The thick smell of candle wax and incense filled the air of Azrath's family library. It was a dimly lit room, with heavy oak shelves lining the walls, stacked high with tomes bound in dark, brittle leather. The air felt oppressive, heavy with knowledge and secrets that Azrath could barely comprehend. At only ten years old, he had already learned more about the arcane than most adults in their village, thanks to his father, a necromancer whose presence there was as commanding as it was feared.

  Azrath’s father, a tall, gaunt figure, sat at the center of the room, his long, bony fingers tracing the edges of an ancient tome. His face was pale, his eyes sharp and focused, as though they had seen countless things no one should ever see. The shadows from the candlelight danced across his features, making him appear even more imposing.

  “You are ready to continue your studies, Azrath,” his father’s voice resonated, deep and unyielding. “You have shown promise, more than I expected at your age. But understand, necromancy is not a simple path to power. It is not a hobby. It is a responsibility—a weight that will follow you for the rest of your life.”

  Azrath, perched on a small stool by the hearth, nodded eagerly. He had always been fascinated by the forbidden implications of his art. At a young age, he had been drawn to the books his father kept locked away in this very study. His interest in death and the afterlife was always innate, a curiosity that had only grown stronger as he learned more about the ancient practices of necromancy. His intent had recently grown philosophical.

  "I understand, Father," Azrath said quietly, his eyes wide with both fear and excitement. The warmth of the fire crackled beside him, but his heart felt cold with anticipation. His father’s approval was everything.

  His father’s gaze shifted from the book to his son, and for a moment, there was a flash of something like sorrow in his eyes—something Azrath could not quite name.

  “There is one lesson you must learn before we proceed,” his father continued. “Necromancy gives you the power to command life and death, to raise the fallen and bind the spirits. But it is a gift that comes at a great cost. There is never a reason to raise a loved one.”

  Azrath’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean, Father? My recent studies involve…I guess…Well…I could bring back those who have been cared about”

  His father’s expression darkened, his voice softening but taking on an edge of authority that Azrath had never heard before.

  “You can,” his father replied slowly. “But you must not. The consequences of such a thing are *irreversible*. A person who is returned to this world—forced to return—will never be the same. You may bring their body back, but their soul? That is a different matter entirely.”

  Azrath’s young mind struggled to grasp the weight of his father’s words. He had seen his father raise the dead on several occasions—he had watched in awe as skeletons and spirits obeyed his commands. But this... this was different. This wasn’t just about raising the fallen for power or knowledge. This was about something deeply personal.

  “I don’t understand,” Azrath said quietly, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and curiosity. “If I can bring someone back... why shouldn’t I?”

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  His father leaned forward, eyes locking onto Azrath with an intensity that made him feel both seen and small at once.

  “Because death is not something to be tampered with lightly,” his father said, his tone stern. “The dead are gone for a reason. They have moved on. They cannot be forced back into a life they no longer belong to. To disturb that balance is to invite suffering—not just for the one you raise, but for you as well. You will feel it, Azrath. The pain. The guilt. And there will come a time when you will wish you had never dabbled in such forbidden things.”

  Azrath’s mind swirled with questions. His mother had died when he was just a toddler, and his father had always been the one raising him. He had never known what it was like to have a family outside of his father’s cryptic teachings. What would it be like to see someone he loved again? What would it be like for anyone to be reunited with someone from their past?

  “Will they... will they remember?” Azrath asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  “No,” his father replied sharply. “The soul is lost. What remains is an empty vessel—a puppet without the will to guide it. The body will move, speak, and behave as though it is alive, but it is nothing more than a shadow of the person it once was.

  And if you think you can use other means to bring back a loved one, Azrath, think again. They will not thank you. They will not embrace you. They will be twisted by their return, and you will see the horror of your own actions.”

  Azrath shuddered. He had been so sure that he could somehow use necromancy to undo death—perhaps to even bring his mother back. But his father’s words sank deep into him, like cold fingers touching his spine. There was something irreversible about death, something final.

  His father paused, as if weighing the right moment to impart his final lesson. Then he placed a hand on Azrath’s shoulder—cold, but firm.

  “Azrath,” he said, his voice quiet but powerful, “there are some things that are meant to stay dead. If you are to walk this path, you must accept that. You will face loss in your life, and you will want to undo it. But you must never give in to that temptation. The price of doing so is too great.”

  Azrath, his eyes wide and searching, nodded. There was a sinking feeling in his chest—a tightness he could not shake. But beneath that, there was an undeniable spark of curiosity, a fierce hunger to know more. He had been warned, but that did little to quell the ever-growing desire to unravel the mysteries of life and death.

  “I understand, Father,” Azrath said at last, his voice small but resolute.

  His father stared at him for a long moment before nodding in approval. “Good. Now, study. Learn. Understand the power at your fingertips, but never forget this warning. Necromancy is a double-edged sword. Respect it, and it will serve you. Disrespect it, and it will consume you.”

  Azrath sat quietly relieved, feeling the weight of his father’s words. They gave him inspiration to find a practical and reverential way past this warning. He would find a way to make death bow to his will, but the cost would matter. The hunger to undo the great mysteries and fallacies of life frayed the mind in ways he would thus forever respect.

  ***

  The budding necromancer and Potabeau found themselves at the edge of the dense Nightshade Woods. They had brought experimental supplies, vintages and light fare down a long path bordering a brook. Beneath a young willow stand, their latest project sprawled before them: an animated skeleton. Far too animated.

  "Azrath," Potabeau said, leaning on his staff with a smirk. "I hate to break it to you, but your ‘masterpiece’ appears to be doing...a dance."

  The skeleton was indeed stuck in what could only be described as awkward warrior posturing. One of its bony hands pointed toward the sky while its pelvis jutted forward dramatically.

  Azrath, wearing a tattered cloak that made him look like a half-baked villain, sighed. "It's not any sort of dance. It’s just—something’s off in the binding spell. I'll fix it."

  "You’ve been saying that for an hour," Potabeau said, casually tossing an apple from hand to hand. "But please, don’t rush. I’m thoroughly enjoying the philosophical implications of a skeleton more flexible than me."

  Azrath ignored him, flipping through a worn grimoire with furrowed brows. "I just need to adjust the arcane resonance... Maybe the femur glyph was a little crooked."

  "Yes, clearly it’s the femur glyph. That’s where you went wrong," Potabeau quipped, rolling his eyes. "It couldn’t *possibly* be the fact that you’re 17 and trying to command the forces of life and death like it’s a hypothetical."

  Azrath shot him a glare. "You’re the one who said, ‘Hey, let’s bring one back with extra pizzazz.’"

  "And I stand by that suggestion! It’s just that your version of pizzazz seems to be interpretive dance."

  The skeleton, as if on cue, teetered, spun awkwardly, and collapsed into a pile of bones. The willows swayed quietly; another day another dream.

  "Okay," Azrath muttered, slamming the book shut. "New plan: how about we just reanimate the chicken?"

  "Finally!" Potabeau grinned, pulling out a slightly wilted chicken carcass from his satchel. "Let’s see if you can make this do more than a jig."

  Despite their bickering, their experiments always ended with laughter—or occasionally running for their lives. When you’re an initiating necromancer and your best friend has no sense of self-preservating, every day is an adventure (or a disaster) waiting to happen.