3. A Sanctuary of Shadows
3
A Sanctuary of Shadows
Ren
I opened my eyes, disoriented until I remembered where I was.
Sitting up, I took in the austere furnishings of my room at Blackstone Academy. My half of the room still had bare stone walls, an unadorned desk, and plain wardrobe. It was a far cry from Luca's cozy, plant-filled space, but the simplicity offered a blank canvas.
A few stray leaves had blown in through the cracked window, their crisp edges curled like ancient parchment. The air held that peculiar autumn chill unique to old buildings and smelled like a mix of stone dust, aging wood, and a hint of magic. I could smell what I hoped was coffee brewing, though it could easily be a potion gone wrong.
I swung my legs off the bed, stretching, savoring the pull of my muscles and the slight twinge along my chest. It had been months since my top surgery, but the twin scars beneath my pecs were still pink. It was a badge of honor, a sign of how far I’d come, but it wasn't exactly my favorite conversation piece.
I was bending over for a clean shirt when I noticed Luca sitting across from me, staring with wide eyes.
I froze, my heart in my throat. Luca’s gaze was fixed on my chest, on the scars that marked me as different. After last night's easy friendship, I’d let my guard down. I swallowed, my mouth dry. I wanted to run, to disappear into the cracks of these ancient walls.
But before I could bolt, Luca leaned forward, grabbing the shirt from the floor. He held it out to me, his expression unreadable. “Here,” he said softly, his voice still rough with sleep.
I stared at the shirt, my mind racing. Was this a peace offering? A silent acknowledgment that he'd seen, but wasn’t going to pry? With a shaking hand, I took it, mumbling, “Thanks.”
“You're welcome,” Luca replied, his tone neutral. Silence stretched between us as I pulled the shirt over my head, its softness like a shield.
I knew I should say something. The words tangled on my tongue. “I... I'm sorry I didn’t tell you last night. About... about me. I wasn’t hiding it, I just…” I sighed. “If you want me to move—”
“Woah, woah, hold up,” Luca interrupted, raising a hand. “Why would I want you to move?”
I frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t want things to be weird between us.”
“Ren, you're still you. Nothing’s changed.” He grinned, reaching for a plant. “I have a healing tea blend for scar tissue if you'd like. Moonflowers and dawnberry leaves. Unless that’s weird?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “No, it’s really sweet. Thanks, Luca. But... I didn’t tell you. About me being trans. I thought…” I trailed off, unsure how to articulate the fear that had lodged deep in my bones.
Luca's expression softened. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. That’s your story to tell, in your own time.”
Before I could speak, Luca held up a hand. “Hold that thought.” He scrambled out of bed. “I need to pee. Like, now.”
And he was gone, darting for the bathroom.
I stared after him, a surprised laugh bubbling up from my chest. Trust Luca to diffuse an emotional moment with a well-timed bathroom break. His ability to roll with the punches was one of the things I was coming to appreciate about him.
Still smiling, I finished getting dressed, pulling on worn jeans and my favorite hoodie. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to wrangle it into some semblance of order.
Luca returned moments later, cheeks flushed and curls even wilder. “Crisis averted!” He flopped back on the bed. “Bladder emptied, teeth brushed. Ready to face the day!”
I snorted. “Wouldn't want you exploding all over our new room.”
Luca grinned. “Nope. These stone walls have seen enough bodily fluids over the centuries.” He paused, then added, “Seriously, Ren, your identity is yours to share or not. I’m just glad we’re roommates.”
A lump formed in my throat, the relief overwhelming. “Thanks, Luca. That... that means a lot.”
Luca shrugged, smiling softly. “Anytime. Now, let’s get breakfast before the good muffins are gone. Blueberry ones are to die for.”
I glanced at the clock. “Shit, I’m going to be late for class!” I grabbed my bag, text, and compass. “Thanks again. I’ll see you later?”
Luca gave a thumbs up. “Absolutely. Go conquer the afterlife!”
I rushed out, letting the door slam behind me. The stone corridors were already busy with students hurrying to their first classes. I tried to ignore the curious glances and whispered comments.
“Who's that?” a girl murmured.
“Must be one of the scholarship kids,” her friend replied. “I know all the legacy families and I don't recognize him.”
I gritted my teeth and kept walking, cheeks burning with embarrassment and indignation. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard comments like that at Blackstone. The school was known for its elite student body, the scions of ancient magical families. And then there was me: Ren Wickens, the working-class kid from the wrong side of the tracks.
I hurried down the hall, comparing myself to the other students. They seemed confident, self-assured, their uniforms crisp. I tugged at my hoodie, wishing I could disappear into its folds.
I ducked into the graveyard on the north end of campus, a shortcut to the necromancy building and a place where I felt strangely at home. The noise of the academy faded, replaced by the heavy silence of the dead.
The graveyard was ancient, the headstones worn smooth by centuries. Gnarled oaks twisted overhead, their leaves whispering secrets only the dead could understand. The air smelled of damp earth and decaying flowers, both melancholy and comforting.
As I walked, I felt the spirits tug at my magic, like ghostly fingers plucking invisible strings. It was a sensation I'd grown used to, the hum of death magic in my veins. Some necromancers found it unsettling, but to me, it was soothing, like a lullaby.
Small patches of glowing moss traced patterns between the headstones. Midnight bluebells nodded in a breeze I couldn’t feel. A spectral raven perched nearby, its eyes gleaming with intelligence that made me wonder if it was really a raven.
I was so lost in the melody of the dead that I almost walked past my destination. Nestled between two mausoleums was a small, weathered door.
I paused, heart thrumming with a mix of trepidation and anticipation. This was it, the entrance to the necropolis beneath Blackstone Academy. I grasped the cool iron handle and swung the door open, revealing a stone staircase descending into the earth.
I stepped forward, my footsteps echoing as I descended into the unknown.
At the bottom, I emerged into a vast underground cavern, a macabre city stretching before me consisting of tombs, mausoleums, and catacombs carved from bedrock. Ghostly wisteria vines draped over the mausoleums, casting shifting shadows. Gardens flourished with plants thriving in death magic. The air was thick with dark earth and ancient stone, mingled with something sweeter.
Paper lanterns floated, marking pathways, and spirits swirled like mist in the spectral light. Despite the deathly atmosphere, it felt oddly homey, like stepping into a peculiar neighborhood.
I marveled at the sight, my heart pounding. The scale, the intricacy, the raw power of it all, was exhilarating.
I wanted to explore, to commune with every spirit, but I accidentally collided with someone. Stumbling back, I found myself face-to-face with a tall, imposing figure in a black uniform. One of the first-year legacy necromancers.
“Watch where you're going, scholarship boy,” he sneered, his icy blue eyes raking over me.
My cheeks burned, but not from embarrassment. Anger flared instead. Just once, I wished these legacy kids would see past their pedigrees to recognize talent.
“Sorry,” I said, voice neutral. “Still learning my way around.”
His lip curled. “Clearly. My family has walked these halls for generations…”
“And now they're being walked by others, too,” I cut in, surprising myself with my boldness.
Professor Crowe appeared, moving with grace like a raven, his green tie slightly crooked and grave dirt on his sleeve. Spirits seemed to dance around him, swaying to an invisible melody.
Professor Crowe’s piercing green eyes seemed to see right through me. “Ah, Mr. Wickens,” he said with a warm smile. “Welcome to the necropolis.”
I closed my mouth. “Thank you, Professor.”
He didn’t respond further, but gestured to the gathering students. “Come, gather round,” he called, and they formed a semi-circle.
“Welcome to necromancy,” Professor Crowe said. He raised his hand, and glowing spirits floated near him, surrounding him like a constellation.
“I imagine many of you come here with a bit of fear,” he continued, “or at least the weight of a hundred whispered warnings from friends or family. ‘Why study death?’ they may have asked. ‘Why take on the grim and the dark?’ But death, my friends, is not a horror. It is a soft threshold, a quiet passage. And beyond it, a new world awaits, full of possibility.”
The spirits began to gather around him in earnest, slowly forming a delicate halo. They hovered close, as if basking in his gentle presence, as he spoke on, his face lit with the faint glow of their ethereal light.
“The dead do not fear; they do not yearn,” he said. “Their souls are a flicker, faint but warm, resting where light and silence meet. In that place, the heart finds rest, and the spirit unfolds like a bud in the sun. We are more than flesh and bone, my friends. We are souls, woven of starstuff, born to dance in the endless night. Sorrow fades, and pain, once held so close, dissolves like mist. We, as necromancers, honor that transition.”
The spirits pulsed, gathering around us like curious little things.
“Necromancy is not meddling with some forbidden force,” said the professor. “It is listening to what remains in the quiet. It’s about bridging the world of the living and the world of the departed, gently, carefully. It’s about learning to cradle memory, to find peace in that inevitable stillness. Remember this well: the art of necromancy is not about defying death. It is about understanding it. Loving it. Embracing it as a part of life. For death is not the end; it is a transformation, a release, where voices soften to whispers and the heart’s last thrum finds, at last, sweet rest. So let us honor this transition. The field beyond is not dark. It is vast, it is beautiful. And if you look closely, you may yet find the stars.”
The orbs of light drifted upward, slowly rising above him, their faint light casting a soft glow over the room. I stood transfixed, my heart thrumming in my chest as I watched the spirits dance above us, their gentle light reflecting in Professor Crowe's emerald eyes. His words had struck a chord deep within me, resonating with a truth I had always known but never quite had the language to express.
Death wasn't something to be feared or reviled. It was a natural part of the cycle, a doorway to a new kind of existence. And as necromancers, it was our duty, our privilege, to guide souls through that transition with compassion and respect.
As I stood there, bathed in the gentle glow of the spirits, I felt a sense of belonging wash over me. It was like finding a book written in a language you didn't know you could read until you opened it. Everything Professor Crowe said about death being a transition, about it being something beautiful rather than fearsome, resonated with the quiet truth I'd always felt but been afraid to voice. Maybe that's why I'd been drawn to necromancy in the first place. Not because I was morbid or dark, but because I understood, somehow, that death was just another form of change. Like the way autumn leaves had to fall before spring could come again. Like the way I'd had to let parts of myself die so that other parts could finally live.
For the first time since arriving at Blackstone, I didn't feel like an outsider, a misfit stumbling my way through an alien world. Here, in this hidden city of the dead, surrounded by the whispered stories of the departed, I felt a sense of kinship, of purpose.
“Think of it this way,” Professor Crowe continued, absently straightening his sleeve cuff, a surprisingly human gesture for someone who radiated such otherworldly grace. “Every spirit has a story, just like every cup of tea has its own character. Some are bold and forthright, others subtle and complex. Our job isn't to force them to tell their tales, but to create the right conditions for sharing, just as one might warm the teapot before steeping.”
A few of my classmates exchanged confused glances at the tea metaphor, but something about it clicked perfectly in my mind. Maybe Luca's plant-based way of looking at the world was already rubbing off on me.
Professor Crowe's voice drew me back to the present. “And so, my dear students, we begin our journey together into the mysteries of death and what lies beyond.” He waved his hand, and a stack of papers on a nearby table began to distribute themselves, floating gently through the air to each of us.
I plucked mine from the air, my eyes scanning the elegant script. It was a syllabus, outlining our course of study for the semester. Communing with spirits, interpreting whispers from beyond the veil, rituals of remembrance and release. I couldn’t wait to dive into all of it.
“We will meet here, in the heart of the necropolis, every day Monday through Thursday,” Professor Crowe continued, his eyes meeting each of ours in turn. “I expect you to be prepared, both mentally and magically, to delve into the depths of necromantic arts.”
His gaze lingered on me for a moment, and I felt a flush creep up my neck.
As the class drew to a close and the other students began to file out, I lingered, pretending to study my syllabus as I snuck glances at Professor Crowe. He was gathering up his notes, the spirits still hovering around him like a celestial entourage.
I was just working up the nerve to approach him, to thank him for his beautiful words about death and necromancy, when he looked up, his emerald eyes locking with mine. My breath caught in my throat.
“Mr. Wickens,” he said, a soft smile playing at his lips. “Was there something you wished to discuss?”
“I... um...” I stammered, cursing the way my tongue seemed to tie itself in knots in his presence. “I just wanted to say thank you. For what you said about death and necromancy. It really resonated with me.”
Professor Crowe's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made my heart do a little flip in my chest. “I'm glad to hear that, Ren. May I call you Ren?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Ren,” he repeated, as if savoring the sound of my name on his tongue. “I know that it can sometimes be difficult for new students to settle in here, especially since you had so little notice before you were summoned.”
He was right. I had barely had time to pack a bag before being whisked off to Blackstone, my head still spinning with the revelation that I possessed a natural affinity for necromancy. It had all happened so fast, like a whirlwind of change sweeping me off to a strange new world.
“It's been a bit of an adjustment,” I admitted, fiddling with the edge of my syllabus. “I keep feeling like there's been some kind of mistake, like I don't really belong here with all these legacy students who have been preparing for this their whole lives. When I first discovered I could sense spirits, I thought I was going crazy. No one else in my family has any magical ability, unless you count my aunt's uncanny knack for finding lost keys.” I managed a weak smile. “Then when the invitation came... it felt like finally finding the last piece of a puzzle I didn't even know I was solving. But now I'm here, and everything's so grand and ancient and full of tradition, and I just...” I gestured helplessly at my worn hoodie and scuffed boots. “I feel like I'm play-acting at being a proper necromancer.”
Professor Crowe's expression softened further, a glimmer of what might have been recognition flickering in his eyes. “Ah, I see. You know, the most powerful magic often comes from those who had to discover it on their own, who had to learn to listen to the whispers of their own soul rather than simply following the well-worn paths of tradition. Ren, I assure you, there has been no mistake. The Arcanum does not extend invitations lightly. If you are here, it is because here is where you belong.”
I bit my lip, a well of emotion rising in my throat. “I just... I feel like I have to prove myself, you know? Prove that I deserve to be here, that I can keep up with everyone else despite my background.”
“And who are you trying to prove this to?” Professor Crowe asked gently, his head tilting slightly as he regarded me. “Your classmates? The other professors? Or is it perhaps yourself?”
He took a step closer, and I found myself caught in the gravity of his presence, like a moon trapped in the orbit of some great celestial body. The spirits around him seemed to pulse and shimmer, as if echoing his words.
“Do you know why I teach necromancy, Ren?” he asked softly, his eyes holding mine.
I swallowed. “Because you’re good at it?”
Professor Crowe chuckled, a rich, warm sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “Well, yes, there is that. But more importantly, I teach because I believe in the power of this art to heal, to bring comfort and understanding in the face of life's greatest mystery.”
He reached out, his long, elegant fingers coming to rest on my shoulder. I could feel the warmth of his touch, even through the fabric of my hoodie.
“Death comes for us all, Ren. Rich or poor, legacy or latent. In the end, we are all equal in its eyes. What matters is not where we come from, but how we choose to walk the path that is set before us. And we are all of us walking it together. Some of us move quickly. Some slowly. But the destination for every mortal being in this world, past, present, or future, is the same. Death unites us. And we are the sacred guardians of that unity.”
His words washed over me, sinking deep into my bones. I felt the weight of them, the profound truth and wisdom that they carried. In that moment, standing there with Professor Crowe's hand on my shoulder and the spirits dancing around us, I felt a sense of purpose settle over me, wrapping around my soul like a warm, comforting cloak.
“Thank you, Professor,” I whispered, my voice rough with emotion. “I think I needed to hear that.”
Professor Crowe smiled, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze before releasing me. “Anytime, Ren. My door is always open if you need to talk. About necromancy, or anything else.”
I nodded, a lump forming in my throat at the kindness in his eyes. “I appreciate that, sir.”
“Good heavens, call me Dorian,” he said, his smile taking on a slightly mischievous tilt. “At least when we're not in class. 'Sir' makes me feel ancient, and I'm not quite ready to join the ranks of the ghosts just yet.”
I laughed, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. “Then I won't let you down, Dorian,” I vowed, meeting his gaze with a newfound resolve.
A slow, enigmatic smile curved Professor Crowe's lips. “Oh, I have no doubt about that, Ren Wickens. No doubt at all.”
With a final nod, he turned and strode away, his long coat flaring out behind him like shadowy wings.
As I gathered my things to leave, I noticed something peculiar: where Professor Crowe had been standing, tiny luminescent mushrooms had sprouted between the cobblestones, their caps glowing with a soft, silvery light. I smiled, oddly touched by this small reminder that even in a place of death, new things could grow and flourish.
I stood there for a moment longer, watching the silvery mushrooms spread their gentle light across the cobblestones. One of the nearby spirits drifted down to brush against them, leaving trails of ghostly luminescence in its wake.
Something about that simple interaction, the way life and death and magic all wove together in this hidden place, made me smile. Maybe I didn't have generations of necromantic legacy behind me. Maybe I was still figuring out who I was and where I belonged. But here, in this city of the dead with its phantom gardens and spirit lights, surrounded by the whispered stories of countless souls... here, somehow, I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and headed back toward the surface, the spectral light bobbing along beside me like a tiny, friendly star. Behind me, the mushrooms continued to glow, marking the spot where something new had begun to grow in the heart of the necropolis.
One of the little spectral lights that had been hovering around during the lecture drifted down to bob near my shoulder, almost like it was offering to light my way back. “Thanks,” I whispered to it, and I swore it twinkled a little brighter in response.