CHAPTER 4 : Rivermoore: A Minister’s Duty (Part 1)

Lesedi's foot pulverized another ghoul, and she ground to a halt. A ripple of confusion ran through the crowd. The relentless army of undead attackers was now standing stock-still, like so many scarecrows.

"The fight's gone out of them. The invasion crew either beat Rivermoore or closed a deal. Either way, good for us."

"Do we join them?" Chela asked, eyeing the entrance.

Lesedi considered it, then shook her head.

"…No—if they've brokered a deal with him, rushing in could upend it. Be on standby, ready for anything."

She took a canteen from her satchel and quaffed the water within. All that fighting had her body overheated, and she needed to cool down.

"Looks like we're in the endgame," she whispered. "Unless something else flips the board."

They'd pulled off a delicate negotiation by the skin of their teeth, but that didn't mean the conflicts were over. Tim Linton had a lot of disgruntled griping left in him.

"…Yo, over here. The hell's going on? Nobody told me a damn thing about this."

"Sorry, Mr. Linton. Ms. Ingwe's orders," Oliver replied. "Said you'd be more intimidating if you had no clue a deal was in the cards—"

"I'll give her that. I was hell-bent on killing this son of a bitch. Now I gotta take all that fury and stifle it somehow. Just look at this poison I wasted!"

Tim jammed his elbow into Oliver's side, and Shannon put her arms on her cousin's shoulders, trying to pull him away from the needling.

"Enough goofing off," Gwyn said, at his limit. "No matter how we got here, we're now witnesses to the rite. Let's not disturb the minister's focus."

He jerked his chin at Rivermoore's back. They took any number of branches and moved through a door at the end of a passage into a reception room, with a coffee table set between two couches. Rivermoore waved a wand, and the crystal lamps filled the room with a warm glow.

"Sit where you please," he intoned. "I've never invited anyone living, so I can't vouch for the comfort."

"Some hospitality you got there," Tim spat. "At least offer tea."

"I never said I wasn't."

Tim flopped down on the couch. A door at the back opened as if in response to his snark, and a skeleton in butler clothes came in. It had a tray in both hands with six steaming cups of tea. As its guests gaped, it set them down at even intervals on the table.

"I've got a few checks to run before I start the ritual," Rivermoore said, not even turning to face them. "How long are you waiting for?"

"Max twenty-six hours. Given the run back to campus, Godfrey's recovery, and enough time to prep for the finals…we can't really go longer."

"That'll do."

Rivermoore vanished through a door in back. If this was going to be a while, Oliver would rather sit—except he wasn't entirely comfortable kicking back in the warlock's lair. But Nanao and Yuri didn't even hesitate. Worse, they reached for the tea.

"…Mm. Most excellent."

"?! You drank that, Nanao?!" Oliver said.

"Indeed. I sensed no ill intent."

"Mr. Butler, sir, can I get another? All that talking left me parched!"

Yuri sure had a lot of nerve, but the bone butler bowed and poured more tea from the pot. Oliver couldn't believe his eyes.

"Settle down, Horn," Tim said, holding his own cup out for more. "If there was poison in it, I'd know. I'll handle the whole vigilance thing, so you just unwind a bit. This had to have taken a lot outta you."

He was clearly speaking from experience. Yet, Oliver still hesitated. Only when Shannon pulled his arm did he finally sit down. The butler brought out cookies—to Nanao's and Yuri's evident delight.

Upon depositing his guests in the parlor, Rivermoore headed to the back of his workshop. He moved right to the waiting coffin and gingerly explained the situation.

"…Not how I planned it, but they weren't taking no for an answer."

"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! This is a real turnup! I love it! The more the merrier! You've told me lots about your school friends, so I can't wait to see them!"

She sounded every bit as pleased as he wasn't. Having expected that, Rivermoore snorted and rapped his knuckles on the coffin.

"Final tuning on your flesh is done. The rest is down to focus. Prepare yourself."

"I'm ready as I'll ever be. I sure had enough time."

Her confident response was the push he needed. Rivermoore nodded and seated himself at the center of the magic circle next to the coffin. He took several long, deep breaths, quieting down the adrenaline of the fight, clearing his mind—so that his heart would not waver no matter what lay ahead.

Two hours after their arrival in the parlor, Oliver's lap had somehow become a pillow for both Nanao and Yuri.

"…Mmmph… See…they're tasty, Oliver…"

"..."

Yuri had gone down first and was talking in his sleep. Oliver heaved yet another sigh. He'd moved to this couch on the grounds that his sister's embrace would never end otherwise, only to wind up with these two all over him—and now he was trapped between them.

"Oliver, if I may venture a question…"

As he watched Shannon nod off on the couch across from him, a voice drifted from his lap. Nanao's eyes had opened, and she was looking up at him.

"Your discussion with Rivermoore was, from the start, based on the assumption that the bone would be returned."

"It was. We can't be entirely sure the bones won't be harmed in the process, but weighed against the risk of fighting—"

"That's the point that escaped me. Before any considerations of degradation, we are discussing the return of a departed soul from the afterlife. What is now a heap of bones will be granted flesh anew. And once that has happened, I cannot imagine asking for the bones' return."

Nanao folded her arms as she spoke—and Oliver at last spotted the source of her confusion.

"Okay, let's wind it back a bit. I see why you're lost now. My argument was based on a pretext you are unaware of. Let me get you up to speed."

He took a moment to martial his thoughts, to consider his approach. She'd been at Kimberly two years and change, yet there were still occasional discrepancies between Nanao's knowledge and those of your typical mage. Especially in areas unaffected by practical concerns. He was filling these gaps in when he stumbled across them—he rather enjoyed it, really.

"First, our world does not allow the dead to resurrect. This is not a concern of law or theory but the fundamental world order—one that invokes the frenetic principle. It violates the rules our 'god' made. This is something that no mage can escape as long as they are acting within this world."

"I had imagined as much. Yet, that is what Mr. Rivermoore aspires to."

"I'm getting to that. Second, Mr. Rivermoore's ultimate goal is the revitalization of ancient necromancy. Strictly speaking, this resurrection is simply a means to that end. When mages attempt a resurrection, that is nearly always the intent. What matters is not the return to life but what you stand to gain from it. Bear that in mind."

On his lap, Nanao nodded. Seeing that, he decided not to rush through this. They had plenty of time on their hands.

"Imagine an ancient scroll, exposed to the elements and badly deteriorated. You wish to unfurl it and read the contents, but touching it at all could make it crumble to dust. So you take every caution, utilize all means available to you, and attempt to decipher it. Mr. Rivermoore is doing this not with a scroll but with a human being," Oliver explained. "Resurrection is an extreme means of doing so, but in terms of our example, it's akin to transferring the entire contents of the scroll to a new piece of paper. Making a copy—in this case, moving the soul to a new body. And that counts as the resurrection the world forbids."

He paused there. To ensure she fully understood, he would have to dig a little deeper.

"Incidentally, there are other phenomena that might appear to violate this rule. Possession is an infamous example. In that case, a ghost will take over flesh that is not their own, but it's less a new host than something they've wrapped themselves around."

"Wrapped?"

"It's tough to explain, but…to put in terms you'd understand, let's go with horses. Horses are the flesh, and the rider is the soul. Only the horse's real rider—the genuine soul—can move that horse. A rider can dismount from their horse, but not climb onto another. Ghosts are riders who have lost their horse. Despite this, they want a new horse more than anything else—so they cling to a horse's torso or legs, trying to bend it to their will. That is how possession functions. Since that's just an analogy, there are several practical differences, but essentially, possession is an extremely unnatural and ineffective means of control."

"Mm, I'm with you so far."

"Since possession is so ineffective, it's not counted as resurrection and doesn't violate the world order. Necromancers take advantage of that, giving the dead temporary hosts and turning them into familiars. But in that form, only a portion of the soul's true power is available. They have no growth potential or creativity, and it's difficult to maintain high-level thought. You can make it so they perform basic tasks like the undead here, but if you need to bring someone back as a mage, that simply won't do. Most magic can only be performed if the caster is currently alive."

Nanao closed her eyes, murmuring thoughtfully. Oliver went over things once more in review.

"Let me summarize. Rivermoore wants to revive ancient necromancy, but to do that, he has to fully resurrect an ancient mage. Unfortunately, the rules of our world forbid that. You with me there?"

"I believe my understanding suffices."

"Then let's get to the real point. If you must violate the world order and perform a resurrection, there are theoretically two primary approaches. One is to head to a different world and perform the resurrection there. What is not permitted in our world may be allowed in a world governed by a different god. But this is a pie-in-the-sky idea—one purely theoretical."

"Oh? Whatever for?"

"None of the tírs that mages are capable of reaching allow resurrection the way we'd want it. Compare it to the laws of nations—theft is illegal in Yamatsu and equally here in Yelgland. Same difference. There are any number of other practical concerns—but for now, assume resurrection in a tír is impossible."

Nanao nodded. There was plenty more to discuss about tír themselves, but that was a tangent best left unexplored here. He'd have to fill her in some other time.

"Which means Mr. Rivermoore has only one path remaining. Namely, he must create his own world in which to attempt the resurrection."

"…You mean…"

Nanao looked tense. Knowing exactly what she'd pictured, Oliver nodded.

"You've been to one: the sights we witnessed during Ophelia's incident. The Grand Aria—that technique allows a mage to deploy a domain that operates under different rules, turning infringement legitimate. Resurrection included. If the Aria is designed to allow that from the get-go, then nothing there can prevent the resurrection. Out of all possibilities, that is the one place Mr. Rivermoore's purpose can be fulfilled."

If the world did not allow it, then make your own world. That was perhaps the highest expression of a mage's craft and every bit as difficult as it sounded. Not something that could ever be achieved in a single generation.

"…Even if a mage of exceptional talent prepares very, very carefully, it's nigh impossible to keep the Aria under control. Just as we saw with Ophelia, if you surpass your limit, you'll be consumed by the spell. Which means anyone resurrected within will survive only until that limit is reached."

Nanao's eyes filled with understanding and a deep sadness. She knew the harsh truth, and Oliver consoled her, stroking her hair.

"Mr. Rivermoore's manner made it clear. We're about to see both the resurrection of a mage—and her funeral. We'll stand in silent vigil until the task is done. And when all the dust settles, we'll pluck one bone from the remains and take it home."

A good eleven hours after they were brought in, Rivermoore finally called for them. The bone butler led the group down silent corridors to the ritual chamber, where a coffin was placed at the center and a magic circle covered the entire floor around it. The space itself was considerably larger than any previous rooms. Oliver could tell this was the undead kingdom's throne room.

"…Before we begin, I want to make one thing clear," Rivermoore said.

He stood before the coffin, speaking softly. No signs of the heightened emotions he'd displayed in their earlier battle. His mana itself was tranquil, yet brimming over the edge. His focus was clearly honed—and it made everyone present instinctively straighten up.

"During the ritual, no matter what happens, you are not to intervene. You are witnesses only. In return, I can guarantee your safety."

"Naturally, none of us is foolish enough to meddle with a ritual we can't possibly understand," Gwyn said. "I swear we will remain seated even if you perish before our very eyes."

Rivermoore nodded once and turned to the coffin. Neither side belabored the point. They could easily disrupt the ritual if they wanted, but in that case, Rivermoore would destroy Godfrey's bone. If either wished to achieve their ends, they would have to keep their hands to themselves.

The moment was upon them. White wand in hand, Rivermoore slowly turned around.

"Hahhhhhh…"

One last deep breath, and before their watchful eyes—his chant began.

Omnes suas calvarias ad eandem partem vertentes ceciderunt.

Corpses on the ground, their gazes aligned.

A shiver ran down each spine. Oliver felt an urge to flee rising up within and did his very best to force it to subside. He'd been too preoccupied to observe the last Aria, but this time was different.

Hi ipsi pedes quibus feriebant terram hae ipsae manus quibus serpebant ad punctum temporis mortis eorum.

Their feet had tramped earth, their hands had clawed the dirt—until the end arrived.

Yuri's cheeks were flushed red. Nanao's lips screwed up tight. Even without prior knowledge, any mage knew on instinct alone—this here was the summit of Rivermoore's sorcery.

Ossa dissipata clamant se ipsos etiam egere et feriendi et serpendi.

Your weathered bones cry out for further tramping, further clawing.

Dum voces vestrae sonant nemo vestrum mortuos est.

As long as those voices cry for more, none of you are truly dead.

Rivermoore's wand pointed at the ceiling, and something began encroaching on their surroundings from below. Innumerable black threads, winding around one another as they ascended. The air above their heads was dyed a uniform shade.

Tectum sericis nigreas novum caelum hoc ipsum non ad vos ascendendum sed ad abscondendum et tergendum est.

A veil of black silk, a canopy betwixt you and heaven, obscures your path to ascension.

Sub caelo nigro nullus mortuos sed est vivens sine sanguine et carne.

Beneath that inky sky, there are no dead, only living souls lacking flesh.

As the canopy closed above, all colors, all sense of distance were lost. The world was shrouded in darkness. Shannon clenched Oliver's hand.

Dulce dormitatione vetita morte iucunda deposita ergo electa est vita doloris.

Death is rejecting the temptation of slumber, abandoning peace and tranquility; we choose the suffering that is life.

The invocation droned on. The total darkness was broken by warm lights, emerging one after another.

Neque sanguis neque os neque caro sed ipsa voluntas est signum vivendi.

Life lies not in the flow of blood or the flesh itself but in the will alone.

A world born, its range beyond spatial magic, the mage's will manifest, a new order imposed by one man. Infringement made legitimate.

Sub hoc nullum sepulcrum est. Dum animas vestras tu reveritis vivitote in aeternum.

There are no graves here. You shall live until your very soul has frayed to nothing.

"Mundus sine morte—Paradise Lost!"

No moon or stars. Yet, the night sky above was aglow with a dim light.

Countless undead wavered indistinctly, passing back and forth overhead. Perhaps they were no longer undead. In this domain, the loss of flesh no longer signified death. If they had the will to choose suffering, then their beings remained on this side of the line.

"…Whoa…"

Oliver was left stunned. Every single thing in sight had been repainted, now far more pastoral than he'd imagined. At the end of his gaze, Rivermoore was wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Don't confuse me with a mad genius like Salvadori. My great-grandfather developed this Aria. I merely inherited it."

With that self-deprecation, Rivermoore turned his eyes from the view above back to his coffin. A Grand Aria was the peak of any mage's labors, but today it was merely setting the scene. His true designs lay on what was to come.

"I'm popping the lid, Fau. Patentibus!"

Rivermoore swung his wand wide. The sound of countless locks opening echoed—and then the lid slid aside. Outside air rushed into a bed sealed off for a thousand years.

"Spiritus animae resuscitatio!"

And the spirit within—left alone, it would likely soon disperse, but Rivermoore swiftly led it to the flesh nearby: the body of a young girl, assembled from bones gathered over the years. He could feel a new interior taking over that host.

There was a long silence. The body remained at Rivermoore's feet, not moving.

"Hmm—"

"C'mon, you can't blow it here!" Tim called.

Unable to directly observe the movements of the soul, all they could see was the shimmer in the air—but their concerns proved unfounded. Rivermoore waved his wand a third time.

"She needs a wake-up call. Tonitrus!"

A bolt from the tip of his wand struck the body in the chest, forcing the heart to start beating, the blood to rush through the body once more. The pale face regained its color.

"Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!"

Her eyes snapped open, and a howl escaped her throat—from silence to full throttle, but Rivermoore just stood and watched. She rolled around at his feet for several seconds, clearly in agony; then she got her hands on the ground and stopped. A few more seconds passed, and her head went up—tears in her eyes.

"…Why?! Cyrus, why lightning?! All this time I've waited, and you give me the worst awakening possible!"

"Don't blame me. You took too long to kick-start your heart."

"There are other ways to resuscitate people! At least try some healing first! And whoa, your voice! That's what it sounds like in person?! Do it again! Let me hear it one more time!"

The girl scrambled, running over to him. She stretched way up to reach his face, poking his cheeks with her fingers like a baby does with their parents' faces. She was delighting in the capacity for touch.

"…You look so old, Cyrus. Aren't you twenty-two? What happened?"

"Dealing with the dead takes its toll on you. You're more or less what I assumed. I know you're excited, but how's the body working for you?"

Letting her touch all she wanted, Rivermoore started checking her over. His question made her gasp and look at herself. She hopped up and down a few times.

"…It's incredible! What? How—? This might be better than when I was alive!"

"Good," he said, nodding. "Well worth the time I spent on component selection."

She tried reaching for his face again, but then she remembered he was not alone. She spun around to face the others, beaming at them.

"You're Cyrus's school chums, right? Nice to meet you! I'm Fau. I'm an old-timey mage who stubbornly refused to pass on. Thanks for attending my second coming!"

"…Sorry," Tim said. "I get that she's saying hi, but no clue what language that is."

To the group's ears, it was a stream of unfamiliar sounds. As the other five members blinked, Gwyn put his chin on one hand, listening close. It was rare he expressed this keen an interest.

"The language of the ancients," he noted. "In hindsight, not surprising. How would an undead learn Yelglish? We understood her in the memories because it was filtered through Rivermoore's perceptions."

"So I have to interpret?" Rivermoore said. "You've just woken up, and you're already a handful."

Fau and the others could communicate only through him. The next few moments were all regular chatter; the two had almost forgotten why they were here. With her ever-changing expressions and good cheer—she certainly acted the age she appeared to be. And that made this even harder for Oliver. She was too young for the burden she bore.

"My mind and senses are working fine," she noted. "So what about mana?"

Fau drew the wand at her hip and held it aloft. A flame appeared at the tip, and she began to dance—the choreography distinctive, to say the least. As she moved, the wand's tip kept changing colors, and each time it looped, the pace of her steps quickened.

"…!"

"Oh-ho! Such elegance."

Oliver's eyes went wide while Nanao let out a cry of delight. Attribute shifting at a high tempo was a magical warm-up Oliver himself employed, but when Fau switched elements, the transitions were nigh invisible. That alone proved she was a deft hand at mana manipulation, but what really boggled the mind was how smoothly the mana flowed through her entire body. Attribute shifts inevitably sent ripples through you, but Fau's were barely noticeable. Training your flesh for mana use alone wouldn't do that. This control lay deeper, likely within the ether itself.

Once she'd danced her fill, Fau came to a graceful stop and spun to face Rivermoore.

"Mm, all good. Then let's get started, Cyrus. I hate to rush, but…"

Rivermoore nodded. "Right. Come on in."

He turned away, heading to a little hut on a hill inside the Grand Aria. The witnesses, gathering that the necromancy instruction would take place there, silently watched them go. Fau followed Rivermoore, turning back once to wave. Oliver couldn't help but grin. She was so easy to like, it was hard to believe she hailed from a millennium ago.

"Nn—!"

But Rivermoore stopped in his tracks just outside the hut. Fau looked up in surprise, only to sense the same thing a moment later. They both spun around, staring back the way they'd come—and soon everyone knew what was wrong.

"Something's coming," Yuri whispered, staring up at the void. A crack appeared in empty space.

"…That's…not good…"

As the world crumbled, a pale bone arm thrust through, clad in black rags. Fau winced, and Rivermoore turned pale. Both knew all too well what this was—and what it meant for them.

"…The Aria seal was incomplete. They've caught our scent."

With no legs to stand upon, a black cloth hovered in the air, only the arms and a scythe emerging. The blade itself reflected no light, existing solely to end lives. All here knew the bearer. Innumerable songs, poems, and children's tales told of its grim visage. Rules established by the fallen god brought an end to all life in kind.

The second law of the frenetic principles: No one lives forever.

"A reaper…!"

The name crossed Oliver's lips like a shudder. As he stood rooted to the spot, Rivermoore and Fau drew their wands.

"Resuscitatio!"

In answer to their chant, twelve figures rose from the ground. Ancient mages of all genders and ages. Zahhaks Rivermoore had long made use of, reborn as the living here within the Grand Aria. The passage of time may have worn away their personalities, but the spell correctly rebound their flesh and souls, allowing them the use of spells and dramatically heightening their combat potential. The last card Rivermoore had up his sleeve.

A hitherto unseen skelebeast rose up from the feet of one ancient. Another deployed a shadow, from which emerged a massive bulk. Still a third was surrounded by a swirling vortex of curse energy. No time for analysis—every attack was launched directly at their quarry.

And like so much wheat, all were mown down by a single swing of the reaper's scythe.

"!"

Thus began the promenade of death. The skelebeasts were pulverized, and the reaper's ire turned to the ancients themselves. The first put out a bone beast to shield itself—and the swing cut through both as one. A second dove into its shadow, attempting to flee, but the scythe sliced through shadow and diver. The spectacle was overwhelming, and Oliver's every bone rattled. The ancients threw all their long-lost secrets at it as one, and it was not even a contest.

"Gah…!"

Rivermoore clenched his teeth. Within the Aria, loss of flesh held little meaning, but the reaper's blows sliced directly to the ether itself—and with that damage, resurrection was not possible, even here. Less than a minute after the fight began, his final hand of cards had been reduced to half their number.

And still the reaper rampaged, bearing a message from the world on death's inevitability. "…No use," Tim muttered, watching Rivermoore and Fau struggling in vain. "Given that only one reaper showed up, the Aria greatly diminished their power…but necromancers just don't have what it takes to fight a reaper."

""

Even as he spoke, Nanao unconsciously reached for the blade at her hip, unable to bear it. But Tim clapped a hand on her shoulder, his grip firmer than ever before.

"Don't even think about helping them. This thing's only after the resurrected girl—and Rivermoore, because he's protecting her. As long as we don't stick our noses in, the reaper won't bother us."

"Hrm."

"This is why Rivermoore made us swear not to intervene. This ain't a matter of logic anyway. You can feel it on your skin!"

Tim raised his hand, showing it to the third-years. Oliver gulped. Tim Linton, the Toxic Gasser himself, the Watch's crazed berserker, a mage who'd faced down death countless times—and his hand was shaking.

"Even if the president was with us in peak condition, I wouldn't wanna fight that thing. Two-hundred-year-old mages are absolute monsters, but eighty percent of them fall when they first face the reaper. That's how powerful this curse is. You don't stand a chance against a thing like that, not with underclassmen in tow."

This was patently obvious, and all the more convincing since it came from Tim's lips. As a grim silence settled, Gwyn added his two cents.

"I'm afraid Tim's right. Even if they go down, we've still got a shot at recovering Godfrey's bone. And that's our best bet."

The only real option left to them here: watch the reaper mercilessly cut Fau down, then pluck the bone from her corpse and beat a hasty retreat. They had no idea if Godfrey's ether would remain intact, but they'd just have to cross their fingers.

"...…"

Putting a tight lid on his emotions, Oliver ordered himself to remain still. This was for the best. No matter the outcome, they could not afford to lose anyone on this team. Rivermoore had been their enemy not long before, and Fau was on his side. No matter how you looked at it, this was not worth risking all six of their lives.

"Gah…!"

"Cyrus, step back!"

A blow from the reaper had damaged Rivermoore's ether, and his face contorted in pain. Fau stepped forward to guard him, but Rivermoore himself pushed her back, adamant.

His heart frozen, Oliver realized: By the tenets of all mages, the Scavenger's actions were in error. Unable to fend off the reaper himself, Rivermoore's ritual had already failed. There was no point in fighting. If you considered the future ahead of him, then the right choice here would be to let the reaper claim Fau. All Rivermoore was doing was putting his own life at risk for nothing—and he likely knew it.

"…Honestly. You would do that," Fau said with a laugh.

She'd already turned her wand to her own chest. Ah—Oliver felt a sigh echo through his heart. He knew only too well how she felt and what had led her to that choice. He'd have done the same himself in her shoes.

A short breath followed. Then a spell echoed across the night sky.

"…Huh?"

Her wand braced, Fau gaped, forgetting what she'd been poised to do.

Before her, the reaper had stopped. A bolt of lightning had come in from the side just as it was about to attack Rivermoore again. Its scythe held high, the agent of death's very being momentarily fluttered like a candle in the wind.

Fau and Rivermoore both turned to see who'd done the deed. Sparks still fading around his athame, well out ahead of the observer's post, a boy stood—doing the most foolish thing possible.

"Noll…"

"Hah?! The hell are you doing?!"

Shannon's eyes were on her little brother's back, and Tim's face turned another color.

Rivermoore had never dreamed of this intrusion; he glared at Oliver like a wounded beast.

"…What's the meaning of this, third-year? I told you not—"

"It's not for you!" Oliver roared, the words ripping out of his throat. He was all too aware how inexcusable this act was. This was not for Rivermoore, and deep down he knew it was not for Fau, either.

He had no compulsion to overturn the principle of human death. That would be a rebellion against the design of life itself and was entirely separate from his own heart's desire. And yet—the sight unfolding before him was not acceptable. Snipping this girl's life by the same standards applied to mages at the end of an already extraordinarily long life—the pigheaded nature of that rule filled him with such fury, he felt positively dizzy.

Glaring at the reaper, Oliver asked: Where is the sin in this resurrection?

This girl had endured eons in a lightless casket, solely for the purpose of passing on her knowledge to the future. Time she should have spent out in the sun had been whiled away, buried in darkness. She had waited there, grappling with the terror of her very self withering away. All for a fleeting resolution that might never come to pass. The significance of her birth entirely depending on it.

To her way of life, he felt equal parts sympathy and respect. But those were not what moved his hand.

When the man who brought her back was in danger, Fau had not hesitated to end her own life, well aware that doing so would invalidate all the time she had endured within that coffin.

Rivermoore had fought a reaper twice. Once now and once some time before. The first time, he'd hoped to grant her new life; the second, to ensure the life she had was not in vain.

Oliver wished only to guard those urges. Even if that was stupid, even if that was the wrong choice, he had to do it. He fought to protect not the ritual, not the secrets of ancient necromancy, but their hearts. The kindness of a boy and girl, unbroken by the harsh toll of time's passage.

Hear me, Grim Reaper. I do not ask you to leave this place, only to bide your time.

"…Complete your duty, Cyrus Rivermoore! Though the world may not approve! That's what we mages do!"

A shout from his very soul, directed at a mage far more powerful than Oliver. Rivermoore stood as if struck by lightning—and then two figures joined Oliver.

"Pray, what is the plan?" Nanao asked, drawing her katana.

"Uh, how do we fight reapers again?" Yuri asked, his head cocked askew. "I mean, they don't die."

Oliver forced aside the urge to apologize, deeming that best not said here.

"Nanao, Leik—"

"Only one way to handle these things. Hit 'em with effective elements, continuously canceling the phenomenon. Never get hit; their swings strike only ether."

Gwyn and Shannon flanked the trio. Oliver's expression momentarily crumpled.

"Brother, Sister…"

"We know…what you want to do, Noll." Shannon raised her white wand.

"Doesn't matter what we're up against. If your heart desires it—then we are here with you." Gwyn shouldered his viola, and the sole remaining upperclassman pushed his way between Oliver and Nanao.

"You're all a bunch of idiots. Lesedi and her dumbass schemes… She really blew it this time."

"Mr. Linton—!" Oliver gaped at him.

Tim drew the athame at his hip and cast Oliver a sidelong glare. "And here I thought you were less crazy than we were. Boy, was I ever wrong. You've gone and jumped right into madness here."

The Toxic Gasser clicked his tongue. Thorough preparations, situational advantage, fighting only foes you knew you could beat—Lesedi had talked her mouth off going over those principles, and they were the ironclad rules of the Campus Watch. But all the older members knew—they'd broken every one of those rules countless times in their day.

Their foes had never once seemed beatable. Opponents they had to fight, enemies they had to beat—those had never arrived at their convenience. If they had time to calculate their odds, they'd be better off casting another spell. If they had someone worth protecting, then they'd wade into the fray with that alone in mind. And the crucible of those gambles was their source of pride.

This was no different. In other words: It was merely Watch tradition.

"Fine! I'm in. Didn't know what else to do with these vials anyway. But lemme just say this—if any of you dies here, I'm kicking your ass myself."

His very mana laced with bloodlust, the Toxic Gasser bared his fangs. The reaper recovered from its stunned state and began moving.

"Twenty minutes, Rivermoore!" Gwyn yelled. "We'll keep the reaper at bay till then! Can you make the most of it?"

The warlock clenched his jaw, then grabbed Fau's hand and turned to go. No time to hesitate. He had a purpose to fulfill.

"…I owe you!" he called.

Those were words he'd not used once since his start at Kimberly. Running by his side, the corner of her eye on the six fighters behind them, Fau smiled.

"See, Cyrus? You have lots of friends!"

That provoked the dourest expression human flesh was capable of making. But before anyone caught a glimpse of it, Rivermoore and Fau dove into the hut on the hill.

Yuri made sure they were in, then said, "I think I solved another mystery, Oliver."

"?"

"The Case of the Kindhearted Friend. I've always wondered: Why do you worry so much about other people? It'd be so much easier if you just let them be, no matter who was risking their neck or where."

This left Oliver rather rattled, to say the least. But Yuri spoke with conviction.

"I finally figured out why. You value the heart most of all."

Oliver staggered as if shot through the chest. But Nanao tugged at his sleeve.

"I knew that much already," she said.

"No time to flirt! It's here!" Tim roared, vial in hand.

They braced for battle—and the reaper swung its scythe.

Inside the hut, Rivermoore put a seal on the door that would hardly last long, then caught his breath, glancing around. There was a big, round worktable at the room's center; a dozen varieties of powdered magingredients in little dishes; and a row of mummified fetal corpses. All were children who had perished in the womb—and like Carmen had heard, he'd acquired these from mages' homes. He breathed easily. Everything they needed was here.

"…No time, so let's skip ahead."

"You got it," Fau said, nodding. "Overlap your space with mine."

She moved to the worktable, raised her white wand, and went still. Rivermoore joined her, using spatial magic to merge his perceptions with hers. Ears and eyes alone would not suffice here.

"…Hahhhhhh…"

Eyes closed, she let out a long breath—and something the eyes could not detect rose up from the fetal cadavers. Fau wound that around her wand like so much taffy, then cast a spell that made the amorphous thing separate into layers of disparate density, arcing before Fau like a rainbow. Imperceptible to the naked eye, Rivermoore could only perceive it within his personal space.

"…!"

"Soak in the feel of it. You're pretty good at etheric bonding but still at a patchwork level. To reach the next stage, you'll need to make finer divisions in the ether, applying clear measurements to it. Like cutting wood in regulation lengths. It's a lot easier to work with than the whole log, and there's so much more you can make from it."

As she spoke, Fau's wand kept moving. Like peeling bark, the rainbow's layers came apart from the outside in, lining up in the air. Rivermoore was blown away. He, too, had been working on ways to split and classify ether, but the most he'd achieved was three layers. Meanwhile, the rainbow Fau was peeling apart was divided into seventeen. That alone showed the sheer discrepancy in their respective necromancy.

"Naturally, this is easier said than done. Etheric research lags behind research on the flesh for the simple reason that it is that much harder to observe. As a rule, you can neither see nor touch an etheric body. Even ghosts who flicker like a candle in the wind—what you're actually seeing is the air, dust, and magic particles moving as the ether passes by."

Each word Fau said, each move she made—Rivermoore was heightening all his senses, trying not to miss a thing. This was what she'd been born to do.

"Almost the only exception is here, within a mage's spatial magic. In that space, what we perceive lies outside the five senses, and some people are able to directly perceive and manipulate the ether there. Problem is, that's highly dependent on the individual's background and impossible to make universal. Anything that takes place in a mage's personal space is inherently subjective. You can tell someone an apple is red, but no words can truly define what being red entails. Same logic."

Even with the spaces overlapped, facing the same subject, what Fau and Rivermoore sensed was not alike. Sensations within personal spaces were far more disparate than those experienced via the eyes and ears, organs of similar construction. At best, that was a nursery that could raise a mage of singular sensibilities, but at worst, it could create an impassible information-processing incompatibility. Since these sensations were yours and yours alone, there was no way to communicate them to others.

"Since we are both mages, we've got ways and means of sharing experience vicariously. But it's ultimately still a game of whispers. The information exchanged is fundamentally altered by the senses of the recipient, and the more people it passes through, the more significant the alteration becomes. This is hardly specific to necromancy; it's the reason mages create heirs with similar sensibilities, allowing them to pass down their techniques with minimal deterioration. But that simply elevates a personal skill to a family heirloom. Great if you want it kept secret, but useless for making things widely accessible."

As Fau talked, the powders on the table before her wafted upward, mingling with some of the etheric layers. Once she'd used the full amount of all twelve components, Fau began merging the layers back together again. The disassembly and alteration phases complete, she was now demonstrating how to reassemble.

"Given the aforementioned issues, we ancient mages spent a long time seeking one thing: an etheric body all could see and touch in the same way. Only with that manifest could a measure of objectivity be applied to etheric manipulation; only then could necromancy go from being a household craft to an academic discipline. And we achieved just that—shortly before the collapse."

Rivermoore swallowed hard, and Fau raised her wand, quite literally bestowing life upon her creation.

"Spiritus animae resuscitatio!"

Wind and light in tow, her mana swirled. And within, a new creation let out its birthing cry.

Mere mortals up against death incarnate—Oliver was learning just what that meant with every fiber of his being.

First, he could discern no consistencies in its movements. The reaper just slid through the air above the ground, no feet to have footwork, the existence of footholds irrelevant. Yet, neither did it follow the principles of flighted creatures like brooms or wyverns; no experience with them applied here.

"Tonitrus!"

When it appeared to slow, he took aim, firing a lightning bolt at what he assumed to be its back. But the next instant proved all his expectations wrong. The reaper's body scattered like mist.

"?!"

The black particles flew higher. No one was sure how to respond. The particles quickly spread out, turning into a large black cloud.

Gaping up at this, Yuri muttered, "Oh, it's gonna fall."

"To me!" Shannon called.

The others rushed to her side, forming a tight circle, and raised their wands overhead.

""""""Impetus!""""""

Together, they deployed a barrier of wind just as the rain of death began. The drops dissolved the ground around them. The barrier was hardly immune to this, and only with all six pouring mana into it was it able to withstand the corrosion. Oliver gulped. If they'd been hit while separated, not all of them could have lasted it out.

"Do not assume a reaper has a set form! Death is everywhere and can be anything!"

Oliver chiseled his brother's warning into his heart. The rainfall ceased, and the mist rose up from the ground, gathering in the air above—and coalescing into a giant sphere. When it shot toward them, they scattered in all directions.

"Ah, it's gonna burst!" Yuri yelped.

"!"

Everyone took another leap backward, and an instant later, the sphere imploded. Using wind to deflect the particles that flew his way, Oliver felt a chill run down his spine. If they'd gone from the first dodge to a counterattack, that could have ended poorly. But more importantly—

"Leik, can you read its movements?!"

"Yep! Seems like I know what it's about to do. I can hear it way clearer than those undead!"

Yuri appeared confident, and that itself was astonishing, but then Oliver realized—this was because they were fighting an avatar of death. The undead had been under a mage's control, while the reapers were a part of the natural order. He'd known Yuri's powers worked better with natural objects, and this foe fell right in line with that.

"Excellent!" Nanao cried, slashing aside reaper spray. "Then we shall follow your command!"

With that, she charged straight ahead. The fight so far had told her instinctively that they needed a front line. If they all feared incurable attacks and kept their distance, the reaper would simply shift shapes and come for them. But if, instead, they closed in, it would likely stick to its initial form and swing that scythe. Both options were a threat, but keeping it locked to a single form was preferable to the unknown.

"Ah, crap! Back off, Nanao!"

"Mm!"

As she neared its range, Yuri caught its next move and called her off. As they watched, the reaper grew highly condensed, exuding an uncanny pull. It was less a black sphere than a hole dug into space itself.

Feeling himself being dragged toward it, Oliver yelled, "Wind? No—this is curse energy gravitation! It's sucking us in!"

Spotting the nature of the attack, Oliver followed that with a pull spell at Nanao's back. She'd been closest to the reaper, and this dragged her to him just before the gravitational pull grew fatal. Each fought off the pull in their own way, standing their ground. From the moment of their birth, all creatures were equally affected by death's curse. The reaper was tugging the strings of that connection to drag them in.

"I've been waiting for this!"

But some mages could turn this to an advantage. Tim grinned viciously, and several things flew out from under his skirt. Winged insect familiars, the sacs on the abdomens filled with magical brews. Rather than fight the gravity, they flew right into the reaper's side, bursting. The fluid released was all inhaled as well, and the reaper's entire body warped. Steam shot out, and it started boiling in midair.

"A deluge of elixir! Suck on that!" the Toxic Gasser crowed.

Made by means only he knew, this was extremely concentrated and would prove highly poisonous if any human ingested it. Since the root concoction enhanced life functions, this same brew provoked a virulent reaction in a manifestation of death. He'd brought this along to handle undead threats.

Watching the reaper fade out in a puff of volatile white smoke, Nanao gave an astonished yelp.

"Is it defeated?" she asked.

"Don't be stupid," Tim spat. "If it were that easy, I wouldn't have been losing my damn mind."

True to his word, a familiar black form seeped back into view in the empty air a short distance away.

"You can put out a fire, but it ain't dead. You can scatter a breeze, but the wind won't die. No matter how many times you push it back, death ain't ever really gone. No matter how we fight this thing, we can't win—we're creatures with a finite life span, and that's what we get."

"Then we will just prolong our lives with all our might," Gwyn said and began playing his viola.

Surprised, Tim blinked. "A consolation concert? Does that work on reapers?"

"It's arguably the primary purpose. Death originated as a primal curse placed upon us by our god. Offering up the sounds of music is an ancient means of placating and distancing it."

And the proof lay before them. The reaper was re-forming as they watched, but the speed of that manifestation grew markedly slower the moment the performance began.

"Still…," Gwyn said, playing on. "We've already incurred its wrath. The best I can do is delay the inevitable."

"That's more than enough, Brother," Oliver said, blotting his brow with one sleeve. "It gives us time to recover."

Even a handful of seconds was worth a thousand gold.

Bathed in orange light, it bobbed in the air, vaguely humanoid. Rivermoore watched it with bated breath—as did Fau, its creator.

"…That's not…"

"Right, not a ghost," Fau said. "The etheric bodies I took from the unborn babies' ghosts formed the base, and I merged those with other ether and matter, reconstructing them into a man-made being. An astral life."

Fau let that name hang in the air. The astral life hovering above the workbench floated over to Rivermoore. Then it draped itself across his neck and shoulders, like a scarf with a mind of its own.

"It likes you already." Fau grinned. "Maybe because some of my own ether is mixed in?"

"..."

The astral life was staring intently up at Rivermoore, and he back at it. It showed no fear or caution—in that sense, it felt like a human infant.

"There's two fundamental differences from ghosts," Fau began. "First, like I said, anyone can see and touch it. The movements of the etheric body have been shrouded in mystery and subjective perception, but anyone can make observations with this little one."

Fau reached up and tickled the astral on the neck. It seemed to enjoy that. Clinging to Rivermoore, the astral life's lights fluctuated.

"And the second difference—unlike ghosts, this one's mind won't fade away, won't give way to hatred. Quite the opposite—it will learn and grow. It's as stable as our own etheric bodies, despite the lack of flesh. The components of its body are both material and etheric, those qualities combined. It is a complete life-form."

"…So not immortal."

"Right. Astrals can be lost by any number of means, and its soul is human, taken from one of these unborn babies. It has the same two-hundred-year limit we do."

Fau smiled sadly, then turned to Rivermoore.

"I know this child will be an invaluable research subject for you and all the mages of this generation. But if possible, I hope you'll look after it. As if it was our child."

"That's not something to joke about. But if it's going to serve my research for any length of time, I'll have to take good care of its mental health, too. No need to worry about that."

His tone was resolutely curt yet as earnest as Rivermoore was capable of being. He nodded, and the tension drained out of Fau's body.

"Okay. Then…then my work really is done."

Rivermoore's silence was weighty. He tried offering some words of comfort, but his throat was frozen and would not move. If he voiced agreement, if he thanked her—then it would all be over.

And she knew that. So she cut to the chase in his place.

"Sorry, Cyrus," Fau said. "Can I leave the last task to you?"

"Hyahhhhhhh!"

A bold step forward ducking under the scythe's swing, and with a roar, Nanao swung her blade up. All six mages battled the reaper in a state of extreme tension; release was a luxury they could not afford.

"Hahhh, hahhh… I—I can tell what it'll do, but…my body can't keep up!" Yuri gasped, stepping in as Nanao stepped out and pulling the reaper's attention to him.

Making full use of Yuri's predictive talents, he, Nanao, Oliver, and Tim were trading turns in the front line, minimizing the reaper's shape-shifting—that alone had kept them going this long. There had been several close calls, but Gwyn's and Shannon's precision assists had pulled them through.

"…Ngh…!"

But Oliver could feel their limit coming up fast. This style was especially taking a toll on Yuri, and Oliver swore to pull him out before it was too late, shouldering that risk himself.

"Hrm?!"

Yet, Nanao felt the threat on her very skin and spun around. All five others followed her gaze, spotting the same sight. Another black stain seeping into this space. The same threat they'd barely been handling before.

"…You're kidding! Now there's two?!"

Tim scowled. Reaper appearances had strict rules. When a mage reached two hundred, one reaper would appear each night. Every fifty years they lived, that number went up by one. Fau's circumstances were unusual, but if her age included all the years spent in the coffin before her resurrection, then it stood to reason there'd be more than one. Even if that wasn't the case, should other mages step in to help, the reaper quantity increased proportionally.

They'd had to deal with only one reaper because Rivermoore's Grand Aria had kept them at bay, but they had always known a second might make it through. Yet, knowing it was possible had not stopped them from hoping it wouldn't. And now that it had, they were at the end of the line.

"Ah—!"

Between his fatigue and the distraction of the second reaper, Yuri's step was a moment too late. The first reaper's scythe swung his way, and he knew too well he couldn't dodge or defend in time.

"Yuri!"

Oliver lunged toward him. He'd been right there watching, and only he could get there in time. He shoved Yuri out of the scythe's path, but that just made the reaper target him. The backswing was mercilessly coming his way.

"Sorry I'm late."

The blade stopped an inch from his throat. A girl's voice echoed across the land of death.

Six mages and two reapers all turned toward her. The hut on the hill—and Fau standing outside, the warlock a step behind.

"Thanks, Cyrus's school chums. Honestly, I didn't think we'd get this much time. I speak for all the Parsu people, in honor of your strength and spirit."

She plucked the corners of her skirt and curtsied. Both reapers shot toward her as one. The others were little more than an impediment; Fau alone had been their true target. She smiled at their approach.

"You two are so mad at me. Given your task, you would be. But don't worry. I'll make no more trouble."

Fau spread her arms wide, accepting the fate she had so long denied.

"I've done my part. The long struggles of the dead end here."

And with those words, Rivermoore's athame pierced her heart from behind.

The group gasped, watching over her. Fau's heart beat its last. The reapers bearing down stopped halfway up the hill—and as if the fight had never existed at all, they vanished without a trace. They no longer had any reason to be there.

"Ah—!"

For the first time, Fau saw the view around her. So preoccupied with her task and the urgency of it, she'd never even looked. Only now did she realize—they stood on an island, floating in the sea at night.

"Oh," she said. "This is a beach!"

The blade in her heart was retracted. Fau crumpled into Rivermoore's arms, and the astral life squirmed around them both, like a child fussing over its parents.

In Rivermoore's embrace, she used the last strength in her dying arms to point.

"Cyrus, over there. Take me there."

"Mm."

Rivermoore nodded, and a bone serpent rose up from his feet, carrying them both on its back across the ground past the crowd of witnesses, down the gentle slope to the little strip of sand at the water's edge. No moon hung above but there was a mystic glow, striking enough to evoke a little sigh from Fau.

"Wow, you've even got shells! Hee-hee. Gently lapping waves… How lovely."

"You made me take enough walks on the shore."

Cradling the girl, he stepped onto the sand, his voice wistful. Nothing he could do would bring her back for good. He could never take her to the real ocean's edge. And when that sank in, he'd made his choice. To at least show her the sea here.

Time passed quietly. There was only the lapping of the surf. Fau's lids slowly drifted shut.

"Thank you, Cyrus," she whispered. "You kept…your word…"

With the last breath she was allowed, she voiced her thanks—and passed away.

The world crumbled. The night sky shattered like glass, swallowed by the sea. Soon it reached the island the others stood upon. Ripples of white light covered their eyes, causing them to squint—and before they knew it, they were back in that cold stone room. Still sitting where they'd been when the ritual began. The man had his back to them, cradling a heap of bones.

"Mr. Rivermoore…," Oliver said.

"Take it."

He tossed something over his shoulder. Oliver caught it and looked down to find a human bone. Rivermoore had made adjustments to it for the ritual, but Oliver knew it was Godfrey's sternum.

"If you've got that, the doctor can patch him up. I won't forget the debt you're owed. So—it's time you all left."

Rivermoore never turned their way.

His goal achieved, Tim urged his juniors toward the door. As the others turned to go, Oliver took a step after them, then—

"If—!"

He stopped, calling out. Words failed him. But his mind caught a scrap of a memory, and he spoke as a witness to what had transpired here.

"…If she smiled at the end, then you have nothing to regret."

Oliver's voice never wavered. And with that, he left the grave behind. Rivermoore said not a word, letting it all wash over him.

END