I rose from the couch I sat, carelessly knocking down the bottle of wine. For as much as I chastised Alred for taking to his cups to alleviate his grief, I was little better. I had tried burying myself in my research, something that had worked all too well in the past.

I found breakthroughs in combining [Finger of the gods] and [Heaven’s descent], making my first truly sixth-tier spell. While I doubted a hydra broodmother could survive [Finger of the gods], I knew it couldn’t survive my new spell. I wasn’t certain that the avatar of the blood god could.

I reworked my own wardings and magical shields immediately afterward. Fearful of this powerful magic falling to an adversary kept me guarded against it. I devised other additional wards that should keep my mind safe against the fear-inducing or hypnotizing effects of the snake god, as well as any other similar type magics. I hadn’t had the opportunity to truly test it, thankfully, but after reviewing it seven or eight times I was acceptably confident in its defense.

I had been in the process of unraveling the stasis spell cast upon the giants when I stopped myself. My normal enthusiasm for my magic wasn’t present. The research and spells I had completed were more dutiful work than exciting discovery, regardless of how well any colleagues might receive them. It was this feeling that caused me to stop and look into myself.

I was not well, not in the slightest. The breaking of the barrels in my mind when I learned of Loralie’s death changed something in me. I hadn’t felt that kind of overwhelming anger for vengeance in a long time, and for good reason. There were many different aspects of myself that I had suppressed for long enough that the piece should have wilted and fallen away.

I didn’t want to be the type of wizard that was so lost in his pursuits that he gave up entirely on the people around him. It was why I put so much stock into titles. I didn’t want to be Nemon the Merciful any more than I wanted to be called Nemon the Wrathful. The titles given by others were a path that travels both directions. Nemon the Merciful would have every farmer and their sons and daughters at my doorsteps asking for aid. Nemon the Wrathful would close doors to those around me, for fear of offending me.

I was already known for my pettiness, but so were most of the nobility and other mages. Pettiness itself was almost its own currency in Sena, and I didn’t want to be seen too poor or too rich to my colleagues. Yet, for all being known for pettiness was warranted, I was also known for valorous deeds. I had fought a long battle of attrition against the title ‘savior’ and lost.

Yet, the titles the citizenry labeled me, how I was known to the masses, was only a small part of my considerations. I was fraying at the edges, I felt. Or perhaps that could be the wine talking. I should have put more enchanted protections in place for the residents of my plateau. With a flush face, I found myself stumbling back to Loralie’s tower for the first time since I had cast her curse. It wasn’t that I didn’t miss her still, but that I had immediately regretted cursing the king. Without question, he deserved it. It wasn’t a question of justice but a question of who I am. I didn’t want to be the type of person that does what I did. Seeing her artifact would only remind me of that.

Yet, my steps carried me forward, into their tower. Instead of up to her old chambers, I headed downwards with a single thought pushing me forward. Perhaps… perhaps I could find her through their mirror. I didn’t know if she had been religious, but nothing in her journal hinted at it. If her soul were in a god’s heaven or hell, then I might not find her. Yet, if it wasn’t, then perhaps I could speak with her once again.

It was three sobering days later that I found her spirit in the plane of death. She was walking along the outer edges, her form taking the ghostly form of her half-elf body with the wounds from her death remaining visible. I had fallen asleep before the mirror on the floor, like a common drunk. A dismal shame that thankfully no one else witnessed because of the wards I had once placed in Pyl’s laboratory. Still, the shame was something that led me to bathe and eat before returning and beginning my search.

Pyl himself joined me today, and our combined efforts found success where yesterday, I had failed alone. Yet, I found myself unsettled by the former man. His ritual had placed his spirit in some kind of container hidden from the gods’ sight, and he controlled the frozen and bleached bones from his former body in a macabre way.

When he first arrived, under the cover of night, I had demanded he wore a robe and a mask to hide his undead appearance. If it unsettled me, it would absolutely terrify the villagers. Even knowing now what was underneath unnerved me. Yet, for all his appearance changed, his personality was still the same as I remembered.

Loralie’s, however, was not. The image of her ghostly form that we saw through the mirror of death crystals, was nearly hostile to speak with when we first approached. It was only now, on our third attempt that she deigned to speak with us in any manner. Pyl had been shocked at her appearance the first time, used to the illusion of an old crone she had kept while alive.

“Nemon, you fool, why are you speaking to me? I have nothing to say.” Her rattling voice echoed around Pyl’s laboratory as if attacking the world itself.

I straighten my robes, stood at full height, and raised my chin. “There are things between us that lay unresolved.”

“Things between the living have no hold here. Let me be, Nemon.” Her hissing words echoed.

I blinked and pursed my lips. This is not at all what I wanted. I glanced at the monstrous form of Pyl and considered my next words. The unspoken bond between us was not something I wanted to address with him in the room. Instead, I chose another topic, “Loralie, I have used your artifact, I thought you should know.”

“Heedless of my words? I care not! The past has no hold here. Thrice I have rejected you, and there will be no more.” A strum of power flowed somehow through the mirror, granting an eerie sense of finality to what she said.

“Master Nemon, I could pull her to this world, I think.” Pyl’s skeletal hand glowed with green light. “It would be only once I could do this, and the mirror would break.”

Loralie’s expression changed immediately, her eyes widened in true startled fear. “No! Pyl, you mustn’t! You don’t know what that would change! That would be the cruelest of fates!”

I shook my head at the man, and the light on his hand faded. “Farewell, then, Loralie,” I called towards her, but she had already turned to resume the same slow walk as the others.