Necromancy for the Chronologically Challenge

Chapter 3

“So, are you going to keep pinning me against the wall, or are we going to kiss? Because the tension is killing me, and I’m already dead,” Della said, her voice dripping with a sugary, lethal sweetness.

Saphira didn’t look at her. Her focus remained entirely on Eron, her knuckles white as she held him by the collar. “I am an officer of the Exorcist Bureau. I don’t ‘team up’ with abominations, Valther. I eliminate them.”

“Then do it,” Eron squeaked, his feet dangling inches off the floor. “Eliminate us. But then you’ll never know why your brother’s soul is currently haunting a VIP lounge in the Underworld instead of resting in the Heavens. Go ahead. Be a professional. Kill the only person who can actually pull him back.”

Saphira’s eyes flickered. For a second, the cold, sterile light of her erasure magic flared, and Eron felt the hair on his arms stand up. Then, with a grunt of frustration, she slammed him back onto his feet.

“Five minutes,” Saphira hissed, pacing the cramped dorm room. “You have five minutes to explain why I shouldn't report this entire sector for heresy and have this building leveled.”

Della hopped off the bed, her translucent silks shimmering as she walked toward the two of them. She didn't stop until she was practically chest-to-chest with Eron, her cold, floral scent filling his lungs. She reached out and straightened his collar, her fingers lingering against his skin.

“Relax, Master,” Della purred, her eyes dancing with mischief. “She’s not going to kill you. She’s too busy imagining what her brother’s voice sounds like. It’s pathetic, really. All that armor and she’s just a little girl looking for her lost toy.”

“Shut up,” Saphira snapped, her hand moving toward her sword hilt. “One more word from that thing, Valther, and I’ll—"

“She’s right, though,” Eron interrupted, his voice surprisingly steady for a man who had just been airborne. “If Mavren is alive—or whatever version of ‘alive’ Della saw—we have to move. The Exorcist Bureau will detect the chronomantic residue from the explosion soon. If they find us here with a High-Tier Revenant and a missing officer’s brother’s ghost, they won’t just expel me. They’ll unmake all of us.”

Saphira looked at Eron, her expression a mix of disgust and desperation. “You’re a Class-D, Valther. You can’t even summon a pigeon without passing out. How are you supposed to reach into the deeper layers of the veil?”

“He has me,” Della whispered, sliding her arms around Eron’s waist from behind. She leaned her chin on his shoulder, her lips brushing his ear. “I’m a very generous battery, Saphira. I give Eron exactly what he needs. Don't I, Master? I can feel your heart racing. Is it the danger, or is it just me?”

“Della, not now,” Eron groaned, his face heating up. “Where is he? Where’s the grave?”

Della’s expression shifted, becoming suddenly serious. “The Old Weeping Woods. Behind the academy’s ancestral plots. There’s a headstone with no name, just a cracked hourglass. He’s there. Or at least, the body that shouldn't be there is.”

Saphira stiffened. “The Weeping Woods are sealed. Only High Priests have the keys.”

“Keys?” Della laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. “Honey, I’m a ghost. And you’re an Exorcist who can literally delete walls. We don't need keys. We need to go before the ‘Wardens’ realize the timeline is leaking like a rusted bucket.”

*

The air in the Weeping Woods was thick enough to chew. Every tree seemed to be hunched over in grief, their grey leaves dripping with a sap that smelled like old tears. Saphira led the way, her claymore drawn, the silver light from the blade cutting through the unnatural fog.

“You’re shivering,” Della noted, drifting alongside Eron. She wasn't walking; she was floating an inch off the dirt, her body occasionally flickering.

“It’s freezing out here, and I’m still barefoot, in case you didn't notice,” Eron whispered back, his teeth chattering.

Della smirked. She drifted closer, her body overlapping with his for a moment. A wave of intense, numbing cold washed over him, followed by a strange, buzzing heat that made his skin tingle. It was an intimate, invasive sensation, like a shot of pure adrenaline mixed with ice water.

“Better?” she asked, her voice a low vibration in his mind.

“I... yeah. I feel like I could run through a brick wall,” Eron muttered, his head spinning from the sudden mana surge.

“Save that energy for the summon,” Saphira called out without looking back. “We’re here.”

They stood before a clearing dominated by a single, twisted willow tree. Beneath its branches sat a humble stone, cracked down the middle. As Della had described, a faded hourglass was carved into the granite.

“This is it,” Saphira whispered, her voice cracking. “But this is impossible. Mavren is in the capital. I saw him two weeks ago at the Gala. He was laughing. He was... he was fine.”

“The Mavren in the capital is a placeholder,” Della said, her silver eyes glowing. “A ghost in a shell. The real Mavren? He’s been under this dirt for three days.”

“Three days?” Eron gasped. “But if he’s dead here, and alive there...”

“Timeline anomaly,” Della finished. “Now, stop talking and start digging, Master. Use the bond. Pull him out.”

Eron stepped forward, his hands trembling. He knelt in the dirt, the cold mud squelching between his toes. He closed his eyes, reaching for the silver thread that connected him to Della. He didn't just feel her power; he felt her hunger, her ancient, swirling curiosity.

“I call upon the soul tethered to this earth,” Eron chanted, his voice deepening as the mana took hold. “Mavren Holt, the veil is thin. The hourglass is broken. By the blood of Valther, I command you: Return!”

The ground didn't just shake; it erupted. A burst of blue-white light shot out from the grave, slamming into Eron’s chest and throwing him backward. Saphira caught him, her gauntlets digging into his ribs as they both watched the earth pull apart.

A hand, pale and covered in rich dirt, gripped the edge of the grave. Then another. A man pulled himself out, coughing and gasping for air as if he had been submerged in water. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with the same platinum hair as Saphira, though his eyes were a startling, warm amber.

“Mavren?” Saphira whispered, her sword clattering to the ground.

The man looked up, blinking against the moonlight. He looked at Saphira, then at the floating, half-naked spirit of Della, and finally, his gaze settled on Eron.

A wide, charming grin spread across his face. “Eron Valther! My man! I knew you’d be the one to pull me out of the dirt. Took you long enough, though. It’s cramped down there, and the worms are terrible conversationalists.”

Eron blinked, stunned. “You... you know me?”

Mavren stood up, brushing dirt off a high-collared jacket that looked far too expensive for a burial shroud. He walked over to Eron and clapped a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm and very much solid.

“Know you? We’re best friends, kid! Well, in about three years, we are,” Mavren laughed. He looked at his sister, his smile softening into something bittersweet. “Hey, Phira. Sorry about the mess. I know I promised I’d be at the tournament next week, but things got a little... ‘murder-y.’”

Saphira lunged forward, wrapping her arms around her brother in a crushing hug. “You’re dead. You’re supposed to be in the capital. I don’t understand. Who did this?”

Mavren’s face darkened, the playfulness vanishing in an instant. He looked over Saphira’s shoulder at the dark woods behind them.

“The Chronos Wardens,” Mavren said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. “I found something I wasn't supposed to. A rift in the Great Clock. They decided I was an ‘unnecessary variable.’ They killed me here to make sure the version of me in the capital stays on the script.”

“The script?” Eron asked, stepping closer.

“The timeline, Eron,” Della interjected, her eyes narrowed as she scanned the perimeter. “They’re the cosmic janitors. And it looks like they missed a spot.”

Mavren nodded, looking at Eron with an intensity that made the young necromancer flinch. “Listen to me, Eron. You shouldn't be able to summon me. Not yet. Our bond hasn't been forged in the future yet. The fact that you did it means the whole system is crashing.”

“Is that why I feel like I’m vibrating?” Eron asked, his vision starting to blur.

“That’s the paradox, Master,” Della said, her voice turning sharp. “And it just attracted company.”

From the shadows of the weeping trees, six figures emerged. They wore long, flowing robes of deep bronze, their faces hidden behind masks that looked like clockwork gears. In their hands, they carried staves that hummed with a rhythmic, ticking sound.

“Anomaly detected,” the lead Warden said, his voice a chorus of a thousand metallic echoes. “Subject: Mavren Holt. Status: Terminated. Subject: Eron Valther. Status: Unauthorized Variable.”

“Oh, great,” Mavren muttered, stepping in front of Eron and cracking his knuckles. “The guys with the golden watches are here. Saphira, I hope you still remember that dual-strike we practiced when we were kids.”

Saphira wiped her eyes, her face hardening into a mask of pure, lethal focus. She picked up her claymore, the white light erupting from the blade with enough force to blow back the fog. “I’m going to delete every single one of them for touching you.”

“I love it when she gets protective,” Mavren grinned. He looked at Eron and winked. “Hey, Eron! If we survive this, remind me to tell you about that time you accidentally turned the Headmaster’s cat into a dragon. It was hilarious.”

“I did what?!” Eron shouted, but he didn't have time for an answer.

The lead Warden raised his staff. “Cleanse the timeline. Erase the errors.”

“Della!” Eron screamed, reaching out for her hand.

Della didn't just take his hand; she dove into him. Eron felt his skin erupt in violet flames, his senses sharpening until he could see the individual gears turning behind the Wardens' masks.

“Don't just stand there, Master!” Della’s voice echoed in his skull, sounding hungrier than ever. “We have gods to kill and honey cakes to eat! Let's show these clock-watchers what happens when you mess with a Valther!”

The first Warden lunged, his staff glowing with a golden, erasing light. Eron didn't think; he just moved, his body guided by Della’s ancient instincts. He ducked the strike, his hand glowing with necrotic fire as he slammed his palm into the Warden’s chest.

“Tick-tock,” Eron growled, the violet flames consuming the bronze mask. “Your time is up.”

The battle for the future had officially begun, and Eron Valther was done being a failure. He had a dead best friend to protect, a terrifying Exorcist as an ally, and a beautiful spirit in his head telling him exactly how to break the world.

He had never felt more alive.