Necromancy for the Chronologically Challenge

The air in the Grand Ritual Hall of the Blackwood Necromancy Academy tasted like copper and old graveyard dirt. Eron Valther wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, his fingers trembling as he clutched a jagged piece of soul-chalk. Around him, the other students had already successfully raised skeletal warriors or ghoul-hounds. He was the only one left standing in a circle of inert salt and fading hope.

"Five minutes, Valther," Instructor Vane called out from the high podium, his voice dripping with bored disdain. "Or should I just save us both the trouble and sign your expulsion papers now? You’re a disgrace to the Valther name. Your ancestors are probably spinning in their graves—not that you’d be able to summon them to find out."

"Just give me a second, okay? The mana flow in this room is trash," Eron bit back, his voice cracking. He looked down at his ritual circle. It was messy, but it was all he had. "Come on, come on... just one. I just need one corpse. Any corpse."

"Maybe try asking nicely?" a girl from the front row snickered. "Or tell it a bedtime story. I heard you’re an expert on those."

"Shut up, Clara," Eron muttered. He bit his thumb, smearing a drop of blood onto the center of the seal. He closed his eyes, pouring every ounce of his remaining desperation into the void. Please. I can't go back home a failure. Give me something... give me someone.

The ground didn't just shake; it groaned. A burst of violet light erupted from the center of Eron’s circle, smelling not of decay, but of expensive perfume and ozone. The heat was sudden and intense, a wave of raw power that knocked Eron back onto his backside.

From the swirling smoke, a figure emerged. She wasn't a skeleton, nor a bloated zombie. She was a woman, startlingly beautiful, with skin like moonlight and long, ink-black hair that seemed to float in an invisible current. She wore tattered silks that clung to her curves in ways that made Eron’s throat go dry, and her eyes—bright, piercing silver—snapped open with a terrifying intelligence.

"Finally," she said, stretching her arms above her head. Her joints popped with the sound of snapping dry wood. "God, it is cramped in the afterlife. You wouldn't believe the legroom issues."

The Hall went silent. Instructor Vane leaned forward, his eyes wide. "A High-Tier Revenant? Valther, how did a bottom-feeder like you pull a soul with a physical tether that strong?"

Eron scrambled to his feet, trying to look like he knew what he was doing. "I... uh... I’m just that good. Rise, thrall! I am your master, Eron Valther! I command you to—"

The woman turned, looking Eron up and down with a slow, judgmental gaze. She walked toward him, the silk of her dress rustling. When she got close, she didn't kneel. She leaned in, her face inches from his. He could smell the winter chill on her skin, mixed with something intoxicatingly sweet.

"Master?" she whispered, her voice a low, husky vibration that sent a jolt of electricity straight to Eron's core. "That’s a big word for someone whose heart is beating so fast I can hear it from across the room."

"I... you have to obey," Eron stammered, his face turning a deep shade of red. "It's the law of the summon. Go... go destroy that practice dummy over there. Show them your power."

The woman laughed. It wasn't a cackle; it was a rich, melodic sound that felt like a caress. "Nah. I don't really feel like hitting things today. I'm more of a 'talker,' you know? Besides, we have more important things to discuss. Like, for instance, why a 'Master Necromancer' like yourself still sleeps with a nightlight?"

Eron froze. The entire class erupted into howling laughter.

"I—what? How do you—"

"Oh, Eron," she said, stepping into his personal space, her hand reaching out to playfully flick his ear. "I’ve been watching you from the other side for a while. It’s a little blue glow-stone, isn't it? Shaped like a little dragon? You tuck it under your pillow when you think the shadows are getting too 'grabby' at night. It’s honestly adorable. Pathetic, but adorable."

"Della! Stop!" Eron hissed, the name popping into his head instinctively through the soul-bond. "That’s private! You’re supposed to be a terrifying engine of destruction, not my biographer!"

"Della Ruun," she corrected him, winking. "And I can be both. But right now, I’m hungry. Do you have any of those little honey cakes you hide in your bedside drawer? The ones you eat when you’re crying about your grades?"

"Valther!" Instructor Vane bellowed, slamming his fist on the podium. "Enough of this circus! Your summon is insubordinate, sentient, and frankly, a nuisance. If you cannot command her to perform a Basic Combat Manifestation within thirty seconds, I am failing you on the spot."

Eron turned back to Della, his eyes pleading. "Please. Della. Just... just throw a fireball. Kick a wall. Anything. If I fail this, they’ll kick me out. I’ll have nothing."

Della softened for a fraction of a second. She reached out, her cold fingers tracing the line of his jaw. The touch was lingering, almost intimate, and for a moment, Eron felt a surge of something—not just magic, but a deep, aching connection that made his head spin.

"You really care about this dump, don't you?" she asked softly.

"It’s my whole life," Eron whispered.

Della sighed, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest, accentuating her figure in a way that made half the boys in the class forget how to breathe. "Fine. But I’m still not fighting. Why bother? This whole place is going to be a giant charcoal briquette in about five minutes anyway."

The Hall went dead quiet again. Vane’s face went pale. "What did you say, corpse?"

"The name is Della, you old bat," she snapped, her silver eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp coldness. "And I said the Academy is about to burn. Specifically, the North Bell Tower. There’s a leak in the alchemical stores right underneath it. A spark from a faulty lantern, a little whoosh, and—well, you get the idea."

Vane scoffed. "Preposterous. The alchemical stores are sealed with Ancient Runes. You’re lying to cover for your master’s incompetence."

"Am I?" Della leaned against Eron, her hip bumping his, her arm sliding around his waist as if they were old lovers. She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Hey, Eron. You know how you always get that nervous twitch in your left eye when you’re about to fail a test? It’s happening right now. It’s cute."

"Della, this isn't the time!" Eron groaned, though he didn't pull away. Her body felt strangely solid, and the heat radiating from the soul-bond was becoming almost unbearable, a physical weight in his chest.

"I’ve seen enough," Vane declared, scribbling a large 'F' on his parchment. "Eron Valther, you are hereby expelled from the Blackwood Academy. Guard! Escort this failure and his... whatever this is... off the premises."

"Wait!" Eron shouted. "She’s a future-seer! If she says the tower is going to blow, we have to—"

"The only thing blowing is your chance at a career," Clara mocked from the front row. "Go home, Eron. Take your imaginary fire and your nightlight with you."

Della didn't look offended. She looked at the clock on the wall. "Ten. Nine. Eight."

"Della, stop it," Eron whispered, his heart sinking. "You’re making it worse."

"Seven. Six. Five." She turned her head, her lips brushing against Eron’s ear. "You might want to hold onto me, Master. Things are about to get a little... explosive."

"Four. Three."

"Two."

"One."

BOOM.

The sound was deafening. The floor buckled, and the massive stained-glass windows of the Ritual Hall shattered inward in a rain of colorful daggers. A pillar of orange flame roared into the sky from the north side of the campus, the shockwave throwing students and instructors alike to the ground.

Dust and debris filled the air. Screams echoed through the corridors. Eron found himself pinned to the floor, but he wasn't hurt. Della was draped over him, her body acting as a shield, her tattered silks fluttering in the hot wind.

"Told ya," she whispered, looking down at him with a smirk. "So, about those honey cakes. Do we have a deal?"

Eron stared up at her, his mind reeling from the adrenaline and the sheer impossibility of what had just happened. He could see the flames reflecting in her silver eyes. She looked like a goddess of ruin, beautiful and terrifying.

"You... you really saw it," he gasped.

"I see a lot of things, Eron," she said, her voice dropping to a seductive purr as she trailed a finger down his chest. "I see a fire. I see a war. And I see you and me getting very, very close in a very small room."

Before he could respond, the heavy iron doors of the Hall were kicked open. A squad of men in crimson-and-gold armor stormed in, their silvered swords drawn and glowing with holy light.

"Exorcist Bureau!" the lead officer shouted. "Nobody move! We detected a massive surge of forbidden chronomantic energy!"

Della rolled off Eron, standing up and dusting off her dress as if she hadn't just predicted a catastrophe. She looked at the Exorcists, then back at Eron, her grin widening.

"Oh, look," she said, her eyes dancing with mischief. "The party guests are here. You ready to run, Master? Because I have a feeling they aren't here to give you a passing grade."

Eron looked at the fire, the soldiers, and the beautiful, dead girl who knew his most embarrassing secrets. He realized then that his life as the Academy’s biggest loser was officially over.

Something much more dangerous was just beginning.

"Run?" Eron asked, standing up and grabbing her hand. Her skin was freezing, but his heart was on fire. "I don't even have my shoes on."

"Don't worry," Della said, pulling him toward the back exit as the first of the Exorcists' spells whistled over their heads. "Where we're going, you won't need shoes. Just that little nightlight of yours. It gets dark in the future, Eron. Trust me."