Secrets in the Shadows

Arlan remained in the alley long after night fell, afraid to emerge. The sounds of revelry drifted from a nearby tavern, and the clatter of a horse-drawn wagon echoed from the main street. Duskhaven was lively at night, especially near the adventurers' quarter, but Arlan felt utterly isolated. He wrapped his threadbare cloak tighter around his thin shoulders. The word Necromancer pulsed in his mind like a curse and a beacon all at once.

Tentatively, he reached inward to feel for this new power. There was a faint well of energy in his chest, like a small flame waiting to be fed. Hard magic rules were ingrained in every child through tales: a new Class came with potential, but skills had to be learned or earned. What abilities did a necromancer start with? Did he suddenly know forbidden spells? He had no mentor, no tome of dark secrets. All he had were hazy instincts. Closing his eyes, Arlan concentrated. In his mind's eye, he glimpsed a flicker of something – like a list or menu that hovered at the edge of thought. It showed him just one thing clearly: Raise Undead (Minor).

He bit his lip. Raise Undead. The meaning was clear – the ability to animate a corpse. A lump of nausea and excitement formed in his throat. If he truly had that power, perhaps he could use it to survive. But the thought of touching a corpse made his stomach twist. Arlan had seen plenty of death on the streets – from starved beggars to unfortunate drunks – but he'd never imagined he'd be dealing with dead bodies up close. Yet here he was, an orphan with nothing but the clothes on his back and now, perhaps, the ability to make an undead servant.

A clap of thunder rumbled in the distance, and Arlan realized it might rain. He needed shelter, and soon. Pulling himself to his feet, he shuffled toward the mouth of the alley. His legs were stiff from hours of sitting in fear. The main street was lit by flickering lanterns. He peeked out and saw a pair of adventurers laughing loudly as they left the tavern, likely boasting about their latest dungeon haul. One swung a heavy sack over his shoulder – coin or loot, no doubt – and the other twirled a dagger. Arlan watched them with a mix of envy and longing. Adventurers were respected, paid, fed. But a necromancer would never be welcomed among them… unless he hid what he was.

Thunder boomed again, closer this time. Arlan took a deep breath and slipped down the street, keeping to the shadows. He had to find a dry spot to spend the night and think. The drizzle began, cold droplets speckling his dusty brown hair. There was an old abandoned shed behind the tanner's workshop where he sometimes slept; it stank of cured leather and animal fat, but it was better than being soaked. As he hurried through the dark, Arlan felt that strange new hunger again – a tug in his chest. It wasn't physical hunger; that still grumbled in his belly separately. This was a craving for the energy he'd felt earlier. For magic. The voices from his awakening were gone, but the echo of them made him shiver. He pushed the feeling aside and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, steps splashing in puddles. Survive the night first; grapple with forbidden powers later.