Failure stung, but Octavia couldn't allow that sting to rob her of her resolve. She'd failed before and the cost of her shortcomings became a driving force instead of a source of guilt. The hot wave of shame had flowed and ebbed. Now was the time to act.

Because they were still out there—the netherborne.

Gone was the uncomfortable prickly sensation that made her want to rip off her own skin. In its place was a mild tingling, akin to insects crawling over her.

The netherborne were hiding, cowering away in the far reaches of the island, hoping the big, bad necromancer would leave quietly. Much to their misfortune, her stubbornness was legendary. She would remain firmly planted in Hedalda until she banished them for good.

Outside her dhe dying light of day bled through the frozen trees, making their shadows stretch over the village. With long, sweeping strokes, it painted the snow a brilliant orange-yellow.

It wouldn't be much longer before nightfall when she could roam the forest beyond the barrier. But until then, she had Lyra's book laid out in bits and pieces on the table, along with all the tools she'd need to repair and rebind it. It was a skill she'd picked up when working in the Necromancy Archives in her formative years and often employed it after wear and tear caught up with her own books. Literature was valuable and deserved to be preserved just as much as any other aspect of culture.

While the book wasn't in abysmal shape, many more of the pages were on the verge of falling out. The twine and adhesive that once kept the pages together had frayed and chipped. She'd taken her time to remove it all and punched new holes in the leaves. Now she was checking them one at a time for any other incurred damages she may have missed in her first pass.

The material, and the ink used for the text and drawings didn't appear the least bit faded. Whoever had written and illustrated this book had taken their time with it. Which meant they were passionate about the subject matter.

As Octavia worked, she read through the pages, resisting the urge to retch at the subject matter. If only it was a picture book like she'd initially thought. 

For a long time, necromancy was shrouded in secrecy. Its practitioners —necromancers—moved and worked in silence, much like the specters they hunted. No one knew the specifics of their work or what they were capable of.

Octavia checked the leaf over before putting it with the others. Once she got done with the text block, the spine needed reinforcement. As for the cover, she had not the tools to fix it. The leather had cracked in some places, but it wasn't to the point where it couldn't protect the pages.

She picked up the next leaf, examining the pages. The first had an illustration of a humanoid figure shrouded in shadow, save for a violin. Even the tiniest details – the strings of the violin, the moon framing the figure and the smattering of musical notes swirling around it – had crisp and clear detail. What god-like illustrator had drawn this? Octavia wondered as she read on.

There's nothing Necromancers value more than music. For them, it's more than culture. It's ingrained in their very being, an extra appendage that only they possess. Some of the greatest songs of our time are written by them.

Accurate. Whoever wrote this had to have known a necromancer. Or had spoken to one at least once. Which Octavia found strange; necromancers weren't forthcoming with such personal information. They wrote their own stories because no one could tell it better than them.

Necromancers always had a peculiar place amongst the rest of humanity. They weren't feared, but people preferred not to keep their company. Not outcasts, but not openly welcomed either. Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps keeping them at arm's length, was humanity's first mistake – the first spark that lit the bonfire of our destruction.

That last line gave Octavia pause. The other books she'd read by non-necromancers took a more negative stance when speaking on such things. The fact that this person was suggesting humanity might be to blame was bold.

We never thought necromancers would be a threat to humanity. Until that night...

Octavia winced. She knew exactly what night the author was referring to. What followed were illustrations of beasts running through the streets, homes torn apart, burning, a moon obscured by smoke, and rose petals raining from the sky. The memory made her chest ache, and her hands shook as she put the pages with the others.

The next leaf she picked was yet another drawing, but Octavia wished she had skipped it. Illustrated in black ink was a creature with black wings shrouded in rose petals, feathers and smoke. The Night-Blooming Rose, it said underneath. She placed it with the others and continued reading.

That night was a turning point for humanity. No one knows why the necromancers released the scourge of the netherborne on this world. But in doing so, they made themselves enemies to mankind – the worst of them all being the Night-Blooming Rose. On wings blacker than midnight it flew over our world, playing a melody colder than the crux of winter. And all those who heard that monster's song were changed forever.

Octavia didn't bother reading the rest. She already knew what happened, had witnessed it in person. Had tried to stop it and failed. That night had turned necromancers from strange others on the fringes of society to the mortal enemies of all mankind.

A lone necromancer freed the netherborne to disparage this world. It wasn't a planned, collective effort like most believed. The rest of them had done their damndest to stop, but they were too slow. The floodgates had opened, and now the many were being punished for the actions of a radical rogue.

Octavia unraveled a length of twine and threaded her needle. Stitching the text block together was a slow methodical process, but much less tedious than punching holes in all the leaves. Her superior at the archives demanded evenly spaced holed in every leaf, resulting in a neat, rectangular text block. But there was something Octavia found beautifully rustic about uneven pages.

She opened a jar of tacky adhesive, its scent burning both her nostrils and her eyes. After slathering it on the spine of the text block she weighed down the whole affair with some wood.

It needed a few hours to dry, so Octavia rose and stretched, her bones popping from stiffness. Outside the window, the last bits of the sun gave way to the night, its warm rays no longer challenging the cold.

She pounded up the steps to her room to get dressed. With no map or knowledge of the island, she might have a long trek ahead. Which meant dressing warm was essential. She donned her best thermal clothing – pants, sweater, jacket, boots, a face mask and a cloak for good measure. Her only weapon was a single, silver bell. The sweet, pitchy jingle it made would allow her to defend herself without drawing unwanted attention and help her navigate to boot. And if things got out of hand, she still had her voice.

She'd rigged up a torch out of wood and scraps of cloth and packed it away in a bag along with matches and a flask of water. As she slung it across her body, something glinted from on her bed. Her dagger.

It was a gaudy thing, with a blade as long as her forearm and an upswept guard. The pommel— fashioned into a skull—had two ruby affixed in its eye-sockets. There was no doubt in her mind it was well-crafted; King Jaredeth wouldn't have gifted her anything that wasn't of the highest quality. She didn't need such a thing to fight the netherborne, but kept it around as a token of good faith.

Octavia tucked it away in a drawer before leaving the house. The chilly night air nipped at her face as she stepped outside. Darkness hugged Hedalda like a black cloak, and a chilling gale blew in from the north, stirring the snow into tiny flurries.

Orange light flickered in her neighbours' windows and smoked curled up from chimneys. Night time in Hedalda was just as quiet and lonely as day time. There were no sounds of families talking and laughing around the dinner table. No smells of home-cooked meals wafting down the street.

Octavia trudged away from her residence, the breeze yanking her cloak and whipping it behind her. Stepping outside the village's protective barrier was like submerging herself in a cold bath. The chill sneaked under her clothes and nipped at her skin, coiling around her like a snake hungry for warmth.

Beyond the tree line her boots sank into ankle-deep snow. She trudged through blind, waiting until she was a good distance from the barrier before using her bell. Its chime rippled outward, amplified by her power. The sounds echoed back to her thousands of times over, and she closed her eyes to map out the terrain in her head.

Trees, more trees, and... something else. A cluster of rocks perhaps. It stood east of her, closer to the schoolhouses. Octavia couldn't quite make what it was from the echoes alone, but she had nothing else to go on.

As she hiked on, she kept her mind and body alert for any signs of the netherborne. Even though they were wary of her, it didn't mean they wouldn't test her. They could be bold when given the opportunity.

After walking for an hour, Octavia rang her bell again. The sound ricocheted back and forth assaulting her from every angle. She stood in the cluster, but it wasn't stones like she initially thought. It was walls, many of them, some broken and jagged, others on the verge of toppling over, most covered in dead foliage.

This village used to be bigger. That's what Sicero had told her. So these are the ruins. The breeze weaved through the broken structures, carrying fleeting murmurs that only Octavia could hear. People had died on the soil she stood on, and the whispers their spirits left behind remained. She walked through, placing her bell to her heart in a solemn prayer. Hopefully, they found rest and reprieve on the other side.

She worked her way around the ruins, with only her bell to guide her. They stretched far, past the Council Hall towards the east. Forty years of scourge had done this, but with all this destruction, why was the scourge holding back? Why not finish the job? She supposed the Priests were the reason for that. While their barrier wasn't perfect, it kept Hedalda standing.

Octavia finally made it to the end of the ruins, far enough from the village to no longer see the flickering light of its street torches in her wake. But there was something else—the soft crunch of the snow being displaced.

It was a sound that normal ears would not have picked up, but to the keen ears of a necromancer it was as subtle as cannon fire. Someone was following her. Or something. The rosebud charm of her necklace warmed against her skin and a soft hiss filled her head. Perhaps it was just a scout sent to observe her. Or an assassin sent to kill her. 

For hours more she wandered around and for hours her pursuer followed. It stayed a good distance behind, not going away even when she rang her bell.

It wasn't until she reached the eastern end of the island that she stopped. The temperature took a dive, and the air's icy bite ate away at her. The shift was akin to what she felt when leaving the barrier, but worse.

Octavia rang her bell, using the sound as both a distraction and to orient herself. Her follower had stopped at the tree line, and she felt its eyes boring into her. Doubtful it would leave her alone until she dealt with it.

Later. For now, exploring this area was her top priority. She took the torch from the bag along with the matches and wasted no time getting it lit. The scraps of cloth hissed and crackled to life, the orange light illuminating the clearing she stood in.

Octavia held her torch aloft and hissed in a sharp breath of air. No snow had settled on the ground here, and the soil was packed together so tightly, it could be mistaken for stone. A line of red dust ran past her feet, towards the center of the clearing. It was straight and neat, too deliberate to be caused by nature.

She followed it to where it intersected even more lines to form an alien symbol. She knelt and touched it, hissing and pulling her hand away when a jolt ran through her fingers. The pain persisted, crawling deep into flesh and settling into her bones.

Lovely. Octavia pulled off her glove and watched the blight take over her hand. Tiny roots crept over her dark brown skin, sprouting leaves and flowers that burst open and released a sickly sweet scent. She frowned and hummed the ancient tune that would free her from its annoyance.

As she did, her stalker drew near, its footfalls light but not silent. She pretended to not notice, continuing her humming. The roots of the blight shriveled up, the leaves turned brown, and the flowers wilted. She watched the pieces flutter to the ground before looking over her shoulder, right at her pursuer.

"Why are you hesitating?" Her face mask both muffled and deepened her voice.

The beast stepped into the light, its footfalls quiet despite being three times her size. It towered over her, furry body reeking of potpourri. Its head resembled that of a wolf's but with a longer snout. Gold eyes glinted with anger and a hint of something else. Fear perhaps.

So small to be so bold, Octavia mused. She raked her gaze over it, from its thick hind legs to its gangly arms tipped with sharps claws, up to its twitchy pointed ears.

The netherborne released a low, guttural growl, pupil's narrowing to slits. "Of course it had to be you. What exactly do you have to gain from terrorizing us? The humans won't hate you any less for it."

Octavia took a step closer, and the beast tensed up, its body going rigid and muscles bulging. "You monsters talk to much for creatures that fall to a song."

The netherborne roared with laughter, throwing its head back. Then, it put its snout close to her face, saliva dripping from its lips. "Monster? You're no better than us, Night-Blooming Rose." It spat her name like it was bitter medicine on its tongue.

How laughable. Octavia smiled as she took another step forward. It pulled its head away, nearly tripping over its own feet as it scrambled back. "You strike terror in hearts of the humans, so they call you a monster. But I strike terror in your heart. So what does that make me, I wonder?"

A low growl came from deep within the monster's belly, and its body shook, lips peeling back to reveal jagged rows of teeth. Its claws glinted in the torchlight as its paw flashed forward to strike her.

She flicked her bell and the gentle ring stopped the beast's attack before it connected with her throat. "How bold of you."

A blush-like tinge coloured the claws, spreading up the beasts' arm. Little by little the appendage deteriorated, peeling away into tiny, pink flower petals. The netherborne screeched in agony and fell to its knees, clutching its stump. "You wretch! You'll rot with the rest of us! You'll rot!"

She rang her bell again, tremors of her power shaking the air. The sound punched through the monster's head and sent a cloud of flower petals fluttering over the clearing. And the night was quiet once more.

The heady, sweet scent of death mixed with salt and sea foam, and Octavia took the smells deep into her lungs. Let that be a warning to any others who tried to test her. She jammed her torch in the frozen ground to out it and left the clearing. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose, but when she turned back, nothing but the deteriorating corpse of the netherborne was in her wake.

A warm breeze wafted through the trees carrying the sweet scent of honeysuckle. Octavia's grip on her bell tightened, and goose flesh rose over her skin, but the breeze faded as suddenly as it had came, leaving her wondering if she'd imagined it. Her breath clouded the air as she exhaled. She needed to solve Hedalda's dilemma before this place drove her mad.