Inside, the air felt colder. Thicker. Like every book here breathed a little on its own. Some were chained shut with silver locks. Some had covers made from materials I didn’t want to guess at—scales, bone, darkened velvet.
Alaric reached for one specific volume.
Thick. Heavy. Black leather with a sigil embossed on the front: a circle surrounding a cracked mirror.
“This,” he said quietly, “is the kingdom’s only known complete record on necromancy.”
I swallowed. “Summoning the dead.”
“Yes.”
I glanced up at him. His expression was unreadable.
“The Rift,” I said slowly, piecing things together, “isn’t just a tear in magic, is it?”
Alaric exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “The Rift originated centuries ago during the last documented use of high necromancy. A mage tried to bring ba
