Monsters Aren't Born Chapter 4 - The Academy

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6 Years Later

"Fuck," Dreama whispered, the word barely audible even in the silent room. "What have I done?"

The soul pulsated between Dreama's palms, a luminescent orb of swirling energy that felt obscenely alive against her skin. Warm and slick like a freshly harvested organ still quivering with life, it squirmed against her grip as if desperate to escape. Tendrils of smoky light pushed against her fingers like desperate, seeking tongues. Her breath came in ragged gasps that made her bare breasts heave, her face contorted in horror as she stared down at Master Tarrelin's corpse sprawled at her feet, blood pooling beneath his elderly body and spreading across the ornate carpet of his private chambers.

Master Tarrelin's vacant eyes stared up at her, milky and accusing even in death. His withered face was frozen in an expression of surprise that had quickly given way to horror in his final moments. His mouth hung open, a thin trickle of blood leaking from the corner to stain his white beard. The old man's body looked smaller in death, more fragile than the master sorcerer had looked just a few minutes ago as he denied her everything she had worked toward for six long, brutal years.

The blood spread in a widening circle around his head, soaking into the expensive carpet like wine into linen. So much blood from such a frail body. It was staining her academy robe where it laid in a heap on the floor. Dreama’s skin pebbled in the cool night air of the chamber, and the bloodcrystal hung from a leather cord between her breasts. It was warm… the crystal had absorbed the Tarrelin’s life energy as he died, as it always did.

Dreama's mind raced with panic, and a half-hysterical laugh escaped her throat while the man’s soul squirmed in her grip. She had just murdered a master sorcerer of Morninglight Academy. Not just any master, either… the one man in the school who understood necromancy. The one person who could have taught her what she desperately needed to know. And now he was dead, killed by her sorcery in a flash of blind fury, his magic defenses ripped to pieces in a second.

She forced herself to look around the chamber, trying to calm her thundering heart as she searched for any saving grace. Bookshelves lined the walls, single volumes on them worth more than entire villages. Ancient tomes bound in materials she couldn't identify sat alongside scrolls sealed with wax and ribbon. A massive desk dominated one corner, its surface covered in parchment and writing implements. This room contained the knowledge she had sacrificed everything to access. The secrets she needed to undo the tragedies that had defined her entire life. And in one moment of rage, she had ruined it all.

"Dreama, you stupid fucking cunt," she hissed at herself, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. Three years of degradation and struggle, of selling her body and her dignity, of stealing and killing and fighting—all to reach this place, to gain entry to the prestigious Morninglight Academy. Three more years of being the perfect student, of enduring the painfully slow pace of instruction while trying to win some respect. Three years of trying to learn to be the sorceress the masters wanted her to be, so that she could learn the secrets she needed to know.

What a fucking waste.

The soul in her hands pulsed more frantically, and she tightened her grip instinctively. She could feel it weakening, the connection to its physical shell severed too long for it to maintain cohesion. Soon it would dissipate, and even her considerable power couldn't prevent that natural process. She’d never gathered a human soul before, and she wasn’t sure what to do with it. Whatever she planned on, she needed to do it quickly.

A distant sound—footsteps in the corridor outside—made her freeze. It was the middle of the night, well past curfew, but the academy never truly slept. Masters worked late into the night on research, senior students pursued independent studies, and the occasional patrol of sentries maintained security. Any of them could discover her here, naked and blood-spattered, standing over the murdered corpse of a venerated master.

She glanced toward the window. Six stories above the academy grounds. It was a dangerous drop, but perhaps survivable with the right spell? She wasn’t the inexperienced child she had been long ago, after all. The door to the corridor offered a more conventional escape route, but also greater risk of discovery. There was a small adjoining chamber—Tarrelin's private meditation room—but it had no exterior exit. She'd be trapped if someone entered the main chamber. She could hide until people passed though, then make it back to her room and clean up, and…

No. The other masters would find Terrelin dead. Then they would investigate the truth with their own sorcery. They would discover that it was her… there was no way she could escape discovery in the long term. Her time at Morninglight had come to an end.

"How did it come to this?" she whispered to herself. The question had no answer—or rather, it had too many. Because the world had shown her nothing but cruelty, and she had learned its lessons too well.

Dreama didn't like to think about the years that had brought her to this point. The three years after escaping from Rastin’s slaughtered household were a blur of desperate survival, each day bleeding into the next as she ran from pursuers both real and imagined. One thing was true, though… she was a naked woman alone in the world without a stitch of clothing, a crumb of food, or a single coin. She hadn’t had a ton of options.

The memories of how she’d had to live were like open wounds that refused to scar over, and every recollection brought fresh pain and shame. She had done what was necessary to survive, but "necessary" had encompassed so many things that once she'd never thought herself capable of.

She remembered herself pressed against the rough wall of a tavern's back room, her dress hitched up around her waist as a merchant thrust into her from behind. His breath had stank of cheap ale and garlic, hot against her neck as he grunted with each brutal snap of his hips. His fingers dug into her flesh hard enough to leave bruises, pinpoints of pain that would linger for days afterward. "Tight little cunt," he'd growled, one hand reaching around to roughly squeeze her breast through the cheap fabric of her dress. "Worth every copper."

Dreama had closed her eyes, focusing not on the unwelcome intrusion between her legs but on the coins he would pay her afterward. Enough for a week's food and lodging. Enough to buy the components for the spells she'd been teaching herself from stolen texts.

She remembered herself naked and kneeling on the plush carpet of a nobleman's private study. Her mouth stretched painfully wide around his cock as he fisted her hair, using it like reins to control her movements. The taste of him on her tongue wasn’t that bad, given that his skin was perfumed, but it disgusted her anyway, and her stomach churned as he forced himself deeper down her throat. She’d tried to ignore the disgust she felt for him—and for herself—and focus only on the scroll case on his desk. The set of spells that he’d been boasting about in the tavern before she’d inserted herself into his life, with him too drunk and too entranced by her feigned interest to realize she cared nothing for him. She'd swallowed when he came, playing with him, lulling him to sleep. Later, while he slept sated and snoring, she'd stolen not just the scrolls she'd seen but three others hidden in a compartment beneath his desk. By dawn, she was miles away, the scrolls safely tucked into her pack.

Villages, towns, cities all across Southern Edyn in a dozen different kingdoms—they blurred together in her memory. Places where she'd stayed just long enough to learn what she could, take what she needed, before moving on. Small hamlets where a woman traveling alone drew too many questions. Larger settlements where she could disappear into the crowd, becoming just another desperate face among many. She'd stolen from markets in broad daylight, nimble fingers lifting purses and small valuables while she smiled prettily at distracted merchants. She'd broken into homes at night, taking not just coins and jewelry but books and scrolls that most owners couldn't even read, their value unknown to all but her. What would her parents have thought of her, stealing and whoring like this?

Better than they would have thought of her after she’d stabbed the man who tried to rape her in Freeport’s alley. Better than they would have after she'd slit the throat of a man who'd caught her in his study. She’d been horrified with his blood on her hands, but it hadn’t stopped her from stepping over his twitching body to claim the grimoire he'd tried to protect… and with each death, the bloodcrystal she carried had grown stronger.

She had to hide it, she knew that. Necromancy was illegal in most kingdoms for very good reason… among the forms of Emberblood magic, it alone involved killing people to harvest their power. She couldn’t let that bloodcrystal be seen by anyone who would recognize it, or she’d find herself tossed in a dungeon or hanged. More than once she considered getting rid of it, just tossing it into a stream and walking away… but it was her. She’d bled for it. The people she loved had died for it. Walking away from it felt like walking away from all of them. Instead, she savored its warmth against her skin, and resolved to never again be helpless. To never again be prey.

That was why she’d sought out the mercenaries. Most of them had little use for her, but there was at least one use every man had for her. A younger Dreama would have been horrified at the idea of offering her body in exchange for lessons in swordplay and self-defense, but the older, more jaded woman hadn’t waited for them to ask for it: She had suggested it.

"Wider stance," a scarred man had barked at her as she faced him in a clearing outside a military camp. "You'll fall on your ass if I push you."

Hours of practice left her muscles screaming, her skin slick with sweat. But months later, when she'd taken him into her body, she'd begun to feel the difference in herself. She could feel her own strength matching his, and that she could push back without being so easily overpowered. Another mercenary had taught her knife-fighting, his calloused hands positioning her arms, showing her where to strike for maximum damage. "Throat, groin, eyes," he'd said, tapping each point on his own body. "Kill spots." That night, she'd let him bend her over a table, his cock stretching her painfully as he took her from behind. His grip had been bruising, his thrusts powerful enough to slam her hips against the wood with each movement. But even as he used her body, she was thinking about how she could reach his weak points… how easily she could kill him if she chose.

All of that was nothing though, compared to the main thing she had done… studying. She had magical talents that had sparked in her, and she needed to learn how to use it. Dreama spent endless nights reading by candlelight, her eyes burning from strain as she deciphered the books she had begged, bought, copied, or stolen. She was grateful for her mother teaching her letters, because she needed them now as she spent hours tracing runes in the dirt of forest clearings, copying hand positionings to channel magic until her fingers cramped and bled and her vision was blurry with exhaustion.

But slowly, magic began to answer her call when she summoned it.

Dreama knew little of necromancy… only what she had seen Rastin do, and what she had heard in his lessons. She had always been clever, though, and she had a good memory. She'd begun to practice what she remembered, working from feeling. She’d worked small at first: Mice, squirrels, birds that she’d found dead in the forest. The first time she'd successfully animated a dead sparrow, making its broken wings flap in jerky movements, she'd laughed aloud, the sound startling in the wood’s silence. Later, she'd moved on to larger creatures—dogs, deer, eventually a human corpse stolen from a pauper's grave outside a village ravaged by plague.

The villagers had found her at dawn, standing over the animated corpse that shambled in circles at her command. They'd come at her with pitchforks and torches, faces contorted with fear and rage. She'd fled as quickly as she could, and barely escaped… she’d had to leave quite a bit of hard-won food behind when she ran.

Weeks of starvation. Of cold. Of humiliating sex. Throughout all of it, one thought sustained her for years. She would master her gifts, become powerful enough that no one could ever harm her again. Powerful enough to bring back those she had lost. The faces of her parents haunted her dreams, their features growing less distinct with each passing year. Sometimes she feared she would forget them entirely before she gained the knowledge needed to resurrect them.

Three years after her escape from Rastin's cult, Dreama had finally accumulated enough stolen money and magical knowledge to do what she had planned to do… approach Morninglight Academy. She'd cleaned herself up, wearing stolen respectable clothing. She’d paid for forged letters of reference from nonexistent tutors. She'd hidden the bloodcrystal beneath her high-necked dress, its warmth a secret comfort as she'd stood before the academy's imposing gates.

Morninglight Academy had been exactly as she'd imagined it would be, a sprawling complex of ancient stone buildings with their towers reaching toward the sky like fingers grasping for power. The first time she'd walked through its iron gates, Dreama had felt a surge of triumph so intense it had nearly brought her to her knees. The soft murmur of students in their blue robes, the distant chime of bells marking lesson changes, the smell of ancient books and magical reagents… all of it had felt like coming home to a place she'd never been. She’d approached the stern-faced guardians at the entrance, and told them that she’d sparked, and she was seeking admission to study the magical arts.

She remembered the flutter of anxiety in her chest as the guardian had studied her, looking for any sign that she was unworthy. Then they had taken her to be fully evaluated. The admissions interview had been rigorous but not impossible to navigate. Five masters seated in a half-circle, their faces impassive as they questioned her about her magical background. She'd told them carefully constructed lies about a village tutor who had recognized her talent, about private study in remote locations. They'd tested her, of course—simple spells of illumination, minor telekinesis, basic enchantments. She'd performed as well as she could… she didn’t worry about being so skilled as to raise suspicions about her training. She needed to be competent enough to wow them, so they would let her in.

"Your control is impressive for one self-taught," a gray-haired woman had noted, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I've had much practice," Dreama had replied, eyes downcast in feigned humility. "And much motivation to learn."

They'd accepted her, assigned her quarters, provided her with robes and books and magical supplies. And for a time, Dreama had thrown herself into the formal studies with genuine enthusiasm. After years of piecing together knowledge from stolen texts and trial-and-error experiments, the structured lessons were a revelation. She learned proper incantation forms, precise gesture sequences, the underlying theories of magical energy transference that explained why certain spells worked as they did.

Dreama had smiled, thinking: At last. That this was the end of her problems.

But the honeymoon period didn't last.

Some of the instructors annoyed her with how methodically and slowly they taught… but the other students were far worse. Young men and women from noble families and wealthy merchant houses, most of whom had never known a day of real hardship in their lives. Some of them treated her like lowborn dirt, but that didn’t bother her… she bit her tongue and ignored them, certain her talent would silence them soon enough. No, what really annoyed her was that they approached magic as an intellectual curiosity or a family tradition, not as the desperate necessity it had been for her. And they were so terrible at it. So slow. So stupid.

"My father says elemental manipulation is simply gauche," a young nobleman had drawled during a study session, examining his manicured nails with affected boredom. "Any hedge witch can light a fire. True sorcery lies in the subtle arts of the mind, and only that."

Dreama had fantasized about showing him just how "gauche" a fireball to the face could be. What mattered were the results… not the methods.

The longer she studied, the more the academy's structure itself became the real source of her frustration. Students were grouped by experience level and time spent training, with multiple beginners assigned to a single master, or a high-level student teaching in the place of one. Only the most advanced, high-experience students were taken as individual apprentices, a status that granted access to specialized knowledge and one-on-one instruction. After a full year of proving herself, Dreama had remained stuck in the group lessons, watching less-talented students progress at a pace that felt glacial to her.

She compensated by spending every free moment in the academy library, a vast repository of magical knowledge that dwarfed any collection she'd encountered in her years of theft and travel. Even here though, there were restrictions. Entire sections were closed to students below certain ranks, and many texts required special permission to access, with the knowledge they contained deemed too dangerous for the uninitiated. These limitations chafed at her like an ill-fitting collar. Dreama hadn't survived Rastin's torture chamber and three years on the run studying while her stomach tried to eat itself only to be held back by academic bureaucracy, antiquated traditions, and incompetent classmates!

So she began to study on her own once more, relying on the same methods that had gotten her by for three years to supplement her official lessons with private research. She practiced in her quarters late into the night, brewed potions that weren't on the curriculum, and memorized incantations from books she wasn't supposed to read yet.

And always, her thoughts turned to necromancy. She wanted to know more about the powerful sorcery that she had seen so much of firsthand. The academy library contained frustratingly little on the subject. Most texts that mentioned it at all only named it among one of the schools of magic, or condemned its practice and warned of its dangers. Occasional historical references provided tantalizing glimpses of its potential, but nothing approaching the practical knowledge she would need. She’d dared to ask after it once, and been solidly rebuked. "Necromancy is strictly forbidden to students," a senior archivist had informed her sharply when she'd inquired about more detailed texts. "Such research requires special dispensation from the Headmaster or Master Tarrelin, and is typically limited to masters studying countermeasures against dark practitioners."

That was how Dreama first learned of Master Tarrelin—one of the master sorcerer’s of the academy, and its resident expert on necromancy. He was the only sorcerer permitted to practice the art within its walls. An elderly man who kept to himself, his quarters located in the academy's east tower, far from the student dormitories. He taught only advanced theoretical classes on magical defense. The last apprentice he’d taken himself had been fifteen years ago, a fact that Dreama found both discouraging and intriguing. What made him so selective? And what would it take to become the exception?

She would need to impress him, as she had the other masters… so as Dreama had done so many times before, she resorted to using her body to get what she wanted. On the road, as a starving girl, she had been waifish and thin and often dirty, but the standards of men were low. More than a year of consistent meals and comfortable sleep had transformed her from cute to beautiful, and once she set her eyes on a target it was easy to have him eating out of her hand within minutes. The master archivist had an apprentice of his own, a nervous young man with spectacles and a stammer who blushed furiously whenever she spoke to him. It took embarrassingly little effort to lure him into a shadowed alcove among the rarely-visited historical journals.

"W-we can't," he'd protested weakly as she'd pressed him against the bookshelf, her hand already working at the fastening of his trousers. "We'll be discovered."

"Then you'd better stay quiet," she'd whispered, sinking to her knees. His cock had sprung free, already hard and leaking at the prospect of her mouth. "And be quick."

As she'd taken him between her lips, her mind had been elsewhere… focused on the tiny, reanimated rat corpse she'd released near the restricted archives. A simple necromantic working, but effective. While the archivist's assistant thrust clumsily into her mouth instead of watching the archives, hands tangled in her hair and eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, her undead servant scurried through the shelves, searching for the books she knew to look for.

"Oh gods," the young man had gasped, his hips jerking erratically as he'd approached his climax. "Your mouth is so—"

She'd silenced him with a particularly skillful movement of her tongue, not interested in his commentary. When he'd finally spent himself with a muffled groan, she'd swallowed his seed without expression. Now that she knew where the books she needed were, she had the rat pull them out one at a time, dropping them among benign tomes for Dreama to collect. It wasn’t everything that she wanted, but she at least got some of the secrets she longed for.

She was talented. She worked hard. The quips and snide remarks about her birth had stopped… she was the most talented student here, and only the most veteran and arrogant of her classmates didn’t see that. Still she hadn’t been taken as an apprentice, she wasn’t old enough. No one was taken as an apprentice until at least their fifth year.

Three years passed. Dreama had stolen into the library's restricted sections dozens of times, using spells of concealment and small necromantic servants to get the material she needed. Dreama studied from hundreds of books she wasn't supposed to touch, learning magical theory far beyond what was taught in her classes. Her bloodcrystal contained enough life energy for her to work with, and her skill at using it grew incrementally stronger with each forbidden spell she mastered, pulsing against her skin like a second heart. She maintained her reputation as a diligent student, attended classes, and completed every assignment she was given. No one suspected that the beautiful, studious young woman spent her nights practicing dark magic and plotting how to access even more forbidden knowledge.

But as her third year at the academy approached its end, Dreama grew desperate. The answers she sought remained elusive. The texts she'd managed to access provided hints and fragments, but not the complete understanding she needed for a true resurrection ritual. She needed a master's guidance. Specifically, Master Tarrelin's guidance.

If the academy wouldn't advance her through official channels and if the library wouldn't yield its deepest secrets to her patient theft, then there was only one option left. She would have to approach Tarrelin directly and convince him to teach her, using whatever means necessary. It was a dangerous gamble, but Dreama had long since passed the point where risk gave her pause.

That was what brought her here.

Dreama remembered sneaking out after curfew and stealing through the halls to enter Master Tarrelin's chambers earlier that evening, her heart hammering against her ribs as she closed the heavy oak door behind her. The room had been dimly lit by candles that cast long shadows across the walls, their flickering light revealing shelves of ancient tomes and strange artifacts suspended in glass containers. The air smelled of old parchment and candle wax. Master Tarrelin had been seated at his desk, bent over a massive leather-bound volume, his gnarled fingers tracing lines of text that glowed faintly in the candlelight. He hadn't looked up immediately, seemingly absorbed in his reading. Dreama had taken those precious seconds to steady her breathing, to compose her features into the mask of humble deference she'd perfected over three years of playing the model student.

When he finally raised his head, his sharp intake of breath betrayed his surprise. "Miss Dreama?" His voice was rough with age but carried the unmistakable tone of authority. His eyes, pale blue and penetrating despite the wrinkles surrounding them, narrowed in suspicion. "What is the meaning of this intrusion? Curfew was two turns of the glass ago. How dare you enter without permission?"

Dreama had stepped forward, letting her academy robe slip slightly from one shoulder, revealing the smooth skin beneath. "Forgive me, Master Tarrelin," she'd said, pitching her voice low and slightly breathless. "I've come with a request that can’t wait until morning."

The old necromancer had risen from his chair, his movements surprisingly fluid for a man of his advanced years. "Whatever it is, it does not justify this breach of protocol. You will leave immediately and make a proper appointment."

She'd taken another step forward, closing the distance between them. "Please, Master," she'd murmured, allowing a touch of desperation to enter her voice. "I've waited three years for this opportunity. I need you to teach me."

"Teach you?" He'd frowned, his bushy white eyebrows drawing together. "You are not even a senior student. Whatever specialized instruction you require should be directed to your current mentors."

"But they can't teach me what I need to know." Dreama had let her robe slip further, revealing the curve of her breast. "Only you can do that. Both in magic, and in life."

Understanding had dawned in Tarrelin's eyes then, followed swiftly by disgust. She'd pressed on, undeterred by his initial rejection. "I'm offering more than just my body, Master Tarrelin." She'd stepped closer still, close enough to smell the herbal scent of his robes. "I'm offering my complete loyalty. My devotion. I would be your perfect student, your dedicated apprentice."

“I don’t take apprentices,” Tarrelin said firmly. “Necromancy is not to be taught.”

She swallowed. This wasn’t working. She had to convince him… really show him how much she was willing to do for him. She knew what he saw: a pretty girl, clever enough to get this far, but not clever enough to hide her desperation. Even as she felt the situation starting to slip away out of her control, the blonde woman dropped to her knees in front of him, eyes lowered, arms at her sides. “I know you think it’s improper,” she said, voice trembling a little, "but I need you to teach me, Master. I’ll do anything. You want my body? It’s yours, I don’t care. I’m not a child. Use me however you want and I’ll never breathe a word.”

She pressed on, head bowed so her hair hung forward, obscuring her expression. She forced herself into a place she’d long ago learned to survive: A place where mortification and pleading were just transactions, currency to be spent for what she wanted. “You can fuck my mouth until I can’t talk. Bend me over your desk whenever you want. You can put it anywhere you want. I’ll make you feel things none of those stuck-up noble bitches ever would, master. If you want loyalty, I’ll worship you. If you want to humiliate me, I’ll crawl naked through the dorms and beg scraps from your table. I’ll shine your boots with my tongue. You want a hole, I’m a hole. If you want me to beg, I’ll beg. I’ll beg until my throat is raw. Just tell me what you want, Master. Please— You want to put your cock between my tits, I’ll squeeze them so tight you’ll never want to fuck anyone else. Or you can fuck my ass, or my cunt, or even just piss on me if it gets you off. I’ll come to your room every night to learn whatever you want to teach me. You can make me eat your cum out of a dog bowl, if that’s what it takes.” She was rambling now, every word more humiliating than the last, but she couldn’t stop, she needed him to break, to want something, anything, from her, even if it was just to see her squirm. “And if you want, I’ll carry your child,” she finished dully. “I’ll keep it, raise it, anything. I don’t care.”

With deliberate slowness, she'd untied the sash of her robe and let the garment fall open, revealing her naked body beneath. The candlelight had played across her skin, highlighting the curves of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the dark triangle between her thighs. She'd stood before him without shame, without hesitation, offering herself as she had to so many men before. "I can be whatever you need me to be," she'd whispered, letting the robe slip completely from her shoulders to pool at her feet. “Just teach me. Please.”

The silence between them lasted forever. Dreama’s cheeks burned. She didn’t dare look up. She waited for his hand to come down, for him to unbuckle his belt, for him to order her to crawl under the desk and prove herself useful.

Instead, Tarrelin’s voice came down like a hammer, colder than the stone floor against her knees, harder than any blow Rastin ever landed on her. "If you believe that such tactics will sway me, Miss Dreama, you have gravely misunderstood both my character and this institution." Tarrelin's expression had hardened, his mouth twisting in revulsion. "Cover yourself, girl. This display is beneath the dignity of any true sorcerer."

"Look at me," Dreama insisted, desperation truly filling her voice now. "Really look. I'm not like the other students." She'd reached up to touch the bloodcrystal that hung between her breasts, its black surface pulsing a soft crimson in the dim light. "I already understand more than you know. I can demonstrate my power. I belong here with you."

The necromancer's eyes had fixed on the crystal, widening in shock and then narrowing in fury. "Where did you get that?" he'd demanded, his voice suddenly cold as winter frost.

"It was made of my blood," she replied, lifting her chin with raw determination. "I've been studying necromancy for years. I have to know more. I need to know more. I know it's forbidden to students, but I’m not asking to be just any student. I'm asking to be your apprentice. Look at what I can do!"

Tarrelin had stepped backward, his face twisting with horror. His eyes fixed on the bloodcrystal. “That object was created through murder. Through suffering. I can feel the deaths contained within it."

"I didn't kill anyone to make it," Dreama had protested, the half-truth coming from her lips. “Another necromancer did, from me. I just didn’t want to let those deaths go to wa—”

“You are an abomination!” Tarrelin had snapped. He'd moved toward the door, his face set in grim lines. "You will leave the academy immediately. Pack your belongings tonight. I will grant you the grace to leave on your own. Tomorrow, I will inform the Council of Masters of your transgressions, and you will be formally expelled and likely hunted. By then, you should be elsewhere."

Panic had surged through Dreama like wildfire, burning away rational thought. "No! You can't do that! I've worked too hard, sacrificed too much—"

"You've sacrificed others," Tarrelin corrected coldly. "And you would continue to do so, given the chance. You don’t understand the danger necromancy poses, why we don’t study it!”

"You don't understand!" Dreama had advanced on him, naked and desperate. "I need this knowledge! I need to make things right!"

"What you need," the old man had said with finality, "is to be stopped before you cause more harm, and bring death upon us all! You are exactly the kind of practitioner that justifies the strictures against necromancy… a selfish, ruthless, stupid little girl! And—"

What happened next was a blur in Dreama's memory—fragments of sensation and emotion rather than a coherent sequence. She remembered the rage that had exploded inside her, white-hot and all-consuming. She remembered the bloodcrystal flaring with crimson light, responding to her fury. She remembered stabbing her finger towards Master Tarrelin, pointing as she screamed a word of power. She honestly didn’t remember what happened after that, except that his own magic had risen to his defense. Blue energy had crackled around the old man as he spoke words of warding and banishment. But Dreama's desperation had given her power he couldn't match, and he didn’t understand how long she had trained.

She had a vague impression of him choking, his body arching as her sorcery ripped through him. She could remember the energy flowing between them like a crimson tide. She remembered his eyes widening in shock, then terror, as he'd felt his life force being drained. She remembered the sensation of his soul trying to flee his body as death approached, and how she'd instinctively reached out to grasp it, to hold it, to keep it from escaping.

And then he was on the floor, blood pouring from his mouth.

Dreama wiped Master Tarrelin's blood that had sprayed from his mouth from her hands and breasts onto the master’s robes. Her mind raced with desperate calculations, each possibility more horrific than the last. She had at most seven or eight hours before someone came looking for the master. They would find his body. They would know it was murder, and the sorcerers of Morninglight Academy would use their considerable talents to discover who had done this terrible thing. They would hunt her down like a rabid animal.

She forced her panicked mind to focus. She couldn't stay at Morninglight Academy anymore—that much was certain. Six years of struggle and sacrifice, three years of patient study and performance, was over. It devastated her, but it also brought her clarity. She was not going to leave without what she needed. If she couldn't learn any more sorcery here, she would take the knowledge she needed and flee.

Dreama quickly wrapped herself in her robe and then started searching Tarrelin's bookshelves, scanning the titles with frantic intensity. Most were standard magical texts—advanced treatises on magical theory, histories of notable sorcerers, philosophical examinations of the ethics of various practices. But on the highest shelf, accessible only by the small stepladder in the corner, sat a row of books bound in black leather, their spines unmarked save for small symbols etched in silver. She dragged the ladder into position and grabbed the first black volume. The moment her fingers touched the cover, she felt a sting like a wasp's attack… a warding spell designed to repel unauthorized readers. Dreama ignored the pain, snatched the book, and stuffed it into a satchel she found hanging by the door. One by one, she took the black volumes, each one burning her fingers but each one potentially containing the secrets she had killed to learn.

Dreama's breathing came in short, panicked gasps, her body alternating between cold terror and feverish heat as she thought through her situation. This disaster could still yield opportunity, if she moved quickly enough. The restricted section of the library was the key. She had never gained full access to its most valuable sections, despite her many attempts at theft over the years. But now, with nothing left to lose, she could make one final, desperate grab for the knowledge she sought. The master archivist's keys would be in his quarters, not far from the library itself. The old man was a creature of habit, retiring to bed early each evening after a cup of tea in his study. If she was lucky, he would already be asleep. If not...

Well. She had already killed once tonight.

The thought should have horrified her, but it only intensified the strange, cold clarity that had settled over her mind. Could she do it? If they were going to kick her out, and stop her… then yes. Yes she could. This was too important to let anyone get in the way.

As she prepared to leave, Dreama's gaze fell once more on Tarrelin's corpse. The old man's eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, his expression frozen in the horrified realization of his final moments. She had crossed a line tonight, one from which there could be no return. She was no longer just a student with forbidden interests, no longer merely a seeker of dark knowledge. She was a murderer.

The realization brought her some revulsion… but a small, frantic part of her held on to that, and it cut through her fear like a hot knife through butter. She had been holding herself back for years, playing by other people’s rules, pretending to respect arbitrary codes and traditions that only served to keep power in the hands of the few. Now there was no reason to pretend anymore, no mask she needed to maintain.

She was free. Free to pursue the darkest knowledge without restraint. Free to use her power however she saw fit. Free to find the means to resurrect her parents without concerning herself with the moral judgments of others. The restrictions that had bound her had been burned away by the act of murder, leaving only raw potential in their wake.

She wasn’t a murder.

She was a necromancer.

Dreama took a deep breath, steadying herself. Not yet. She would be a necromancer, after she stole the master archivist’s key, snuck into the restricted section, and took the grimoires of necromancy they hid there. Then she would be gone before anyone knew what had happened. With Tarrelin's body hopefully undiscovered until morning, she might have hours before the hunt for her began in earnest.

She took one last look at Tarrelin's body, at the room that contained the culmination of her failure and the beginning of her liberation. Then, clutching the satchel of forbidden knowledge to her side, she slipped out of the door, her destination fixed in her mind. The archives.

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Dreama moved silently through the massive library, her footsteps cushioned by the thick carpeting as she navigated between towering bookshelves that rose like ancient trees in a petrified forest. Shadows clung to the corners of the vast chamber, held at bay only by the faint blue glow of preservation spells that protected the most valuable texts from the ravages of time. The master archivist's keys jingled softly in her hand—heavy iron things with intricate bits that looked more like ritual objects than ordinary tools. She had found the old man exactly as she'd expected: slumped in his favorite chair, a half-empty cup of tea on the table beside him. Enchanting a sleeping man with silence meant she’d had an easy time creeping in and lifting the heavy ring of keys from his bedside table. He'd barely stirred the entire time she was there, completely unaware that he was in the presence of a murderer.

Her heart pounded so loudly she feared it might be heard, but the academy slept through the small hours of the morning. No patrols crossed her path, no master sorcerers were up late in the archive doing research they couldn’t do in their own chambers. Morninglight was silent save for the occasional creak of ancient timbers settling and the distant hooting of an owl outside the leaded glass windows.

The massive iron door to the restricted section loomed before her now, its surface etched with warning runes that glowed faintly red in the darkness. KNOWLEDGE UNEARNED BRINGS ONLY DESTRUCTION, proclaimed the inscription above the doorframe in the ancient language of the Atlan Empire. Dreama sneered at the words. She had earned this knowledge through blood and pain and sacrifice, had paid for it with her dignity and now her future. No one would deny her now. With trembling hands, she inserted the master key into the lock. The mechanism responded with a soft click to the physical key, but there was still resistance… it wouldn’t turn. Dreama reached out with her senses and discovered the problem… the magical signature of the enchantment needed to recognize her right to enter. It didn’t know who she was. On instinct, Dreama pressed the bloodcrystal on her neck against the door beside the keyhole, channeling a small pulse of energy through it. The wards faded as it recognized Tarrelin’s life energy inside of it, and the door swung open in silence.

Dreama slipped inside the most secure archive in the school, pulling the door closed behind her. What she saw made her breath catch in her throat. Shelves of forbidden tomes stretched before her, their leather bindings crafted from materials she dared not contemplate. She had expected that. What she hadn’t expected were the display cases and shelves filled with enchanted items that stood between the bookcases, each one illuminated by the eerie blue light of preservation spells. She moved methodically through the section, her practiced eye quickly identifying the most valuable texts. Books on soul manipulation, on the boundaries between life and death, on the extraction and preservation of life energy… anything that looked useful or that she might need to know she took, stuffing them into her already bulging satchel. Scrolls sealed with black wax and wrapped in protective cloths joined the growing collection. Each text represented a piece of the puzzle she had been trying to solve for years, how to learn the level of power necromancy was capable of.

Then, after she had filled two bags with every book she thought she needed, she turned her attention to the enchanted items: Tools for the advanced practitioner that younger students were never allowed to touch. The glass case bore multiple wards, layers of protective magic designed to repel unauthorized hands. Dreama studied the patterns for a moment, then whispered a counterspell she had learned from one of the advanced books she had studied. The wards resisted briefly before collapsing with a sound like shattering crystal, though the glass itself remained intact.

She broke the case with a sharp blow from her elbow, and inside lay treasures beyond price: rings designed to enhance a sorcerer's precision in spellcasting; bracers imbued with strength to empower her arms; earrings that would sharpen her hearing to preternatural levels; a pendant that would warn of poisons and toxins in food or drink. One by one, Dreama slipped them onto her body, gasping softly as each made contact with her skin. Power flowed through the metal bands, connecting with her own magical reserves and enhancing them. The bracers clasped around her wrists with a soft click, their weight reassuring rather than burdensome. The earrings sent a jolt of awareness through her as soon as they pierced her lobes—suddenly she could hear the scurrying of mice in the walls and the rustle of pages in the library outside as air currents disturbed them.

The light armor she found folded in another case was unlike anything she had ever seen. It looked like ordinary fabric at first glance—a bodysuit of some dark material with just a few metal plates. When she lifted it from its display, however, she felt the enchantments woven into every thread. This was armor designed for spellcasters, meant to protect without restricting movement or interfering with magical energies. It slid over her body like a second skin, the enchanted fabric molding itself to her curves while providing protection stronger than a full suit of steel. As she fastened the last clasp, the armor seemed to merge with her, becoming almost a part of her. She felt lighter, more agile, her movements quieter than before. The protection it offered wasn't just physical—she could sense wards against hostile magic, shields against detection spells, even cushioning enchantments that would soften falls from great heights.

A diadem of perfect memory, like the ones all the master sorcerers wore, sat on a velvet cushion in its own special case. It was a simple circlet of silver set with a single clear stone that caught the blue light of the preservation spells and fractured it into a thousand tiny rainbows. Dreama placed it carefully on her brow, her fingers tracing the cool metal as it settled against her skin. She knew that as long as she wore it she would never forget a spell she studied.

Her body thrummed with the combined power of these artifacts, a sensation not unlike sexual arousal spreading through her limbs. She felt invincible, unstoppable, as if the petty constraints that bound ordinary people could no longer touch her. With these tools and the knowledge she had stolen, she could disappear into the world, continue her studies, and eventually achieve any goal she set for herself.

Then, at the far end of the restricted section, she saw it.

A glass case caught a single shaft of moonlight through one of the windows. Unlike the other displays, this one stood alone in a recessed alcove, separated from the main collection as if too dangerous to be kept near other artifacts. Inside rested a sword that, at first glance, seemed unremarkable—a large bastard sword with a plain hilt and unadorned pommel. Too large for her in her past training, though with the bracers she now wore that wouldn’t be much of a concern. Still, she had never cared about such a weapon… but something about it drew her forward, an inexplicable pull that she couldn't resist.

As she approached, she noticed details that had been invisible from a distance. The blade emitted an eerie blue glow that pulsed with a cold, otherworldly light. Runes were etched along its length, symbols of such ancient provenance that even with her enhanced memory and magical education, she couldn't decipher them all. The hilt, which had seemed plain from afar, was actually intricately carved with spiraling patterns that seemed to move when viewed from the corner of the eye, and the gem socket in the hilt was empty.

The plaque beneath the case bore a single word: SILENCE.

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