The graveyard welcomed her with a muted silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that pressed down on her shoulders, made her feel as though she were trespassing in a place not meant for the living, not even those who were in between. Her ears felt muffled and heavy.


    Ziria walked between the graves, her lantern casting long and flickering shadows across the cracked stones. The ritual blade hung at her hip, the opal stone shining brigt, but she hadn’t yet unsheathed it. Not yet.


    Something was very wrong.


    She stopped at the oak once more, her fingers tightening around the lantern’s handle making her knuckles white. The sigils from the night before were still visible in the dirt, faint but present. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not at all. Magic faded quickly, especially hers. She always made sure. This… lingered, like it was waiting for her.


    Her heart quickened. She felt her pulse radiate throughout her body. She tried to convince herself it was just residue, an echo of power she hadn’t been careful enough to contain. But the air here felt too thick, too cold and too heavy.


    Still, she knelt.


    Her hands moved with practiced precision, carving fresh symbols over the old ones. The knife sliced her palm once more, and blood dripped onto the earth. The spell came easier this time, the words falling from her lips as though they belonged to someone else. She closed her eyes, taking a slow breath. Exhaling as the ground shuddered beneath her.


    She stepped back, her lantern swinging wildly as shadows danced across the graves. This time, the light seemed to avoid the sigil, bending away as though repelled by the shape taking form there.


    The shadow rose again, shaping into the figure she had summoned the night before.


    “You again,” Ziria whispered, her voice sharper than she intended. Her mind filled with curiosity, and something sharper. Not fear… but something new.


    The shadow tilted its head, its form flickering like smoke caught in a breeze. “Did you miss me, my sweet little necromancer?”


    “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, taking a step closer. Her pulse raced, but she forced her voice to stay steady. She wasn''t afraid. “When I summon the dead, I get someone new each time. Someone… normal.”


    “I am normal,” the shadow said, its voice edged with mockery.


    “No, you’re not.” Ziria clenched her fists. “What are you?”


    The shadow’s laughter was low and hollow, a sound that made her skin crawl. A sound of two, one low and one shrieking. “I told you, little necromancer. I am the end of time. And you…” It leaned forward, its form stretching toward her. “You seem intent on becoming lost in it.”


    Ziria’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to hold her ground. “You told me a story last night. About a boy. I want to know more.”The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The shadow stilled. Its shape blurred at the edges, dark smoke leaking into the night. “You shouldn’t want that.”


    “But I do.”


    For a moment, the graveyard was silent except for the sound of her own breathing. Then the shadow moved closer, its form towering over her like a stormcloud. The voice crackled like fire, like a low rumble of a storm.


    “Very well,” it said, clicking its tongue. its voice dripping with something she couldn’t quite name. “I’ll tell you more. But remember, little necromancer: stories have teeth. And they all have a cost”


    Ziria swallowed hard, gripping the lantern tighter. She tried to shape the shadow. What did he look like? His features changed with every breath, his eyes weren''t there but they saw her and she felt his gaze on her.


    “The boy returned to the village,” the shadow began. Its tone was softer now, almost hypnotic, pulsating. “But he was not the same. Oh, but he looked the same. His father’s sharp jaw. His mother’s dark and large eyes. But the villagers noticed things. Strange things.”


    “The animals grew restless around him. His shadow stretched longer than it should, reaching for things unseen, all around. And the forest…” The shadow’s voice dropped lower, crackling like fire again. “The forest began to creep closer. Trees that had stood still for decades suddenly pressed against the edges of the village, their roots snaking into homes. The villagers whispered, but the boy didn’t hear them. Never. He was too busy listening to something else. Or someone else.


    “The gift.” she paused the shadow.


    Ziria’s breath caught. “The creature’s gift?”


    The shadow nodded, its form flickering. “It was a seed, planted deep in the boy’s heart. It whispered to him, told him things he couldn’t understand but couldn’t ignore. It showed him how to call the shadows, how to bend the world to his will. Making everything and nothing. And for a time, he reveled in it. He was powerful. Untouchable.”


    The shadow paused, its voice softening into something almost sorrowful. “But power is a burden, my sweet little necromancer. The gift was not without its cost. Magic always has a price.”


    “What cost?” Ziria whispered.


    The shadow leaned closer, its form unraveling at the edges, he grew bigger and wider. “It began to consume him. Slowly, at first. A shadow creeping into his veins. But as he used the power, it took more of him. His laughter faded. His eyes grew darker, sunk deeper. His body almost sunk in on itself. And one night, when the villagers came to confront him, they found his house empty.


    “They say he went back to the forest. That it called him home, he wasn''t one of them anymore.”


    The air grew colder, and Ziria felt a chill crawl down her spine, her curiosity getting the best of her. “What happened to him?”


    The shadow’s smile was faint but sharp. “No one knows. But the forest is still there. And on nights like this, when the moon hangs low and the wind carries whispers, some say they see him. A shadow among the trees. They hear him.”


    Ziria’s fingers dug into the lantern’s handle. “Why are you telling me this story?”


    The shadow didn’t answer at first. It simply stared at her with it''s almost, unseen eyes, its presence heavy and unyielding. Then it said, softly, “Because you need to understand, my sweet little necromancer. Some stories don’t end. They grow. They twist. And they consume everyone foolish enough to follow them. Like you. Like the boy with a curiosity stronger than his judgement.”


    Before she could respond, the shadow began to dissolve, its form unraveling like thick smoke.


    “Wait!” Ziria called, stepping forward.


    But it was gone. Once again.


    She was alone again, standing in the cold, silent graveyard. Her heart thundered in her chest as she stared at the sigil, its faint glow already fading.


    The story echoed in her mind, each word sinking deeper into her thoughts. The boy. The gift. The forest that still called out to anyone that would listen.


    And the shadow that seemed to know more about her than she cared to admit.