11. Marked by the Spirit
11
Marked by the Spirit
Ren
My eyelids fluttered open, the world a bleary watercolor painting slowly coming into focus. The last thing I remembered was the flash of skeletal hands, reaching, grasping, and then... nothing. Darkness.
I blinked once, twice, my mind foggy and sluggish, like I'd been sleeping for a century rather than a few hours. Soft sheets caressed my skin and the scent of cinnamon and old books wafted over me. This wasn't my dorm room at Blackstone, that much I knew. No, this place felt infinitely more inviting, like being wrapped in a warm hug.
Every surface held some fascinating tidbit that spoke of a life devoted to both magic and comfort: delicate teacups perched on stacks of ancient grimoires, hand-knitted throws draped over leather armchairs. A collection of mismatched candlesticks held enchanted flames in different colors, and the whole space smelled of cinnamon, old books, and something distinctly magical like autumn leaves and starlight. Someone had placed a small bouquet of black roses and silver sage in a crystal vase beside the bed, their petals gleaming with protective enchantments.
As my vision cleared, I took in my surroundings. Exposed wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed to bursting with leather-bound tomes. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting a golden glow over the cozy space. Outside, rain pattered gently against the windowpanes, a soothing melody that made me want to burrow deeper under the covers and drift back to sleep.
But I couldn't, not yet. Questions swirled in my mind, nagging and persistent. Where was I? How did I get here? And what in the name of all things necromantic had happened with those spirits?
I pushed myself up on my elbows, wincing at the dull ache in my muscles. It was then that I noticed I wasn't alone in the room.
At the foot of the bed sat a dog, its head cocked to the side as it watched me with an intensity that would have been unnerving if not for the fact that it was, well, a skeleton. Literally. Bleached white bones gleamed in the firelight, held together by some unseen force. It shouldn't have been possible, but then again, I was a necromancer-in-training. Impossible was starting to feel like just another Tuesday.
The skeleton dog rose from its haunches and trotted over to me, its clacking steps muffled by the plush rug. His movement was surprisingly graceful for a collection of animated bones, and I noticed he was wearing a tiny bow tie that sparkled with protective runes. A silver bell hung from his collar, tinkling softly with each step. Despite his macabre appearance, there was something undeniably charming about him, like he'd walked straight out of a peculiarly cozy ghost story.
He carried himself with the dignity of a proper English butler, right up until he flopped onto his back, clearly requesting belly rubs. I couldn't help but laugh. Even skeletal dogs were still dogs at heart.
“I see you've met Bones,” a familiar voice said from the doorway. I glanced up to see Professor Dorian Crowe standing there, a tray balanced in his hands. The scent of chamomile tea mingled with the cinnamon, a soothing aroma that immediately put me at ease. “My familiar.”
Dorian crossed the room, setting the tray down on the nightstand before perching on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, and I was suddenly very aware of how close he was, how the candlelight caught the auburn highlights in his hair and made his eyes look like moss agates. His rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms marked with intricate protective runes that seemed to shimmer when he moved. I caught myself wondering if they were warm to the touch, then quickly derailed that entirely inappropriate train of thought.
The cottage seemed to grow smaller, more intimate, as if the very space was conspiring to draw us closer together. Even the shadows cast by the dancing candlelight felt like they were holding their breath.
He reached out to scratch Bones behind the ear. “He's quite fond of you already,” Dorian remarked with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “He hasn’t left your side since I brought you here. How are you feeling, Ren?”
I pushed myself up further, leaning against the headboard as I tried to gather my scattered thoughts. “I'm... I'm okay, I think. Just confused. And sore. And a little freaked out, if I'm being honest.”
Dorian nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Understandable. You've been through quite an ordeal.” He reached for the tray, pouring a steaming cup of tea and offering it to me. “Here, this should help. Chamomile, with a touch of honey. Best for rainy days and frayed nerves.”
I accepted the cup, the warmth seeping into my fingers and chasing away the lingering chill. I took a sip, the sweet, floral flavor blooming on my tongue. It was perfect, just like everything else in this cozy little haven.
“Thank you,” I murmured. It was strange, being on the receiving end of such attentiveness. I wasn't used to people taking care of me, not like this. It left me feeling off-kilter, like I was navigating uncharted territory without a map. “What happened? Where am I?”
Dorian settled back, his expression turning serious. “You're in my cottage, Ren. In my bed, in fact.” He gave me a wry smile, and I felt my cheeks flush with heat. “I apologize for the impropriety, but the sofa's currently buried under a mountain of books, and I couldn't very well leave you on the floor.”
I ducked my head, suddenly fascinated by the intricate pattern on the quilt. I cleared my throat, desperately trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “So, the spirit attack. What exactly happened?”
Dorian sighed, running a hand through his wavy hair. “It was no ordinary spirit, Ren. What attacked you was an abomination, a twisted fusion of tortured souls forced together by the darkest of necromantic arts.” His voice was heavy with a mix of sadness and anger. “Whoever did this... they have no regard for the sanctity of life or death.”
I shuddered, the memory of those grasping skeletal hands sending a fresh wave of unease through me. “But why me? Why did it target me specifically?”
Dorian hesitated, his brow furrowing. “I have a few theories, but primarily, I believe it’s because of your innate magic. Your necromancy, Ren… It’s different from the sort most of us carry. The empathic nature of it runs deeper in you. You’re like…a beacon to lost souls. And the stronger you get, the brighter that light shines. Your light will draw more and more spirits to you, and I’m afraid they won’t always be the benevolent sort you’re used to.”
I set my tea down, the implications of Dorian's words sinking in like a stone in my gut. “So, what you're saying is... I'm a walking spirit magnet? A supernatural trouble beacon just waiting to go off?”
Dorian reached out, his warm hand covering mine in a gesture of comfort. “It's not your fault, Ren. You didn't ask for this gift, this burden. But it is something we need to address, to help you learn to control and protect yourself.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry despite the tea. “How? How do I protect myself from something like that... that thing that attacked me?”
Dorian's thumb rubbed soothing circles on the back of my hand as he spoke. “There are wards, spells, and techniques we can work on together. But Ren, there's something else you need to know about the attack.”
I looked up at him, my heart hammering in my chest. “What is it?”
Dorian's expression turned grave, his eyes shadowed with concern as he met my gaze. “The spirit that attacked you...it left a mark, Ren. A brand of sorts, etched upon your forehead.”
My hand flew to my forehead, fingers trembling as they brushed against the tender flesh. I couldn't feel anything different, but the way Dorian was looking at me made my stomach twist with dread.
“A mark? What kind of mark?” I asked, my voice sounding small and frightened even to my own ears.
Dorian reached out, his fingertips gently tracing the shape on my forehead. The touch sent a shiver down my spine, though whether from fear or something else entirely, I couldn't say.
“A rune,” he murmured, his brow furrowed in concentration. “One of binding and ownership. Whoever cast that spell, whoever created that abomination... they've laid claim to you, Ren.”
I felt like I'd been doused in ice water, the chill seeping into my bones and stealing the breath from my lungs. “What does that mean? What do they want with me?”
Dorian shook his head, frustration etched into the lines of his face. “I don't know, not yet. But I promise you, Ren, I will do everything in my power to find out and to keep you safe.”
He withdrew his hand, and I immediately missed the warmth of his touch.
I stared at Dorian, trying to process the weight of his words. Owned. Claimed. The concepts felt foreign, wrong, like ill-fitting clothes scratching against my skin. I was a necromancer, not a possession to be passed around like a cursed amulet.
“I don't understand,” I said, hating the way my voice wavered. “Why would someone do this? What could they possibly want with me?”
Dorian sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I'm afraid this may be my fault. The runes that marked you... they're the same ones I had you researching for me.”
My eyes widened, a pang of betrayal lancing through my chest. “What?”
“I thought I could solve the problem before it ever reached you,” Dorian said, his voice heavy with regret. “There have been two other spirit attacks in recent weeks, both targeting individuals with strong necromantic abilities. I believed if I could unravel the mystery of the runes, I could put a stop to it. The spirits seem to be drawn to intense surges of emotion. Up until today, I believed the only emotion that would trigger them was anger, a tendency I never saw you display. I thought that would work in your favor, that your natural calm nature would help protect you. I was wrong and I apologize.”
I frowned, trying to piece together the fragments of my memory from before the attack. I hadn't been angry, that much I knew. If anything, I'd been worried, concerned for Dorian because of how exhausted he’d been. But worry hardly seemed like the kind of intense emotion that would summon a vengeful spirit.
“I don't understand,” I said slowly. “I wasn't angry or upset before the attack. I was just... thinking about you, actually. Wondering if you were okay.”
Dorian's gaze snapped to mine, something unreadable flickering in the depths of those green eyes. He looked almost... nervous? No, that couldn't be right. Dorian Crowe, the unflappable professor of necromancy, nervous? It was like imagining a unicorn with stage fright.
He cleared his throat, his fingers fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. “It would seem the spirits are not solely drawn to anger, but rather to any strong swell of emotion. Fear, compassion…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to where his hands were clasped tightly in his lap. “Admiration.”
I blinked, my mind struggling to process Dorian's words. Admiration? Was he saying what I thought he was saying? No, that was impossible. Dorian was my professor, my mentor. He couldn't possibly feel that way about me... could he?
“Dorian,” I said slowly, my heart doing a complicated little flip in my chest. “What are you saying?”
He looked up at me then, his expression a mix of vulnerability and determination. “I'm saying that the swell of emotion that drew the spirit to you... it wasn't yours, Ren. It was mine.”
My breath caught in my throat, my eyes widening. “Yours?”
Dorian nodded, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. “I…care for you, Ren. More than I should, more than is proper given our positions.” He glanced away, his fingers absently tracing a pattern on the quilt that looked suspiciously like protection runes. “You have this way about you, Ren. The way you see beauty in death magic, the genuine compassion you show to every spirit... it's rare. Precious.” His voice softened. “Like finding a light in what others see as darkness.”
I watched his hands as he spoke, remembering all the times I'd seen those same fingers demonstrate complex spells, carefully pour tea, gently tend to lost spirits. How many times had I dreamed of those hands holding mine? And now here we were, and everything was both simpler and more complicated than I'd imagined.
I stared at Dorian, my mind reeling from his confession. A part of me wanted to pinch myself, to make sure this wasn't some fever dream conjured up by my battered brain. Dorian Crowe, the brilliant, enigmatic necromancer who had captured my attention from the moment I first saw him, cared for me. More than he should, more than was proper.
It was everything I had ever wanted to hear, and yet the timing couldn't have been worse. Here I was, marked by some malevolent force, my very existence a beacon for dark spirits, and Dorian was telling me he had feelings for me?
“Dorian, I...” I trailed off, my tongue tripping over the words. What could I possibly say? That I felt the same way? That I had been harboring a crush on him for months, stealing glances at him during lectures and dreaming about the way his hands would feel in mine? It all seemed so trivial now, in the face of the danger we were facing.
Dorian must have sensed my hesitation because he reached out and took my hand. His fingers laced through mine, warm and certain, and I felt the subtle pulse of his magic against my skin like static electricity, but softer, more deliberate. His hands bore the elegant calluses of a scholar, small ink stains and tiny scars from handling magical ingredients, each mark telling its own story. When his thumb brushed across my knuckles, the simple touch sent sparks of awareness shooting up my arm.
A tendril of his magic curled around mine, instinctive and unconscious, like ivy seeking sunlight. The connection made the mark on my forehead tingle, not unpleasantly, and the enchanted candles flickered in response.
“I know this is a lot to take in,” he said softly. “And I understand if you don't feel the same way. I want you to know I never intended to act on those feelings while you were under my direct supervision, and that I’ve never let my feelings color your learning here.”
I swallowed hard, trying to gather my racing thoughts. Dorian's hand in mine felt like an anchor, grounding me even as my world tilted on its axis. I couldn't deny the fluttering in my stomach, the warmth that spread through me at his touch. But there was also fear, cold and sharp, twisting in my gut.
“I... I don't know what to say,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “Dorian, I've admired you for so long. Looked up to you, learned from you. And if I'm being honest with myself, I've felt drawn to you in a way that goes beyond just a student's appreciation for their teacher.”
Dorian's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of hope dancing in their green depths. But I held up my free hand, needing to get the words out before my courage failed me.
“But this... this changes things. I'm marked now, claimed by some dark force that we don't understand. I'm a liability, a danger to everyone around me. Including you.” My voice cracked on the last word, the thought of Dorian being hurt because of me was more painful than any spirit's touch. “I should leave Blackstone. Find some way to seal off my power completely. Before whoever is behind this finds some way to use me to hurt people.”
Dorian’s grip on my hand steadied. “Ren, listen to me. What's happened to you, it doesn't define you. You are not a liability or a danger. You are a brilliant, compassionate, talented young man. The world needs you in it. It needs your magic, your compassion, your voice. Now is the time to shine brighter, not to put out your light. And you don’t have to face this alone. I’ll be here to help you every step of the way.”
I met Dorian's gaze, searching those emerald eyes for any hint of doubt or hesitation. But all I saw was unwavering conviction, a steadfast belief in me that made my heart swell with a confusing mix of gratitude and anxiety.
“But what if I can't control it?” I whispered, giving voice to the fear that had been gnawing at me since I first woke up in this cozy cottage. “What if whoever did this to me uses that mark to turn me into a weapon, a puppet for their own dark purposes? I couldn't live with myself if I hurt someone, especially... especially you.”
Dorian's expression softened, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek with a tenderness that made my breath hitch. “You are stronger than you know, Ren Wickens. Your magic and empathy are not weaknesses to be exploited, but gifts to be nurtured. And I will be right here beside you, helping you every step of the way. We'll figure this out together, I promise.”
Together. The word hung in the air between us, weighted with unspoken possibility. I leaned into Dorian's touch, my eyes fluttering closed as I allowed myself a moment to just breathe, to soak in the comfort of his presence. When I opened them again, Dorian was watching me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.
“So, what do you propose?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady despite the butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach. “About us, I mean. This. Our…feelings.”
Dorian sighed, his free hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “As much as I care for you, Ren, I don't feel comfortable exploring these feelings while I'm still in a position of authority over you. It wouldn't be right, no matter how genuine our connection may be.”
My heart sank a little at his words, even as a part of me knew he was right. The last thing I wanted was for Dorian to compromise his integrity or for our relationship to be tainted by a power imbalance. But that didn't make the sting of disappointment any less sharp.
Dorian must have seen the crestfallen look on my face because he gave my hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a soothing caress. “I'm not saying never, Ren. Just... not yet. Not while I'm still your professor. It’s more important to me that you grow in your studies to be the best version of yourself you can be.”
He paused, his thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone. The touch sent a shiver down my spine, a tantalizing hint of what could be.
I nodded, swallowing past the lump in my throat. Around us, the cottage seemed to respond to our shared tension. The enchanted flames in their mismatched holders shifted from warm gold to deeper purples and blues, casting elaborate shadows that danced across the walls like spirits performing a waltz. Somewhere a clock chimed midnight with notes that sounded like they came from underwater.
Even Bones seemed affected, his skeletal form casting impossibly delicate shadows as he curled up by the hearth, the runes on his bow tie glowing faintly in response to the surge of magic in the air.
“I understand,” I said. “And I respect that, Dorian. I would never want to put you in an awkward position or jeopardize your career.”
“I propose we take things slow,” Dorian continued. “Focus on helping you control your magic and unraveling the mystery of this mark. And when the semester ends or Professor Reedy returns, whichever comes first, we can revisit this conversation. Explore what this connection between us could become, without accusations of impropriety hanging over our heads.”
As if to emphasize his point, I felt the subtle brush of his magic against mine—warm and familiar, like autumn sunshine on old stones. Our powers had always resonated this way, from the very first lesson. It was like finding a harmony I didn't know I'd been missing, a song I somehow already knew the words to.
“It's not just about feelings, is it?” I asked softly. “Our magic...”
“Recognizes each other,” he finished, his voice rough. “Yes. It's rare, that kind of magical compatibility. The kind the old books write about in terms that sound more like poetry than spell craft.”
I nodded slowly, a wistful smile tugging at my lips. “A necromantic mystery and a forbidden romance. Sounds like something straight out of one of those penny dreadfuls they sell down at the bookshop.”
Dorian chuckled, the sound warm and rich like honey. “Ah, but those stories pale in comparison to the real thing, don't they? No fictional hero could hold a candle to you, Ren Wickens.”
I ducked my head, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks at Dorian's compliment. It was strange, being on the receiving end of such praise from someone I admired so deeply. A part of me wanted to deflect, to brush off his words with a self-deprecating joke like I usually did. But something in Dorian's gaze stopped me, a sincerity that made me want to believe, even just for a moment, that I could be the hero of my own story.
“So,” I said, clearing my throat. “Where do we start? With the research into the binding rune, I mean.”
Dorian's eyes sparkled with amusement, no doubt at my less than subtle attempt to change the subject. But he didn't press, instead rising from the bed and crossing to one of the many bookshelves lining the walls.
“I've been combing through every text I can find on ancient runic magic,” he said, running his fingers along the spines of the leather-bound volumes. “But so far, I haven't come across anything that exactly matches the mark on your brow. The research I gave you to complete is the closest I could come, so our next moves hinge entirely on your results.”
I took a deep breath, my mind flashing back to the hours I'd spent hunched over ancient tomes, deciphering the cryptic runes Dorian had tasked me with researching. It had been like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing, the symbols seeming to shift and change every time I thought I had a grasp on their meaning.
“It's like the runes are a language all their own,” I said, “but one that's been broken down and put back together in a way that doesn't quite make sense. The individual components are familiar. They’re symbols for binding, ownership, control. But the way they're arranged is... wrong. Like a sentence with all the right words, but in the wrong order.”
Dorian hummed thoughtfully, plucking the book from the shelf and flipping through the pages with a practiced hand. “Runes are an art, not a science. The arrangement of the symbols is as important as the symbols themselves.”
I frowned, trying to wrap my head around the intricacies of runic magic. “So you're saying that whoever created this binding rune on me deliberately arranged the symbols in a way that doesn't follow the established rules? Like they're making up their own twisted language?”
“Precisely,” Dorian said, snapping the book shut and tossing it to me. “Which means that in order to unravel the meaning behind the mark, we'll need to approach it from a different angle. Think outside the proverbial box, as it were.”
I picked up the book Dorian had tossed me, turning it over in my hands. The leather cover was worn and cracked with age, the pages yellowed and brittle. But it was the name embossed on the spine that caught my attention, making my eyes widen in disbelief.
“Erasmus Cavendish,” I breathed, tracing my finger over the faded gold lettering. “ The Erasmus Cavendish? The one who wrote A Treatise on the Arcane Tongues of the Ancient World ?”
Dorian nodded, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “The very same. Cavendish was a pioneer in the field of arcane linguistics, a man centuries ahead of his time. If anyone can help us decipher the meaning behind your mark, it's him.”
I frowned. “But he’s been dead for over four hundred years. How can he possibly help us?”
“My dear Ren,” he said with a slow, mischievous smile. “Are we necromancers or are we not?”
“Well, yes, but to summon a spirit that old would require a major ritual and rare arcane components!”
Dorian's eyes sparkled with excitement, his smile widening into a grin that was equal parts exhilaration and mischief. “Precisely!”
“And permission from Dean Vane,” I pointed out. It was an academy rule that all major rituals had to be approved by the appropriate program’s dean.
“You leave Vane to me,” Dorian said. “Give me a few days to bring together all the necessary components, and then you and I will perform the ritual together.”
I hugged the ancient book to my chest, feeling a thrill of anticipation course through me. Working with Dorian to summon Erasmus Cavendish’s spirit? It was both daunting and exhilarating, like stepping into a story I’d only ever read about.
Dorian glanced at me, his eyes warm but with a hint of caution. “This will be intense, Ren. If any of this feels like too much, just say the word.”
I shook my head, grinning despite myself. “Are you kidding? The chance to talk to a spirit that old doesn’t come around often. I’m in.”
Dorian’s face softened, the lines of concern fading into a smile. “Very well. I’ll start making preparations.” He gave Bones a final pat. “You rest up. I’m going to make some more tea and when you’re feeling better, I’ll walk you back to your dorm room.”
I nodded, the weight of the old book grounding me as excitement and a touch of nerves fluttered in my chest. Bones gave a soft, clinking wag of his tail, as if to cheer me on, and I reached down to scratch behind his bony ears. The whole moment felt strangely like home.
Dorian moved toward the small kitchen, lighting another candle and filling the teapot. The cottage was quiet except for the soft whistle of the kettle and the rustle of pages as I flipped through the ancient book, unable to resist another look.
As I sat there, anticipation warming me more than the tea ever could, I found myself already imagining what lay ahead. And for the first time all afternoon, the danger, the mystery, even the mark on my brow, all felt just a little less daunting, a little more manageable, with Dorian by my side.