The sky burned crimson as the carriage creaked up the jagged cliffs of the Scorched Spine Mountains. Smoke curled from fissures in the blackened rock, carrying the acrid tang of sulfur and molten stone.
Since the God of Death's words, she had been silent. Learn magic. Stop the cult. Survive. No map, no guidance — only a single name: Ashwright Academy.
Before the journey, she had been brought to the Church of the Last Breath, an isolated temple perched on a windswept cliff, its stone walls weathered by centuries of storms. Inside, the air was heavy with incense, the scent of burning candles thick enough to make her eyes water. The priests moved silently, their gray-and-black robes whispering against the stone floor, hands clasped in nervous reverence.
"You are… chosen," one priest murmured, voice trembling as he approached her. His fingers hovered over her shoulder, then drew back as if afraid to touch her. "By the God beyond the veil. He has touched your soul. You are Death-Touched."
Aria didn't answer. She had survived death once already; she had no patience for titles or reverence. The priests' fear and awe made her uneasy, as though they were treating her like an object instead of a person.
Another priest, older, with eyes as sharp as flint, stepped forward. "This is not just power, child. This is responsibility. He has… claimed you. And yet…" He faltered, looking at the skeletal shadows that flickered faintly in her aura. "And yet, you are not his thrall. You may walk free, but you are bound. Tread carefully."
Aria felt her pulse tighten. Bound. Free. Both words felt wrong, as if her life had been carved into someone else's ledger. She swallowed. "I don't belong to anyone," she said quietly.
The older priest's lips pressed into a thin line. "You belong to yourself, yes. But you cannot deny the path before you. The God has chosen, and the world… the world needs you."
Aria's jaw tightened. The world needs me. Fine. She could accept that — but on her own terms.
The priests led her to the courtyard where a carriage waited, its harnessed beasts glowing faintly with protective wards. "This will take you to Ashwright Academy," the first priest said. "No one else can. Not yet. You must not look back. Your old life… is gone."
Aria nodded, gripping the sides of the carriage. She felt the faint pulse of the God of Death inside her chest, a cold heartbeat threading with her own. I will not die again, she thought. And I will not be controlled.
The priests bowed deeply before she departed, their whispered prayers trailing after the wheels as the carriage rolled forward. I am alive. That is enough.
Now, the fortress loomed. Monolithic, carved into the side of an active volcano, molten rivers flowed like veins of fire across its obsidian walls. The heat shimmered, warping the edges of her vision. She swallowed hard, tasting iron on her tongue. No one will touch me again. I won't let them.
A squad of instructors waited at the gates, armored and imposing. Faint embers glowed along their veins, evidence of innate magic. One stepped forward, tall, thin, hair ash-colored, robes scorched at the edges.
"You are the Death-Touched?" His voice rasped like grinding stone.
She said nothing. Behind her, her skeletal servants twitched, restrained. Necromancy was forbidden here — for now.
"Good," he said, tone approving yet wary. "Then we'll see if you survive your first lesson."
The gates opened. Heat struck her like a hammer. Students trained in bursts of flame, controlled explosions, and molten constructs. Lava-wreathed golems lumbered across the courtyards, precise and obedient. Some cadets nursed burned limbs, victims of inexperience. Her stomach twisted. I could never survive here…
A faint pulse in her chest reminded her: she had survived worse.
"Infernal Cadets, line up!" the instructor bellowed.
She joined the ragged line. Fists burned with latent power. Whispers of fear and curiosity rippled among the students.
The first exercise: ignite your personal flame without harming others. Simple in theory. Easy, she thought.
She extended a hand. Heat shimmered beneath her skin. A small eruption leapt from volcanic rock beside her, scorching the ground in a neat circle. Other cadets faltered, flames sputtering uncontrollably. Exhilaration surged through her. This is it. I am alive.
The instructor's eyes narrowed. Another cadet lost control, flames leaping toward the line. Reflexively, she extended a hand. A skeletal hand shot from her shadow, grasping the rogue flames and twisting them harmlessly into the ground.
Silence. The courtyard froze.
"Interesting," the instructor murmured. "You can merge… forbidden arts."
Her heart thundered. Forbidden. Just like her.
The day blurred into lectures on controlled destruction, molten rivers, and rigorous exercises. She endured, necromancy suppressed, letting destruction magic flow like water through a fractured pipe.
As the sun dipped behind the volcano, painting the sky deeper red, she stood alone on a balcony, overlooking rivers of molten stone.
The God of Death's voice whispered in her mind:
"Learn well, child. Your enemies will not wait for mastery. They will not forgive mistakes. And the cult will not show mercy."
She clenched her fists. Flames licked her fingertips. Skeletons stirred in her shadow, silent and obedient.
Then let them come. I will be ready.