Aris had had a shit night.

He didn't know how else to put it. Not only did his attempt to talk to his mother completely backfire, he had been bound to a necromancer against his will.

And then he had had to deal with the aftermath. In the middle of the night, he had been forced to find a sorcerer who was both willing to put a new glamour on his mother—this one to help hide the damage that had been caused by the resurrection-gone-wrong—and also smuggle her back to the Cathedral where the funeral services were to be held the following morning.

When all was finally said and done, Aris was now several drachma poorer with nothing to show for it except a night of lost sleep and forced servitude to a crazy necromancer.

But he didn't have much time to wallow in despair, because today was his mother's funeral and he needed to be at the Cathedral now.

He did the best he could. He washed his face in a basin of water and ran a sharp blade over his cheeks, cutting away at the stubble that had grown in overnight. His eyes looked even darker in the mirror, enhanced by shadows from his lack of sleep. Finally, he put on his formal military attire: a fitted black coat embroidered with the sigil of the king. The fabric felt stiff; he wasn't used to it yet. For so long, he had just been a soldier. Every day he would wear the plain soldier's uniform: grey, thin, and bolstered by a few choice pieces of armor, allowing him to be quick, nimble, deadly. But ever since his promotion to Commander three months ago, he had been expected to wear the formal attire more befitting of his role.

When he had first been promoted, he had been so happy and proud of what he had accomplished. But now, after his mother's death, the promotion felt more like a curse than a blessing.

He left his home and made his way quickly down the streets. Here in the inner city, the streets were clean and paved with stone. The homes were large with beautiful front gardens blooming in the summer heat. And the men and women were all well-to-do, either involved with the politics of Taaz, or personally picked by the king himself to live here. The squalor that could be found in other parts of the city were kept at bay behind large grey walls and a great gate.

Aris quickly made his way to one of the largest buildings in the inner circle of the city: the grand Cathedral. It was made of white stone, with tall spiraling towers and a grand staircase leading to the front. Large statues of the seven gods stood outside, supporting the ceiling; Aris tried not to make eye contact with them as he ducked into the entrance.

The inside of the church looked similar to how he left it only a few hours before, although in the daylight, it was much more magnificent. Besides the grand altar and the many rows of pews, there was also a large circular stained-glass window on the ceiling. In the daytime, it cast colorful beams of light. And today, these beams landed right on the plinth in the center of the room, where his mother's body lay.

She looked beautiful right now, dappled in a rainbow of light, almost statuesque in her lovely white funeral gown. Of course, a lot of that was thanks to the sorcerer's glamour; after her bout in the graveyard last night, where she had run around in grave dirt and been splattered with the necromancer's blood, she had looked anything but presentable.

Standing next to her body was a man dressed in the long white robes of the clergy. He looked up when he heard Aris' steps echoing on the marble floors. "Aris," he said simply.

"Brother Caleb," Aris responded, which was accurate on both fronts as this man was both a member of the clergy as well as Aris' brother.

Caleb had joined the clergy about two years ago, back when he, Aris, and their mother lived outside the inner city walls. He had taken a vow, donned the robes, and started spreading the word of the seven gods at the small temple near their home. But after only a few months, something extraordinary had happened. The King, or someone in his inner circle, had heard about Caleb, and he was invited to preach and study at the grand Cathedral. It was an incredible honor to which he couldn't say no, and just like that, the three of them had left their small apartment behind and had started anew.

Caleb stepped forward and wrapped Aris in a hug. Aris hadn't realized it, but he'd be holding his breath, and in his brother's arms, he suddenly felt like he could breathe again. Today was going to be hard, but he was glad his brother was here.

While wrapped in his arms, Caleb whispered, "I just heard about the autopsy results. I can't believe it. Poison? I have a hard time believing Mom had any enemies."

Aris felt a pang of guilt churning in his stomach. "I know," he mumbled.

He hadn't told Caleb—or anyone, for that matter—the whole truth of his mother's passing. The full story was too horrific. It was why he had wanted, so desperately, to speak to her after her death—even though it meant hiring a necromancer, something he knew his brother wouldn't have approved of.

Caleb let go of him suddenly and straightened his robes. "The guests will be arriving any minute now. We should be ready."

"Right," Aris murmured, clasping his hands together and waiting.

The guests trickled in shortly after that. Aris didn't know all of them, but he did recognize several familiar faces: a spattering of soldiers under his command, several higher up officials involved in the day-to-day runnings of the city, a few well-to-do families who always came to church.

His mother had previously worked as a seamstress, back when they had lived beyond the walls. She had a lot of friends back then, other women with calloused finger tips from hours of pushing a needle through fabric. It was odd to not see their faces in the crowd. Aris knew his mother would have liked it if they were here.

Finally, the last guest arrived, and it with him, a hush fell through the crowd.

The King.

Aris watched as the King Erran walked through the grand cathedral doors. He was dressed plainly, in a grey fitted shirt and trousers. The only thing that signaled he was a king was the golden circlet he wore on his head and the air that shimmered around him as he walked: a tightly woven net of protection spells.

As he grew closer, Aris could make him out in more detail: the bright blue eyes that made women swoon, the dark curly hair that cradled the royal golden circlet, his thin frame. He often surprised those who had never met him before, people who expected the King of Taaz to be an old man with a large gut, coddled from years of fine dining and wine. While King Erran did enjoy the occasional sip of wine, he was otherwise young, light, and sharp.

Aris knew all of this because, somehow, over the past two years, he and the king had developed a sort of friendship.

King Erran walked up to the plinth and paused, looking down at Aris' mother's body with a frown. He then looked up at Aris, locking eyes with his. Aris could tell that the King wanted to give him a hug, but was refraining given the number of eyes on them.  "I'm sorry, friend," is what he whispered instead.

Aris felt his eyes well with tears, but did his best not to let any fall. "Thank you, King Erran."

The King smiled sadly, then stepped off to the side to take his seat.

After that, everything else was a blur to Aris. Prayers were said. Gods were thanked. And then, at the very end, two sorcerer-priests emerged from the sides of the alter, raised their arms, and cast the "sending spell." Aris did his best to burn his mother's face into his memory. Then he watched—tears prickling in his eyes—as blue flames engulfed his mother's body.

She burned for about ten minutes, after which nothing remained but ash.

Raizia was woken up by a knock at her door.

Groggily she pulled herself out of bed and stumbled to answer it. Standing in the dimly lit doorway was a man she vaguely recognized.

"You told me to come this morning, so here I am," he said.

In the darkness she could hardly make out his face. "Hold on," she murmured, still half asleep. She raised her left hand to summon a fire, drawing the figure in the air—but nothing happened. She paused, thinking something was amiss, and then looked down at her hand and saw the missing finger.

And then it all came back to her.

The graveyard. The resurrection. The loss of her finger. When she had come home that night, she had fallen asleep almost immediately and had slept for 36 hours straight, her body worn from the strength of the spells she had cast. When she had first woken, she had thought the events of that night were just a horrific nightmare. But now she had to face the truth.

She stared up into the face of the man in front of her. Aris, she remembered. He was the man who had cost her her finger. And for his hubris, she had angrily bound him into her service.

Now here he was, standing on her doorstep, face clouded in shadows, waiting for orders like a soldier reporting for duty.

A grumble of frustration grew in her chest, but instead of complaining, she said, "First thing you can do is light some candles. It's dark and... I need you to see what you're doing."

Aris stepped inside and procedure to stumble around her kitchen, trying to find candles and a book of matches. As he did, Raizia took a deep breath and did her best to summon a flame of her own. She focused on her left hand, trying to force her power out through the place where her finger used to be, but it was no use. She was powerless.

She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting back tears. For a moment, she was thankful it was so dark.

But then the candles flickered on, one at a time, lighting her home with a warm but eerie glow.

Aris turned back to face her. Now she could make out his features: dark, shadowed eyes, mouth set in a stern frown, the muscles in his jaw clenched. The hate he felt towards her was palpable, like a cloud of poison lingering in the air.

Raizia blew out through her mouth. Binding him to my service... What was I thinking? Instead she muttered, "I guess you can get started on my laundry."