Belonging had never ceased to be a constant draw for the Necromancer.

  In her tower, she commanded absolute loyalty, but it was the law of the grave pilfered by magic, compulsion by necromantic bonds and sustained by fear of the one holding the chain. Her minions served because they had no choice and terror demanded their utmost respect.

  Master.

  Creator.

  The source of their continued existence.

  Never their friend. Never anything but the monster that their resurrected bodies or bound spirits owed fealty to.

  It was everything a woman like Amithaera, an elven beauty and The Terror of the Darklands, ever wanted. Power in the palm of her hands and the strength to wield it against her enemies. Power to command armies.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Order, in her image. Predictable, efficient…

  But ultimately hollow.

  In this village, as Nyssa the carefree maiden, people chose to spend time with her.

  They chose to smile on her approach.

  They chose to welcome her with open arms.

  They chose her not for what she could do, but because she was kind and warm to be around.

  The irony was not lost on her that the only place she had ever felt the smallest smidgen of belonging was built completely upon deception. Every connection she had forged would be strangled in its sleep if they knew what she really was: a mask for a monster.

  For a few hours a day, Amithaera could pretend she was someone worth knowing. That she was worth being cared about, and that she was worthy of belonging somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t a tower full of undead creatures.

  Even if it was built on a lie, she could pretend that the light coming over the horizon right now was meant for her.

  After all, nothing beats a sunrise in Skyfallow Village.