Carrow headed out of the hall without another warm word and the corvid took flight after him. The creature was a magical marvel on its own; Carrow could see through its eyes and even control its movements if he wanted to. Nezael had a lot more to learn before he could even think to try that. He peered up at his own tiny bird. It had nestled itself against the crook in the rafters, looking right at home.

“Stay wherever you wish,” he said gently. The bird cocked its head toward him. “My home is yours forevermore.” He blew it a gentle kiss, letting magic carry the gesture farther, and was delighted when the bird shuffled unseen feathers in reply.

Hopefully, it felt as at home as Nezael did and he trekked after his lord.

Nezael didn’t know how long he’d been at the tower—or even his own age, if he was honest—but it had been his home for as long as he could remember. There were snapshots of a life before the tower, but they were silent and fuzzy with nothing to say about them but vague shapes and ideas. Nezael ignored them. What did the past matter when he was here now? With a Lord who smiled at him so? With magic thrumming through his body, wanting to help the world change? And who could grant him the ability but his one and only lord?

As such, this tower hidden past the forest full of brambles and thorns was his home. Stone walls fortified with latent magic, windows which creaked when opened (if they even could be), and drafts aplenty ghosted through hallways covered in mismatched tapestries to stave off the long winters. Rugs of all kinds covered the floors, each one treaded on for years before and would still be around years later, creating a splash of muted colors across the halls. Lord Carrow never quite made the place homey—he likely hadn’t intended to spend so long here—but Nezael had done his best to bring life to it once he saw how the town south past the brambles looked.

There, the interiors were warm, with golden hues from the windows always lighting the rich warmth of the wood. Colors aplenty were draped across barren walls in patterned fabrics and Nezael loved it all. It reminded him of life and he wanted it here too. Sure, his attempts were paltry at best, relying on what little he received from selling potions in the marketplace during the summer, but it let him enjoy the tower more. He’d even hung bushels of dried flowers from the wooden beams, their muted shades the perfect pop of color most hallways needed, and bought old and worn tapestries from merchants to give it second life on their walls. This way, they had colors among the cold drafty hallways. Though his lord never quite complimented the frivolous change, Nezael had caught him smiling at everything more than once.

Nezael turned into the spiral stairwell leading to Isabella’s workroom. It was located in the lowest room the tower had to offer so that if one of her potions met an unfortunate end, the rest of the tower would be spared.

Isabella had agreed with adding more colors to the tower so much, that she’d decked out her workroom in all the shades she could gather. Bright, gaudy cloth that never seemed to dull went across any wall she wasn’t using. Those that weren’t covered had honeycomb shaped shelves made of wood fixed to them, the wood made of soft, golden shades. Each cubby was filled with jars housing all manner and color of herbs. The center of the room contained her table with a cauldron and burner, various glass measuring instruments, stone pestles, and even her bronze scales. The floor was covered in rugs crisscrossing on top of one another, each one soft on her skeletal feet. Her bed was pushed into one corner, draped in as many colors as the floor and walls, and she’d hung up a floral printed tapestry to act as canopy over her bed. All the pops of colors were dear to Isabella, what she called memories of her excursions to the town marketplace with Nezael by her side.

Isabella herself was dressed in thick fabrics as vibrant as her personality. She always kept a shawl wrapped around her head to protect her polished skull, tucking it in expertly every time, and wore long robes to hide the fragility of her bones within. She wrapped her skeletal fingers in strips of fabric that differed in color from one finger to the next and on top of that, she wore jeweled rings enchanted to protect her hands. Nezael didn’t know how old she was (and he learned very quickly it was a rude question) and had no idea how long she’d been Lord Carrow’s skeletal potions master, but Carrow’s magic within her bones was as strong as ever, woven so precisely, it was as though she still maintained the fluidity of her once muscles.

She looked up from her measuring beaker as Nezael slipped past the curtain in the doorway. The room always had an air of incense and herbs Isabella herself could no longer smell, but to Nezael, it smelled like home.

Though Isabella had no face, as was the case of all the raised skeletons, Nezael still felt the warmth of a smile as she gazed at him.

“I see you’re about and smiling,” she said, her voice oscillating against the magic in her skull. She never knew if it was really how her voice had sounded in life, but Nezael liked it for what it was. It had a strange kind of cadence he adored. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this smile, my little lord?”

Nezael came up to her table and let the smile stretch. “I raised the bird! None of the bones cracked once and I really did it this time.”

Bones pushed against Nezael’s leg and he glanced down. The cat he had raised earlier this year rubbed against him like it always did when he visited Isabella. He gently bent down and massaged its forehead with his finger. A glint of magic reacted, reinvigorating the cat, and it sauntered back to the bed where it must have been napping before he came in.

Isabella clapped her hands. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you mastered a bird! Our Lord must have been so ecstatic. Why, that must have been him I heard dancing across the floor above.”

Sarcasm dripped from her voice and Nezael bit back his snicker. Lord Carrow was indeed hard to impress and held many of his emotions close to his chest.

“He was happy,” Nezael said and left it at that as the ghost of the kiss fluttered across his skin. “As much as he’s ever happy, I suppose. He told me you needed my help?”

Isabella paused, tilting her head like she was confused, and then chuckled. “Oh dear. I was fussing and he must have heard me. Well, a bored little lord such as thee needs distractions, I suppose.” She set her beaker down and shuffled past him, the aroma of spice and herbs trailing in her wake as it cascaded off her robes, and he followed her to the honeycomb shelves. She trailed a boney finger across the contents until she found the jar she searched for and wiggled it free.

Empty, but the lingering magic inside from the herbs that once was made the glass shimmer. Nezael took it and read the label. “Vistarium herbs?”

“Yes, they grow very precariously and are even more precarious to gather.” Isabella returned to her table and pulled a tome of herbs out from her pile of books. She never quite treated her books with the same reverence as her herbs, but then again, she likely had all the pages memorized. This was purely for Nezael’s benefit.

She flipped through the thick vellum pages until she reached the center. On one side of the spread, there was a carefully rendered sketch of the plant and herb in question, and on the other, the list of potions to be made with such a plant.

“It absorbs magic,” Isabella explained, too impatient to wait for Nezael to read the entire thing. “Given how late it is in the year, it’s risky for me to search for the plant on my own. It’d take what scant power I have left.” Without magic, skeletons ceased being able to move. Dangerous for her when her magic was at its thinnest so close to winter. “All our wards use these herbs as a base to protect us from any strange spells used against us and our lord has been going through it like it’s going out of style.” She tilted her head toward Nezael in what he construed as a mischievous grin. “You up for fetching me some more? I do know how you adore walks outside.”

Even if sometimes Lord Carrow wished Nezael never left at all. Nezael smiled all the same and nodded. “Of course.” He giggled as Isabella leaned forward and bumped her bony cheek against his. Her magic tickled across his skin, reminding him of a kiss on the cheek, and she withdrew to gather supplies for him.

Normally, she’d accompany him on forest excursions and sometimes to the marketplace in town, but given Carrow was meeting with others today, she probably had her hands full on a truth serum to keep their guests truthful. It was simmering in her cauldron if Nezael had to guess; it always smelled like roses. There were too many who wanted their lord dead, so the serum was a requirement.

Nezael didn’t mind heading out alone. Once Isabella had given him basic information for finding the herb (it made magic thin when it grew and she described how the petals were a golden yellow in bloom) and saddled him with a cloth bag and jar, he was back up the stairs to get dressed for the trek. If it was summer, he would have gone as he was—loose tunic and leggings, even foregone shoes completely—but it was closing in on winter and he needed more layering than that.

On went the thicker tunic, the cloak lined in dark fur, his thicker leather boots, and he remembered his dagger. Usually used for rituals, but it came in handy for cutting herbs and also protection. Although he hadn’t had to protect himself. Yet. His lord always reminded him to be careful and having it was surely better than not.

Nezael headed out into the noon sunshine and peered up at his home. Their tower was a solid brick and stone building hidden in the middle of the woods. It was the color of a tree’s bark, the bricks light and dark with wards hidden within, and the windows absorbed the sunlight instead of reflecting it. Vines slithered up the front and, in the spring and summer, blossomed so many different flowers Isabella collected for potions. Now, they were withered and dormant. Instead, what bloomed now was a line of razor-sharp bushes across the front gardens. Always gave late autumn flowers which fell off and was collected at the first snowfall. Past them were walls constructed to protect the tower within should anyone attempt to invade. It made the place a kind of sanctum, in a way.

Magic was warm in the walls, each one carefully warded, and as Nezael passed each one, the power grew weaker and weaker until he’d stepped outside the spells altogether.

It was always a shock to the system. Once suddenly so invited and warm, only to be deposited in the cold and the sudden realization he was alone. Looking back, one would hardly guess the tower was there at all. It was perfectly obscured beyond the trees, the brambles and thorns, and even the walls made it look like a ruin long since plundered. Safe in all regards in its bubble of protection.

Being out here, however, meant being away from that very same protection and Nezael tightened his focus. Though the forest this deep was seldom traveled, it did Nezael no good to walk as though entranced by a dream. Magic made the place grow too wild to tend safely, keeping the travelers at the path, but sometimes people wandered in. Those usually became skeletons under Carrow’s lone will. Thankfully, it didn’t happen often enough to arouse suspicion. Locals said the forest was haunted, so the only ones who did get caught were travelers no one would miss.

Though Nezael kept an eye out for danger, again and again he found himself relaxing simply being in the forest by himself. The leaves had changed to honey oranges and yellows with red splashed between them. The sun was vibrant today too, penetrating the foliage and sheathing the twisting footpaths in dappled light. Even the ground was aglow with changed leaves, creating a mosaic of colors Nezael would have happily shuffled through if he didn’t have a job to do.

“Focus,” he told himself quietly. “Vistarium herbs.”

Over the years while assisting Isabella when she scrounged up herbs, Nezael had learned one thing: herbs with magical properties hummed. It was a hard sound to parse in the chatter of the forest or even in the town if he had to go that far, but one of his lord’s lessons had been to hone his ability to listen. He set his feet, held still, and closed his eyes to do so. Not to the soft chatter of animals scurrying as they prepared for the winter to come, not the soft coos of birds as they fluffed up their nests, but to the soft twinkle magic made against the threads of reality.

In places such as the forest, the magic ran through everything and made it somewhat difficult to sort through. Other places, like the town, were a little more barren, but magic lingered there too. Except if the herbs absorbed magic, he was searching for an absence. Silence.

The lack of any twinkle at all took him into the overgrown patches of grass and wildflowers and he kept his footsteps as light as possible to keep himself obscured. It led him across the forest and it was only when the sun was receding lower in the sky, making the shadows darker, did he come across the grove he was looking for. The magic inside was outright gone, making the whole place feel off.

Nothing stood out. The trees were bent protectively around the grove, long bare branches bending low as the muted reds and oranges covered the grass. Nestled at the base of those trees, however, were bushels of bright yellow petals. Actually, those were much brighter than they had any right to be this time of year and Nezael dug out the sketch Isabella had given him. There it was. Vibrant yellow petals soaking in magic to last through the winter. Supposedly was beautiful in bloom with snow dusted across it. In fact, according to Isabella’s notes, right after the first snowfall was the perfect time to grab the herbs—they’d be at their peak then—but their lord needed the wards now and Nezael got to work.

Honestly, out of everything from Lord Carrow’s teachings, Nezael liked foraging for herbs the most. He felt connected in a way he never had to the world around him. Life in the tower was isolating and it was easy to lose track of the days as a result. Out here, however? Gently folding branches back to find the correct bud within? Let him touch the world and be part of it in some fashion. He liked it. Maybe he should have been Isabella’s apprentice instead.

As he searched and snipped, collecting the fallen buds in Isabella’s jar, another sound began to echo through the grove. He ignored it at first, attributing it to nature being nature, but it continued long enough, it drew his attention. First came the woosh through the air, snapping against the magic past the grove, and then came the decided thud of steel cleaving wood in two. After a pause, the same sounds came again. Rhythmic, almost. Sometimes, between the sounds, was a husky hum lilting through the trees upon the air.

Curiosity got the better of Nezael—who in their right mind came this deep into the forest to simply chop wood?—and he ventured toward the sound. It led him gently around the bright yellow bushels, footsteps soft between fallen leaves, and he went from tree to tree to stay hidden. When Nezael was close enough he could taste the steel as it cut through the air, he pressed himself against the nearest tree and peered around it.

There was another clearing connected to a trail he’d never noticed before. A small wooden cabin had been built close to the dirt road and it looked neither new or old. Smoke billowed out of the stone chimney, but all the curtains were drawn across the windows. Nezael’s gaze shot to the middle of the clearing where another thud made him jump. A rather large stump was there, only a few paces away, with a pile of firewood. Poised with an axe aloft was a tall man facing away from Nezael. Wide shoulders, sculpted muscles along his bare back, and his tawny skin glistened with sweat underneath the afternoon sun. Low-riding breeches hugged the shape of his legs and his leather boots looked well-traveled. Glimmering russet hair was gathered at the back of his head, leaving waves long enough to tumble down his neck.

Nezael watched, entranced as the axe came down and the way the man’s muscles moved in tandem with the strike. If only he could trace them, memorize the way they moved for when he had to raise a human skeleton. Again and again, he watched the perfect arc the man made with his arms and how swiftly the axe came down so precisely. It was such a soothing rhythm, Nezael felt comfortable resting against the tree to keep watching.

The man must have been the woodsman for the town. There was more than enough firewood for one house in the pile and that wasn’t even counting the bunches already twined together near the cabin. Maybe Nezael could make an excuse to get firewood from him. Simply to appease his scientific curiosity of the man’s muscles, of course. As he thought of the ways to do so, the axe came down and was left in its groove in the stump. Before Nezael’s thoughts caught up to why, the man had turned to gather the fallen pieces.

Their eyes met.

Nezael shoved himself behind the tree, pulse roaring in his ears, and just when he thought perhaps he’d been fast enough, his heel cracked a twig.

“Hello?” the man called, voice tense, and everything felt like it stilled around them. Nezael covered his mouth to smother his sudden panicked breathing. “Is... is someone there?” The man hesitated and then came the soft sounds of his approach.

Nezael’s panic blinded him to all the spells he’d memorized to protect himself. He was never supposed to be seen and if so, deal with it so no one could say he was ever there and now here he was. Absolutely seen.

The man’s footsteps were light and careful, not like someone who wanted to hurt him, but Nezael wasn’t going to take that chance. He sucked in a breath and ran, uncaring about the racket he made through the brush. He knew the woods better than anyone; no one would find him so long as he got a head start.

There was a sudden burst of activity behind Nezael as soon as he ran, but he continued sprinting and didn’t look back. Eventually, those noises ceased and it was only Nezael.

Not that he was going to stop running. Safety was the tower. He clutched his bag close, pressing the jar of definitely not enough herbs against his chest, and focused on keeping his legs moving. By the time he pushed himself into the bubble of protection around the tower, his legs wanted to give out beneath him. He let them, collapsing to his knees, and bent low to catch his breath. A few of the patrolling skeletons noticed him, but he waved them off. He was fine. No harm done.

Even if his heart hammered against his chest like a bird trying to escape.