Necromancers are Made, Not Born

"What exactly am I looking at, Count?"

Ísar had been busy since he'd gotten out of bed, much to Xinghua's protests. He'd finally gotten more than a few hours of sleep and while he was still incredibly cold, he was fine enough to get back to work.

While the Count and General Björn had done a lot to cover for his absence, there were still many parts where he was needed.

With a desk piled with different tasks for the young king to attend to, his left hand had thought it wise to then pile on invitations to social events as well.

"This letter here," the Count said as he picked up one of the different colored envelopes, "is an invitation from Marchioness Otradóttir for her luncheon in her family's famous garden. That blue one is an invitation for the annual tea party held by the Grand Duchess, that is a must attend. The green is for the ball by Viscount Haddsson to ring in the start of the social season and—"

"Count Pierre. That is not what I meant. Why are you bringing these to me when we have more important tasks ahead?" Ísar asked pointedly.

Since he'd woken up, his irritability was reaching new heights.

Count Pierre pierced his thin lips and stepped back with his hands behind his back. "The social season is upon us, your majesty and while it may not look like it, it is a very important time for the stability of the kingdom. As king, you have had little to no contact with the influential members of high society which isn't going to help you in the long run."

Ísar tilted his head to the side, listening despite how the Count's words didn't fully make sense to him. How was attending parties and socializing with nobility supposed to be on par with the importance of fixing the kingdom's problems?

The Count was smiling again, moving to stand beside the young king and place a hand on Ísar's shoulder as he continued speaking.

"My king, how would you implement your, quite frankly, controversial reforms if the rest of high society is not also backing you? Unless you would prefer going down the route of a tyrant, it isn't possible."

Ísar looked up at the Count as he began to understand what the older man meant by how the social season was important. He was still scowling, however, for he'd never liked the events nobility held. Before taking the throne, he was stuck in a corner like something to be hidden.

Now as King, he would've been placed in the center like that of the main star of a play.

He wasn't a fan of either option.

"This is why you must attend at least half of the events laid out during the social season. It is not only necessary for providing a smooth reign for yourself but also to further your plans," Count Pierre said smoothly as he moved back to stand in front of the king's desk. "You would also need to throw a ball of your own. Usually, it's either the queen or princess that would do so but unfortunately that is not possible at this time."

Ísar stared at the Count for a long time, the old man looking undeterred by Ísar's rather intense staring.

The young king still hadn't figured the Count out. He had no idea what the old man was trying to do by getting so close to him and playing the role of a father-figure in his own way.

"…Which events would you recommend then?"

The Count looked so damn proud of himself while gathering all the invitations and picking out the best ones. Ísar was annoyed but he didn't need that much convincing to begin with.

He knew he still wasn't all that well yet. He'd gotten random headaches that left him falling on his knees in pain and he simply could not stop feeling cold. He was seen now with winter gloves on his person all the time.

The part that was scaring him the most, however, was how the voices had all but ceased. Since he'd woken up from that odd dream with his sister, the voices had gone completely silent.

It was to the point that Ísar was starting to believe he'd had a psychotic break as a toddler and never stopped imagining them.

It was meant to be a good thing if ever the voices stopped but their sudden disappearance only left Ísar more anxious and confused.

"Count?"

Pierre paused his musings over two invitations to look back at his king. "Yes your majesty?"

"You heard about the unfortunate night with the two princes, correct?" Ísar asked slowly, being careful with each word.

"But of course! You have no idea how absolutely worried I was, your majesty!"

"Hmm," Ísar nodded with pursed lips. "The magic one of the assailants used was quite odd and unique, you see. I wanted to ask if you've heard anything about magic where one uses shadows to fight for you."

I said something wrong, Ísar immediately thought when he saw the way the Count's eyes widened as the man dropped the letters.

"Shadows that fight," the usually loud and confident voice of the Count had turned quiet with hints of fear.

He then looked at Ísar with the most serious expression the young king had ever seen on him.

"Your majesty. You are certain you saw this? How did the shadow move? Did it speak? It physically fought, correct?"

Ísar nodded to each question, leaning back in his seat as the Count got closer.

Xinghua had said it was an illusion but both of them had been hit in the head during the squabble and could've easily been confused. Count Pierre was a renowned ice mage and was more knowledgeable about magic.

And Ísar could not get the kneeling Black Knight with silver hair out of his mind, and he knew he was the one controlling it. He was just sure of it and that worried him because how? When did he get these powers and what were they even?

Why did the voices stop talking to him?

"Oh Mother, this could be bad or not depending on what you saw," the Count mumbled as he began to pace. "The last time such magic was seen was decades ago, and they were all killed. Who could've taught it? Tomes? No, no impossible. All books on the subject are controlled by royal families, no no. Should I talk to the General? I should first tell the Head of the patrol guards. They have closer eyes on the people and—"

"Count!" Ísar yelled, getting tired of not being really told anything. "What are you mumbling about?"

"Your majesty, my apologies," the man said with a weak smile. "It's just that if what you described is what I think it is, then things might get a little more dire within the kingdom."

Ísar was starting to get a little worried. "What do you think it is?"

"It's a forbidden kind of magic. The last witnessed traces of it was about four decades ago," The Count said as he continued pacing. "It's known for being powerful but it also corrupts its user, plunging them into madness. I'm afraid to say it but even members of the royal family had been known to practice it, your ancestors becoming even known for the practice. It was mostly done within our kingdom as well. Oh Mother above, I truly hope it was an illusion."

"Will you just tell me what the hell it is?" Ísar demanded as he too was starting to get scared.

"Necromancy, sire," the Count said, looking out into the window behind the King as he did so. "The ability to control life and death. The user plays god and all around them suffer for it. There is a reason it's been banned by all members of the Gaia Union."

"How come I've never heard of it? Surely, something so hated should be known to avoid it."

"There's not much known about it even from back then, your majesty. Necromancers barely, if ever, shared their dark arts. Then we learned how necromancers were made to begin with and the world's leaders actively decided it should be banned and the art lost to time."

Necromancers are made? We're all born with magic, what's different with them?"

"How are they made?"

Pierre grimaced at the question before answering. "They would've had to die themselves and be brought back. Many have died trying to get this power but the sacrifice would need to already have some connection with the rift between life and death. I'm afraid that is all I know, your majesty, but I must go find General Björn. If there are necromancers within our kingdom we must hurry and investigate. I shall return."

The young king barely registered the older man leaving as his mind whirled with the new information.

Ísar's heart was beating rapidly, his palms getting sweaty and he tried to control his breathing.

Something in him had told him there was something not all that right with him. He was always so cold to the touch and his mother's nickname for him suddenly made sense. The Ghost Prince.

He had always thought it was such a random name because as a toddler, he wasn't exactly gloomy and it wasn't like he was that weird of a child.

Something had changed after he'd turned eight, however. There were noticeable blanks in his memory at the time. One moment he was in his bed dealing with the worst illness of his life, the next, he was in an old, dark hallway found under the palace. His father was speaking to him but Ísar could not remember what he'd said, just that a blanket was thrown at him and he was escorted back to his room by the palace mage of the time.

His eighth year was patches of memories, to the point that Ísar felt like he imagined most of it. Yet that was the time he first remembered those voices. The moving shadows, the whispers from ghosts. He'd heard them before he turned eight, he vaguely remembered that, they'd just gotten louder that year.

Am I…Then that would mean that I…

Ísar suddenly shook his head and went back to work. He refused. He wasn't going to even try to think of it. He had friends, the voices were gone and he was attending social events outside the castle for the first time in his short life.

He will not think about some damned ghosts or the possibility that he'd died before.

That was simply too much.