20. The Beacon
20
The Beacon
Dorian
The laboratory hummed with ethereal energy, the air thick with the whispers of spirits long passed. Ancient grimoires lined black walnut shelves, their leather bindings worn soft with age and use. A collection of antique silver instruments caught the candlelight, each one designed to measure different aspects of spiritual energy.
My ritual tools were laid out on a worn oak table—an array of tarnished silver bells that could wake the dead, bone-handled knives for cutting through spiritual bonds, and delicate glass vials filled with water from sacred wells.
In the center of the room lay a raised dais, draped in rich, midnight-blue velvet that seemed to drink in the flickering candlelight. It was upon this altar that Ren would soon recline, his body a conduit for the necromantic forces we sought to harness.
The air was thick with protective magic. I'd spent hours preparing the space, weaving protection spells into every corner, making sure Ren would be safe during this delicate working.
Our magic was already reaching for each other, silver threads of power weaving between us like love letters written in starlight. Ever since our intimate connection, our powers had grown more attuned, more eager to dance together.
As Ren approached the dais, I couldn't help but admire the sight of him in profile. He was the most handsome specimen of man I’d ever worked with. He was also the only student I’d ever crossed that line with, perhaps against my better judgement. But the heart wanted what it wanted, and I would rather risk my position at the academy than risk losing an opportunity to court Ren properly.
Grim, Ren's devoted familiar, hovered nearby on a shelf, happily munching away at an old tome I’d provided. His body had grown plump and emitted a soft, spectral luminescence, a sure sign that he was feeding on a steady diet of something magical.
“So, how does this work, exactly?” Ren asked. He turned to me with his head tilted to one side.
I offered Ren a reassuring smile, my voice soft as I explained, “Your power, my dear boy, is a beacon. A siren's call to the spirits that linger in the aether. And like any beacon, it shines brightest when fueled by the intensity of your emotions and physical sensations.” I stepped closer, my fingers ghosting along the velvet dais. “Pain and pleasure, ecstasy and agony... these are the currents that guide all magic. It is why, for most spells, a clear mind and clear intent are paramount. Generally, having our own thoughts and feelings invade the magic we are trying to shape doesn’t go well. But you…You’re the exception.” My fingers traced the curve of Ren's jaw, tilting his chin up so our eyes met. “You, Ren, have a rare gift. Your empathy draws spirits to you naturally, especially those seeking assistance. But tonight, we can’t wait for them to come to us. We must take the lead. This time, you will not simply be a beacon, guiding them from afar. Tonight, you must be an anchor of light , a tether that calls the spirits to you with purpose and precision. You will pull them close, sifting through their energy, learning which might serve our needs. Then you will act as a conduit, giving them a voice, a way to speak from beyond the veil.”
Ren's dark eyes widened, a flicker of uncertainty dancing within their depths. “But what if I can't control it? What if I let something through that I shouldn't?”
I brushed my thumb over his bottom lip. “That's why I'm here, mo stóirín. To guide you, to catch you if you fall.” I leaned in closer, my breath warm against his ear. “Do you trust me, Ren?”
He shivered, a delicate flush coloring his cheeks as he nodded. “Of course I do.”
“Then trust me to keep you safe,” I said, stepping back to give him space. “Now, lie down on the dais and close your eyes.”
Ren settled onto the velvet dais, his body sinking into the plush fabric as he closed his eyes. He kept his shoulders stiff, hands folded on his stomach, tense and alert.
I let my voice drop to a low, soothing timbre as I began to guide him. “Breathe deeply, Ren. Let the air fill your lungs, then release it slowly. With each breath, feel your body grow heavier, sinking deeper into the embrace of the magic. Let it flow around you, through you.”
Our magic began to twine together of its own accord, silver threads of power weaving through the air like cosmic lace. Every point where our powers touched sent sparks of awareness through me, and I had to force myself to maintain professional distance despite how desperately I wanted to touch him.
“That's it,” I murmured, watching his magic rise like mist from his skin. “Let yourself feel everything, every sensation, every emotion.” My voice dropped lower, more intimate. “Remember how it feels when I touch you, when our magic dances together. Let that feeling guide you.”
Ren's breath hitched, a flush spreading across his cheeks as his magic responded eagerly to my words.
“What do you feel?” I whispered, my own pulse quickening at the sight of him, so open and vulnerable.
Ren's voice was barely above a whisper as he confessed, “Desire. I feel... desire.” His eyes remained closed, but I could see the rapid flutter of his pulse at his throat, the way his fingers curled into the velvet beneath him.
“Very good,” I praised, letting my voice drop an octave. “Now, imagine that desire as a glowing ember within you. With each breath, you fan the flames, stoking the heat until it grows into an inferno.”
I watched Ren writhe on the velvet dais, his magic rising from his skin like heat waves, and had to forcibly remind myself that this was a ritual, not foreplay. Yet seeing him pliant, responsive, gasping at each brush of our magic made my body respond with a hunger that was entirely inappropriate for the task at hand.
“There's something you should understand,” I said, my voice rougher than intended. “This type of ritual... it draws on intimate energy. The connection between us, the desire...” I swallowed hard as Ren's eyes fluttered open to meet mine. “It's natural to feel aroused. The magic feeds on that energy.”
“Is that why you chose this method?” Ren asked softly, a knowing glint in his dark eyes.
“Yes,” I admitted, shifting slightly to ease the growing tightness in my trousers. “Our connection, the way our magic responds to each other… It creates the perfect conduit. But we must stay focused on the task.”
Even as I said it, my magic reached for his instinctively, drawing a moan from his lips that sent heat straight to my groin. Gods, the sounds he made... just like when I had him trembling beneath my hands the night before. I wanted nothing more than to climb onto that dais and claim his mouth, to feel him arch against me as I—
No. Later. There would be time for that later.
“Feel how your magic wants to reach for mine,” I continued, forcing my voice to remain steady despite my growing arousal. Each surge of his power against mine was like a caress, reminding me of how perfectly he yielded to my touch, how beautifully he responded to my guidance. “Let it build slowly, that need for connection.” The contact made him gasp, his magic surging to meet mine with an eagerness that made my breath catch. “That's it, mo stóirín. Don't fight it. Let the pleasure of the connection guide you deeper.”
Our magic twined together, like recognizing like in the most intimate way possible. Each surge of power between us felt like touches in the dark, building a familiar tension that had nothing to do with the ritual and everything to do with how his body remembered my hands on him.
“Dorian,” he breathed, his voice heavy with need as our magic danced together. The sound of my name on his lips in that tone nearly broke my professional resolve.
“Focus on that feeling,” I instructed, my own voice rougher than intended. “Let it fill you completely. Open yourself to it. The spirits will be drawn to that pure energy, that perfect moment of surrender.”
Ren’s lips parted, his breath quickening, but it wasn’t discomfort. It was a quiet surrender to the strange magic at work. He was open, allowing the power to flow into him without resistance, his body relaxing into the pull of it.
“Good boy,” I purred, watching his magic respond instantly to my praise. Just as it had in more intimate moments, the endearment made him shiver, his power surging with need.
The temperature in the room seemed to rise with our shared desire, the air growing thick with more than just magical energy. Every soft gasp, every little movement of his body on that velvet dais tested my control. But this wasn't about my pleasure, not yet. This was about guiding him safely through the ritual, even if watching him submit so beautifully to my magical direction made me ache to show him other ways I could make him surrender.
When spirit energy began to gather around us, it felt almost jarring, cold and ancient compared to the heated intimacy of our magical exchange. The contrast served to remind me of our purpose here, helping me focus past the desperate want coursing through my veins.
“You're doing so beautifully for me, Ren. Now, let me guide you deeper.”
I let my magic press more firmly against his, asserting gentle control over the dance. Like when I had him trembling beneath my hands, his power yielded sweetly to mine, eager to be guided. The surrender in his magic was as intoxicating as the way he'd submitted to my touch the night before.
“That's it,” I murmured, my voice dropping to the tone that I knew made him melt. “Let me take control. Trust me to give you what you need.” Each pulse of my magic against his drew soft, desperate sounds from his throat.
His magic was practically begging now, reaching for mine with the same desperate energy he'd shown when pleading for my touch. I kept my power just out of reach, teaching him patience, making him work for the connection just as I'd made him wait for release.
Suddenly, Ren's back arched off the velvet dais, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp as the spirit energy surged into him. His body went rigid, then relaxed completely, his features smoothing into an eerily calm mask. When his eyes opened, they were no longer his warm dark brown, but a silvery void, endless and ancient. The air around us grew cold, heavy with the presence of something far older than either of us.
Only years of experience kept my voice steady as I asked, “Speak your purpose,” the words serving as a grounding anchor in the rising tide of energy.
The spirit spoke without warmth, its words void of emotion but clear. “He hungers.”
I stiffened. The air thickened with the weight of its utterance, and I felt the shift in the room. “He?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat as the spirit continued, its presence cold and detached.
“The one you seek. Alistair. His hunger is what has awoken us. Dragged us from the deep sleep.”
I glanced at Ren. He was still breathing fast, eyes closed, lost in the current of magic. He wasn’t in pain. There was no fear in his expression, just the quiet intensity of someone channeling something far beyond themselves.
“I don’t understand. Alister isn’t here. He was expelled years ago. How can his hunger have awoken you? And what does it have to do with the spirits we’ve been finding fused together? Is that Alister’s doing somehow?”
The spirit’s presence didn’t shift, its words as cold and clinical as before. “I know only that it disrupts. The veil tears where he feeds. The fabric weakens.”
I frowned, trying to grasp its meaning. “The Veil? How does it tear?”
The spirit’s tone remained unchanged, as if it were recounting facts it had no emotional attachment to. “The rift pulses with his hunger. Spirits caught in its pull are torn, fused together. They scream in agony as they bind to one another. They become something… else. Something not of their own.”
A cold shiver crept up my spine. The image the spirit painted was horrific, and I could almost feel the agony of those trapped spirits bound by Alistair’s rituals.
“They lash out,” the spirit explained in the same detached tone. “The pain of being forced to take forms they do not recognize is overwhelming.”
Ren’s breathing quickened, his lips parting as though trying to speak, but no words came out. He shifted, caught in the current of magic. I could feel the tension in the room rise, like the air before a storm.
“They are fragments of themselves,” the spirit continued. “They are victims of a most grievous crime. Never allowed to heal. Never allowed to… become . And so, they lash out.”
“Become what?” I asked in a whisper.
“Who they are,” the spirit answered. “All things must become . It is the nature of being. These spirits have not been allowed to evolve naturally into their true forms. Instead, they’ve been twisted, forced into shapes they do not recognize.”
I turned to the spirit, my voice tightening. “Why Ren? Why him? Why did Alistair choose him?”
The spirit’s answer came, void of warmth, but unmistakably clear. “Pain. Loss. Despair. Vengeance. These are the spirits you must seek for answers. I know only hunger. Desire. I know his is dark. It…festers. He hungers for life, for retribution, for revenge.”
I gritted my teeth, the weight of the spirit’s words sinking deep. This was never just about power. It wasn’t just some abstract hunger for dominance. Alistair’s thirst for vengeance had only worsened over the years, growing into something dark and sinister. And now, he’d found himself a target.
“Ren,” I whispered, my heart aching as the truth unfolded. “He was chosen to hurt me. He knew it would tear me apart to watch someone I…” I stumbled, unwilling to finish the thought aloud. “To watch him suffer.” I clenched my fists. “How do we stop him?”
The spirit’s voice drifted, thick and slow, echoing like the drip of water in an endless cave. “He seeks a hollow shape… a vessel without shape or voice. But this one…” Its hollow eyes roamed over Ren on the dais, as though admiring a fine piece of art, though twisted by envy or hunger. “This one is not hollow. Not yet.”
I leaned closer, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why does he need Ren?”
“Because,” the spirit murmured, its words almost a sigh, “In his hunger, the dark master does not fill; he consumes. He cannot…become. Without a vessel, he will be consumed by the hunger that drives him.”
I clenched my fists, heart racing. “Then we need to break that bond. Sever the tie between them.”
The spirit’s form flickered, its expression unreadable as it lingered over Ren, the words slow and deliberate. “Find the place where the tether was cast. The ritual site where the darkness anchors him. Disrupt the flow of energy, shatter the chains that bind, and the bond between them will falter. But be wary. Treading upon sacred ground rarely goes well for interlopers.”
“How can I find the ritual site?” I demanded.
The spirit’s eyes glittered darkly, its whisper like the rustle of dead leaves across forgotten graves. “Seek the place where the tides of time have swallowed the dreams of men, where the boundary between land and sea blurs into an endless twilight. There, in the depths of the drowned house of knowledge, you may find the answers you seek.”
I frowned, trying to decipher the spirit's cryptic message. A place where the boundary between land and sea blurs? Where the tides of time have swallowed dreams? It sounded like the ramblings of a mad seer, but I knew better than to dismiss the words of the dead.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” I asked, my voice steady despite the unease crawling up my spine. “Anything at all.”
The spirit tilted its head, regarding me with an unsettling intensity. “The ritual site lies beneath the shadow of the Blackstone, where the first seeds of knowledge were sown. But beware, necromancer. The waters there are deep and dark, and they hold secrets best left undisturbed.”
With those ominous words, the spirit began to fade, its form dissipating like mist in the morning sun. I reached out, as if I could somehow grasp the fleeting tendrils of its essence, but my fingers passed through empty air.
Ren stirred on the altar, his dark lashes fluttering as he slowly emerged from the depths of the trance. A soft groan escaped his lips, his body heavy with the lingering weight of the spirits' presence. I moved to his side, my hand finding his fingers intertwining in a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
“Easy now, mo stóirín,” I murmured, my other hand brushing the damp strands of hair from his forehead. “You're safe. I'm here.”
Ren's eyes opened, hazy and unfocused at first, as if struggling to reconcile the physical world with the ethereal realm he'd just traversed. He blinked slowly, his gaze finally settling on me.
“Dorian?” His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. “What... what happened?”
I helped him sit up, keeping a steadying arm around his waist as he swayed. “You did beautifully, Ren. The spirits spoke through you, offering guidance.”
He leaned into me, his head resting on my shoulder as he caught his breath. “I remember... bits and pieces. It's like trying to hold on to a dream as it fades away.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “There was a name. Alistair.”
I flinched at the mention of my former student’s name.
Ren frowned up at me. “You know him.”
The fire crackled low, casting long shadows in the lab. Ren’s familiar began inching his way up Ren’s side until Ren scooped him up to rest contentedly in his palm, as if sensing the tension in the air.
I sighed. “That I do. Once upon a time, he was among the most promising students I'd ever had the pleasure and frustration of teaching. In some ways, you remind me of him in those early days. He possessed an insatiable curiosity matched only by his aptitude for the arcane. Like you, he came from modest means, and like you, he very much deserved his place here. Yet they say madness and brilliance are often two sides of the same coin. That was true in Alistair’s case, unfortunately.”
“What happened?” Ren asked quietly.
I hesitated, the memories of Alistair’s descent not easy to recount. But Ren deserved the truth, and perhaps by voicing it, I could finally come to terms with my own failings. “Alistair was always ambitious. He was brilliant like you, but without your compassion, your innate understanding that death magic is about honoring transitions, not controlling them. His ambitions grew darker as he became obsessed with the idea of transcending death itself. Not in the gentle way we guide spirits, but in forcing his will upon the natural order.”
Ren shifted slightly, drawing closer, as though bracing himself against the chill of our conversation. “And you didn’t stop him?”
I smiled sadly, a bitter edge to the expression. “I tried. We all did. He was brilliant, but damaged in ways I couldn't heal.” My voice softened with old pain. “I thought I could save him with love and guidance, the way my grandmother had saved me after my parents' death. But some wounds run too deep, and some hungers can never be satisfied.”
I felt Ren's magic reach for mine instinctively, offering comfort. Where Alistair's power had always felt like jagged glass against mine, Ren's was like warm honey, soothing and sweet. “He was drawn to the idea of eternal life," I continued. “But unlike my parents, Alistair's desires twisted into something far more perilous. He sought not just longevity but transcendence beyond mortal confines.”
Ren stirred, and his familiar, Grim, responded by uncoiling slightly, his soft, segmented body wiggling in Ren’s hand. Ren reached down to stroke the caterpillar absently, his fingers smoothing over the creature’s fragile body.
Ren stirred against me, his movements small yet weighted with empathy and curiosity. “He wanted to become a god?”
“In essence,” I replied softly. “Alistair's ritual was complex, far beyond anything I had ever seen. He sought to commune with a dark god, an eldritch being from the deepest reaches of the abyss. A god of hunger and madness, whose name is spoken only in hushed whispers by those foolish enough to seek its favor.”
“Dagon,” Ren guessed, and I nodded.
“The ritual went horribly wrong. Alistair's body was not strong enough to contain the essence of the dark god. It twisted him, warping his flesh and mind until he was barely recognizable as human.”
Ren's breath hitched, his fingers tightening around mine. “He survived?”
“In a manner of speaking. If you can call what became of him surviving . Ultimately, he was expelled from the academy and blacklisted from practicing the arts. He was stripped of his honors and banished from civilized society under threat of arrest by the magical council.”
Ren sat up straighter, pulling back to look at me with wide, worried eyes. “But if he was banished, how is he back? And why would he target me?”
I sighed heavily, the weight of my past mistakes bearing down on me. “I fear it may be my fault, Ren. In my arrogance, I thought I could guide Alistair, temper his ambitions. I saw so much potential in him, just as I see in you. But where you have compassion and a sense of ethics to ground you, Alistair had only an all-consuming hunger for power.”
Ren's brow furrowed. “You can't blame yourself for his choices, Dorian. You see the best in people,” Ren said softly, his dark eyes full of understanding. “It's one of the things I lo—” He caught himself, cheeks flushing. “One of the things that makes you such a good teacher.”
I caught his hand, bringing it to my lips. Even this simple touch sent our magic surging, creating patterns of light and shadow that danced across the walls. “You make me want to be worthy of that faith, mo chroí,” I murmured against his skin. The endearment slipped out unbidden—my heart—more intimate than any I'd used before.
Ren reached out, his hand cupping my cheek, his touch gentle and comforting. “You're only human, Dorian. You did what you thought was best. Alistair's actions are his own, not yours.”
I leaned into his touch, drawing strength from his steady presence. “Thank you, Ren. Your kindness means more than you know.” I took a deep breath, refocusing on the task at hand. “But now we must face the consequences of Alistair's choices and make some of our own. The spirit gave us some cryptic instructions on how to find this ritual site, and once we do, we must disrupt Alistair’s plans for you…and whatever else he’s up to.”
Ren nodded. Grim slowly unfurled from Ren’s hand, his segmented body stretching and twisting in slow, deliberate motions. Ren carefully cradled him in both hands, and I watched as the caterpillar slowly moved up to his shoulder, curling in a loop there as if nesting against him. Ren didn’t flinch, only giving the small creature a soft, affectionate smile before turning back to me.
Ren nodded, his dark eyes filled with a fierce determination that belied his youth. “I'm ready. Whatever it takes, we'll stop him together.”
Grim let out a little squeak of agreement.
“Together,” I agreed, squeezing his hand. “But first, we need to decipher the spirit's clues. A place where the boundary between land and sea blurs, where the tides of time have swallowed dreams...”
Ren frowned thoughtfully. “It sounds like a sunken city, doesn't it? Somewhere that was once thriving but has been lost to the sea.”
I blinked, surprised by his insight. “You may be onto something there, mo stóirín. And the spirit mentioned the Blackstone, where the first seeds of knowledge were sown. That has to be referring to the academy's origins.”
Excitement sparked in Ren's eyes as the pieces began to fall into place. “The academy was originally built on the coast, wasn't it? Before it was moved inland to its current location. Maybe there's something left of the old site, some ruins that have been reclaimed by the sea.”
I nodded slowly, my mind racing with the possibilities. “It's worth investigating. The academy archives might have some old maps or records that could point us in the right direction.”
Ren's fingers curled around mine, his gaze still bright with determination, but I could see the exhaustion creeping in. The shadows of the lab stretched long as the fire flickered low, casting a soft glow on the cluttered workbenches and ancient tomes.
I stood slowly, pulling gently at his hand. “It’s getting late, love. You need to rest. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
Ren looked like he wanted to protest at first, but then quickly changed his mind. “You’re right,” he murmured, his shoulders sagging. He stood and paused, making sure Grim was still gripping his shoulder.
I gave him a small, warm smile. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your room.”
Ren nodded, rising from his seat, though he moved a little slower than usual, as though the day’s strain had finally caught up with him. I followed him out of the lab, the soft echo of our footsteps in the corridor a calming rhythm. We didn’t speak much, the silence comfortable in its own way.
At his door, Ren hesitated, a quiet wariness in his eyes. “Tomorrow, we find it, right?” His voice was soft but unwavering.
“Tomorrow,” I repeated, squeezing his shoulder. “We’ll face whatever comes together.”
He smiled, though it was a little worn around the edges. “Goodnight, Dorian.”
“Goodnight, Ren.” I kissed him gently on the cheek and watched him disappear into his room, the door closing softly behind him.