“Sorry about that…?” Jason mumbled, shooting Alaric and the others a confused glance.

  “What are you looking for anyways? I picked this place to rest for a few weeks because it’s so old and damaged.” The elderly man leaned against the lectern and raised his bushy eyebrows.

  Can we trust him? Alaric bit his tongue. He was a necromancer. He had a small army of skeletons doing his bidding. A crow that served him. And he knew the Bloodrose Witch. But he hadn’t attacked them, and the more he looked at the elderly man, the more sympathy he felt. Probably because he’s the first thing that didn’t attack us on sight.

  “Alaric’s been marked by the Profaned Legion.” Ava stepped forward, pointing at him. “He’s been challenged to a duel, against a knight. We’re no fighters, we are just people. We’re looking for a way to increase his mana, so he at least has a small chance at winning.” She blurted out.

  “Ava!” Clara hissed wide eyed.

  The elderly necromancer narrowed his eyes. “Oh?” He chuckled. “Whatever did you do to anger them this quickly, young man? They prefer to lurk in the dark, not get involved directly in the story.”

  The story? He couldn’t help but notice the odd choice of words. “We came across one of them. Killed him. I used the Chthonian’s Mark on his steed.”

  The necromancer’s eyes widened in shock for a split second before he broke into a laughter. “You stole his horse?” He asked once his bellowing laughter subsided somewhat. His eyes glimmered with what seemed to be enjoyment. “Oh – that explains the sword too!” He exclaimed, chuckling with a raspy voice. “But that can’t be all. A duel is a great deal – they wouldn’t challenge a common man to one unless he had drawn the gaze of many gods… and the ire of at least some demons.”

  Seeing Alaric’s expression, his smile slowly faded. “Oh, so you did pull so many gazes on you.” He glanced at Ava, then Clara. “And you’re not the only God Blessed in your group. How intriguing. I admit the Mark makes you quite an interesting fellow, but for so many gods to have their eyes on you instead of these two skilled women…” he shook his head. “Intriguing indeed. So you came here to find… what? A weapon? Powerful magic? I don’t understand why you’d be here instead of honing your swordplay right now. This place hardly looks full of valuables.”

  “I need to find a mana core. Or something similar.” Alaric admitted. “The Witch’s journals claim that she used mana cores to augment her powers, to make it so she could enthral more people.”

  The necromancer pursed his dry lips. “Is that so?” He muttered, running his fingers through his long, white beard. “I suppose it’s doable, though I wouldn’t know how. Mana cores are valuable, and finite.” He narrowed his eyes. His voice grew darker and deeper. “They are made at a great cost and used by the Profaned Legion to create new threats and challenges. All for the likes of you.”

  “What great cost?”

  “That hardly matters, doesn’t it? A word of advice, young man – try and keep your focus on your most urgent goal. Your mind seems scattered. How will your survive if you keep getting distracted like that?” He gently continued petting the crow as he paused for a few short moments. “You need more mana – I assume for the Mark. You should use it as much as you can. You should build a Core Nexus. It’ll help you in the long run.” He hesitated for a split second. “Assuming you survive your duel, of course.”

  “What’s a core nexus?” Clara piped up sheepishly.

  Her question made the necromancer fold his arms. “You don’t know? Oh, the gods… every mage should know this!” he cried out. “The others are just like this too – bumbling idiots the lot of them. One of them even refused to learn Enochian.” He shook his head with a mix of annoyance and regret. “A core nexus is a structure. You link your own mana to the nexus. As long as the link isn’t broken or interrupted, you get to use the mana from the nexus as if it’s your own. The more you expand your nexus, the more mana you get.” He looked at them one by one, almost as if he was expecting them to know this. His shoulders dropped when he realised none of this sounded familiar to any of them.

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  “Can you teach me how to build one?” Alaric finally asked.

  “Of course!” The necromancer’s eyes lit up. “It’s all very simple really. Every mage learns how to do it. Its why we make ourselves all those fancy towers after all. Here, look,” he raised his hand. Green flames appeared on his fingertips before he knelt down and started drawing something on the ground. “This is in Enochian. It means-“

  “Magic,” Alaric read the script out loud. “Arcane link?” He hesitated. Despite being able to read the language, he found it a bit difficult to understand.

  The necromancer glanced at him. “You know Enochian?”

  “A ‘gift’ from the Empyrean.”

  The elderly man visibly flinched. “You got a blessing from the God Above?” He didn’t even bother to hide the suspicion and disbelief in his voice.

  “A curse, apparently.” Reuban piped up. “One that nearly killed him too.”

  “One that should have. You had the entire Enochian script and language etched into your mind, hadn’t you?” When Alaric nodded, the man’s already wrinkled forehead scrunched up. “A prime target for the Profaned Legion indeed. I’m not quite sure how you survived the process, but it’s a good thing you did. Knowing Enochian surely will help you greatly in the trials yet to come.”

  “There are more trials?” Clara’s voice trembled.

  “Of course. The gods and demons demand it, and the heavenly host makes it so.” He glanced upwards with a wary expression. “I have spoken too much. Memorise this symbol, boy.” He pointed at the centre of the script he wrote in a circle – an upside down triangle fit perfectly in a circle. A single line was drawn from the middle. “Etch this into objects of power. Write the script around them. Bless it with your blood. It will start forming into a nexus.”

  “Wait – what do you mean by objects of power?”

  The necromancer smirked. “A part of my nexus is an ancient graveyard where heroes were buried. Power is in stories. So find something old – something that held meaning once. Perhaps still does. Perhaps it’s a statue, perhaps it’s a jewel that once belonged to a queen. Make them yours, and you’ll see how quickly you grow your strength.” He got back up to his feet. “I must leave now. I have said too much, and I have people who await my return.”

  “What people?” Ava asked, not bothering to hide her suspicion.

  “People like you. Survivors of the Fall. The Bloodrose Witch chose to be your adversary in her bloodlust. I chose to aid. I have that option, thanks to the god I got a blessing from. I’m protecting them. I will do so for however long I can.” He pointed towards the windows to the east. “Far beyond the mountains, they hid inside a church. They are no fighters – they’re makers. I will visit here again, in exactly one month. Visit me again, young man. And please – leave the skeletons be.”

  “Thank you.” Alaric tried to hide his disappointment. Why couldn’t you protect us too? “I never expected a necromancer to be… well, quite this nice.”

  The elderly man chuckled. “And I never expected the owner of the Chthonian’s Mark to be a kind and gentle young man. My skeletons are workers. Your wolves are protectors. It’s hardly different, is it?” He smiled.

  Once Alaric had written everything he learned into his notebook, the necromancer bid them farewell and rode off on his own steed.

  “Oh,” Ava muttered as they climbed back onto the carriage. “I forgot to ask what he was doing there.”

  “I have a good guess at that.” Lochlan smirked. “The guy was collecting Verdant Thyme.” Seeing Jason’s confused expression, he quickly added. “The herb we used to heal Wyrdflame wounds. Someone in the group he was protecting must have gotten himself wounded by the Profaned Legion.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Jason exclaimed, then he grabbed onto the edge of the carriage since Cinder started pulling it back towards Castle Lorne.

  “A few leaves were poking out of his satchel.” Lochlan shrugged. “But more importantly – he was the first nice person we met here, am I right? A necromancer! A nice necromancer!” He exclaimed.

  It certainly was unexpected. Alaric couldn’t help but chuckle. I’m glad we didn’t attack on sight. Not that he was sure they could defeat the guy. Despite his frail looking body and slow, unsteady steps, the man spoke with such ease that he was convinced he was extremely powerful.

  How else can he protect so many people from all the threats they’ve faced?

  They continued chatting on their way back to the castle. It was a slow, uneventful journey that gave Alaric some time to try and think.

  Powerful, old objects. Things that hold history. Things that have a story of their own. The ruined church was the first thing that came to mind, but that place wasn’t safe anymore. He needed something safer, somewhere he could protect. Castle Lorne itself? He sincerely doubted that it would be a good choice. He wished the elderly man gave him more details, but he seemed somewhat in a hurry towards the end.

  Clearly he knew things he didn’t feel safe to share. Was it because the gods were listening? He decided to ask the next time they met. If they met.