Everything about the last few weeks had gone perfectly for Bancroft.

Almost everything.

Hands cleaned from his latest ritual summoning stroked through the necromancer’s thick, majestic silver beard as he contemplated the night sky from his balcony. He had, of course, been taught of the importance of astronomy in considering one’s decisions. The stars and moons held many portents. Knowing their paths and positions was essential. It was that knowledge which had chosen his timing for this very venture. That, and the timely acquisition of the pair of ancient relics resting on the wooden table behind him.

With those in hand, and his recent successes on the other side of the forest breathing new unlife into the project that would surely prove to be his magnum opus– Bancroft should have felt proud. Elated, even.

Instead, he felt a slow, lingering dread. A chill that had nothing at all to do with the cool, evening breeze spread through his already tense shoulders, and the necromancer shivered. He may have been dressed only in his night robe, but his relative lack of attire was not to blame. Rather, it was the disturbing prompt he had read, and re-read, more than once this evening.

Your discarded minion has evolved! The ‘Gelaton’ minion has evolved into a ‘Geladin’! As you are no longer paying for this minion’s mana upkeep, your total mana upkeep for summoned creatures has not been affected.

It can’t be a coincidence. Bancroft thought as he read the rainbow-hued prompt again, his brow furrowed. This prompt’s appearance had come right at the end of the fellnight. The final night of each season. When Bas, the moon of Death, fell fully into its grave. That fool ‘maiden’ should have been ready for it. All of the materials were there, I followed the steps outlined in that blasted book, and yet…

And yet, she hadn’t been. His family’s ancestral library had been quite clear on the signs to look for when converting living fonts of other mana aspects to that of death, and as she was missing the final one he would have to wait. Bancroft wasn’t about to waste his only chance at using her power to fuel his own simply due to impatience. He wasn’t a fool.

As if the universe were trying to provide him with one, Sabin knocked politely at his door.

“Enter.” Bancroft said simply, not bothering to turn around.

“M’lord, I believe I’ve found what ye were lookin’ for.” The old servant said respectfully after entering. He placed the glossy black leather book down on the table in the center of the room, open to a particular page marked by a sheet of fresh parchment and a series of detailed sketches surrounded by scrawling text. “Manual of Hidden Monsters an’ Crafts, fourth edition. Written by yer great-gran’ uncle, master Delhivan. Found the one ye mentioned righ’ there in the middle-ish bit. Page three hundred an’ forty five.”

Sabin slid the book down towards the end of the table Bancroft was closest to, but when his master did not turn around to face him the old man found it hard to stay silent. He was the only one of the servants given leave to peruse family resources, even on excursions like this where they had brought precious few with them. But since the young master’s time was more valuable than his, Sabin had still been at the task for hours past when he would normally have been asleep.

“M’lord?” Sabin prompted again, eager to be allowed to rest now that his task was complete. Or at least, he hoped it was. The sight of the other servants being sacrificed the other day still hadn’t left him. He had to wonder if the young master would make use of him like that one day.

“Read it.” Bancroft ordered, preferring the sight of his hulklord ripping limbs off the small herd of stone-shoulder deer it had caught and tossing them to his nightmare for now. He could look at the pictures of what should have been his in a moment, if the old fool had actually found it. Until then, he would rather not be irritated anew at having lost control over the blasted thing.

Sabin hastened to obey, making his way around the table once more in only a handful of steps.

“Geladin. Monster evolution tier: three. Of the ‘whispered’ rarity, an’ a great deal more rare than even that rating would imply due to the particular series of circum– of circumstances that are required for its creation.” Sabin shifted the book around, following the circular writing pattern master Delhivan had been so fond of writing in. Why he can’ just write in a normal line like everyone else, I’ll never know.

“The geladin is a warrior-priest balanced in both chaotic and deathly mana, an’ serves both aspects equally when left to its own devices. In the wild, its goals are near impossible to discern, but one thing can be certain: wherever one is found, the winds of change arrive alongside it.” Sabin’s accent fell away as he recited Delhivan’s words, as if the old man were reading like a character from a play instead of from an old manual.

“While there are records of other monsters receiving a gift from the aspects themselves upon their evolution to certain forms, just as we enlightened do upon attaining particularly difficult-to-achieve classes, surpassingly few receive gifts from more than one. Like the mythical Elludari, the shifting Dune Golems, and the hideously twisted Extant Grimoires, each Geladin receives two gifts from its twin masters. Gifts that, like our own, vanish forever should they be handled by another without permission – even its master, should the minion ever wrest itself out of yer control or bear ill will towards ye, counts in this regard.”

Bancroft’s silver eyebrow rose at that last statement, and a spark of anger threatened to rekindle his fury, but he crushed it down. Gifts from the aspects themselves could be exceptionally potent, relative to a monster’s tier at least.

Just one more reason to ensure I break its will and never lose control of it again. The necromancer thought darkly, as his hulklord finally tore off the still-screaming head of the deer it was ‘playing’ with. He pondered which rituals he should use, as Sabin continued.

“Its slime half can, at base, form a sort of living, regenerative armor plating to protect itself from harm. The durability and regenerability of such armor greatly depends on the advancement of the specimen, and can be enhanced via any of the endless methods one might normally advance a slime or its traits.”

Bancroft’s other eyebrow rose, his eyes widened slightly, and the necromancer turned slowly around to face his servant.

“While exceptionally hard to control due to their chaotic nature, geladins are–” Sabin’s reading, which he had admittedly been getting rather into the part for, was abruptly cut off by his young master’s appearance at his side.

“... M’lord?”

“Quiet!” Bancroft snapped, his dark eyes skimming the page. Searching for written confirmation of what Sabin had just told him. There!

… and can be enhanced via any of the endless methods one might normally advance a slime or its traits. Hah! Bancroft cackled out loud, and Sabin paled a bit. The necromancer didn’t spare him a glance. Maybe this little problem-child would prove to be the solution he was seeking after all. If I can evolve its slime half into a memory slime, or one of the sentient-consumption subtypes, or even just force it into adopting one of those traits, then… then once the maiden is in the pit, I’ll have everything I need.

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A sudden rush of excitement chased away his lingering dread, and Bancroft’s gaze flickered over to the two ancient relics resting on the table nearby. One was a simple, unassuming tome like one might find on the shelf of any respectable merchant or noble’s house. Unadorned, unscribed, and unmarred brown leather marked its wholly unremarkable exterior, the plain disguise masking the indisputable value contained within its pages.

The second object took up more than half of the seven foot table by itself. A perfectly preserved skull, complete with flesh, muscle, and even a still-wet tongue faced the same direction as his bed. While the magic that kept it intact had at some point faded around its now-missing eyes, the skull of one of his most distant ancestor’s minions was otherwise almost entirely preserved. Even its brain remained, a fact that Bancroft had paid a steep price to ascertain without family notice, but which was why he was even out here at all.

One way or another, I will know your secrets soon. Bancroft promised the skull. Its bones were so ancient there was no record of the creature’s name or type in the family archives, and despite years of searching the necromancer had never found another quite like it. But that wasn’t the point.

Contained somewhere within this creature’s mind, in the memories of its magically preserved grey matter, were the secrets that would surely catapult him to glory. Lost artifacts of untold power, ancient rituals whose methods had faded into history, and maybe, just maybe, the location of the Withering Crown. If Bancroft’s research proved correct, and it always did, then if he could access the secrets locked away in that skull he would be the first necromancer in family history to ascend to the heroic realm. Possibly even mythic, with enough time.

“If I have to raise you once more, or melt your secrets into a consumable gel… Make no mistake: I will do it.” Bancrof promised the skull, leaning over the table and stroking it tenderly. Like a parent might their sleeping child. “Just because nobody else has brought a soul back through the veil with its mind still intact, doesn’t mean I cannot.”

“... M’lord?” Sabin’s cautious voice a minute later knocked Bancroft out of his reverie, and the necromancer turned to him. Something about Bancroft’s slowly widening, predatory grin caused the old man to shrink back a step.

“Tell the servants to prepare the captives. Tomorrow evening, I shall be resuming my previous experiments.” Bancroft’s hand slid over to the unadorned book on the table, making his intention clear. “At least three a night, until I either finally achieve success… or our reserves run dry.”

“R-right away, m’lord.” Sabin’s already pale face paled even further, to the point even his lips drained with color. “All will be as ye wish. Though at such a pace, we may want to think about acquiring more uh, ‘reserves’.”

The old man flinched as his words came out, but Bancroft didn’t take the unintended slight as anything more than an acknowledgement of the facts. What he was attempting was revolutionary. A high failure rate was only to be expected.

“Don’t worry about that. Once those fools at the Spire realize what happened to their precious little maiden, they’ll be tripping over themselves to ‘rescue’ her.” Bancroft turned suddenly towards the balcony, and then strode towards it as he continued speaking. “Those self-righteous hypocrites can’t resist a rescue attempt, and once they try I will have more than enough sacrifices begging to refill our reserves then, I can promise you that.”

“It may take some time for them to come, m’lord.” Sabin said, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t questioning – only attempting to manage his young master’s expectations. “Ye slew or captured any who might’ve taken word back.”

“No, not all of them.” The necromancer muttered. With a quick mental command, made easier by maintaining visual contact over the creature, Bancroft sent his hulklord after the scout his nightmare had caught the scent of on their way back. Its will resisted him briefly, as the undead did not care to be involved in a chase where it wasn’t allowed to kill its quarry, but in the end it followed his command.

“They will come.” Bancroft said with surety, turning back towards Sabin and grabbing the ancient, unmarked family tome as he headed for the door. “Now, send a hot meal and a pair of sacrifices down to the pit along with one of the servants. Once that’s done, I have no further need of you.”

Sabin stiffened at the phrasing as his master left, and worry bloomed fresh in his old heart at the idea of sending another of their staff down with the master into the pit, but he complied nevertheless.

“Aye, m’lord.”

—------------------------

By the time Bancroft reached his death pit, all thoughts of his errant minion were gone from his mind. Instead, the necromancer focused on the task before him with relish. He could sense the dimming of the vessel’s power even from the entryway, the stench of her disgusting mana not nearly as overpowering as it had been the first time they had met.

She’s already giving up hope of rescue. Good. A tender smile played across his lips as he strode towards the golden-haired maiden suspended from the ceiling directly overtop his ever-growing pyramid of bodies by iron-wrought chains. When she didn’t bother even to raise her head to glare at him, his smile only widened. The young are so easy to break.

“I see you have enjoyed my hospitality.” Bancroft said as he strode towards her, the green ichor surrounding his pit hardening wherever he walked so that his boots did not slip. “Tell me, has your purpose changed yet, vessel?”

The necromancer’s powerful hands made as if to grip her jaw, but of course he didn’t reach out to touch her himself. Dark tendrils of mana rose up from the pile of corpses, forming a black hand that mirrored his movements. When it touched the maiden’s face, the surface of the mana boiled like pitch heated over an open flame as he forced her to look at him.

Tear-stained eyes met his, and though she tried to put up a brave front, Bancroft could tell her resolve was weakening. Not because he could read her emotions, he had never been good at that. But because her golden hair, once perfect, was now marred all along its length with strands of twisting black.

She’ll be ready by next fellnight. Bancroft could feel it. His father had once told him that each fellnight had a purpose, one that could only be truly known when it arrived. He was not as superstitious as his fool of a father, but in that moment the necromancer could already tell what the purpose of the next fellknight would be.

“Your purpose is to serve me.” Bancroft told her, and the tendrils of death mana holding her jaw in place trembled with his intent. “To serve the end of things, not their beginning. Not their birth, and not the suffering that is their continued existence. Your continued existence, and the suffering you endure each night, will end as soon as you accept this.”

Brightly glowing eyes held his for another long moment as the maiden’s jaw struggled to free itself from him, but after a minute they fell to the floor. She hung there, defeated, and Bancroft’s tendril-hand patted her head in a consoling fashion. Like he might a dog’s. They stayed like that, held in that quiet moment, until his servant dragged two stumbling females down the corridor towards them.

“Now,” Bancroft said in a soft, almost loving voice. “I promised you yesterday that I would be doubling the nightly burden on both of us until you accepted your new role, did I not?”

Rage, fear, and sorrow crossed the maiden’s face as her head jerked back up. First to meet his eyes and then, slowly, to meet those of the two prisoners who were already sobbing. He could almost hear the maiden’s heart crack, and it brought a merry joy to Bancroft’s own.

Another week of this, and either the ritual cracks her power open, or she’ll jump into the pit herself.

Dark tendrils of mana lanced up from either side of the pyramid as Bancroft raised his hands once more. Lances of shadow pierced both of the captives, and he drew them to him. With a tap on each forehead, he used his ‘Timed Exit’ ability to ensure their deaths at the proper moment… before raising each into the air on ropes of shadow to hover inches away from the maiden.

Due to weeks of practice, when the necromancer began his ritual this time, he didn’t need to open his book. He had only brought it to keep it with him. He knew the steps and words by heart now. It was like listening to music he knew every beat to, and as the circle of death mana ringing the corpses rose up in a curtain of dark power around them while his servant fled the room, Bancroft realized something else.

He could time their screams.