"Anyone in the castle," I whisper, almost to myself. "How did he summon the ghost army in the north if he was in Castle Larstand all the time?"

"Diomedes could have easily summon the spirit of a dead necromancer. What is unbeknownst to most, however, is that dead necromancers, while still dead, retain their powers after being summoned back to Life. Therefore, if he can control that necromancer, he is indirectly able to control armies from a distance," says Abner.

"Even so, how would he control that dead necromancer from such a great distance?" I sound cynical, yet inside, I'm shaking—anyone I know could be Diomedes in disguise.

Anyone.

"You do not know the extent of his power, do you?" Abner's voice holds a near-pitying tone to it; I struggle not to snarl in frustration. "He's powerful, Constantine, more so than you could ever imagine. If only you had tasted a fraction of his power, then you wouldn't doubt that Diomedes could control a whole ghost army from Castle Larstand."

My teeth clamp onto my lower lip. "But...My father said that he only summoned a legion of ghosts the last time—"

"You have to trust me, Constantine. Diomedes is in Castle Larstand, and you have to find him. Fast. Before he decides to wreak havoc upon Perinus."

My lips form a wry smile, one birthed out of hysteria. "I thought we needed two Champions of War to defeat Diomedes together?"

Abner almost jumps in shock. I stare at him curiously—it's the first time that I've managed to goad such a violent reaction out of him. He gives an impatient shrug of his shoulders. "It's no matter. Promise me, Constantine, find him quickly. You have to trust me."

"And how would I know who is Diomedes?"

"The signs will become clear to you, eventually."

Eventually might not be fast enough, if the urgency in Abner's voice is anything to go by. I could demand more of him, scream and stamp my feet or bully him into telling me. In fact, a small, impulsive voice at the back of my head is coaxing me to do so.

No, I decide firmly. With a forced grin hanging on my lips, I say, "If I do not trust the sliver of Pst. Bronicus, then surely I will feel my patron's wrath for a somewhat heretical act?"

"Most likely, yes." I can hear the smile in his voice.

"Then I shall heed your words, Abner." I give him a quick bow; he inclines his head in return. There's so much more that he's not telling me, things that are—what I think—crucial to defeating Diomedes, but for some reason, he's not revealing them to me. Maybe it'd be best if I hold myself back for now though; a sliver of the Pietists should know better than I.

Holding an image of the Forest of Mellitus in my head, I will myself to return to my body, back into the physical world. I feel a faint lurching sensation in my stomach, as if it is being pulled backwards. The air around me feels a lot denser, more solid; my linen shirt scratches against my skin much more noticeably.

I've returned to my room.

******

The catacombs seem much friendlier now that I have some control over the shadows. I realise that I didn't ask Abner what this strange ability to control shadows has anything to do with necromancy—I make a mental note to ask him. Perhaps tomorrow evening.

Beside me, Gilbert's movements are clumsy and unrefined compared to my smooth, seamless steps. He trips over invisible bumps and occasionally clutches onto the wall or my shoulder for support. Even though we have enhanced night vision, we still need a sliver of light to absorb and reflect onto our surroundings. Down here, in the sealed tunnel, there is none.

"Finally," Gilbert mumbles when we approach the end of the tunnel. I smack a fist into the brick-like trigger, and the entrance into the House of Knowledge opens before us. He rushes out with a desperate gasp. I linger behind, resisting the urge to wrap the shadows around me.

"I still don't understand why you won't let me bring a torch along," my companion grumbles.

"It might attract attention from the patrol guards," I grunt. We barely managed to escape suspicion from the guards on duty just now, as only one of us had the Nobleman Insignia from House Rutherland. After some straightforward bluffing and negotiating had the guards let us pass, albeit reluctantly.

"Wouldn't hurt to have some light around here." Gilbert moves towards the walls, searching for one of the torches lining the circle. When his fingers close around wood, he snatches the torch out of its holder savagely, nearly snapping the steel. I shush him; he replies with a sheepish 'sorry'.

He tries to ignite the torch with a flint and steel he'd been carrying around the whole time. It's only during the fifth try when the fire blazes into life, forcing the shadows to retreat into their corners. There's a strange hollow pang in my stomach, like it's reacting to the lack of darkness. In its place though, there's something...warm, glowing from within. I shake my head. No, it's just your delusions—it's the fire, that's all. You just feel it much more keenly than usual.

Gilbert waves the torch in front of him, leading the way into the former Claristäe's office. Once the familiar stench of rat droppings and other unimaginable smells of horror assail my nostrils, he stops, wheeling around to face me.

"Lead the way, Banshee." He gives me a mock bow. I shoot a glare at him, to which he responds with a good-natured grin. With a sigh, I find the onyx and give it a slight touch; the staircase opens and spiral downwards before us. I let Gilbert go first—he seems eager to see if the scrinaius is still in its place.

When we finally reach the last step, he emits a low whistle. "Captain Eldric's reports were false?"

"I don't think so," I say hesitantly. "I suspect that the entrance into the scrinaius opens to specific individuals." Or to be more specific, necromancers, like me. Or those cursed by a necromancer's touch, like Allura.

"That explains why the door glows when it's opened, I suppose." He leans in towards said door, squinting at the grooves in the rock. Then he straightens himself, holds out a hand, and says humorously, "May I?"

"Please, do." Gilbert chuckles at my crispness.

His fingers barely graze the rock when the door explodes in light.

My jaw drops open at the sight. Now I know how Gilbert and Allura had felt like when I'd first triggered the door open. Beautiful, cursive Ancient Cambirian burns against the surface of the rock, spelling out a phrase that is not meant for my eyes. The light is blinding, almost too much even for my eyes, yet I cannot tear my gaze away from it. An aura of power rolls over me; my legs buckle. Frost seems to slowly form over me, threatening to solidify and freeze me in this position for all eternity.

Then I realise that it's not a hallucination—there is frost forming over me.

"Gilbert!" I scream, struggling against the thickening ice. It takes all of my strength to shake some of it off, and even then, more take its place. "Gilbert!"

He's in a trance. Containing a sob, I make a grab for his wrist—it's ice cold—and wrench it away from the surface of the rock.

"Wha—what happened?" Gilbert's eyes widen in horror when he comes into himself. He takes a quick sweep of the area. The rocks are frosted all over. The light of the words slowly die away, leaving nothing but darkness in its wake—the fire had been blown out by the icy wind. Heavily, mockingly, the door slides open.

"The door opened?" I sputter. I look at Gilbert. He's leaning heavily against the wall, taking in deep, sobbing gasps. The frost is starting to melt, I note with relief. "Gilbert, what were those words?"

"I—I don't know," he mumbles. "Yet I know what they mean: the King must return."

'The King must return'? What does that mean? If the door only opens for those with the blood of necromancers, why did it react to Gilbert's touch? What if...he's another necromancer?

I clench my jaw; suspicion starts to flare in me, but I shove it down. "Do you want to go in?" My voice is raspy, like a phantom whispering demons in my ear.

He shakes his head weakly; I smile in relief. Without Allura's solid, dependable presence, the scrinaius seems like a dangerous place. For me, confirming that the sight of the scrinaius before was not an illusion is enough, and for Gilbert, knowing that the scrinaius is still here is sufficient. Propping him up, I guide him back up the stairs. He stumbles more than usual, and doesn't even look like he's trying not to. I open my mouth to chide him, but stop myself when I see his face.

Tears. Tears are streaking down his cheeks.

******

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Skin [Necromantic term] -- The physical attributes a necromancer can take from a dead person to disguise him or herself.