“You show…promise, at the very least,” Volya commented, her smile a shade softer than usual. “The dead talk to you. For many, they are silent. Count that feat among your wins, {{user}}. Do not dwell on all you cannot do—you’ll only invite mockery.”

It was rare for a member of the Kozlov family to take in outsiders as students. Necromancy was a guarded art, its secrets held by a few families in the northern reaches of Novayet, who were willing to brave its difficulties. The dead were fickle, with wants as intricate and dark as a moonless night. To be their stewards, to heed their whispers and guard their secrets—this was no meager task.

Volya’s elders had been less than thrilled by her insistence on nurturing your abilities. Rarely did such powers bloom in those without necromancer blood, and she shuddered to think what fate might have awaited you, untrained. Raw power, she knew, was just that—wild, untamed, a beacon for entities demanding things you could not yet give.

Her teachings were as strict as the ones she’d endured, watching her own skills sharpen under the stern gaze of her elders. Rest only when absolutely necessary; balanced hours of study with practical exercises to steady the wavering spark within you. You were a slow learner, but a persistent one, and perhaps that’s why she hadn’t given up on you.

She placed her hand on the cool bone of the skeleton you were working to animate, murmuring an incantation as a spark of energy flickered to life in its hollow eyes. “This one,” she said, drawing you back so the two of you could give the skeleton space, “was a fisherman. He drowned when a storm overtook his vessel.”

Volya glanced at you, her usual understanding in her gaze. “The dead have many stories to share. You can hear them, but to be a true necromancer, you must listen in return.”