A new sub-class… this was an interesting and unexpected development. Tyron had agonised over what he should choose for himself for months, considering one option after another. Something to help in battle? Another crafting Skill that might improve his undead even further? Perhaps he should just choose something which would provide attributes that covered his weaknesses?
Gaining a sub-class was not an easy undertaking. To increase your chance of earning the Class, and accelerate your learning, it was normal to contract a teacher, and the good ones were not cheap. The good teachers, who both possessed and were willing to teach rare Classes, were very not cheap.
Yet now one had fallen into his lap. It obviously wasn’t one he’d considered, since it was likely just as illegal as Necromancer itself, and it wasn’t one he could have acquired via training either, for the same reason. Now that he had it, there was no reason not to try and level it to see what it would provide.
The Class message was… ominous, to say the least. To advance, he needed to ‘spread death’? Did that literally mean ‘kill people’, or did it mean spread death energy? Tyron was manufacturing bucket loads of the second every hour, or at least he was when his minions were active. They sucked in ambient energy and converted it constantly.
If he completed his design for the constructs he was planning to build, then that process would be accelerated even further. If that counted to progress his new sub-class, then he would rise very quickly indeed.
Interestingly, the stats given were exceptionally defensive.
“Even more constitution,” he muttered to himself, “I’ll be hardier than a Shieldsworn if this keeps up.”
As curious as he was about this new Class, he was more interested in what he’d gained in his main one. More than anything, he yearned to tear open the doorway to the Ossuary and inspect the altar, but he forced himself to be patient. Summoning the entrance in itself would destabilise the dimensional weave in this area, something the many, many, powerful mages within the city would be certain to notice.
Opening the door would also unleash a thick miasma of death aligned energy into his study. Although he’d worked hard to suppress any hint of the magick from leaking out, his countermeasures weren’t designed to handle such… rich energy.
As much as he wanted to rush forward, no risks could be taken. If he were revealed now, he would lose much of what he had spent years wearing a false face to obtain.
With a sigh, Tyron pushed himself up from his desk, gathering the bloodstained page of writing from the surface and running his eyes across it once more. Then he burned it, ensuring not a trace of his blood was spared from the fire.
Turning to inspect the damp, stone walls of his study, Tyron grimaced. The time he’d spent away had allowed the room to degrade, traces of sewer air sneaking in and contaminating his sanctuary. Mould and mildew had begun to build up, along with dust, cobwebs and other unwelcome critters. The war was on again. Just as it had been in his uncle’s attic, so it would remain.
Death to the enemy.
It took a couple of hours for Tyron to finish his work. Weary, but satisfied, he took in the newly spotless study, his hands still dripping with soapy water. All trace of the hated spider-foe had been banished, along with the grime and mildew. He’d even managed to mostly get rid of the bloodstains on the stone slabs.
With a clean workspace once more, he turned his attention to the next task he needed to complete.
His gaze was automatically drawn to the arcane script engraved on the walls, particularly in the corners. Sigils he’d carved himself, organised into neat arrays, drew in and dispersed the Death Magick he generated here, aiming to prevent the slightest trace from getting outside. Others were designed to prevent scrying, blocking those types of magick used to peek into other people’s business. Master Willhem himself had taught Tyron those scripts, the very same ones he employed at his own store. The war waged between crafters was as fierce as the one fought by the slayers and the kin. More than once, Master Willhem had been forced to act in order to prevent competitors from thieving his intellectual property.
Tyron ran a hand over those sigils with a slight smile on his face. The upstairs workshop was protected by the very same array, something his Master had insisted on.
“They’ll do anything to steal my methods, even spy on my students. You need to be careful, boy!”
The gruff voice of his teacher rang in his mind. Was it likely that the competitors of the greatest Arcanist in the province would attempt to spy on one of his breakaway students? Perhaps there was a remote chance. In his opinion, the old man had simply been showing his care the best way he knew how.
However, a new set of sigils would need to be carved now. Tyron was far from an expert in the dimensional weave, a dabbler at best. To get the knowledge he needed, another visit to his Master’s library would be necessary, then further time and resources spent on research until he came up with a suitable design. Only then could he start working on the array itself, which would be further time invested. All in all, it would likely take a week before he was ready to enter his Ossuary again.
With a groan, Tyron leaned forward and scrubbed at his forehead with the back of one hand. It was hard to be patient, much harder than usual. After fighting freely, wearing his own face, not caring about who knew what he was, it was difficult to put the mask back on, difficult to return to his creeping, safe pace.
But he would.
Once again, he shoved down his impatience. There was no time like the present to begin, he would visit his Master, difficult though such a meeting would be, then return and begin his work. Other concerns crowded his mind. He had Yor to think about, a meeting would need to be arranged, and soon. She wouldn’t be pleased that Dove was gone, but he would pay her price. A final act of kindness for his friend.
Filleta would want to speak to him also. He was eager to resume their business, he wanted to double the number of skeletons he had at his command as soon as possible. Only with fresh materials could he begin to research and work on improving his abilities, and there was so much he needed to study.
~~~
As it turned out, he didn’t need to go and find Yor, she came to him. The meeting with Master Willhem had been as awkward as he’d expected it to be, tension still hung thick in the air between them. However, they had been courteous, and the old man had been willing to guide him, giving advice and directing his attention to the best texts on which to base his research. All without asking why his former apprentice was looking into dimension enchanting at all.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
After returning to his workshop, Tyron had engrossed himself in the three volumes he had borrowed, taking copious notes as he began to piece together the knowledge that he needed to complete his work. For two days straight, he worked on it, only pausing when a timid knock resounded from his door.
Irritated, the Necromancer glanced up from the page in front of him, his face spattered in ink.
“Yes?” he called, trying to restrain his tetchy tone, and failing.
“Someone here to see you, Master Almsfield,” Cerry called from the other side. “A friend of yours.”
With a long, weary sigh, he slammed shut the massive, leather bound book in front of him. He hated getting distracted when he was working, especially to exchange niceties with people. Who would it be? Victor perhaps, come to invite him to another pointless gathering of the rich and powerful?
“Are they waiting downstairs?” he said as he pushed back his chair.
“Um…”
“They are not.”
That voice, warm and sultry, hinting at everything, promising nothing, was specifically designed to send a shiver running down the spine of everyone who heard it. Or perhaps to get the blood pumping in their veins. She was here already. The time to pay the piper had arrived sooner than expected.
He straightened his clothes a little, brushed his hair back, which only smudged the ink further across his face, then walked to the door and opened it.
His store clerk looked quite embarrassed, not turning her head to look at the statuesque woman standing behind her, bedecked in a gown fit for a ball, silky black hair rolling down her shoulders like waves.
Not a woman.
“Thanks, Cerry,” he said. “You head downstairs and I’ll see our guest in my sitting room.”
“Of course, Master Almsfield,” she squeaked, before turning on her heels and rushing down the stairs.
Yor watched her go, a half-smirk on her face.
“You won’t be able to use her much longer. She’s almost eighteen.”
“Cerry may Awaken a Class that doesn’t impact her ability to work in the store.”
“There’s a way she can stay seventeen. Unaging. From tonight until the end of this realm.”
Tyron rolled his eyes, then froze.
“Wait. If you create a vampire before someone gets their Class Awakening… do they never get one?”
The normal case for gaining a Class was for it to happen at eighteen. It was the same all across the Empire. Put your hand on the crystal after your eighteenth birthday and bam, Class. Touching it before that date didn’t do anything.
That didn’t mean kids didn’t try. They all did.
Yor laughed at his curiosity.
“We did test it, and yes, they don’t qualify, even after a full year has passed. Fortunately, there are other methods.”
“Let’s take this conversation into my room,” he said, ushering the Vampire down the corridor toward his quarters.
She smiled wickedly and allowed herself to be herded, lowering herself into a chair with familiar grace.
“Tea? I think I have some cake that Cerry picked up yesterday.”
“I must decline.”
“You don’t mind if I…?”
“By all means.”
As usual, he’d allowed his diet to go to pot while focused on his work, so Tyron seized this opportunity to refresh himself. The heating array had the kettle singing merrily in no time and he poured a fresh cup and served himself a generous slice of cake while he was at it. Yor watched him place his largesse on the table with a bemused expression.
“Do you miss it at all? Regular food?” he asked.
She curled her lip in disgust.
“Not at all. The taste of mortal lifeblood…” she trailed off and shivered, “it cannot be compared to anything you have experienced.”
In his opinion, the cake was pretty damn good. Carrot cake. Not his usual favourite, but the cream had a hint of vanilla. Delicious.
“What do you want, Yor?” he asked after washing down a mouthful with tea. “I don’t like you visiting me here at the store, you know that.”
She frowned, lines creasing her flawless forehead.
“Who knows how long it would have taken you to reach out to us? I grew impatient.”
“You have one of your… creatures… standing at my front door every day. I find it hard to believe you weren’t able to send a message.”
“Poor Wansa. She has had her intake reduced while you were away. The girl was most desperate for your return.”
“I bet.”
Tyron took another mouthful and took his time chewing, watching Yor across the table from him with lidded eyes. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair.
“Dove didn’t come back with me. What do you want?”
The Vampire smiled joylessly.
“So crass. Getting directly to the point has some merit, but I find it lacks a certain tension.”
“Why do you keep doing that?” the Necromancer asked, irritated.
She blinked, for once somewhat taken aback.
“Doing what?” she replied.
“That,” Tyron gestured at her, and the Vampire looked down at herself.
She had posed herself provocatively, leaning forward to emphasise her ample chest, one finger trailing across her lips. After taking in herself, she looked back at him, smiling.
“Do you find it distracting?” she asked, playing coy.
“I find it annoying. It looks exhausting. All of these motions are designed to play on emotions I know you don’t have. Drop the act for five minutes so we can have a conversation.”
Yor appeared almost thoughtful for a moment, before she too leaned back in her seat. As if a mask had dropped off her face, all the playful teasing was gone, the smouldering heat in her gaze vanished. In its place sat the cold, calculating monster that she truly was.
“I’m surprised you agreed,” Tyron said openly. “I rarely get to see your real face.”
“They are all my real face,” she replied. “My kind are undead, yet we continue to possess great appetite. What you consider to be a facade is my hunting self, how I act around the food.”
“Am I food?” Tyron asked, surprised.
“In a sense.”
Tyron stirred his tea, thoughtfully. It was always difficult to know where one stood with the Vampires. Monsters in so many ways, they were still very human in others. Lies and intrigue were like bread and wine to them. Yor and her coven, at least, were still such social creatures.
“You wanted this all along, didn’t you,” Tyron mused. “A sin you could hang around my neck. Is this why you brought him back in the first place?”
If it were true, she gave no sign. Not a muscle in her entire, undead frame shifted so much as a millimetre.
“I figured out how to give him access to the Unseen. Designed a new status ritual for him. He’s off exploring, trying to level himself again. You won’t go after him.”
The last was not a request.
“There is a price,” she said.
“There’s always a price. What is it?”
“A meeting,” Yor said simply. “That isn’t so much to ask, is it?”
“Depends on who I’m meeting. And where.”
“I’m afraid, under the circumstances, I must insist.”
It was like a vice closing around him, one he’d put himself in.
“Who am I to have the pleasure of meeting?” he asked, trying to mask the sinking feeling in his chest.
At this point, she smiled, revealing the twin fangs extending from her teeth.
“My mistress has longed for your company. Unfortunately, she is not able to travel to this realm.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Unfortunate.”
“I like to think of it as a cloud with a silver lining. After all, now you have a reason to visit my home. The Scarlet Court awaits.”