12. The Scholar and the Sacrifice
12
The Scholar and the Sacrifice
Dorian
I led Ren into the prepared ritual chamber just two days later. Obtaining permission from Dean Vane to conduct this summoning had required no small measure of persuasion on my part. He wasn’t pleased about me performing the ritual with Ren as my second. Not unexpected, considering his earlier bias against the lad. Vane would’ve preferred I work with one of the legacy students. He was more concerned about shoring up donations to expand the eldritch magic program. Ultimately, however, he gave in. The man was a lot of bluster some days, but very rarely showed any bite.
The chamber itself was a testament to the quaint charm of Blackstone Academy. The stone walls were lined with bookshelves, their aged wood laden with ancient tomes of necromantic lore, their spines whispering secrets in forgotten tongues. Small antique specimen jars lined the windowsills, filled with various magical ingredients that caught and refracted the candlelight: dried moonflowers, preserved in eternal bloom; iridescent moth wings that still flickered with residual magic and various crystals that seemed to pulse in time with our heartbeats.
I'd spent hours preparing the space, weaving protection spells into every corner. The whole room smelled of old books, beeswax, and something deeper, like autumn rain on cemetery stones.
I began to prepare the ritual space, arranging the arcane ingredients upon the central altar with meticulous precision. A fragment of one of Erasmus Cavendish’s original writings would serve as our focal point, hopefully appealing to the spirit’s vanity. Beside that, I placed an antique quill and ink. I was unable to obtain anything from Erasmus’ era in the 1400s, but the quill was at least as old as the American revolution, if not older. Around the objects, I sprinkled a mix of blackened salt, bone dust, and graveyard dirt obtained from my last visit to Oxford.
Ren watched intently as I placed each item. “The placement of objects isn’t so much a science as it is an art,” I explained. “When performing such rituals, it’s important to use items that will appeal to the particular spirit you want to guide. The stronger the association between the spirit and the objects used, the more likely you are to have success. Biological material is, of course, the best option, but after so many years most of Erasmus’ bones are too fragile to move. The one exception is his skull, which has been preserved by the Council for Arcane Historical Preservation.”
I handed him a bundle of sage. Our fingers brushed briefly, and I felt that familiar spark of magic between us. It made maintaining professional distance increasingly difficult, especially in intimate spaces like this, with candlelight painting shadows across his face and the air thick with ritual magic.
I watched as he moved through the space with growing confidence, his movements precise yet graceful. He'd come so far from the uncertain student who'd first walked into my classroom, and seeing him now, competent and focused despite everything he faced, made my heart swell with equal parts pride and something far more dangerous.
“Now, light the sage and use the smoke to cleanse the space, starting in the East and moving clockwise,” I guided him, watching as he followed my directions with a determined grace. The fragrant smoke curled around us, purifying the air and preparing the way for our summoned guest.
“Remember Ren, each element must be placed with intention. The spirits respond to the energy we imbue into the ritual space.” I carefully removed Erasmus’ skull from where I’d placed it on the shelf, blowing a layer of dust from it and held it out to Ren. “Place the skull atop the manuscript fragment, focusing on your intent.”
“How should I place it?” he asked.
“Use your intuition. Tap into that power in your veins, Ren. Let it guide you.”
Ren nodded, his brows knitted in concentration as he followed my lead. A lock of his raven hair fell across his forehead, grazing the edge of that ominous rune. Without thinking, I reached out and tenderly tucked it back, my knuckles grazing the warmth of his skin. He glanced up at me, surprise and something softer flickering in his eyes.
I offered him a reassuring smile, ignoring the quickening of my own pulse. “Trust yourself, Ren. You have good instincts.”
Ren took a deep breath and closed his eyes, his hands hovering over the skull. I watched as he centered himself, feeling the energy of the room, the weight of the ritual. After a moment, he gently placed the skull atop the manuscript, aligning it just so. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows across his face, highlighting the determined set of his jaw.
“Well done,” I murmured, my voice soft in the sacred hush of the chamber. “Now, we begin.”
I took my place opposite Ren, the altar between us. Our eyes met across the flickering candlelight, a silent understanding passing between us. In this moment, we were not just teacher and student, but partners.
I began to chant, the ancient words rolling off my tongue, echoing through the chamber. Ren joined me, his voice weaving with mine, creating a haunting harmony. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of sage and the tang of magic. The flames of the candles burned brighter, higher, as if fueled by our invocation.
As our chanting reached a crescendo, a gust of icy wind swept through the room, extinguishing the candles in one fell swoop. In the sudden darkness, a spectral glow began to emanate from Erasmus' skull, growing brighter and brighter until it coalesced into the translucent form of the long-dead arcane linguist.
Erasmus Cavendish's ghostly form hovered before us, his robes a tattered remnant of their former 14th-century splendor. He regarded us with a mixture of curiosity and mild annoyance, his translucent features bearing the marks of a distinguished scholar.
“Who hath y-somoned me fro myn everelasting reste, and to what ende? Speke now, or elles ich shal gon.” Erasmus spoke, his words a lyrical cascade of Middle English, the cadence measured and formal.
I blinked, momentarily taken aback by the archaic language. In my haste to summon the esteemed linguist, I had forgotten the necessity of a translation spell. With a rueful smile, I made a subtle adjustment to the ritual, weaving in an incantation to bridge the gap of centuries between our tongues.
“Ah, forgive me, Master Cavendish,” I said, bowing my head in respect. “I am Professor Dorian Crowe, and this is my apprentice, Ren Wickens. We have summoned you here today to seek your unparalleled expertise in a matter of great importance.”
Erasmus' ghostly brows arched, a flicker of interest sparking in his translucent eyes. “And what matter might that be, Professor Crowe? What knowledge do you seek that requires the counsel of one long departed from the mortal realm?”
I gestured towards Ren, my voice steady and assured. “My apprentice bears a mark upon his brow, a rune of unknown origin and purpose. We have exhausted our own considerable resources in attempting to decipher its meaning, but to no avail. It is our hope that your unrivaled mastery of arcane linguistics might shed light on this enigma, and perhaps guide us towards a solution.”
Erasmus drifted closer, his translucent robes billowing in an unseen breeze. His eyes, sharp and discerning even in death, fixed upon the rune etched into Ren's forehead. “Intriguing,” he murmured. “And how did you come to get this mark?”
Ren's eyes darted to mine. I offered him a gentle nod.
“I was attacked,” Ren stated, “by a tortured spirit. Well, several. They’d been bound together against their will and they were in such pain…”
The spectral linguist circled Ren, his gaze fixed upon the rune etched into his forehead. “I see. Most interesting indeed.”
Erasmus hovered his translucent hand over Ren's forehead, ghostly fingers tracing the air above the rune. Ren remained perfectly still, though I could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight furrow of his brow.
“This mark, it is of ancient Celtic origin,” Erasmus intoned, his voice taking on a distant quality, as if he were peering into the mists of time. “A sigil used by an ancient cult that worshipped the eldritch god Dagon. They were known for their... unsavory practices.”
A chill ran down my spine at the mention of Dagon. The very name seemed to darken the air, the candles flickering nervously in their pools of melted wax. I had come across whispers of this deity in my studies, always in the most obscure and esoteric of texts. A primordial being associated with the depths of the ocean, with madness and transformation. Never had I imagined it would have a connection to Ren.
“Unsavory practices?” I prompted.
Erasmus nodded gravely. “Yes. The mark upon your brow, young Wickens, is a sigil of selection. It designates you as an intended sacrifice to Dagon, a vessel through which the cult believed they could channel the god's power.”
A wave of cold dread washed over me. A sacrifice. Ren, my brilliant and determined apprentice, marked for such a grim fate. It was unthinkable.
I stepped closer to Ren, my hand coming to rest on his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance and protection. He glanced up at me, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of fear and resolute bravery. Even in the face of this chilling revelation, he held himself with a quiet strength that never ceased to amaze me.
“Erasmus,” I said. “Tell us more about this cult, their practices. How was the sacrifice chosen? What did the ritual entail?”
The ghostly linguist regarded me solemnly, the weight of centuries heavy in his gaze. “The cult of Dagon was known for their obsession with immortality. They believed that by offering a worthy vessel to their god, they could gain eternal life. The selection process was complex, involving a series of arcane rituals designed to test the potential sacrifice's strength of will and purity of spirit.”
He drifted closer to Ren, translucent fingers hovering just above the rune. “This mark is but the first step. It identifies young Wickens as a candidate, but the process is not yet complete. Another ritual must be performed, one that will bind his soul irrevocably to Dagon.”
The words hung heavy in the air, a chilling portent of what lay ahead. I could feel Ren's tension beneath my hand, and all it made me want to do was scoop him up, squeeze him tight, and tell him everything was going to be all right.
“Is there a way to remove the mark?” I asked, my voice steady despite the dread coiling in my gut. “To sever the connection before the final ritual can be performed?”
Erasmus' translucent brow furrowed, his gaze distant, as if consulting some unseen library of arcane knowledge. “It may be possible,” he murmured after a long moment. “Not all marks hold fast. There are tales of bonds greater than those forged by dark gods... yet they are rare indeed. When a soul knows its own name, its true shape, and finds itself mirrored in the heart of another, it becomes a force not easily claimed. Such a soul may even defy promises made to the old ones.”
Ren's eyes widened as he absorbed Erasmus's cryptic words. I could practically see the gears turning in his brilliant mind, trying to parse out the meaning behind the riddle.
“Bonds greater than those forged by dark gods,” Ren repeated softly. “A soul knowing its true shape...” He glanced up at me, a glimmer of hope and something else, something tender and unnamed, flickering in his dark eyes.
My heart stumbled in my chest. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to gather Ren in my arms, to shield him from the sinister forces that sought to claim him. But I couldn't. Not yet.
I cleared my throat, turning back to Erasmus. “Thank you, Master Cavendish. Your insight has been invaluable. Is there anything else you can tell us about the cult, or the rituals involved in the sacrifice?”
The ghostly linguist shook his head, his form beginning to flicker and fade at the edges. “I fear my time grows short. The veil between worlds is not easily held open. But know this: the cult of Dagon was not easily thwarted. They were patient, calculating, and utterly ruthless in their pursuit of immortality. If they have marked young Wickens, they will not rest until the ritual is complete. Remain vigilant. Hold fast to that which is dearest and you may yet thwart them.”
With those final, ominous words, Erasmus Cavendish's spectral form dissipated, his translucent robes dissolving into wisps of ethereal mist. The candles sputtered back to life, their warm glow a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in my bones.
I turned to Ren, my hand still resting on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Ren drew in a shaky breath, his gaze meeting mine with a vulnerability that tugged at my heartstrings. “Dorian, I...” He swallowed, fingers twisting in the hem of his sleeve, a nervous habit I'd come to find endearing over our weeks of study together. His magic reached for mine unconsciously. “I know we said we'd keep things professional, but... would it be inappropriate for me to ask for a hug right now?”
A wave of tenderness washed over me, and I felt the corners of my mouth lift in a gentle smile. “My dear Ren, given the circumstances, I believe a hug would be wholly appropriate.”
I opened my arms, and Ren stepped into my embrace without hesitation. As I wrapped my arms around his lean frame, I was struck by how perfectly he fit against me. Like we were two pieces of an ancient puzzle finally sliding into place. His magic reached for mine instinctively, death magic recognizing death magic, creating a resonance that made the candles flicker and the dried herbs release their essential oils in gentle waves. Even the spirits seemed to hold their breath, as if recognizing something profound in this moment.
I could feel his heartbeat against my chest, steady despite everything, and found myself cataloging every detail: the way his fingers curled into my shirt, the subtle scent of ritual herbs clinging to his hair, the warmth of him seeping through layers of professional restraint I'd built up over the years.
I inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of him—a delicate blend of sage from the ritual, the earthy musk of graveyard soil, and something uniquely Ren, warm and inviting. It was a scent I knew I would forever associate with this moment, with the realization of just how much this brilliant, brave young man had come to mean to me.
We held each other for a long moment, the silence of the ritual chamber broken only by the soft crackle of the candles and the steady rhythm of our hearts beating in tandem. Ren's breath was warm against my neck, and I could feel the rise and fall of his chest pressed against mine. In that sacred space, with the weight of Erasmus' revelations still hanging in the air, it felt as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of us, entwined in an embrace that transcended the boundaries of teacher and student.
“Dorian?” Ren said at length.
“Yes, dear boy?”
“I’m not okay. I’m scared.”
My heart constricted at Ren's vulnerable admission. I tightened my embrace, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, my fingers threading through his soft, dark hair. “I know, Ren. I know. But you're not alone in this. We're going to figure it out together, I promise you.”
Ren's fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt, clinging to me. “I don't want to be a sacrifice. I don't want to be claimed by some eldritch god.” His voice wavered, thick with unshed tears.
I drew back just enough to cup his face in my hands, tilting his head up so that our eyes met. In the warm glow of the candles, Ren's eyes were pools of darkness, shimmering with fear and a desperate, fragile hope. “Listen to me, Ren Wickens. You are not going to be anyone's sacrifice. Not on my watch. We will find a way to remove this mark, and I will be by your side the entire time. No one, not even a god, has the right to decide who you are. You are your own man.”
Ren blinked rapidly, a single tear escaping to trail down his cheek.
I brushed away the tear with my thumb, my touch lingering on the soft skin of his cheek. Ren leaned into the caress, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When he opened them again, there was a newfound determination burning in their depths, a spark of resilience that took my breath away.
“Thank you, Dorian,” he whispered. “For being here. For believing in me.”
“Always, my dear boy. Always.”
We stood there a moment longer, foreheads pressed together, sharing breath and strength. In that sacred space, with the remnants of the ritual still hanging in the air, it felt as if something had shifted between us. The bond we shared had deepened with an unspoken acknowledgment of the feelings we had both been dancing around for so long.
But exploring those feelings would have to wait. We had work to do, research to conduct, and a plan to formulate. Ren's safety and freedom were the priority.
Reluctantly, I stepped back, my hands sliding from Ren's face to rest on his shoulders. “We should clean up the ritual space and head to the library. We have a lot of ground to cover if we're going to find a way to break this mark.”
Ren nodded, squaring his shoulders with a determined set to his jaw. “Let's get to work.”
As we began clearing away the ritual components, I couldn't help but notice how naturally Ren moved through the space, handling centuries-old artifacts with practiced care. His fingers traced the spines of ancient books with a reverence that spoke of true understanding. Even the spirits seemed to recognize something in him, a scholar's soul wrapped in a necromancer's power. The candles cast his shadow large against the book-lined walls, and for a moment, I could see the powerful mage he was becoming.