel it.

 

Worse, it learned.

 

It twisted unnaturally, its too-many joints cracking, and swung the longer limb in a brutal backhand. Johan tried to step inside it—but it was fast, far faster than it should have been.

 

The blow caught him square in the ribs.

 

There was a crack.

 

Johan flew—slammed into a crate—and didn’t rise.

 

“Johan,” Phanora said, almost sighing.

 

The creature turned toward her, snarling.

 

Phanora raised her hand, flame burning brighter. “You were made to mock me,” she said, mostly to herself. “What an ugly little insult.”

 

It charged.

 

She stood her ground.

 

At the last moment, her flame leapt forward in a whip of white heat. The creature shrieked as it caught in its face, burning through the jumbled flesh—but it kept coming, blind now, but maddened. She sidestepped with inhuman grace, cloak swirling around her like smoke, and it smashed headlong into the wall.

 

Steel dented. Sparks flew.

 

“Cheap thing,” she murmured. “No soul, no blood-vow. Not even bound with salt or silver.”

 

From the pile of broken crates, Johan stirred.

 

His breathing was ragged. A wheeze. One arm clutched to his side.

 

Ribs broken. Maybe more.

 

He spat blood, wiped it from his lip, and stood.

 

The lantern on his back pulsed again, drawing strength from the flame within. It wasn’t enough to heal—but it steadied him. He watched the creature whirl on Phanora again, half its face melted into slag.

 

“I’m not letting you get away,” he muttered, voice raw. 

 

The monster lunged.

 

Johan moved.

 

This time, he didn’t aim for a killing blow. He ran straight at it and slammed into its back, dragging his blade across the seam of its spine—not to sever, but to expose.

 

Phanora, reading his motion, flicked her wrist.

 

The flame followed.

 

The creature screamed.

 

The exposed meat on its back ignited with cold fire, the necromantic magic unraveling. It thrashed, spinning, and brought its elbow down—catching Johan in the jaw. His body hit the ground like a sack of wet grain.

 

Phanora didn’t flinch. She stepped forward.

 

“You broke him,” she said quietly.

 

The creature turned to face her, roaring.

 

“And you didn’t ask permission.”

 

The flame in her hand surged brighter than ever—blinding white tinged with blue. She thrust her hand forward and whispered a command:

 

“Dissolve.”

 

The spell hit like a truth.

 

The green core in the creature’s chest shattered, cracked like glass under pressure, and the light died. In one sickening, drawn-out moment, the body unmade itself—meat collapsing, limbs shriveling, wire uncoiling like frightened snakes. The thing sagged in on itself and crumpled, twitching, until all that remained was a heap of foul-smelling sludge and iron.

 

Silence.

 

Phanora stood still for a moment. Then turned.

 

Johan was sitting up, woozy, his nose obviously broken and blood pouring freely down his front.

 

“You’re not supposed to die yet,” she said mildly.

 

“I didn’t,” he croaked.

 

“You’re bleeding on my tools.”

 

He looked down at the crate he was leaning against, saw the blood pooling into her surgical kit box, and hissed. “...Shit. Sorry.”

 

“Mm.” She approached, crouched beside him, and touched his jaw with gloved fingers. Her breath fogged in the cold.

 

“You cracked your ribs,” she said. “Split your lip. Dislocated your shoulder. You’re very lucky.”

 

“Feels like winning,” Johan muttered, groaning.

 

“You won,” she agreed. “But not well.”

 

He grinned. Even bleeding, his teeth were perfect. “Better than losing.”

 

She didn’t reply. Her flame danced across her hand once more, and gently, she placed it against his sternum. Warmth bloomed through his chest—not healing, not truly. But enough to pull the pain back, to make the breath return.

 

She stood. He stayed seated, head back, chest heaving.

 

“I’ll need to collect the remains,” she said, eyes drifting toward the collapsed imitation. “Burn them properly. Salt the space. Close the rift they left behind.”

 

Johan coughed once. “Yeah? I’ll… keep bleeding.”

 

“Good.” A rare curve touched her lips. “You do it well.”

 

And as the ship rocked on the quiet water, its secrets smoking and seared behind them, the Profound Witch and her knight rested in victory, bruised but not broken—haunted, still, by the hand that dared steal from the grave without reverence.

 

___________________________________________________________

 

The smell of cinnamon and butter clung thick to the air, the hearth’s fire stoked to a soft roar. Outside, the moor was draped in mist, pale fingers of fog curling along the windows like spirits politely requesting entry.

 

In the kitchen, Johan worked with sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted in flour. He was humming under his breath—some old folk tune half-lost to time—while shaping dough with practiced ease. His hair, as usual, was unkempt. A streak of flour ran across his cheek where he’d scratched an itch.

 

Phanora stood in the doorway. She hadn't meant to linger.

 

She rarely came in here.

 

The kitchen was his space, cluttered and fragrant and full of motion. Hers was the clean silence of the study, the still sanctum of sterile rituals and antiseptic steel. Here, knives hung from hooks not for dissection, but for dinner. And Johan… he made the place feel alive. Too alive.

 

He hadn’t noticed her yet.

 

“So,” Johan said aloud without turning, voice casual, “how do you do it?”

 

Phanora narrowed her eyes. “Do what?”

 

He glanced over his shoulder, grinning slightly. “Necromancy. The whole… back-from-the-dead thing. I’ve never actually heard you explain it.”

 

“That is because I have no intention of explaining it.”

 

“Oh come on,” he whined, turning back to the dough. “You raised me. You could at least tell me the steps. I’m not gonna try it.”

 

“I should hope not. You don’t have the aptitude.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“I do.”

 

He snorted. “Rude.”

 

Phanora watched him fold the dough over itself, carefully stretching the gluten with broad, capable hands. She should have turned away. Left him to his baking and his foolish questions.

 

Instead, she spoke.

 

“You begin with silence,” she said. “Real silence. The kind that hangs over the dead before they start to rot.”

 

Johan’s hands paused. He looked over, expression shifting—not joking now.

 

Phanora stepped further in. The cold of her presence filled the warm kitchen like a draft from the grave.

 

“You clean the body first. Not just with soap. You must remove grief, remove residue. The dead cling to echoes, and you must cut those away or they come back with noise in their heads. Then you repair the damage. Mend torn muscle, stitch skin. Sometimes graft, sometimes remake.”

 

She moved like she was walking through the memory, her voice soft but razor-sharp.

 

“Next, you stabilize. Alchemical infusion. Heat and cold and pressure, until the soul’s original imprint is coaxed back to the flesh. You don’t force it. You invite it. That’s the difference between resurrection and slavery.”

 

Johan had stopped entirely now, leaning his elbows against the counter, attention fixed on her. His brow furrowed slightly.

 

“And then?”

 

“Then the rites,” she said. “Words older than language. Gestures handed down. The final binding. The body must be still, the soul must be willing. If they resist, the spell will take—but it twists. They remember their death. And sometimes, they blame you for it.”

 

He swallowed, watching her closely.

 

“So you really only bring back the willing.”

 

“Yes.” She glanced at the bread he had shaped. “Like your baking, if you force the rise, the dough tears. You can’t cheat the process.”

 

He blinked at that. “You just compared necromancy to making brioche.”

 

“I am trying to use words you will understand.”

 

He laughed, bright and stupid, and went back to brushing the top of the loaf with an egg wash. 

“So is that what I am? A loaf you took your time kneading properly?”

 

“No. You were a mess. No elasticity. Terrible proofing.”

 

“Oh, come on.”

 

She didn’t smile. But her gaze lingered on him as he moved again. She hadn’t told him what it meant that he was hers. Not yet.

 

But she would.

 

One day.

 

Until then, she watched the dough rise, and tried not to think about the corpse he once was, smiling now with sugar on his fingertips.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

The reek of rot still clung to the air. Phanora’s flame hissed softly as she extinguished it, curling the last lingering soul-light into her palm and tucking it away inside the lantern.

 

Johan sat hunched against a battered crate, the cold sweat of pain leaving his brow. His broken ribs made every breath a gamble, and the dislocated shoulder hung awkwardly low, jacket torn and bloodied where a shard had caught his side. Still, he had one eye on Phanora and one ear trained on the stairwell behind them.

 

The sound of boots rang sharp on the metal stairs.

 

Clang. Clang. Clang.

 

Then came the voice: “Miss Kristoffel!”

 

A tall figure skidded into the ruined hold, long brown coat flaring behind her, one hand already on her sidearm. Officer Patricia Jameson—sharp-eyed, iron-voiced—took in the carnage in a single sweep. The torn wall. The sludge that had once been a creature. And then Johan—slumped, bloody.

 

“Shit—Johan!” she called, already unfastening the medical patch at her belt. “Are you okay?! You—gods, you’re bleeding—we need evac, now!”

 

“No,” Johan croaked immediately, straightening with a wince. “I’m fine. Just—just winded. Took a hit. Happens all the time, I'm sturdy, really—”

 

Patricia narrowed her eyes. “You’re barely upright. I’m calling for field medics.”

 

Phanora stepped between them.

 

Her expression was mild, but final. “No.”

 

The word cut the air.

 

Patricia hesitated. “Miss Kristoffel, I understand you’re in charge of magical containment here, but this is a human injury—”

 

“I will treat him. Myself,” Phanora said, hands folded before her. “We will return to our hotel. I have the appropriate equipment there.”

 

“But—”

 

“He is my assistant,” she said, tone level as glass. “I will take responsibility for his care.”

 

Patricia looked between them. Johan gave her a watery grin, half dazed. “I’m used to this, Officer. Just a bit of a tumble. You should see the other guy.”

 

Phanora turned slightly, letting just enough steel into her voice to end the debate. “We do not require backup. We require discretion. I trust that won't be an issue?”

 

Patricia’s mouth tightened, but she nodded. “Understood. I’ll have a unit escort you back to the inn. But if he crashes, Kristoffel, I will override you.”

 

“You won’t need to.”

 

Without further protest, she turned and radioed up the stairwell. Phanora crouched beside Johan again as Jameson paced off to clear the path. Her hand hovered above his broken ribs, eyes coolly assessing.

 

“You need to look more in pain,” she said.

 

“I am in pain,” Johan hissed.

 

“Then show it.” She grasped his good shoulder, leaning in slightly, her hair falling like gold-thread curtains. “You’re not allowed to die in public.”

 

“You’re the one that dragged me into this mess.”

 

“You volunteered.”

 

“I didn’t volunteer to get spinal-piledrived by some necro-failure’s Frankenstein—”

 

She reached for his face and pressed her palm against his cheek—cool and firm.

 

The lantern on her belt pulsed once.

 

A quiet hum of magic transferred into him—not enough to heal, but enough to stabilize. Enough to keep the blood moving, the heart steady, the lungs from stiffening under bruised ribs.

 

His shudder eased.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

 

“Don’t talk,” she murmured. “It makes you sound weak.”

 

He let out a low wheeze of laughter. “Sure. But you’re still touching my face. That means you care.”

 

“I’ll burn it off if you keep talking.”

 

She stood just as two patrol officers appeared at the top of the stairwell, silhouetted by the harsh outside light. Jameson barked orders. The way was cleared.

 

Phanora snapped her fingers once. Johan braced, then stood with a muffled grunt. Her hand hovered at his elbow—not supporting, but present. She wouldn’t carry him. He needed to walk. At least stumble.

 

His steps were shaky. Perfect.

 

Phanora adjusted the lantern beneath her coat, hiding the gleam of necromantic light. Her expression never wavered. She was ice incarnate, escorting her "living" assistant out of hell.

 

As they exited the ship, the sea wind cut across their path, mingling the copper of blood and the salt of brine.

 

Behind them, the corpse-mud still steamed where the false death knight had perished.

______________________________________

 

The hotel room smelled faintly of antiseptic and hot metal.

 

Phanora had converted the sitting area into a makeshift clinic, unfolding her kit with practiced efficiency. Instruments clicked into place across a white linen cloth—forceps, clamps, sutures, needles, a hand-held rune-sealer. The lantern rested beside the tray, its flame shielded by blackout fabric. It flickered only once, like a breath.

 

Johan lay on the settee, shirtless, his torso slick with drying blood. His arm was out of its socket, ribs bruised black and blue. He kept still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, while Phanora cleaned her hands in a porcelain basin.

 

“You gave me your good towel,” he muttered, trying to lighten the air. “From the monogrammed set.”

 

“Silk breathes better than linen,” she replied, pulling on her gloves. “And it stains less permanently.”

 

“Oh. Practical murder towels. How... elegant.”

 

She didn’t rise to it. She leaned over him, her breath fogging in the cold that clung to her skin like armor. The moment she touched his side, her fingers pressing lightly into the bruised flesh around his ribs, he hissed.

 

“You cracked the seventh and possibly fractured the sixth. No puncture. You’re fortunate.”

 

“I feel so lucky.”

 

Her hands moved with measured confidence, pressing a warmed salve along the injury—one laced with numbing root and slow-burning charmwork. Johan tensed, then exhaled as the pain began to dull.

 

He tilted his head toward her. “How bad’s the shoulder?”

 

“Messy,” she murmured. “The socket isn’t damaged, but the muscles tore. You’ll need to rest it.”

 

“Rest? What’s that?”

 

She didn’t answer. She reached beneath the table, retrieved the rune-sealer, and pressed it to the skin of his collarbone. A dull click, a flare of blue light, and the subdermal fibers reknit with a low hum.

 

Johan gritted his teeth.

 

In the sterile hush that followed, he watched her face.

 

Her eyes were unreadable, lips set in a firm, neutral line. But the edges of her fingers trembled once as she stitched a gash across his abdomen.

 

Not from nerves.

 

From rage.

 

“Phanora?” he said softly.

 

No response.

 

“You’re mad.”

 

“I’m furious,” she snapped, the needle threading through skin with surgical grace. “That thing—that facsimile—was a direct insult.”

 

The needle paused.

 

“They tried to replicate a death knight. Not just raise a puppet, not summon a beast. They tried to mimic my craft. They called upon the sacred rite of restoration with spit and string. They made a corpse howl.”

 

She looped another stitch, tighter than necessary.

 

“That creature was watching us in the crypt. I could feel it. They let us come, let us look. And then they released it.”

 

Johan blinked up at her. “Like a... message?”

 

“No.” Her voice dropped. “Like a challenge.”

 

She pulled the final suture closed and knotted it. Then she stood and began washing the tools, metal clinking sharply against porcelain.

 

Johan winced as he sat up slightly, cradling his good arm against his ribs.

 

“Hey... Hey, look at me for a second.”

 

She didn’t turn.

 

“Phanora.”

 

She exhaled and faced him.

 

He gave her a crooked grin, the edge split by his still-healing lip. 

 

“You are the original article, alright? They can stitch together all the trash they want, but no one’s got your needlework.”

 

She said nothing.

 

“I mean, really, you saw that thing. It was a walking yard sale.” He gestured feebly with his good hand. “Like somebody brought roadkill to a gala and tried to pin a boutonnière on it.”

 

A flicker.

 

Her lip twitched.

 

He pressed on, encouraged. “Besides, you’re the only one who can raise a dead man handsome enough to get mistaken for alive and charming enough to bake soufflés.”

 

“Your soufflés collapse.”

 

“Because you keep making it cold in the kitchen!”

 

Another twitch. She turned away, but the set of her shoulders had loosened.

 

She dried the final scalpel and folded the cloth over the tools, precise, controlled. 

 

“Detective Jameson is collecting the remains from the ship and sending them to the morgue. I’ll examine them after your treatment is complete.”

 

“And my treatment includes...?”

 

“Staying down. Sleeping. Not using that arm for three days.”

 

“That is murder.”

 

She looked at him finally, eyes narrowed. “If I wanted you dead, Johan, I’d have raised someone quiet.”

 

He beamed. “That’s fair.”

 

Phanora crossed the room and adjusted the blanket over him with careful hands.

 

The cold air around her never left. But in the quiet crackle of the room’s small hearth, it softened. Just slightly.

 

She sat nearby, flame curled protectively in her lantern, and waited for him to sleep.

 

She had a body to dissect in the morning.

 

And a sorcerer to find.

Chapter 10

The ceiling had a crack shaped like a bird in flight.

 

Johan had counted it seventeen times. Stared at it long enough to name it, loathe it, consider painting over it with his blood just to give himself something to do.

 

He shifted beneath the quilt again, ribs stiff and shoulder bandaged tight. The bed was soft—too soft. It didn’t creak like the ones back at the manor, didn’t groan under his weight like the old bones of that ancestral house. The hotel smelled like rosewater and lemon soap. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t hers.

 

And she wasn’t here.

 

The soft hum of thesuppressor charm ticked at intervals from the fireplace mantle, meant to keep the room magically quiet, warm, and still.

 

He hated it.

 

He hated the sound of his own heartbeat.

 

Most of all, he hated pretending to have one.

 

He grumbled, rolling onto his good side, the stitched ribs complaining. 

 

“What kind of undead goes on bedrest,” he muttered aloud. “A disgrace. I’m a disgrace.”

 

The silence answered.

 

Phanora had left hours ago, her toolkit slung over her arm, gloves already on before she reached the door. She hadn’t said where exactly she was going—but she didn’t need to. He could picture it perfectly: the morgue’s sterile walls, the cold slabs, the way she spoke to the dead like they mattered. The way her flame curled tighter when the work was hard. How her knuckles whitened when the magic was insulting.

 

He should be there.

 

He should be watching her back, not because she needed protection—Phanora could wipe out a battalion with a flick of her wrist and not break stride—but because…

 

Because if something happened while he was here, useless and still, he wouldn’t forgive himself.

 

Not that she’d die. She didn’t die. Witches didn’t die easily. But people like her changed when something broke. You didn’t see it until it was too late. You didn’t notice the way they stepped quieter, the way they stopped laughing altogether, until suddenly they were statues with blue eyes and cold breath and hands that healed instead of touched.

 

And Johan had seen what happened when witches lost things they didn’t know they cared about.

 

He pressed his palm against his chest. Just warmth. Stolen warmth.

 

He sighed. 

 

“I’m getting mopey. Absolutely pathetic.”

 

He threw back the covers, only to remember Phanora’s parting words.

 

“If you even think of leaving this bed, I’ll unpick your stitches with a fish hook.”

 

It had sounded loving. In her way.

 

So he stayed. But his eyes drifted to the small satchel she’d left on the nightstand.

 

Packed heavier than usual.

 

He remembered her voice, flat and firm, a few days before they’d left for Brentford.

 

“Double the maintenance supplies. Bring the flame stabilizer. And the older threads.”

 

“Expecting someone to really take me apart?” he’d asked, grinning.

 

“Not yet,” she had said. “But we’re circling closer. He’ll get desperate.”

 

And now? Brenden. Southport. And now Brentford. Always the same trail. The same ugly magic. The same faceless mage raising the dead like puppets and then throwing them away like broken toys.

 

Three towns. Three trails. No body to hang, no name to curse. Just remnants of someone who knew enough to mimic her work and badly.

 

The creature on the ship hadn’t been just another tool.

 

It had been a message.

 

It had been a dare.

 

And Phanora had taken it personally.

 

Johan flexed his fingers—too tight, too cold, too idle. He wanted to swing his knife. He wanted to smell old blood and hear the grind of bone. He wanted to stand between her and the next abomination some arrogant little shit mage stitched together in a basement and dared to unleash.

 

But he couldn’t.

 

Not yet.

 

Not while the wound on his side was still fresh. Not while the magic that held him together was reweaving itself inch by inch, too slow without her direct touch. And not while he had to pretend to the world that he was nothing more than a living man, cracked and bruised, not risen and bound.

 

“Don’t even get hazard pay,” he muttered, stretching his good arm above his head. “Don’t even get coffee when I’m injured.”

 

He turned his head, stared at the flame-still lantern on the nightstand.

 

The soullight inside was covered. Resting, like him.

 

“Hope you’re napping too, pal,” Johan murmured to it.

 

And somewhere, miles away in the morgue, Phanora cut into another corpse that didn’t deserve the way it had been treated—her hands precise, her eyes burning cold, her mind already walking ahead of the trail.

 

_____________________________________________________________

Johan paced the hotel living room, rolling his shoulders against the stiffness in his side, testing the limits of movement without tempting the stitches apart. His bare feet pressed into the plush carpet—too soft, too new, too different from the scuffed wood of the manor.

 

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck, already knowing Phanora would be displeased if she walked in and saw him upright. Not that she would know. A little stretching, a little pacing—hardly cause for punishment.

 

Then his eyes landed on the robe.

 

Tossed over the back of a chair, haphazard but deliberate, the way only she could leave things—placed with just enough care to suggest it wasn’t abandoned, merely waiting.

 

Black velvet. Heavy. Elegant. A quiet symbol of presence even in absence.

 

He stood over it, staring at the way the fabric draped, at the way her scent still lingered faintly—cinders, old parchment, that ever-present whisper chamomile beneath the surface.

 

His fingers ghosted over the sleeve before he caught himself and withdrew.

 

What was he doing?

 

It was just a robe. Just fabric. Just another piece of her, left behind in the wake of something far more pressing.

 

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. Pathetic. He was getting pathetic.

 

He turned back toward the window, pushing aside the curtain just enough to glimpse the city beyond—the neon glow bouncing against the harbor, the slow crawl of boats slipping in under the veil of night.

 

The docks waited.

 

The dead waited.

 

And Phanora—wherever she was, however deep she was buried in the morgue’s grim work—was walking closer to the truth.

 

Johan exhaled, rolling his shoulders again before finally sitting back down.

 

He would wait.

 

For now.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

Phanora stood over the corpse, scalpel poised, the sterile lighting casting sharp shadows against the slab.

 

The flesh was a travesty—stitched through with crude magic, the seams pulsing with remnants of necromantic energy that had long since lost its stability. The mockery of life the mage had forced upon it was glaring. No refinement. No precision. Just power.

 

And that, more than anything, told her what she needed to know.

 

She flipped through the photographs spread across the table beside her—each marked body from Brenden, Southport, and now Brentford. She traced the lines of energy with an absent finger, mapping out the mistakes.

 

This necromancer wasn’t experienced.

 

They were strong, undeniably. But that strength was raw, desperate, incomplete.

 

They weren’t far. They couldn’t be.

 

A true necromancer—one with real skill, one with range—could have sent a creation like this crawling through the streets from miles away. But this? This required proximity. Constant reinforcement. Hands-on control.

 

Phanora exhaled slowly, pressing a fingertip against the edge of the corpse’s exposed seam.

 

"You’re holding your puppets too close," she murmured to the absent mage.

 

It meant they were still here.

 

It meant they hadn’t mastered true distance yet.

 

It meant she would find them before they learned to hide properly.

 

And when she did—

 

There would be no mercy. Not for those who defiled the dead. Not for those who thought themselves untouchable. Not for pretenders who played with power they didn’t yet understand. Because she understood. Better than anyone. And she wasn’t about to let them keep practicing.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

Johan grimaced, his eyes squinting against the pain as Phanora pressed firm fingers against the bruising along his ribs.

 

"Hold still," she murmured, voice quiet but edged with command.

 

He huffed a weak laugh, breath hitching slightly at the sharp pulse of discomfort.

 

"Not like I’ve got much choice."

 

Phanora didn’t dignify the remark. Her movements remained calculated, smoothing salve over raw skin, the air thick with the scent of crushed herbs and slow-burning flame.

 

The manor gates loomed beyond them, just within sight, the iron-black curves standing sentinel against the quiet dusk.

 

Then—a sound.

 

Sobbing.

 

Phanora stilled.

 

Johan, blinking past the haze of pain, shifted slightly, gaze flicking toward the gates as the voices grew clearer.

 

A woman. Crying.

 

A man beside her, shoulders shaking, grief carving deep lines into his face.

 

They had come for something.

 

For someone.

 

Phanora’s jaw tightened.

 

Johan watched her carefully, exhaustion creeping into his voice.

 

"You already know why they’re here, don’t you?"

 

Phanora inhaled slowly, setting down the salve.

 

Her hands curled, knuckles whitening just slightly.

 

She knew.

 

Of course, she knew.

 

Because grief—grief was predictable.

 

And magic, no matter how cruel, had a way of pulling people to her door. Desperate people. People willing to beg. People willing to trade anything—for something that wasn’t meant to be given.

 

"Please!"

 

The word tore through the evening air, raw, shaking, desperate—a mother’s grief, tangled in the arms that clutched the lifeless body of a child too small, too young, too still.

 

Phanora remained unmoving.

 

"No."

 

Her voice did not waver.

 

It did not soften.

 

Because it couldn’t.

 

Because this was not a matter of cruelty, nor indifference—it was truth. 

 

And she would not lie to them.

 

The couple cursed her, shouted, grief twisting into rage, anguish into venom.

 

The woman raised a hand—blind with fury, aiming her pain at whatever force had told her no.

 

But before it could land—

 

Johan stepped forward.

 

The slap landed against his cheek instead, sharp, unrestrained, carrying more sorrow than real malice.

 

Phanora’s pulse spiked—not in panic, not in fear, but in seething restraint.

 

But she did not react.

 

She did not burn.

 

She exhaled.

 

Because this was how grief worked.

 

Because this was how people suffered when they could not change the past.

 

The husband pulled his wife away, his own sobs choking in his throat, and together—they left.

 

Gone.

 

Vanishing into the twilight with their sorrow and their fury, taking their pain with them, leaving Phanora and Johan behind.

 

Johan rolled his jaw, flexed his fingers, gaze flicking toward her in quiet confirmation.

 

She said nothing.

 

He said nothing.

 

Because what was there to say?

 

The echoes of mourning lingered in the evening air.

 

And as always—

 

Phanora was left to bear the weight of refusal.

 

—

 

Johan sat forward in his chair, elbows braced against his knees, brows furrowed as he digested Phanora’s explanation.

 

"The Void," he repeated, rolling the phrase across his tongue like it might make more sense if he said it aloud.

 

Phanora remained still, watching him with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for others to understand before she repeated herself.

 

"A fate worse than death," Johan murmured, running a hand through his hair, letting the weight of it settle.

 

Phanora exhaled slowly, fingers grazing the spine of an old book beside her. "When a soul is interrupted—when it is pulled back unnaturally—it does not return to life. It does not rejoin the cycle. It becomes something else. Something stranded."

 

Johan frowned. "But they’re aware?"

 

Phanora nodded once.

 

"And they know they can’t move on?"

 

"Exactly."

 

Johan leaned back, staring at the ceiling, thoughts twisting into something unpleasant.

 

"So if I died—" he started, but Phanora cut him off immediately, her tone sharp.

 

"You are not dying."

 

Johan blinked, caught off guard by the sudden authority in her voice. He tilted his head slightly, watching her in the firelight.

 

"But if I did—"

 

Phanora exhaled sharply, shutting the book beside her with a decisive thud.

 

"Then I would not bring you back."

 

Johan chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Cold."

 

"Merciful," Phanora corrected.

 

Silence stretched between them, thick with understanding neither of them wanted to linger in.

 

Johan finally sighed, rubbing at his jaw.

 

"So that’s it," he muttered. "Undead are stuck. They have free will, sure, but eventually, they either rot or go mad. And if they die again—"

 

"They fall into the Void," Phanora finished.

 

Johan hummed under his breath, staring into the fire, lips pressed into a thin line.

 

"A fate worse than death."

 

Phanora didn’t respond.

 

Because what was there to say?

 

He understood now.

 

And eventually, he would understand even more. Much more than he ever wanted to.

 

____________________________

 

Phanora stepped into the hotel suite with the controlled precision of someone already anticipating an argument.

 

Detective Jameson followed—not hesitant, not uncertain, but decidedly unwelcome.

 

Her presence was heavy, carrying the weight of whatever grim conclusions she had drawn at the docks. But more than that, she was watching Johan, eyes flicking toward the doorframe of his room with something too close to concern.

 

"If you came to check on his health, don't bother," Phanora muttered, peeling off her gloves with deliberate slowness.

 

Jameson huffed, crossing her arms. "It’s not just that."

 

Johan, who had barely made it back to bed in time to avoid her wrath, exhaled and dragged a hand over his face.

 

"That’s flattering," he muttered. "But I promise, I’m fine."

 

Jameson didn’t look convinced.

 

"The case is escalating," she said, turning her attention fully to Phanora now. "We don’t have time for bedrest."

 

Phanora’s eyes flashed with quiet irritation, but she merely exhaled, tossing her gloves onto the nightstand.

 

"Then start talking," she replied coolly.

 

Jameson didn’t hesitate.

 

"We found another body."

 

Silence.

 

Johan shifted, sitting up slightly despite the stiffness in his side.

 

Phanora tilted her head, watching Jameson carefully.

 

"Where?"

 

Jameson pressed her lips into a tight line before answering.

 

"Not on a boat."

 

Phanora’s fingers curled slightly.

 

"Then where?"

 

Jameson inhaled sharply, gaze darkening.

 

"An apartment."

 

Johan frowned, his expression flickering with something bordering on realization.

 

"That means our necromancer isn’t just sending them out," he muttered. "They’re keeping some close."

 

Phanora’s gaze was cold now, sharp as steel, as she finally understood what that meant.

 

"Then they really are here."

 

Jameson gave a grim nod.

 

"And they're getting bolder."

 

The quiet hum of the city outside the window thrummed beneath the weight of the conversation.

 

Johan exhaled.

 

Phanora flexed her fingers.

 

_____________________________

 

The apartment building stood oddly out of place—quaint in its faded brick and ivy-clad corners, if not for the stark line of police cars and ambulances parked in disarray along the curb. The steady murmur of distressed voices spilled into the night as officers milled around, and paramedics attended to several tenants who were being treated at a hastily set-up triage near the entrance. In the midst of this orchestrated chaos, one detail spoke with brutal clarity.

 

Phanora’s keen gaze was drawn to a shattered window on the fourth floor. Across its fractured surface was a splatter—a gruesome pattern of blood that marred the otherwise ordinary pane.

Johan’s eyes darkened as he followed her silent nod of understanding. He leaned closer to the glass, tracing the erratic droplets with a practiced eye.

 “It’s here,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with grim determination. “It doesn’t take a genius to see that something went horribly wrong on that floor.”

Phanora’s expression remained stoic, though the slow tightening of her jaw betrayed the storm of thoughts beneath.

As they exchanged a final, wordless glance, the decision was made. Phanora motioned for Johan to follow. They threaded their way through the gathering of onlookers and uniformed officers, moving with a determined precision that came from years of handling the macabre side of magic. The building’s entrance loomed before them, its door heavy and closed against the night's chill, yet promising answers behind its unassuming facade.

Inside, the corridor was dimly lit, the usual hushed murmurs of tenants replaced by an uneasy silence. Every step they took echoed softly on the worn carpet, their presence a quiet defiance against the horrors that lurked in the shadows. The splatter on that fourth-floor window was more than a clue—it was a command, an invitation to uncover the grim truth hidden in plain sight.

The apartment was a nightmare left to fester. Grime and muck coated every surface, the dim light from a single broken bulb painting the walls in sickly hues of decay. Blood spatter—splotches of dark, dried crimson—marred the cracked plaster, while patches of shredded tissue and bits of meat that once formed part of a man lent the place an unholy banquet aesthetic. In every shadow, there lurked the unsettling sensation that something unseen was watching, as if the building itself were a crypt filled with malevolent secrets.

Johan led the way, his cautious steps muted on the sticky floor as he peeled his eyes away from the ghastly tableau. Phanora stayed close behind, her gaze unwavering despite the palpable dread that clung to the room like a shroud. Amid the chaos of decay, Johan’s attention was caught by a subtle anomaly—a bookcase that, despite the filth and destruction around it, seemed slightly out of place. Leaning in, his fingertips brushed against the timeworn wood, and he discovered its secret: a narrow attic entrance, hidden behind the dusty spines of forgotten tomes.

Without a word, Johan signaled, and the two slipped behind the bookcase. The passage was cramped and winding. Phanora’s keen eyes scanned every dark corner as they ascended a creaking, narrow staircase that led to a forgotten attic. Beyond, the space opened into a grim corridor squeezed between two crumbling buildings, where a tiny, deliberate blood trail led onward.

The corridor was barely wide enough to stand in. They moved with unnerving precision—Johan leading the way, muscles tense yet determined, and Phanora close behind, her presence a quiet assurance amidst the oppressive decay. Every step was measured; every breath, a prayer to whatever might still harbor some mercy in this forsaken place. The blood trail was their only guide—a thin, dark line that promised answers, or perhaps further horrors.

As they shimmyed past rusted ducts and jagged debris in the tight passage, the sense of being watched intensified. The atmosphere felt alive with hidden eyes, as if the ruins themselves were sentient, mourning over gruesome truths. Shadows twisted in unnatural patterns on the rough concrete walls, and every distant creak made them flinch.

Johan’s determination never wavered, even as the oppressive darkness and the heavy scent of decay pounded their senses. Phanora’s fingers occasionally brushed against cold, grimy surfaces as they navigated the labyrinthine corridor, her mind racing with dark implications. The crude necromantic residue they had encountered before was here again—a message scrawled in blood meant to mark territory.

There, in that forgotten space carved between buildings, with the chill of death surrounding them, they pressed on. The hidden attic had revealed a secret passage—and with it, the sick promise that the necromancer was closer than they had dared hope

The corridor yielded to an unassuming back entrance. Beyond the narrow door lay a passage that led into the underbelly of the city—an underpass that had once served as part of an old storm tunnel system. 

The storm drains beneath Brentford reeked of rust and sewage. Old stone tunnels snaked beneath the city like a forgotten root system—built to carry floodwaters, now carrying only echoes and rot.

 

Water lapped quietly at the edges of their boots, shallow but filthy. Moss glistened where the lanternlight touched. From somewhere far off, the metallic ting of a loose grate clattered like a whisper of warning.

 

Phanora walked ahead, her lantern shrouded, glowing just enough to see the cracks in the brickwork. Her breath fogged before her. Cold, despite being underground.

 

Johann moved behind her, quieter than usual, knife unsheathed and held low. The stiffness in his movements had less to do with injury and more to do with anticipation. His shoulder ached from the strain of climbing down through the old runoff hatch, but adrenaline dulled it now.

 

Phanora paused at the parting in the tunnel—the place where several thin tributaries of pipe converged into one massive siphon. The air shifted.

 

And then… they saw him.

 

The necromancer was hunched by the far wall, clutching his side. He was wrapped in a long, mud-streaked coat. Blood darkened the fabric under his hand.

 

Beside him, something dragged itself forward—a beast of a figure, shrouded in flesh that looked half-dissolved, as though melted and stapled back together. One foot was a wheel, the other a mass of bones lashed into something vaguely leg-like. Its head was an open cage of antlers and iron.

 

It growled low—wet and bubbling.

 

Johann stepped forward without hesitation.

 

“Hey!” he barked, blade lifted, stance wide. “Game’s up.”

 

The necromancer’s head lifted, and he smiled—bloody teeth behind a pale, cracked face. His eyes were ringed in bruised shadows, dark from sleepless nights and darker deeds.

 

“Well, well,” he croaked, chuckling. “Look who finally caught up.”

 

His voice echoed off the slick walls.

 

“I have to admit, I expected more time,” he went on, his voice light. “But here you are. The prodigy herself. And her pet blade.”

 

Johann snarled, but Phanora stepped past him. Her lantern’s light now burned white and sharp, the cold halo illuminating the horror beside the man without flinching.

 

“You had a sentinel spell in the crypt,” she said.

 

Not a question.

 

The man’s grin widened. “I did. Can’t be too careful. You lot poke around, you get curious. Didn’t think it would trigger that response, but... well. You know how it is with homemade things. Always a little explosive.”

 

“You watched,” she said.

 

“I watched you walk in. I watched what you did to that poor abomination. You summoned monsters. Real ones.” He laughed, low and hoarse. “They weren’t like mine. No, yours were elegant. Controlled. Bound to the flame, yes?”

 

Phanora’s jaw set.

 

“They’re not yours,” she said. “And they’re not for display.”

 

“Didn’t mean to offend,” the man chuckled, leaning back against the wall as his creature loomed protectively. “Just admire good work. You don’t see it often in our line of business.”

 

Johann’s grip tightened. “This isn’t a business,” he snapped. “You’ve been dumping corpses in ponds. Sending half-made monsters into shipping yards. Raising the dead wrong.”

 

The man shrugged. “That’s your opinion.”

 

“Why?” Johann snapped. “Why all of this? Why the horror? Why them?”

 

The man tilted his head, as though confused by the very question.

 

“Simple,” he said. “It’s good money.”

 

Silence.

 

He smirked. “People want cheap labor. They don’t care if it’s cold, if it stinks, if it groans in the night. They just want it to work. And I—” he bowed mockingly “—am a man who provides.”

 

“You’re not even ashamed,” Johan spat.

“Why would I be?” He gestured toward the creature beside him. “They didn’t need their souls. I gave them purpose. And your lady’s constructs—mm— beautiful things. Terrifying. I’ll admit, I can’t get mine to move like yours do. Fluid. Almost alive. What's the trick?”

Phanora didn’t flinch.

“They’re not constructs,” she said.

The necromancer tilted his head. “Mm?”

“They’re not called constructs. They’re called death knights .” Her voice was colder than the stones around them. “They’re not made. They’re invited . They return by choice.”

He stared for a moment.

Then he laughed again. Loud. Mad.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” he wheezed, coughing on his own amusement. “ Invited? That’s adorable. Romantic. Very well. I’ll remember that the next time I melt six corpses into a meat tower.”

He clutched his side tighter. “Not that there’ll be a next time. I’m bleeding out, darling. You win.”

But Johan wasn’t smiling.

His grip on the knife was white-knuckled.

And behind him, Phanora said nothing—just let her flame grow, inch by inch, its reflection flickering across the stagnant water.

 

The necromancer leaned his head back once more, looking between the two of them, sighing with something like contentment.

 

The necromancer's grin spread wider, blood glistening between his teeth.

 

“Oh—” he gasped, as if remembering something delightful, “—just kidding!”

 

Johan’s knife twitched in his hand.

 

“I’m not done yet,” the necromancer sang. “Still got work to do, you know—cities to infest, clients to please... and my pet here?”

 

He tapped the lurching behemoth at his side, its massive, wet form convulsing like raw meat struck by lightning.

 

“She lives to stall.”

 

The thing shrieked.

 

And then it launched.

 

With a roar that scraped the air like metal dragged over teeth, the flesh-beast crashed into Johan with the weight of a collapsing building. They smashed into the tunnel wall, stone exploding outward, pipes groaning as water gushed around them. Johan grunted, blade dragging up through the beast’s side, black ichor spraying into the dark.

 

The necromancer laughed again and vanished into the shadows of the tunnel mouth, slipping deeper into the dark.

 

Phanora took a step after him—but stopped.

 

Something snapped.

 

The sound echoed like a drumbeat in a cave of bone—followed by the high, wet squealing of pain and the sickening sound of flesh tearing.

 

Johan’s voice didn’t come. Just a choked gasp.

 

She turned.

 

The ceiling above them collapsed.

 

The storm drain cracked open as the creature barreled upward with Johan locked in a death grip around its throat, both of them crashing through rusted steel into the open air. Moonlight split the ruins. They tumbled onto a manicured green space above—a city park, sleepy and quiet—until the screams began.

 

Sirens wailed in the distance.

 

Phanora's flame surged.

 

She ascended after them, breath steady, eyes sharp.

 

In the distance: people shouting. Glass breaking. A dog barking.

 

And then—

 

“NO!”

 

Johan’s scream split the sky.

 

Phanora reached the surface just in time to see him ripped in half.

 

The beast howled, flinging his top half aside like a ragdoll. His lower half lay crumpled beneath it, limp, torn through the spine, entrails dragging behind like spilled lace.

 

Johan hit the ground with a wet crunch, blood fountaining from his mouth as he rolled, coughing, wheezing—and laughing.

 

Phanora froze.

 

The necromancer’s cackle rang out behind her.

 

“Oops!” he called, sprinting away, cape flapping. “Bit off more than it could chew!”

 

Her eyes snapped to him. And something broke.

 

The air around her dropped—frigid. Grass blackened. Dew froze in spirals.

 

Her hands rose.

 

And from the lantern at her side, the flame roared.

 

Two shapes stepped forth.

 

Tall. Broad. Armored in shadow and bone. The glint of ancient steel in their hands. Helmets marked with runes that hadn’t been spoken aloud in two hundred years.

 

Her death knights.

 

They didn’t roar. They didn’t run.

 

They descended.

 

The beast shrieked as they fell upon it—one driving a spear through its gut, the other wrenching its jaw open until the flesh split like bark under lightning. It didn’t fight for long. Didn’t have time to. It ended in pieces, wet and smoking on the grass.

 

Johan lay still.

 

Detective Jameson arrived a moment later, gun raised, badge shining in the red-and-blue wash of the sirens. She stopped in her tracks at the sight.

 

“What the—what are—”

 

She looked at Phanora.

 

At Johan.

 

At the blood.

 

And at the two armored monsters evaporating into ash.

Phanora didn’t look at her.

 

She was already kneeling beside Johan, hands glowing.

 

The air was tundra-cold, bitter and dry, her breath a fog as her magic began to pull his flesh back together. Threads of silver light stitched through torn meat, bones knitting with audible cracks. Her jaw was tight. Her face a mask of measured stillness—but her hands trembled as she worked.

 

Jameson could only stare. “He’s—he’s dead?”

 

From the ground, Johan coughed wetly and grinned. “Undead,” he slurred, spitting blood. “Comes with great dental coverage.”

 

“Necromancy is illegal,” Jameson said blankly.

 

“Don’t worry detective, I’m fully grandfathered in.”

 

“Johan,” Phanora said, voice so quiet it was wind in snow.

 

He reached up with one trembling hand and tapped her cheek.

 

Her eyes didn’t flicker.

 

He grinned wider, even as blood slid between his teeth. “I’m fine. You stitched me better the first time, remember?”

 

Her magic surged, glowing threads pulling muscle tight again. His guts slid back into place like fabric smoothed by a seamstress. Her knights had vanished into mist, the flame burning low.

 

Jameson stood paralyzed.

 

The necromancer was gone, vanished into the dark.

 

But Phanora didn’t pursue.

 

She didn’t speak.

 

She simply held him together.

 

And for once, Johan didn’t joke.

 

He just watched her face, pale and cold, eyes full of fire and frost.

 

Chapter 11

The water in the tub had long gone cold, but Johan barely noticed.

 

He sat with his arms resting on the rim, head tipped back against the porcelain, gaze unfocused on the ceiling above. His torso was wrapped in clean, tight bandages, still slightly damp at the edges. His legs were tucked awkwardly in the claw-foot tub, more for containment than comfort. The room was dark but for the faint glow from the crack beneath the door.

 

He didn’t want to ruin the linens.

 

Didn’t want to leave blood on the floors or slick the tile with rot.

 

Didn’t want to look her in the eye.

 

She was always right.

 

Phanora had insisted they pack the older threads. The reinforced stabilizer. Two extra vials of soul-sheath wax. She had even brought the thick stitching wire, the kind meant for reattaching limbs—not patching wounds.

 

He’d rolled his eyes at the time, muttered something about her being dramatic. And now?

 

Now he sat in a bath of lukewarm silence, stitched back together from pieces.

 

A sharp twinge shot through his spine as he shifted.

 

“Fff—fuck,” he breathed through clenched teeth.

 

Nerve pathways settling. Tissue reforming. His body syncing again with the flame she’d cradled inside his ribcage like a second heartbeat.

 

It hurt.

 

But not as much as sitting still.

 

Johan hated it. All of it.

 

Hated the weight in his limbs. The fragility. The uselessness.

 

He hated that she’d been right. That she’d known. That she had looked at the trail they were following and anticipated this, like it was inevitable. Like he was always going to end up broken in a park, blood in his mouth, arms torn from his hips like a child’s doll.

 

He hated that she’d been cold.

 

Not emotionally—he was used to that. From the day she found him, she’d been like stone: measured, detached, always parsing everything through the lens of practicality and consequence. Even when he was a boy, feral and grateful and too eager, she had never coddled him. Never smiled.

 

But he’d learned to read her.

 

A sharp inhale meant surprise. A slow exhale—a rare exhale—meant something had amused her, in that glacial way of hers.

 

An even, slow breath meant she was annoyed. Or preparing to destroy something.

 

But last night?

 

She hadn’t breathed at all.

 

He had touched her face. Said he was fine.

 

And she’d just worked, her hands like scalpels, her flame like ice.

 

He remembered the way frost had crawled up the glass of her water earlier—how she’d set it down beside him and it fogged over in an instant, the condensation freezing solid like she'd left it outside in the snow.

 

That chill hadn't left her since the necromancer vanished.

 

They had his face now. His voice. That was something.

 

But it didn’t feel like much. Not to Johan.

 

He shifted slightly and another spike of pain lanced through his chest. His lip curled, breath catching.

 

This body—his body—was strong, fast, built to endure. But sometimes, after trauma, the nerves took time to remember themselves. Time to rethread the corpse into the shape of a man again. He was lifelike now. Almost indistinguishable from the real thing.

 

Almost.

 

He glanced at the towel on the nearby hook. Clean. Neatly folded. Set there by her hands.

 

She hadn’t said anything when he dragged himself into the tub. She’d just pointed, then turned away. But he’d felt it.

 

The air around her had dropped ten degrees.

 

You made her worry.

 

The thought knifed through him harder than the pain.

 

He lowered his head. The back of it pressed against the chilled porcelain. Water lapped against the tub edge with a subtle slosh.

 

You were supposed to stand with her.

 

You were supposed to be enough.

 

But he hadn’t been. Not this time.

 

And somewhere out there, the necromancer was still breathing. Still walking. Still laughing.

 

Still building.

 

Johan closed his eyes.

 

The tub creaked slightly as he curled his legs tighter to his chest.

 

Next time, he told himself, silently. Next time, he doesn't walk away.

 

And in the other room, Phanora sat at the writing desk, meticulously cataloging the spell remnants they’d pulled from the beast’s corpse, hands steady even as the frost crept up the inkpot.

 

______________

 

Johan shifted forward in the tub, teeth clenched as another slow stab of pain worked down his side. He exhaled, a shaky, measured breath, and reached for the towel. He dried himself in silence, moving with the sluggish, deliberate caution of a man whose body was pretending not to be ruined.

 

The bandages clung to his ribs. The mirror caught a glimpse of the fresh stitch marks that framed his waist like a surgical belt.

 

He grunted softly, then reached for the doorknob.

 

But as his fingers curled around the brass, cool and damp from condensation—

 

—he paused.

 

Because he remembered.

 

The first time he’d felt that cold.

 

It had been summer. July. The height of it.

 

_____________________

 

The cicadas were deafening that year, screaming in the trees like the sky was on fire. Johan had been sixteen, sunburned, full of stupid certainty, and always following half a step behind her.

 

They’d been eating in the garden—pears and black bread and goat cheese—when he’d arrived. A man of thick arms and sun-scarred skin, with a voice like gravel and a suit that didn’t fit quite right around the shoulders.

 

He’d arrived on horseback, no invitation, no warning, and stepped through the gate like he owned it.

 

Phanora had stood without a word. Eyes sharp. Lips still. She didn’t offer her name. She didn’t need to.

 

He bowed slightly all the same.

 

“Kristoffel,” he said. “Daughter of the late Kristoffel. My condolences.”

 

Phanora had only nodded. “You are?”

 

“Remish. Tobias Remish. Landed baron out of Culbridge. I came to pay my respects—and maybe, to speak business.”

 

Johan hadn’t liked the way the man said business. Like a tongue slipping over meat.

Phanora had not smiled. She hadn't even blinked. Just nodded.

 

“You’ve paid them. Now speak your business.”

 

He laughed. Loud. Unbothered. “Right to it, huh? You’re her girl, alright. Got her eyes. And her bite, I’ll bet.”

 

Johan shifted beside her. His hand twitched.

 

The man didn’t notice.

 

They took him to the parlor. He declined tea. Said it made him piss too often. Sat with legs wide, boots muddy, and eyes that wandered too long across the estate’s portraits.

 

Phanora sat across from him like carved stone.

 

Remish wasted little time.

 

He spoke of markets. Of growth. Of rural opportunity. “See, with the world the way it is, no reason you lot—” a nod to Johan, which earned a glare, “—shouldn’t start building a little influence of your own. You’ve got the means, after all.”

 

Phanora blinked slowly. “Meaning?”

 

He grinned. “The dead, girl. We’ve got dead folk. Plenty of 'em. You could staff a manor, hell, a village. You just need a few strong ones. You can pick out the best. I got contacts. Corpses fresh as snow. You put 'em on their feet, I put 'em in fields. We all profit.”

 

Johan looked at Phanora.

 

Still.

 

Expressionless.

 

So he said, “Eat shit.”

 

The man laughed. “C’mon, boy, you think you’re too good? Everybody’s got a price. Yours is just waiting to be offered.”

 

His grin widened, and he leaned forward.

 

“I can offer you food. Real food. Meat, fruit, imports. Not this orchard piss you’re choking down. I can give you access to good grain. Good land. Great money. And better bodies.”

 

He winked. “I’ve got a cellar of ‘em right now, actually. Unclaimed. Well-fed.”

 

The room chilled by five degrees.

 

Johan noticed it first.

 

The way the light shifted. The way the flies outside suddenly vanished.

 

Then Phanora stood.

 

She didn’t raise her voice.

 

“Get out.”

 

Remish smirked. “Did I strike a nerve?”

 

Phanora took a slow breath.

 

Not sharp.

 

Not exhaled.

 

Measured. Even. Deadly.

 

And then the runes appeared.

 

They crawled from beneath her sleeves, down her arms like ink bleeding through silk. Twisting, branching. Carved in light. Down her legs, her bare feet touching the stone floor.

 

The air crackled. The floor hummed.

 

Johan felt the hair on his neck rise.

 

“Phanora,” he said—quiet, uncertain.

 

But she had already raised her hand.

 

No gesture. No chant. No theatrics.

 

Just force.

 

The man’s chair twisted under him—crushed. Bone snapped as he was dragged into the center of the room by threads of air and invisible will. His mouth opened to scream, but something seized his jaw—twisted it out of joint. His limbs flailed, broke, folded. 

Johan staggered back, barely sidestepping the splatter of blood as it painted the floor in arcs. He stared in shock as Phanora dragged the man’s twitching form to the courtyard, her heels clicking in time with his gasps.

 

“You wanted bodies,” she whispered, voice cold. “Try your own.”

 

She dropped him at the foot of the sundial, face ruined, hand hanging by a shred of tendon.

 

He moaned once.

 

Then passed out.

 

The heat should have been blistering. But the air around her fogged with frost. The stone beneath her feet cracked, rimed in white.

 

And Phanora? She stepped out into the sweltering July heat like a woman carved from glacier.

 

The grass wilted where she walked.

 

The windows fogged in reverse.

 

Johan had never known cold like that.

 

______________________

 

He blinked back to himself.

 

Hand still on the doorknob. A bead of water slipped down his wrist, trailing through a healing scar.

 

Outside the door, the cold lingered.

 

The same cold.

 

Phanora’s cold.

 

But he’d stepped into it once before—and he would again.

 

He turned the knob.

 

The door clicked softly as Johan stepped into the living space of the suite, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp from the bath. The air inside was colder than it had any right to be—brisk, edged with a sharpness that settled in the lungs.

 

Phanora sat in the room’s lone armchair, back straight, legs crossed, a small book of sigil notes open across her lap. Her pen moved without pause. She didn’t look up.

 

Detective Jameson sat across from her, rigid as iron, a folder open on her knees. Her posture was tense, her shoulders set too high, like someone preparing to flinch. And every few seconds, she glanced at Johan.

 

Not directly.

 

Not for long.

 

Just enough to clock him again. Then away.

 

And again.

 

And away.

 

Johan stopped just past the threshold, water dripping quietly from his forearm.

 

There it is.

 

He let out a long, slow sigh through his nose, then offered the detective a lazy grin as he leaned against the wall.

 

“Detective,” he said, voice smooth but not soft, “I’ve been undead this whole time. Nothing’s changed now. So maybe just… keep acting like you were before, yeah?”

 

His smile never reached his eyes.

 

And though the words were light, the message wasn’t. Not to her. Not with Phanora sitting five feet away and the temperature in the room already dancing just above freezing.

 

Jameson blinked, her eyes cutting toward Phanora—then immediately back down to the folder in her lap.

 

“I—” she started, voice taut. Then she nodded. “Sorry. You’re right. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

 

Phanora didn’t speak. But her pen stopped moving.

 

Jameson rushed to fill the space. “It’s just… in Brentford, necromancy’s been outlawed for decades. You understand. I’ve never seen someone like—like him before. Never met a walking corpse that looked... lively.”

 

Johan barked a laugh. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

 

She gave a weak chuckle, still visibly uncomfortable.

 

He crossed the room slowly and dropped onto the arm of the couch, one leg drawn up, hand pressing against his ribs with casual familiarity. “She took her time with me,” he said, tossing a glance at Phanora. “Didn’t rush it. I’m more bespoke than the usual shambling fare.”

 

Phanora’s voice finally cut in, cool and sharp.

 

“I don't do rushing.”

 

The silence after that was heavier.

 

Jameson nodded quickly, flipping a page in the file though she clearly hadn’t read the one before it. “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply he was—less. Just that I wasn’t prepared. Most corpses don’t smile. Or joke.”

 

“Most corpses aren’t allowed to talk,” Johan muttered. “Or think.”

 

That landed like a stone dropped in water.

 

Phanora closed her book with a soft snap. She rose from her seat and walked past Jameson without a glance, her cloak trailing behind her like a second shadow. She stopped at the minibar, poured herself a glass of water, and let it rest in her palm for a moment.

 

The glass frosted over.

 

Jameson watched it, lips parting slightly. She swallowed hard.

 

Phanora drank without flinching.

 

Johan saw it—saw the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her knuckles gripped the glass just a fraction tighter than necessary.

 

He turned back to Jameson and lowered his voice.

 

“Here’s the thing, Detective. People find out about what I am, and they change. They look at her different. Like she’s done something wrong.” He tilted his head. “And that—pisses her off.”

 

“I didn’t mean to—”

 

“I know,” he said, smile returning, softer now. “Just… don’t treat it like a horror movie. I’m not a jump scare.”

 

He stood again, slowly, and made his way to the window, gazing out into the dark.

 

“I’m just here to make sure she doesn’t get too cold,” he added. “And when she does—I make sure she remembers why she brought me back.”

 

Behind him, Phanora said nothing.

 

But her next breath was just a little warmer.

 

______

 

The hotel door clicked softly shut behind Detective Jameson.

 

Neither Johan nor Phanora spoke for a long moment. The room remained still, cloaked in the cool hush that lingered even after the cold began to fade.

 

The detective’s papers sat forgotten on the table, notes half-scrawled. The lantern’s light burned low near the window, flickering with the barest hint of soulfire. Outside, the city sighed in the wind.

 

Johan stood by the window, watching her tail-lights disappear into the night. His arms hung loose at his sides, ribs still stiff beneath the new bandages. He didn’t turn until he heard the gentle sound of her chair creaking as she sat again.

 

“She was about one sentence away from freezing solid,” he murmured.

 

Phanora didn’t smile. She only smoothed her hand along the spine of her notes and stared at the middle distance like she could peel the wall away and see the necromancer’s face on the other side of it.

 

“I think she got the message,” Johan added, finally stepping away from the window.

 

Phanora’s gaze followed him as he moved, and when he passed her chair, she reached out—slow, careful—and touched the center of his abdomen.

 

Right where the seam had been.

 

The contact was brief. Her fingertips barely grazed the edge of his bandage, but even that was enough to stir something colder behind her eyes.

 

“You shouldn’t have had to feel that,” she said, quietly.

 

Johan looked down at her, one hand absently brushing her wrist in return. “Didn’t exactly feel like much at the time,” he lied. “Mostly adrenaline. And screaming.”

 

Phanora didn’t laugh.

 

Her fingers stayed near the seam.

 

“I stitched that line myself,” she murmured. “With intention. With care.”

 

Her eyes lifted then, to his face. To the eyepatch covering what had once been a full pair of sharp, observant eyes.

 

She touched it gently. Just her fingertips against the leather, padded slow and reverent.

 

“He made a mockery of them,” she said. “Of you.”

 

Johan tilted his head, letting her touch linger a moment longer.

 

“He’ll pay,” he said. “We’ll catch him.”

 

But her eyes didn’t soften.

 

Johan could read her now. The stillness of her spine meant she was furious. The subtle catch in her blink was fear she hadn’t allowed herself to feel earlier. That same rage that had turned the grass to ice in the garden so many years ago—it was here again. Banked, but alive.

 

She hated it.

 

Hated seeing him broken.

 

Hated that someone had touched him—her work, her creation, her... companion—and tried to tear it apart like it was nothing but cloth and stuffing.

 

Johan smiled, gentle this time. “Hey. I’m still standing. Little more stitchwork, maybe a screw or two loose, but mostly intact.”

 

“You shouldn’t have to be stitched.”

 

“And yet I wear it well.” He winked. “Some say it adds character.”

 

She withdrew her hand slowly, fingers curling in her lap.

 

“You’re more than parts, Johan.”

 

He didn’t answer right away.

 

Then he cracked a grin. “Sure. I’m also ten percent spite and twenty percent bread pudding.”

 

Phanora exhaled—slow, annoyed. That breath again. That controlled, simmering breath she gave when she wanted to throttle him but didn’t have the energy.

 

“There it is,” he said, nudging her knee with his. “That classic contempt. Glad I didn’t die for real without seeing it one last time.”

 

“Don’t joke about that.”

 

“I know.” He paused. “Sorry.”

 

He glanced back toward the hallway, toward the rooms.

 

Then back at her.

 

“Before we leave tomorrow, though…” He raised a finger, as if remembering something of grave importance. “I need to pick out a cool rock.”

 

Phanora blinked. “You’ve been here before.”

 

“Yeah.” He grinned. “But I wasn't nearly eviscerated last time.”

 

She sighed again. That breath again. Not a laugh. But close.

 

They stood together for a moment more, neither moving, the quiet pressing in soft around them. Then, with no fanfare, Phanora turned and gathered her things. Johan nodded toward the hall.

 

“I’m going to bed.”

 

She didn’t argue.

 

“Good night,” she said.

 

“’Night.”

 

They parted down the corridor, footsteps echoing against the tile.

 

Each door closed with the soft finality of ritual.

 

Separate.

 

Respectful.

 

But the cold lingered just a little longer in the hallway between them.

 

_________________________________________

 

Phanora did not sleep.

 

She lay on top of the sheets, robe knotted loose around her waist, her hair unpinned and falling like riverweed across the pillow. The lantern on the nightstand pulsed faintly with stored soulfire, painting the room in soft, flickering light—like heartbeat shadows on the wall.

 

But her eyes never closed.

 

She stared at the ceiling. Not at the cracks or the molding or the weak glow from the city lights beyond the curtains.

 

She stared through it.

 

Through stone and wood and steel.

 

Where are you?

Where are you hiding?

 

She tried to conjure the necromancer’s face in her mind again—his narrow eyes, the smug curl of his mouth, the torn coat and blood-soaked side. She tried to pull from memory every detail, every possible tick of movement, every sound of his voice like it could string together some arcane trail, some key to where he’d flee next.

 

But the image always ended in Johan.

 

In the beast.

In the tearing.

In the sound of him screaming.

 

Her stomach twisted. That same, low churn of failure. Of something worse.

 

It wasn’t rage this time.

 

It was something far more fragile.

 

She closed her eyes and—

 

Midfield, Early Spring.

 

The air had smelled like tilled soil and rust.

 

Johan had been crumpled in the middle of the south field, limbs splayed unnaturally, one boot missing. His chest had been open—just open—like someone had torn out a book’s spine and left the pages to scatter. His shirt was soaked through, and his right eye… wasn’t there. Just pulp and torn nerve, a gory smear down one side of his face.

 

Phanora had dropped to her knees beside him, not even remembering the sprint across the field. Just there, and suddenly she was touching his jaw, trying to assess with hands that couldn’t stop shaking.

 

“Don’t,” she’d whispered, breathless.

 

“Hey,” Johan had rasped, voice barely there. He reached up, fumbled, found her face with blood-slick fingers, and tapped her cheek like he always did when she got too serious.

 

“It’s fine,” he’d wheezed. “Really. You should see the machine.”

 

Johan.

 

She hadn’t even been afraid, not at first. She’d been stunned.

 

One second he’d been helping his family. The next, there was smoke. Screaming. Shrapnel.

 

And Johan—laughing as he always did, barely, gurgling, reaching up with a trembling hand to touch her cheek as she knelt beside him.

 

He grinned—or tried to. It looked awful. Bloody teeth. 

 

“It was... just a stupid rake,” he said. “Not even a magical one. That’s humiliating.”

 

His voice, raw, too light:

 

“It’s fine. Really. You can do it.”

 

She had shaken her head.

 

She could remember it now—how her hands hovered just above him, shaking, unwilling to touch. The warmth of his blood already cooling.

 

“The cost is too high,” she had whispered, more to herself than to him. “You’ll lose things. Parts of yourself. You might not come back right.”

 

“The cost,” she whispered, choking on it, “the void, you don’t—”

 

“Sure I do,” he said. “Phanora…lemme be your first.”

 

She blinked.

 

_____

 

Phanora sat up in the dark, her breath caught between the bones of her chest. The bed covers whispered down her legs as she struggled to part from a half-dream that blurred with memory. Her hands, still clenched in the sheets, trembled with sweat she couldn’t feel, and the flame in the lantern flickered—a sympathetic twitch in the quiet of the night.

 

She rose and moved in silence, wrapping herself in her robe and padding barefoot across the cool, creaking wood of the living room. There, the table lay cluttered with remnants of her work: files, notes, runes sketched on napkins, diagrams of corpse-weaving, and fragments of the creature’s remains sealed in charm jars. She sat—not so much to read as to be near them, letting the scattered pieces anchor her wavering thoughts.

 

Her pen began scratching softly, filling in margins with cross-references that, in truth, were irrelevant to the present. Yet her eyes halted on a rough sketch—a crude depiction of the beast’s malformed body. Thick, uneven threads and brute force stitching marred the page, an utter disrespect that made her stomach twist.

 

Johan had been her first. Her first resurrection. Not an experiment, not a desperate request, but a choice—a cost she paid with her very soul. He had offered himself, not out of fear or desperation, but with a trust that shone through his idiotic grin even as his mangled lung, caked with mud, betrayed him. Like a birthday gift wrapped in broken promises, he had given everything to stand by her side. And she had accepted it. She had perfected it—only to let him be ripped apart, mocked, reduced to something less than he was: a common ghoul among the discarded. His pain hadn’t shocked her; it had disgusted her. It was an insult—not to her pride, but to his loyalty. He had sacrificed a normal life, a heartbeat, a future untouched by frost and flame, all to be hers.

 

For a long moment, her hands paused halfway through a page. She folded them together and pressed her thumb to the center of her palm, grounding herself against the weight of guilt and memory. Johan would never ask for anything, never expect payment, yet she knew deep inside he deserved more than silence and another set of stitches. He deserved a reward—a proper token of his sacrifice, something real that transcended mere repairs or quiet companionship.

 

In that quiet, cluttered room, illuminated only by the gentle glow of the flickering lantern, a realization began to solidify within her: a life without Johan wasn’t an option—not any more. He had become as essential to her existence as the sun shining in the sky, a constant, undeniable presence in her life. Even though she had no clear idea what he might want for all his years of service, she was determined to figure it out. Right now, however, there was little time for such contemplation. The case of the necromancer loomed large, a dark threat that demanded their attention.

 

She straightened in her seat, the ink pooling beneath her pen a silent testimony to her resolve. For Johan, for all that he had given, she owed him something meaningful—a reward that could never fully repay him, but would stand as a declaration that his sacrifice mattered. And as she set about forging that token in the quiet dusk of the living room, her mind whirled with plans, hopes, and the fierce determination to catch the necromancer who dared unbalance the natural order.

 

In that fragile moment between doubt and resolve, Phanora vowed silently that no matter what the future held, she would never let him be merely another stitch in the patchwork of her work.

 

The diner was nearly empty, the kind of place that never really closed but always felt like it should.

 

Rain speckled the windows outside, soft and steady. It pattered against the glass like the city itself was murmuring. Inside, the only real light came from the rows of flickering fluorescents and the warm glow of steaming mugs.

 

Detective Jameson sat at the corner booth, one hand wrapped around her fourth—maybe fifth—cup of coffee. Her badge rested on the seat beside her, glinting dull bronze under the flickering light. She looked like she hadn’t slept. Probably hadn’t.

 

Across from her, Phanora sipped her tea with the careful precision of someone who knew exactly how hot it needed to be, how long to steep, and precisely how long to pretend to drink it before setting it aside.

 

Between them sat Johan—shoulders relaxed, hair still damp from the morning wash, and halfway through a plate of eggs, sausage, toast, and something that may have once been hash browns.

 

He chewed, swallowed, and grinned. “You know, healing really gives you an appetite.”

 

Phanora didn’t even look up. “A proper servant doesn’t speak with his mouth full.”

 

“Good thing I’m not a proper servant.”

 

Her eyes flicked toward him, cool and unreadable—but there was no sting. No reprimand. Only a sliver of something softer behind the gaze, quickly hidden behind her next sip of tea.

 

Jameson cleared her throat and pushed her coffee aside, knuckles tense on the edge of the table.

 

“The Order cleaned up the park scene by morning. Swore the bystanders to binding contracts. Anyone who talks gets their memories locked and catalogued. Standard procedure.”

 

Johan snorted. “So everyone forgets the screaming meat tower?”

 

“More or less.”

 

“And the death knights?” he asked, licking jam off his thumb.

 

Jameson looked at Phanora. “The Order didn’t mention them. Not even in passing. They know what you are, Kristoffel. But they’re not making it public.”

 

Phanora nodded once. “As expected.”

 

“As far as they’re concerned,” Jameson added, “the work in Brentford is over.”

 

Johan leaned back in the booth, stretching with a wince. “But it’s not.”

 

Phanora set her cup down gently. “No.”

 

Jameson rubbed her temples. “The man—our necromancer—vanished clean. No trace left behind. But the Order catalogued the remains of the undead creature. They didn’t like what they found.”

 

“Too much grafting?” Johan offered.

 

Jameson nodded. “Too efficient. The body was constructed for longevity. That’s what they didn’t say out loud. It was stitched to survive. Whatever you two fought wasn’t his masterpiece. It was a test case.”

 

Phanora’s eyes narrowed slightly.

 

They sat in silence for a moment. The rain outside grew heavier.

 

Johan tapped his fork against his plate. “The bodies. The ones the Order cleaned. Any of them claimed?”

 

“Some,” Jameson said. “Families from the local districts. But most were unclaimed. Nameless. Pulled from poorhouses, hospitals, old forgotten cemeteries.”

 

“Convenient,” Phanora murmured.

 

“Exploitable,” Johan added.

 

They fell quiet again.

 

Then Phanora reached into her coat and retrieved a small slip of parchment. A spell-treated memory capture. The necromancer’s face, frozen in sketch form—smirking, eyes wide with arrogance.

 

They all looked at it.

 

“We have this,” Johan said. “Better than nothing.”

 

“It’s a start,” Jameson agreed, her voice low.

 

Phanora folded the parchment neatly and slid it back into her coat. “He was confident,” she said. “He let himself be seen. That’s not a mistake. That’s arrogance. He wants to be remembered.”

 

“Then we make sure the right people remember,” Johan said.

 

Phanora stood, leaving half her tea untouched.

 

Jameson blinked. “Where are you going?”

 

“Back to the estate,” she said. “We’ll need materials. Johan’s gear has to be reforged, and I have correspondence to initiate.”

 

“Wait,” Johan said, standing and grabbing the last bite of sausage. “Before we go…”

 

Phanora turned.

 

He pointed to the gravel lot outside. “I saw a good rock.”

 

She blinked. Slowly. “A rock.”

 

“For my collection,” he said cheerfully, already heading for the door.

Jameson gave Phanora a look that was equal parts bemused and horrified. “He’s… surprisingly lively.”

 

Phanora watched him through the rain-streaked glass, his silhouette crouching to pick through roadside debris with his one good hand and a content expression.

 

She allowed herself the faintest exhale.

 

“He took time,” she said softly. “But he came back right.”

Chapter 12

The smell of yeast filled the estate kitchen. Soft and warm, cut faintly with the sharp tang of vinegar and old herbs. Johan stood at the counter, sleeves rolled, forearms dusted in flour, working the dough with practiced rhythm. His body, fully restored now, moved with strength again—quick, sure, capable.

But his mind… drifted.

The dough under his palms was soft and obedient, unlike the thoughts curling tight in his skull.

He thought about Brentford.

About the thing that tore him in two like cheap fabric. How it had felt—painful, yes, but not just pain. It was helplessness, the kind that struck somewhere deeper than flesh. For all his speed, strength, wit—he’d been outmatched. And broken.

What had burned more than the pain was the look on her face.

The frost on her lips.

The stillness in her hands, like if she moved wrong, something would shatter.

That chill—her chill—only came when something cracked in her calm. When something inside her lost its shape. He’d only seen it a few times:

The first time he died, lying in the tall grass, eye gone, chest torn open.

Once more when his foot caught a rein on a case in Brelshaw and the damn horse had dragged him twenty meters over gravel and bone.

And now again, in Brentford.

Each time, she’d looked less like the witch everyone feared and more like a woman who hated that the world dared touch what was hers.

He hated that look.

She always brought him back—but she shouldn't have to.

He sighed, finally shaping the dough into a ball and dusting it with flour. He set it in the proofing basket and tucked it into the warm cabinet beneath the oven—just the right place to rise.

With the dough resting, he turned to the rest of the chores.

The estate had its own rhythm. Its own pulse. He moved through it like a steward—his place, his purpose, his home.

The laundry came next.

Basket in hand, he moved room to room—retrieving linens, replacing towels, smoothing out the corners of a world built on order and the quiet comfort of routine. Eventually, inevitably, he found himself in her chambers.

The lights were off.

The air was cool.

He stepped into the bathroom, footsteps quiet on the stone floor, and reached for the towel rack.

There it was.

Her robe—heavy black velvet, lined in deep blue silk. Worn like a shield. Like a uniform. A symbol of who she was in this house.

He hesitated.

Then reached out and took it from the hook, folding it with careful hands.

But as he did, he breathed in—without meaning to.

Chamomile. Ink. Parchment. Polished tools. The faintest trace of her, clean, cold.

And suddenly—he was back there again.

Not Brentford.

The first time.

He saw her face again. Not angry. Not detached.

Desperate.

Kneeling beside him, hand hovering, trembling, her breath fogging in summer air.

He'd touched her cheek. Told her it was fine.

And now, standing in her bathroom with her robe in his arms, that memory pressed in deeper.

He wished—just for a flicker—that he could earn another kind of desperation from her.

Not fear.

Not panic.

Something softer. Closer. Want.

The thought hit him like a hammer.

His cheeks went white-hot.

He practically threw the robe back onto the hook, clumsy, caught off-guard by himself.

Gods, you’re pathetic.

He grit his teeth, turned on his heel, and left the bathroom as if it were on fire.

His face was still burning as he hauled the laundry basket out into the hallway, muttering under his breath.

“Nope. Nope. We’re not doing that.”

He shoved the thought down like he would a broken rib. Uncomfortable. Always there. Something to manage.

He had work to do. Linens to fold. Bread to bake. A necromancer to catch.

And nothing—nothing—more than that.

____

The broom whispered across the old stone floor of the laundry room, soft and rhythmic. Johan moved with one hand on the handle, the other in his pocket, lazy and thoughtless in the way only muscle memory allows. He swept like someone who’d done it a hundred times—because he had. There wasn’t a room in the Kristoffel estate that hadn’t seen him with a broom, a knife, or a body bag.

His thoughts wandered. They always did when he cleaned.

Dust in corners. Cobwebs where the ceiling bowed. A smudge on the mirror he’d clean next. Phanora’s face in the reflection, the faintest curl of her mouth when she was annoyed but not enough to say anything. Her fingers brushing against his side, light, curious, like they had the night after Brentford.

His ribs still tingled.

He swallowed and tried to refocus, but memory is a stubborn thing. It dragged him backward.

_________

The summer had gone long and dry, the heavy heat rendering the air almost still as bees hovered too close to the juice glasses. Johan lay on the grass, his shirt half-unbuttoned, while Phanora worked at a writing table he’d hauled out into the shade for her. The world around them was languid, a soft murmur of life in slow motion.

"Did your mom ever talk about your dad?" Johan asked lazily, resting an arm behind his head and glancing sideways with a mischievous smirk.

Phanora didn’t look up.

“He’s unknown.”

Johan blinked at her. “Wait, really?”

Phanora didn’t look up at first; instead, she continued scribbling notes and rough sketches on a page cluttered with runes, diagrams of corpse-weaving, and faded remnants of arcane research. After a long pause, she replied with quiet precision, 

"Really."

"Really? I always thought witches either just appear—like mushrooms in a fog—or don’t need fathers at all." Johan raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with playful disbelief. “At least, that's the gossip.”

Without looking away from her writing, Phanora stated simply, "They are born, have fathers, Johan. I had one. But I never learned anything about him. It didn't matter."

Johan blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her bluntness. A small breath passed between them—a slow exhale followed by a laugh born more of surprise than humor. He snorted.

 "I’ve heard that some say witches simply sprout out fully dressed in black."

Phanora’s voice remained even, her focus unbroken. "I was born—in blood and silence. As it should be." Her words were matter-of-fact, dismissing the romantic or fanciful notions he entertained.

Johan paused again, then frowned. "Still weird thinking about your mom... you know, doing it all." He rolled onto his side, cheek resting on his hand, his tone shifting from playful banter to genuine curiosity.

Phanora gave him a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "She always looked like she was carved out of stone rather than, well...a person”  

A wry smile tugged at Phanora’s lips as she continued, "She had four lovers in my lifetime with her." She paused as if checking a mental list, "None of them lasted long."

"Gods," Johan muttered, half-impressed, half-incredulous. He turned onto his back to face the vast, pale sky. "So what was she like, really?"

For a long moment, Phanora remained silent, her pen scratching out lines of ink as she worked. Finally, her voice came out in a cooler tone, "Does it matter?"

Johan frowned, uncertainty edging his voice. "Well... yeah, I suppose it does."

He shifted, then said softly, "My dad’s name is Samuel. Mom is Maria. They met singing Sunday mornings at church." His tone was nostalgic—a glimpse into a world of gentle rituals that contrasted sharply with the darker tapestry of Phanora’s memories.

Phanora kept writing, the scratch of her pen the only sound in the drowsy air. After a moment, she said, "I never learned her name." Her statement was calm, almost dismissive, as if the details had been offered and then quietly set aside. "She never offered her name. It didn’t matter."

Johan stared at the endless sky for a long time, contemplating the differing weights they each carried about family. In that silence, it became clear that while his world was filled with stories and names passed down like treasured heirlooms, Phanora’s past was a landscape of necessities rather than sentiments—she had what she needed, and the details of those she never truly knew simply faded into irrelevance.

And so, with a half-smile and a shrug that spoke more of acceptance than indifference, Johan let the moment pass. For now, the playful banter and gentle revelations mingled with the distant hum of the summer day, marking a quiet acknowledgment: some histories are chosen, some are left unsaid, and in the end, it all just—didn’t matter.

__________

 

He carried the clean basket to her room, his grip tighter than necessary. The scent of the linens filled the hall: clean soap, lavender, and that faint chemical trace of resurrection wax from the load she’d worked on last night.

 

The door to her bathroom was open.

 

The vanity chair was pulled out.

 

It was muscle memory again that made him set the basket down. That made him walk over and grab the black velvet robe—her robe. The one she wore when the world wasn’t watching. The one he’d folded too many times to count.

 

He sat in her chair, eyes on the vanity mirror—but not looking at himself.

 

He pressed the fabric to his face.

 

Chamomile. Ink. Parchment. Iron. Her.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

His thoughts drifted again—but not to her power. Not to the sigils or the scalpel sheathed in silk. He thought about the way her fingers sometimes pressed to his skin with something that wasn’t clinical. The way her hands had searched for the seam in his abdomen, and how they’d stayed there a beat too long.

 

Curious. Almost soft.

 

He thought of the few skirts he’d chased before he’d understood what loyalty meant. What devotion felt like. None of them had lingered. None of them had understood.

 

He’d never thought himself suited for love. Certainly not with a woman who didn’t speak of hers.

 

But sometimes—sometimes—he found himself wishing he was allowed a different kind of desperation from her.

 

His face burned. Hot. Embarrassed.

 

He sat upright too quickly, like someone caught in the act. His breath came sharp.

 

He was just her servant.

 

Her sword.

 

Her shield.

 

Anything else was fantasy.

 

But sometimes you need fantasy to live. 

 

The vanity chair creaked softly beneath him as Johan leaned back into it, still holding her robe.

 

Velvet draped over his hands like shadow. Heavy, lined with deep silk that caught the low light like a whisper. It was still warm from the drying rack. Still smelled like her.

 

Chamomile. Ink. Cold metal and cleaner. And something beneath it—faint, dry, unplaceable. Like old paper and spellfire.

 

Phanora.

 

The scent clung to his skin. Familiar. Sacred. Intimate in a way she never meant it to be.

 

He pressed the robe closer to his face, eyes half-lidded, the soft fabric cradling his jaw.

 

It was distasteful.

 

Exhilarating.

 

And wrong.

 

But the thoughts came anyway.

 

Images curled up from the corners of his imagination—faint, unspoken, impossible. He didn’t picture passion, not exactly. Not fire. Not chaos.

 

He pictured quiet.

 

Her hands, cool and careful, trailing over his collarbone not in study, not in repair, but in curiosity—the same way they sometimes lingered too long. When she searched for the seam at his side. When she adjusted his collar with a precise touch that didn’t need to be as gentle as it was.

 

He pictured her breath at his ear, not whispering orders but just there.

 

He pictured her voice—low, smooth, unhurried—as it might sound in that space between command and closeness. That steady cadence she always had, the way she never stumbled, never rushed.

 

He let it wrap around him for a moment too long.

 

If his mother could see him now.

 

Maria—soft-voiced, cross-signed, sharp-eyed—would have dropped dead.

 

Her boy. Dead and risen, sitting in a witch’s bathroom, clinging to her robe like a relic and indulging in thoughts so deeply taboo they would’ve made the village priests burn their own books.

 

He imagined her horror.

 

Then imagined Phanora’s reaction if she knew.

 

His stomach twisted.

 

He killed the idea immediately.

 

No. No, no, no.

 

He was her servant.

 

Her shield.

 

He couldn’t—shouldn’t—wouldn’t taint that with desire. Not even quiet, unspoken desire. She would never allow it. Not because she was cold. But because she had never asked to be wanted.

 

He dropped his head into his hands, the robe pooling around his wrists.

 

But his mind still wouldn’t quiet.

 

He thought about her face.

 

Not when she was angry. Not when she was commanding. But that night in the field—the first time.

 

When her face broke.

 

When her voice cracked.

 

When she touched his torn skin like something precious, not functional. Not hers to command—but hers to keep.

 

He remembered the tremble in her breath.

 

And in the stillness of her bathroom, he let that memory hold him.

 

Not the thrill.

 

Not the shame.

 

Just her.

 

Cool fingers. Steady breath. Quiet presence.

 

And the terrible, beautiful truth:

 

He wanted more than she would ever give.

 

His breath fogged the vanity mirror.

 

The velvet of her robe hung heavy between his fingers, still pressed near his face. Johan sat still in her chair, shoulders drawn tight, heart hammering in a body that technically had no pulse.

 

He shouldn’t have let it go this far.

 

But gods above—and below—Phanora was exact. A woman carved from stillness, who brought him back better than he’d ever been in life. Every nerve felt alive. Every muscle hummed with restored purpose. She had rebuilt him to the point that he could feel everything—even the guilt.

 

And still his hand drifted, low, slow, pressed against his own body through fabric, almost unconsciously. The kind of touch that came not from lust, but from longing—the ache of wanting something that could never be named aloud.

 

He didn’t think of vulgarity. He didn’t picture a body to defile.

 

He pictured her.

 

Her eyes, that deep, sharp glacial blue. Her lashes, longer than you’d think, dark like ink against snow.

 

Her hair, always bound, always neat—he wondered how it would fall, what it would look like undone, loose over pale shoulders.

 

He imagined the soft coolness of her skin, the subtle frost that clung to her wrists when she’d just finished spellwork. The contrast it would have to his own heat. The surreal possibility of her beneath him—poised, composed even then, breathing cold against his throat.

 

It was wrong. Taboo. Deeply distasteful.

 

And it made his face burn hot, made his throat tighten, shame and thrill writhing together in equal measure.

 

His hand slipped lower, fingers tightening—

 

And he opened his eyes.

 

The mirror didn’t show only himself anymore.

 

Phanora stood behind him.

 

Silent.

 

Her expression unreadable.

 

For one eternal moment, nothing moved.

 

Johan went rigid, pulse roaring in his ears despite the fact that he technically didn’t have one. He yanked his hand back like it had been burned, scrambling to cover himself, stammering some nonsense apology—

 

But she raised a hand.

 

“Stop.”

 

Her voice was calm.

 

Level.

 

He froze, breath shallow, barely able to meet her eyes in the mirror.

 

Phanora’s gaze didn’t waver. She stepped forward—not fast, not slow, just inevitable.

 

She looked at him, fully. Looked at the robe clutched in his hands, at his cheeks flushed with something more than embarrassment, and finally at the chair beneath him—her chair. Her space. Her sanctuary.

 

Something inside her shifted. She moved behind him. Not touching. Not yet.

 

Her fingers ghosted near his shoulders, cool in the way a storm front approaches. Her eyes met his in the mirror again.

 

“If you’re going to be so bold,” she said, voice low and chillingly steady, “then sit back. Don’t hide from me.”

 

He couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

 

She didn’t give the order like a lover.

 

She gave it like a command.

 

And when she placed her hands—just barely—on the back of the chair, framing him in stillness, he obeyed.

 

He sat back.

 

Heat rose in him again, wild and directionless, but no longer shameful. Just exposed.

 

She didn’t touch him.

 

She didn’t need to.

 

The moment stretched—tension suspended in glass.

 

And then, with all the calm of a clock striking midnight, she said:

 

“Finish your thoughts.”

 

Johan sat frozen in the chair, every muscle locked beneath her hands.

 

Phanora stood behind him, lips impossibly close to his ear, but never touching. Her breath ghosted across his skin like a curse of frost—cool, deliberate, haunting.

 

Her hands pressed to his chest, not gentle, not cruel. Just commanding. Her fingertips felt like the edge of steel run through a winter river. The cold bled through the fabric of his shirt and sank straight into the false beat of his heart.

 

“Show me,” she said again, softer now.

 

Not quite a command.

 

Not quite permission.

 

A test.

 

Johan exhaled shakily, his hands still in his lap, clenched, useless. His thoughts were fire and panic, shame and want. She was right there. She knew.

 

But it wasn’t until this moment—this gift of silence and surrender—that she’d acknowledged it.

 

And even then... on her terms.

 

Her fingers tensed slightly on his chest, a single, grounding reminder that she held him here.

 

He moved.

 

Just slightly.

 

A breath of motion.

 

And still her lips did not touch him.

 

Phanora watched his reflection in the mirror—his face flushed, his mouth parted in barely contained restraint, his gaze flicking to hers with a mixture of reverence and terror.

 

She had to admit—even to herself—that this wasn’t calculated.

 

She hadn’t planned to offer this.

 

But there was a weight in her chest. An old, cold truth finally uncovered: he had died for her, had served, followed, surrendered, not out of compulsion—but choice.

 

And if this was a way to repay him, this, where she gave only power and control and never touched his mouth or skin—then yes.

 

She could give it.

 

Her voice dipped lower, even colder.

 

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

 

He obeyed instantly, palms lifting to his thighs.

 

“Straighten your back.”

 

He did.

 

She let the silence settle again, let him feel the weight of her eyes on him through the mirror.

 

“You were thinking of me,” she said. “When you were in here.”

 

Johan’s throat worked, but no sound came.

 

“Say it.”

 

“I...” His voice cracked. “Yes.”

 

A long pause. A cold breath.

 

“You imagined me beneath you.”

 

He flinched—not from shame. From the clarity of her words.

 

“I did,” he whispered.

 

Phanora’s eyes narrowed slightly. Her reflection was still composed—flawless—but she felt the smallest tremor deep in her stomach. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t fight it either.

 

This was hers.

 

He was hers.

 

“You think you can handle what you want?” she asked, nearly too soft to hear.

 

“I—”

 

She cut him off.

 

“Don’t answer.”

 

Her fingers slid slightly higher on his chest—not to caress, not to comfort. To remind. She could grip his heart with a flick of will and he knew it.

 

But she didn’t.

 

She leaned closer.

 

Her lips hovered near the hinge of his jaw, not touching. Never touching.

 

“You’ll take what I give you,” she whispered. “And nothing more.”

 

Johan’s eyes fluttered shut.

 

His entire body strained to stay still, obedient. Want knotted in his gut like a second soul.

 

The silence wrapped tighter.

 

Johan’s breath had gone shallow again, mouth parted slightly, chest rising and falling with restraint that bordered on agony. The cool air of the estate wrapped around him like icewater, but none of it compared to her.

 

Phanora was still behind him—towering, composed, untouched—but no longer distant.

 

Her fingers lifted from his chest, light as falling ash.

 

Then—without a word—she began to pull his shirt free from his trousers.

 

Slow.

 

Precise.

 

Johan flinched like he’d been struck, not from pain, but shock. Her fingers, cold and steady, moved with deliberate control—untucking the fabric inch by inch, not in haste, not in hunger. With surgical calm. As though this were any other procedure.

 

As though he were being studied again.

 

He gasped softly when the air hit his bare skin.

 

Her hands returned—this time to him, not over fabric. Bare against his abdomen. Cold.

 

Cool as spell-silver.

 

Her palms settled there, flat and reverent, feeling the seam she had sewn back into place. The place where life had ended and been pulled tight again by her hands.

 

She didn’t ask for permission.

 

She already owned him.

 

Johan trembled.

 

His hands remained exactly where she’d told him—on his thighs, gripping his own pants to stop himself from reaching up, from begging for more.

 

Phanora’s fingers traced along the seam—slow, deliberate. Her thumbs moved in small circles, pressing the muscle beneath, the steady curve of flesh she had mended like parchment and wax.

 

His breath hitched.

 

The motion made her pause.

 

Her eyes flicked up to the mirror, catching his again.

 

Johan couldn't breathe. He could barely move.

 

Then she spoke her command, splaying her hands out on his abs, hovering her lips near his ear, careful not to touch. 

 

A witch's kiss couldn't be wasted.

 

"Touch yourself."

 

He obeyed.

His body moved on its own, one hand lifting, shaking, not from nerves, but tension.

 

The first brush of his fingertips nearly made him buck.

 

But her hands were there.

 

Cradling his waist.

 

Pressing him back.

 

Holding him in place.

 

Her hands were on him, not rough, not violent, but solid, commanding.

 

He palmed himself through his pants, his breath more ragged than even he realized. A low displeased hum came from her throat as she leaned over him slightly, her hair tickling his neck, falling over his shoulder. 

 

"That's not enough, is it?"

 

He swallowed

 

"N…no"

 

"Do you want more?"

 

"I," he swallowed again "please."

 

She paused.

 

Then moved.

 

Slowly, deliberately, Phanora lifted one hand. Her fingers grazed his stomach, his chest, his neck. She didn't rush. She didn't falter. And when her fingertips brushed his jaw, holding his gaze to hers in the mirror, she gave him permission. Allowed himself to free himself and take his length in his hand fully. 

 

"Don't move."

 

She had seen it before, but not like this, hard and eager and desperate for release. 

 

She filed it away for study later, for now, she was focused on the moment. 

 

He spoke again, licking his lips as he did so.

 

"Please."

 

Phanora leaned into him, her lips hovered close to his ear.

 

"Show me."

 

His hand moved, almost too slowly. His head tilted back, mouth parted, breath hot against the side of her neck. His voice was hoarse, raw, needy.

 

"Can I?"

 

"You may."

 

He worked his length with his hand, panting occasionally catching glimpses of their reflection in the mirror, her hand languidly running across his chest and abs, the other cupping his jaw, thumb moving in circles, sometimes across his lips, sometimes moving her hand to hold his throat, not in a choke but to have more skin contact.

 

The sounds were filthy, wet, slick and needy, she didn't tell him to speed up, didn't tell him to stop.

 

It was a lesson, a gift, and a test.

 

"Phanora, I can't."

 

"Do you wish to stop?"

 

"No!" He breathed harder.

 

"Then don't."

 

She leaned in again, her voice a breath, her words cutting straight to his spine:

 

“I made this body.”

 

Her fingertips slid higher, just under his ribs, where the skin was more sensitive. Where even his undead nerves remembered how it once felt to be human.

 

“You are mine.”

 

Johan’s vision blurred for a moment.

 

He nodded once—sharp. Absolute.

 

“Say it,” she whispered.

 

“I’m yours,” he breathed.

 

She paused—just a beat. A flicker of hesitation, not from doubt, but something closer to awe. A moment of knowing what her power meant to him—not just what it did.

 

His hand was a blur now, his breath erratic and ragged, he couldn't see, couldn't focus, could barely speak.

 

"I, please."

 

"You want to come?"

 

"Yes! Please."

 

"Do it."

 

He arched his back, hips jerking up and he came with a low groan, her name on his lips as he spilled over his hand, the chair, the floor.

 

"Look at me."

 

He forced his eyes open, his breath erratic and his face flushed.

 

Phanora watched him carefully, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

 

Then she stepped back.

 

"Clean up."

 

Johan froze.

 

A beat.

 

Then another.

 

He didn’t move.

 

He couldn’t.

 

And she… was already turning away.

 

Not cruel. Not dismissive.

 

Just finished.

 

Johan sat still in the vanity chair for a long moment, the quiet around him impossibly loud.

 

His chest rose and fell in shallow waves. His palms were slick. His hands shook—not from fear, but from the sheer force of trying to contain himself.

 

The cold of her touch still burned across his skin.

 

He closed his eyes, swallowed down the tremor in his throat, and slowly pushed himself to his feet.

 

No words. No sound.

 

He folded the robe—carefully, reverently—and returned it to its place.

 

Then, with the composure of a man trying desperately not to fall apart, he reached for the laundry basket and moved on.

 

Back to his chores.

 

Back to being useful.

 

Phanora stood behind the door.

 

The door that separated her bedroom from her private bath—the one Johan was never allowed through, not once in all the years he’d served her.

 

She hadn’t moved.

 

Not since she left him there.

 

Her back pressed lightly to the wood, her eyes wide, her breathing uneven—controlled only because she commanded it to be.

 

Her hands—shook.

 

Not visibly. Not from the outside.

 

But she felt it in her fingertips. The nerves jittering like caught flame.

 

Her heart raced beneath her robes. Not with fear. Not quite anger. Indignation? Surprise?

 

No. Not even that.

 

It was new. Something she hadn’t mapped or diagrammed or dissected.

 

He had been using her robe.

 

Holding it to his face.

 

Her towels. Her space. Hers.

 

And for a moment she’d been prepared to punish him.

 

Until she saw his face.

 

Until she felt the full weight of his longing—not base, not animal, but human.

 

A young man she’d rebuilt, thread by thread, soul by soul. And she had done too well.

 

She had made him perfect.

 

Every nerve humming. Every inch sensitive. Breath and bone returned with deliberate care. So of course—of course—he would have urges.

 

But she hadn’t expected to be the target of them.

 

She’d never considered herself something anyone would want.

 

Not her body.

 

Not her cold hands.

 

Not her silence.

 

Not her.

 

And yet…

 

“You are mine,” she’d said.

 

And he meant it when he repeated it.

 

She had seen the way he looked at her when other women smiled. She’d heard him turn them down—always gentle, always vague. She had thought, at the time, that her... noticing... was just observation. Detachment. Her usual scrutiny of the world around her.

 

But it wasn’t.

 

It had been jealousy.

 

And now her mouth was dry.

 

Her fingers twitched, recalling the shape of his chest beneath her palms. The seam she had crafted, the skin she had brought back to life with a care no one else would ever replicate.

 

She had touched him with purpose.

 

She had given him more than control.

 

And the most surprising thing—

 

She didn’t regret it.

 

She should have.

 

She was the witch. The master. The anchor.

 

But instead…

 

She found herself wondering—

 

Was it enough?

 

Would she give more?

 

Phanora exhaled, hand resting gently on the wall beside the door.

 

Not yet.

 

But maybe.