Hector ran a hand through his grayed hair, the strands falling stubbornly back into place. His brows were furrowed with frustration, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to snap at the cleric who had "helpfully" come over to warn him against meddling with powers beyond his control. He'd heard this all before, and he was in no mood to get into another theological debate. He listened in silence, thanked the man for his concern, and ushered him out.

He didn't need to be told about the dangers of necromancy. The memory of his wife Esther, returned from the great beyond as an abomination, still haunted his every waking hour. And he knew, of course, how morally questionable it was to keep Micah around, no matter how intelligent, how human, the ghoul looked to be.

But Micah was like a son to Hector now. The boy—who wasn't a boy at all—had feelings. Curiosity. He was even in love with Hector's star pupil. Undoing the magic that kept Micah together was akin to murder. Very different from what had happened when Hector had ended that mockery of Esther, so many decades ago.

He needed fresh air. His study suddenly felt oppressively stifling.

Hector grabbed his cloak and went outside. His feet took him to the cemetery—to his wife's grave. The headstone was weathered and cracked, the epitaph barely legible. Dutifully, he ran his fingers over the withered flowers atop the grave, turning them lush and bright again.

"The boy is remarkable, you know," he told the empty grave. "He even has a crush. He's been asking questions. Awkward ones. You would have laughed at me, having to explain the birds and bees to an undead." He pressed his lips together. "No, you wouldn't have, would you? You would've been horrified by what I've done. But I'm trying, Esther. Teaching young necromancers, so there won't be more victims like you—"

A faint rustling caught his attention, and Hector's words came to a halt. Discreetly, he tried to sense any presences close by. Someone—or something—was there.

"Yes?" he called out. "Who is it?"