The quickest way to the other side of Wyrith was to cut through the bustling main city and thriving towns. That meant hiding in the concealing shadows of cloaks, avoiding people where they could, and remaining quiet at all costs.

Morana had to pull Damian's hood further over his face on several occasions as they passed various landmarks tourists adored when they visited. The statue of the king who had saved the island from the torturous throes of death and the sparkling spires of Celnaer Castle were few of many the Fireborn found himself stopping before.

After several shoves in the right direction and an abundance of frustrated sighs, the two finally managed to leave the city behind without being seen. Now, only a few lone houses speckled the empty fields of the island's countryside. The assassin had taken this route to the ruins so many times that she knew the dirt paths like the ridges in her palm.

"How much further do we have to go, bone girl?" Damian asked in a whisper, uncertain if it was safe to talk.

Morana had enjoyed the silence that the pressure of being discovered had brought. It made it easy to forget there was the weight of a Fireborn slowing down the mission. "We're about halfway there now." She turned her gaze to the sun, squinting to calculate the time of day. The growl of Damian's stomach helped her to conclude that it was midday. "Did you not eat this morning?"

"I was too focused on sneaking out of the castle," he grumbled, the low sound rivalling his snarling hunger.

The necromancer let her hood fall and her purple braid spring free as they approached a village on the horizon. Surrounded by a low-rise, stone wall was a small collection of homes. A large gate was propped open at the entrance with sacks of flour, beckoning visitors inside.

Damian glanced between the village and Morana. "Will the people here not care about our identities?"

"The people here have been dead for centuries. I'm sure a few ghosts won't mind taking a peek at your face." As they got closer, the finer details of the village came into view. From afar, the nearby cliffs that overlooked the Molten Sea and the blue sky that swam above them made it look like a quaint place to live. Yet, up close, cobwebs embellished every corner, the stone wall had eroded to the hands of time, and not even the echo of footsteps could be heard from within.

The Fireborn Prince lowered his cloak too. "Why is it abandoned? This looks like a wonderful place to live."

"The inhabitants were either exiled or executed." Damian's brows furrowed, his head tilting as he attempted to figure out why. Morana saved him the thought. "They were necromancers, fire boy."

It didn't take a deep walk between the houses for whispers to begin to ring in the corner of Morana's mind — crackled noise that wasn't quite human. Cursed. Leave. The voices cried the same things over and over from corpses that had been left untouched for centuries. Necromancer souls always found a way to communicate through their power.

Damian seemed unfazed which meant her long-running theory had to be correct. She was the only one who could hear them.

"If all the other necromancers are dead, why aren't you?" he questioned. His steps were careful, as if he didn't wish to disturb land which had once been rife with dark magic.

"That's... a good question. Your guess is as good as mine." It was an answer she had been seeking ever since Silas had taken her in. She knew the answer had to lie in the Necromancer's Tome but, no matter how much she tried, the pages of the stubborn book refused to budge to reveal the truth. "As far as I know, I'm the only one left."

"We have a wide variety of wielders and races in Vahan, but no necromancers. If some of them were exiled, you would think they would appear in other kingdoms," he mused aloud. "I have so many questions about your magic."

"Ask away. We've got some time to kill, so why not?" Before Damian could open his mouth to speak, Morana stopped him. "Though, you better not think about telling anyone. If a single piece of information is leaked, you'll either find a bone shard in your heart or whatever secret of yours Silas is holding will be sent straight to your brother."

"Understood. Think of this as my own personal research." The Fireborn held his hands up in temporary surrender. "Is it just bones you use? Or are you a necromancer in every sense? Raising people from the dead is an impressive feat."

The assassin scrunched her nose as she thought. "Bones are the easiest to wield, especially when they're small, but I can do more if I force myself to harbour greater power. Nothing as powerful as bringing someone back to life, though. I can use dead bodies, but that's as far as my reach into death goes."

"That's still a formidable skill."

While everyone else Morana had grown close to had a spark of fear when they learnt about her gifts, Damian truly seemed impressed. It gave her a glimmer of hope that she wasn't the cursed monster that people made her out to be, however, she knew it had to be snuffed out. Only nightmares and torture came from staying by her side.

"What about your necklace?" he continued. "It reacted when you started using the bones, and yet it doesn't correlate with necromancy. At least not from what I can see."

"This pesky thing has a mind of its own." She held it in her palm, stroking the exterior with her thumb. "Dyonite is a gemstone said to be blessed with magic — the type indicated by the colour of the crystal. Purple is said to come from the Wyrith Mines which have been closed for decades as the dark hue was formed deep underground." The more she caressed it, the stronger the desire to let her blood sing the melodies of destruction became. "I don't believe in any of that blessings crap. I think there's some sort of bone trapped inside and that's why it reacts to my power."

"Have you seen the other colour Dyonite can form too?" The prince slowed his speech as he attempted to pronounce the gemstone's name.

"None of them are as beautiful as purple. I've seen red, green, white... blue." Morana could still picture her mother holding out the necklaces in front of her and her twin, asking if one resonated with them. The young girls had been eager to claim the crystals that tugged at the magic lying dormant under their skin.

She couldn't help but wonder if she hadn't picked a necklace, perhaps that night wouldn't have happened. The necromancer rubbed the scar on her chest from the dagger that had pierced her chest — her first encounter with death.

"I've never heard of such a jewel. It must be native to this island," Damian concluded. "Do all necromancers have stunningly, vibrant purple hair?"

Morana smirked, the beginnings of a teasing scheme forming. "It's a side effect of tampering with death, actually. And it's very contagious. You've been with me all morning so it will only be a matter of time before I see some violet in your roots too."

He reached up to run his hand through his hair but stopped halfway, lowering it back down. "This is another one of your jokes."

"I wouldn't be so quick to pass it off, fire boy. I think I'm seeing purple strands already starting to grow." She inwardly pouted. Damian was already getting used to her jests. It wouldn't be fun if he could tell when she was joking.

"If that were true, Silas would have the same shade of hair as you by now and I'm not sure that's something I want to imagine." The Fireborn shuddered.

Forcing herself to picture her boss with violet ringlets instead of his flaxen curls was something she instantly regretted. A mauve shade brought out the wrinkles etched into his skin and contrasted with the golden suit he had never been seen without. The image left her feeling uneasy too.

"Alright, you've got me. I've been dyeing it for years now. Purple was my mother's favourite colour and this helps me to remember her." She patted the ribbon box that Silas had given her through her pocket. Morana had taken the precious gift out once to run the silk material between her fingers, but returned it swiftly to its home again with tears began to form in her eyes.

Out of the corner of her eye, the assassin spied a dark figure standing in a dark alley — watching them from the shadows. As soon as she stopped, they fled.

Tugging on the drawstrings, Morana shoved her hand in her pouch and pulled out a selection of bone shards to send after the retreating silhouette. Her power connected with each one before they hit the ground, guiding them to fly down the alley. However, the darkness meant they struggled to find their target.

"Someone's watching us. Damian, quick!" The necromancer pulled the prince back and lined him up with the passage. "Send some flames down there so we can see who it is." She readied the next group of bones into her palm, preparing for her attack.

"What?" The Fireborn glanced down at his palms and then up at the shadows before him. "I can't do that!"

"Don't worry, they probably won't die. They might just be a little crispy and that will make my job a lot easier," she insisted.

Who was following them? Had the figure heard the conversation they had? Morana had made sure to cover their tracks and keep a watchful eye on their surroundings as they passed through the city, and nobody had been there. Though, if her recent encounters with the Wyrith guards said anything, her skills in that department needed some work.

"You don't understand. I'm not sending fire down there." His grip tightened into white-knuckled fists.

"What are you? A fireless Fireborn?" she snarled, watching as he flinched at her choice of words. Morana sent the bone shards she held after the eavesdropper again, but there were no telltale signs that she hit anyone. They had to have gotten away. She debated following them, tracking them down and making sure they met the fate they dared to earn by watching them, but that would only stray them from the path of their mission.

"You better hope they weren't a Wyrith guard or anyone your brother could have sent after you." The assassin kicked the dirt as she turned away. Perhaps they weren't. A thread of hope promised that the silhouette was a mere visitor of the village just like they were, but she knew better than to trust it.

Familiar. A voice hissed into her mind. Friend. The whispers called out to her magic and soothed her panic.

"Did you see what they looked like? Or if they were any denoting armour?" Damian questioned.

"No," Morana scoffed. "It was too dark. A fire could have easily solved that problem."

"I can't just send a random flame down there."

"Why not?" She crossed her arms with a disapproving frown. "If you're scared of death, you need to get over that fear as soon as you can. Otherwise, you're not going to last long on missions with me. Or with any missions Silas sets you on, for that matter."

"It's not that. It's-" The Fireborn opened his mouth to speak, but any words he brought to the surface were captured — a python coiled around his throat to incase the words within. "Forget it."

The urge to demand information from the prince, to hold a dagger to his throat, rose with an unsteady force, but she pushed it back down. Silas' reprimand at the other end of the mission would not be worth it. "Fine. Let's get out of here."

Despite his request, there was no chance Morana would forget his shortfall any time soon.

Chapter Word Count: 2,035
Total Word Count: 28,003