Back in his rented attic space at The Weary Traveler, Arlan sat cross-legged on the straw-stuffed mattress, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows on the slanted wooden walls. He held the tarnished silver amulet in his hands, turning it over carefully. The violet gemstone embedded in the center pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat. It felt warm against his palm, an unnatural sensation for something that had been buried for who knew how long.
Bones, perched on a pile of rags nearby, twitched his bony whiskers as if he too sensed something unusual about the artifact.
Arlan licked his dry lips. The voice he had heard in the ruined shrine still echoed faintly in his mind.
Find me. Free me…
Had he imagined it? Some magical aftereffect of the artifact itself? Or was something—or someone—trapped inside?
The logical thing to do would be to leave it alone, to bury it again and forget he ever found it. But Arlan had never been one for caution, and if this amulet held even a fraction of power that could help him survive, he couldn't ignore it.
Taking a steadying breath, he focused on the gemstone and carefully infused it with a trickle of his necromantic energy.
At first, nothing happened. Then, with a pulse of violet light, a shadow flickered across the room. The candle flame sputtered. The wooden walls seemed to bend inward for just a second before the world snapped back to normal.
And then, a voice—no longer distant, no longer a whisper.
"Ah… so you can hear me."
Arlan stiffened, his fingers tightening around the amulet. The voice was low, smooth, and strangely familiar. It didn't sound menacing, but there was an undeniable weight to it, like a presence pressing against his mind.
"Who are you?" Arlan whispered, his heart hammering.
A dry chuckle echoed in his ears. "You already know the answer, don't you, little necromancer?"
Arlan's blood ran cold. His grip on the amulet nearly faltered.
Necromancer.
No one—not even his companions—knew his true class. He had carefully kept up the summoner lie, but this voice, this presence, had known immediately.
"How?" Arlan forced himself to ask. "What are you?"
The amulet pulsed again, and the voice seemed closer now, just at the edge of his senses.
"A remnant of someone long forgotten," it murmured. "A soul bound to this trinket by old magic and foolish mistakes. And you, boy… you are the first necromancer to touch it in centuries."
Arlan swallowed hard. He should stop. He should not be talking to a disembodied entity tied to a cursed-looking amulet.
And yet…
He had spent his life scraping by, alone and weak. He had barely survived his first real dungeon. The Holy Order had already begun suspecting him. If he wanted to live—to grow strong enough to keep his secret and carve out a future—he needed every advantage he could find.
Even if that meant dealing with something best left forgotten.
Arlan exhaled slowly. "What do you want?"
For a long moment, there was silence. Then, the voice spoke again, softer this time, almost pleading.
"Freedom."
The Next Morning
The first rays of dawn filtered through the attic's wooden slats as Arlan stood by the small basin of water, splashing his face to shake off the lingering exhaustion from last night.
He had barely slept. The amulet sat wrapped in cloth at the bottom of his cloak, heavy with unspoken promises.
Bones sat on his shoulder, unusually still. Arlan wasn't sure if his undead companion understood what had happened last night, but there was an odd awareness in his glowing green eyes—as if he knew something had changed.
"I don't know what I've gotten us into, buddy," Arlan murmured, scratching the rat's bony head. "But we'll figure it out."
Bones made a soft clicking noise, the closest thing to comfort Arlan had ever received from a skeletal rodent.
A knock at the attic's flimsy door made him jump. "Arlan?"
It was Mira's voice.
"Give me a second!" he called, hastily pulling on his cloak and tucking the amulet securely away. He couldn't risk anyone seeing it.
When he opened the door, Mira stood there, arms crossed, wearing her usual confident yet slightly exasperated expression. "You sleep like the dead," she said dryly.
Arlan winced. Poor choice of words.
"Sorry. Long night," he muttered, stepping out.
Mira arched an eyebrow. "Well, we're meeting at the guild. Tomas wants to pick another quest today."
"Already?" Arlan rubbed the back of his neck.
Leila's voice called up from the stairs, "Yeah, we don't all like to laze around, you know."
Arlan sighed, nodding. He needed to act normal. Whatever had happened last night could wait—right now, he had to keep up appearances.
Besides, another quest meant more money, more experience, and—if he was lucky—another step closer to understanding his growing power.
If the past few days had taught him anything, it was that survival meant moving forward.
Even when the shadows whispered otherwise.
And right now, the shadows were starting to whisper more than ever.