Liyana stepped off the train and onto the worn cobblestones of Varnath. The city greeted her like a long-buried memory, with the air clinging thick to her skin, cold and damp, as if it carried the weight of thousands of unsaid goodbyes. The sky, painted in eternal twilight, stretched over the city in a bruised haze of purples and grays, the light too faint to dispel the shadows that twisted through the alleyways. Above her, towering mausoleums leaned precariously, their once grand facades now crumbling under the weight of centuries.
The moment her foot touched the ground, she felt it—the hum of magic beneath the surface, seeping up from the ancient crypts and burial grounds that lay beneath the city. It thrummed through the streets, a constant, unsettling pulse, as if the earth itself was alive with the restless dead. She exhaled slowly, steeling herself. The feeling of being watched crept over her, a sensation she hadn't felt since she was a child standing at the edge of her family's blood magic rituals.
The streets of Varnath were alive, but not with life. The people moved quickly, shadows in the half-light, their faces obscured by hoods and masks, avoiding the gaze of the mausoleums. Spirits wandered between them, barely distinguishable from the living, their ghostly forms flickering like the remnants of forgotten dreams. Some of the dead lingered longer than others—whispers of faded souls clutching to the world they once knew, while necromancers kept them tethered.
A low mist clung to the streets, swirling around Liyana's boots as she walked, each step echoing faintly against the damp cobblestones. The smell of burning incense drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of decaying flowers and the metallic tang of dried blood, remnants of recent rituals held in the streets' alcoves. Varnath wore its necromancy on its sleeve—there was no pretense of separation between life and death here.
She wrapped her coat tighter around her body, her skin prickling with every step. The dead didn't rest in Varnath—they watched. And now that she was back, she could feel their attention, heavy as a pair of eyes tracking her every movement.
A voice cut through the eerie stillness. "Liyana, over here!"
Liyana turned to see Malik, his figure a familiar silhouette against the fog-draped city. His dark glasses shielded his eyes, but even from a distance, she recognized the subtle tension in his stance. His cane tapped lightly against the cobblestones as he made his way toward her, his steps precise despite his visual impairment. Malik's presence, as always, was a tether to the real world, to the life she had built far from the shadows of her family's past. But here, even he seemed out of place, like a beam of light caught in the wrong dimension.
She crossed the distance between them, the fog curling around her legs like fingers unwilling to let her go. As she neared Malik, the weight of the city seemed to press harder against her chest.
"Finally made it, huh?" Malik greeted her with a small, tired smile. The faintest hint of concern creased his brow. "Varnath looks worse every time I come here. I swear, it's like the whole place is trying to bury itself."
Liyana glanced around. He wasn't wrong. The towering buildings, once grand and opulent, now sagged under the weight of time and magic. Some were covered in dark ivy, the kind that grew unnaturally fast, its veins pulsating with the same arcane energy that ran through the city. Here and there, glass lanterns flickered weakly, their flames struggling to stay alive in the thick, oppressive air.
"It feels… wrong," Liyana admitted, her voice low, though she kept her emotions carefully masked. Control. That was the key here. Varnath thrived on disorder, on emotions left unchecked, and she couldn't afford to let her guard slip.
"It always does," Malik agreed, his cane tapping softly as they began to walk. "But it's worse this time. We have a new resurrection case. It's… unsettling, even by Varnath's standards."
Liyana's stomach tightened. She kept her expression neutral, but inside, a familiar dread twisted. "Resurrections" in Varnath weren't just rumors—they were documented events, the kind necromancers wielded with pride. But this case, the one that had dragged her back to a city she had long tried to forget, was different.
"Tell me what happened," she said, keeping her tone professional, though she could already sense the disturbance in the magical energy around them. It was thicker here, almost suffocating.
Malik's face was hard to read, but his voice carried the weight of the situation. "A man was raised, but it wasn't like the usual. He… remembers everything, Liyana. His death, the hands that killed him, the moments afterward. And there's something else—there are signs of blood magic."
The words hit her like a punch to the gut. Blood magic. She could feel her heart beat faster, her pulse syncing with the rhythmic hum of magic beneath her feet. Blood magic wasn't just necromancy. It was ancient, primal, and far more dangerous. It was the magic of her family—the Mroki bloodline—and the legacy she had spent years running from.
The blood that coursed through her veins stirred at the mention of it, a sensation she had long tried to bury. She kept her expression controlled, her face unreadable, but inside, her mind churned with unease.
"Blood magic," she repeated, her voice quieter now, almost drowned by the city's distant whispers.
"I know it's not what you want to hear," Malik said gently, his hand briefly resting on her arm. "But the authorities are worried. These resurrections aren't normal, and they think it's connected to something bigger. That's why they've asked us to investigate."
Liyana nodded, though her thoughts were racing. Varnath always had a way of pulling her back in—of dragging her closer to the part of herself she had fought so hard to suppress. She could feel it now, like the air itself was trying to coax out the magic hidden deep within her.
They continued down the winding streets, past towering crypts and shadowed alleyways that seemed to twist in on themselves. The deeper they ventured into the city, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, the shadows growing darker, more alive. Spirits flickered in and out of sight, their hollow eyes following them with an almost predatory focus.
As they neared the site of the resurrection, the air grew even colder, more oppressive. The fog thickened, coiling around their legs like serpents, and the light from the flickering lanterns grew dimmer.
Then, she saw him.
A figure stood in the distance, just beyond the veil of fog, his silhouette tall and commanding. Even through the mist, there was an undeniable presence about him, something that made the air around her crackle with energy. He stood perfectly still, yet every inch of him radiated power. Dark, magnetic power.
Rowan Ghazi.
Liyana's pulse quickened. Her breath hitched. There was something about him—something that called to her on a primal level, stirring the blood magic she had spent years trying to bury. The fog seemed to part for him as if even the city itself bent to his will. He was dangerous. She could feel it in her bones.
"That's him," Malik murmured beside her, his voice barely audible over the hum of magic. "Rowan Ghazi. They say he's one of the most powerful necromancers in Varnath."
Liyana's gaze locked onto Rowan's, and in that instant, she felt it—the pull, dark and irresistible, like a thread connecting them across time and space. The weight of Varnath pressed harder against her chest, the air thick with possibilities, with danger.
And as Rowan's eyes met hers, Liyana knew with chilling certainty that her carefully controlled world was about to unravel.
As Rowan's gaze lingered on Liyana, a deliberate pause that stretched between them, thick with the kind of tension she couldn't shake off. His eyes, a sharp amber that seemed to catch the faint light filtering through the mist, locked on hers as though he were studying her—or waiting for something. Liyana tried not to blink. Great, she thought. This is exactly what I need—a necromancer with a flair for dramatics.
Malik shifted beside her, and she could sense his unease. But she had to admit, Rowan had a presence that made the air feel different around him. His silhouette was tall, imposing, and even in the cold, damp fog of Varnath, it was as if the city bent around him, the mist swirling at his feet like an obedient servant.
"Rowan Ghazi," Malik repeated, the name almost swallowed by the heavy silence between them. He stepped forward, his cane tapping softly against the stone beneath them. Though Malik's movements were cautious, there was a steady resolve in his tone. "We're here about the resurrections. You were one of the last to see the deceased before they—well—before they weren't deceased anymore."
Rowan's lips twitched into a small, almost amused smile. He was good at this—too good. His posture, the way he seemed to absorb the shadows around him, made it clear he was in his element. Liyana caught herself rolling her eyes internally. Of course, she thought. A necromancer with a superiority complex. How original.
"I wasn't aware my movements were under such scrutiny," Rowan said at last, his voice low and smooth, like the edge of a knife dragged slowly over velvet. His tone was almost playful, but it carried a weight that made Liyana's stomach tighten.
He stepped closer, and she felt the shift in the air. It wasn't just colder—it was heavier, as though the magic here responded to his very presence. Liyana's fingers twitched at her sides. She could almost feel the hum of blood magic in her veins, the pulse of it quickening the closer he came. It took all her control not to let her unease show. He's just a man, she reminded herself. A man who raises the dead and probably knows too much about my family. No big deal.
Malik didn't seem to share her internal pep talk. He stiffened, though his face remained neutral. "The dead don't come back on their own," Malik pressed, his voice carefully measured. "Someone is behind these resurrections. And you seem to be… central to it."
Rowan's amber eyes slid from Malik to her, and for a moment, Liyana felt the weight of his attention settle on her like a physical force. He smiled again, but this time it didn't reach his eyes.
"Dr. Mroki," Rowan said, her name rolling off his tongue in a way that made her want to wipe it clean. "I've heard quite a bit about you. Your family name… carries a certain legacy, does it not?"
Liyana's spine stiffened. Of course, he knew. Everyone in Varnath probably knew. The Mroki family was practically synonymous with blood magic, and she had spent most of her life trying to distance herself from it. And yet, here she was, standing in a city where blood magic flowed through the streets like water, with a necromancer who apparently had her entire family history on file.
"What I am or where I come from has nothing to do with this investigation," she said, her voice clipped but steady. Inside, she could feel the familiar frustration boiling beneath her skin. Always the same. People looked at her and saw her bloodline, never her work. She wasn't here to drag the weight of her family's past around like some gothic accessory—she was here for facts. Evidence. Solutions.
Rowan took another step toward her, close enough now that she could see the faint scars tracing the lines of his hands, the signs of old rituals, old magic. "And yet," he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "the dead walk. They remember their deaths. And blood magic… it always remembers."
Liyana clenched her jaw. There it was again—blood magic. It was like the city itself was conspiring to remind her of the one thing she didn't want to face. She squared her shoulders, forcing her voice to remain calm. "We're here to find out why the dead are walking, and more importantly, why they're remembering." She met Rowan's eyes, her chin raised. "This isn't about me. It's about the people being raised."
For a moment, Rowan said nothing, but she could feel his gaze boring into her, as though he was searching for something just below the surface. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he gestured toward the fog-cloaked street behind him. "Come." His tone was soft but commanding, like he knew they would follow.
Malik shot her a glance—one of his classic are-you-seriously-going-to-follow-this-guy looks—but Liyana gave a subtle nod. She wasn't thrilled about it either, but they needed answers, and Rowan, frustratingly, seemed to be the key.
The three of them moved deeper into the city. The fog curled around them, thick and swirling as if the mist itself had taken on a life of its own. Liyana's breath fogged in the cool air, but the cold wasn't what unsettled her. It was the silence. The city wasn't quiet in the way most cities slept. Varnath was alive, always watching, always listening. And the deeper they went, the more alive it felt.
The streets narrowed, the buildings on either side growing taller, their crooked windows dark and unblinking. Old wrought iron gates creaked as they passed, and in the distance, the faint whispers of spirits floated on the breeze, their voices just out of reach. Liyana shivered, her coat doing little to keep out the cold or the weight of the magic pressing down on her from all sides.
They passed under the shadow of a towering crypt, its stone walls covered in dark, twisting ivy that pulsed faintly with arcane energy. Liyana glanced up at the statues of old necromancers that lined the street, their carved eyes hollow, watching. She had the unnerving feeling that the statues didn't just watch—they judged.
Rowan moved with the ease of someone who had walked these streets a thousand times. His steps were deliberate, confident. The mist seemed to part for him as if the city itself obeyed his command. And yet, there was something about him that felt off—like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.
Liyana's nerves buzzed, her blood magic stirring again. She tried to shake the feeling, but her senses were on high alert. Focus. Don't let him get under your skin. The moment she let her guard down, Rowan would see it, and she wasn't about to give him that satisfaction.
They stopped in front of an old mausoleum, its iron doors rusted and half open, as if someone—or something—had forced its way out. Gargoyles perched above the entrance, their stone wings folded, but their eyes gleamed in the low light, almost alive. The air here was heavier, thicker. The ground felt like it vibrated under her boots, as though something powerful and ancient slumbered beneath.
"This is where it began," Rowan said softly, his voice reverberating in the eerie stillness. He turned to face them, his amber eyes flickering with something unreadable. "The first resurrection happened here. But it wasn't just the dead that rose."
Liyana's stomach twisted. The fog coiled tighter around her, suffocating in its closeness. Of course, it didn't end there. This was Varnath, after all. The dead didn't just walk—they came back with something else, something darker, something no one wanted to name.
"And what, exactly, rose with them?" Malik asked, his voice low, as though he didn't want the city itself to overhear.
Rowan's gaze shifted to Malik, then back to Liyana. He stepped closer, his expression darkening. "That's what we're going to find out." His voice lowered to a near whisper, thick with tension. "But understand this—when you look into the darkness, it looks back."
Liyana's heart hammered in her chest, her skin tingling with the buzz of magic in the air. She couldn't quite tell if it was her own magic responding or the city's. Maybe both. But the longer she stood here, the more she could feel it—the weight of something much older, much darker, lurking beneath the surface.
"Are you ready to face it?" Rowan's voice was quiet, but there was something dangerous in the way he said it, as though he already knew the answer.
For a split second, Liyana considered turning back. But then she remembered—she wasn't here for herself. She wasn't here to dig up the past or indulge in her family's legacy. She was here to find the truth. And maybe, just maybe, to stop whatever was coming.
She looked Rowan dead in the eye, her lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile.
"I've faced worse."