The Council building was the largest structure in Millbrook—white stone, dominating the central square like it wanted everyone to know it.
Mark arrived exactly at noon, wearing the most presentable clothes he owned.
Which wasn't saying much, given that his wardrobe consisted almost entirely of black robes that screamed I raise the dead for a living.
"Relax," he told himself, climbing the steps. "They don't know anything. They can't know anything. Just act normal."
Master. Ely's voice in his head, low and steady. I am ready to intervene if necessary.
"No. No matter what happens in there, you do not come out. If they see you, we're both dead."
But—
"That's an order, Ely."
A pause.
…Understood.
The doors opened into a wide chamber with a raised semicircular table. Five people sat behind it, watching him with expressions that ranged from polite curiosity to something considerably less polite.
At the center, a gray-haired man with the kind of bearing that came from decades of making other people uncomfortable studied him with sharp, calculating eyes.
Lord Aldric Vance, presumably.
"Mark," the man said, his voice filling the room without effort. "Thank you for coming."
As if I had a choice.
"It's an honor to be summoned by the Council," Mark said, inclining his head in what he hoped read as respectful rather than terrified.
"Sit."
He sat. The chair was noticeably lower than theirs, angled so he had no choice but to look up at all five of them.
Obvious psychological trick. Effective, though.
"I assume you're wondering why you're here," Lord Vance continued.
Curiosity is absolutely killing me, yes.
"We've received reports. Concerning ones."
Here we go.
"What kind of reports?"
"Reports that a Rank F necromancer has been clearing Rank D and C dungeons. Alone. With no visible assistance."
Mark kept his face neutral. Internally, he was screaming.
"And that's a problem?"
"It is… unusual," said a woman to Vance's left—red-haired, a scar cutting across one cheek. "Necromancers aren't known for direct combat ability. And yet you've managed feats that would challenge Rank B adventurers."
"I have my methods."
"So we've heard." Her smile had no warmth in it whatsoever. "The question is: what exactly are those methods?"
Mark took a slow breath.
He had prepared for this. An explanation that was technically true—just missing a few crucial details.
"As a necromancer, I can reanimate corpses. The monsters I kill in one dungeon become resources for the next. Each run builds on the last."
The councilors exchanged glances.
"You're saying you use monster corpses as soldiers," Lord Vance said.
"Essentially, yes."
"And where are these soldiers now?"
Shit.
"They decompose," Mark said, without missing a beat. "My current level only lets me maintain them for a limited time. After each dungeon, they… dissolve."
A lie.
A massive, comprehensive lie.
But the best one he had.
Lord Vance studied him. The silence stretched long enough to be deliberate.
"Interesting," he said at last. "Very interesting."
"Is there a problem with my methods?"
"Not necessarily. Necromancy, while…" he paused, choosing the word carefully, "…unpleasant… is not illegal in Millbrook. Provided it is not used on humans."
"I would never use my abilities on humans," Mark said.
And this time, he wasn't entirely lying. Ely had been human once—but she was something else now. That counted. Probably.
"That's what we hope," the scarred woman leaned forward. "Because if we find that you've been experimenting with human remains, the consequences would be severe."
"…Understood."
Lord Vance nodded once, slowly.
"Then we'll consider this matter closed—for now. But we will be watching you, Mark. Very closely."
"I appreciate the Council's… attention."
"You may leave."
Mark stood, gave a measured bow, and walked out with the careful steps of someone who absolutely was not fleeing.
Only once he was back in the crowded plaza, swallowed by the noise and the people and the ordinary chaos of the city, did he let himself breathe.
"That was close," he muttered. "Way too close."
Master. Ely's voice, quiet and taut. Are you alright?
"I'm fine. But we need to be more careful. Much more careful."
What do you suggest?
Mark thought for a moment, watching the square without seeing it.
"We change strategy. The dungeons near Millbrook aren't safe anymore. We go farther out—somewhere no one knows us." He paused. "At the guild, I'll keep taking Rank F quests. Maintain appearances. But the real work happens in secret."
Understood, Master. I will do whatever is necessary to protect you.
Mark smiled—small, humorless.
I know, Ely. That's exactly what worries me.
—
That night, Mark couldn't sleep.
He lay on the bed in his rented room, staring at the cracked ceiling, turning everything over in his head.
He had died.
Been reborn in another world.
Created an undead warrior whose mind he'd rewritten from the inside and who was now, by his own design, in love with him.
Deceived an entire guild.
Lied to a governing council.
I think… all of this escalated extremely fast.
In his previous life he'd been nobody special—an ordinary person with an ordinary job and an ordinary life that had ended in a genuinely embarrassing way. But at least he'd been honest. Or tried to be.
Now, though.
"Ely," he said into the dark. "Come out."
The shadow beside the bed stirred, and she emerged from it—pale skin faintly luminous in the dim light, blue eyes finding him immediately with an expression that was almost painful to look at directly.
"Yes, Master?"
"Sit."
She sat on the edge of the bed, her posture perfect even now, even here.
"I need to ask you something," Mark said. "And I need you to be honest with me."
"I am always honest with you, Master."
"Do you remember anything? From before?"
Ely tilted her head slightly, considering.
"Fragments. Images without context. Sensations without an origin." A pause. "Everything is blurry. Like a dream that disappears the moment you wake up."
"Do you remember how you died?"
"Vaguely. Pain. Confusion. And then nothing—until I woke up and saw you."
A knot formed in Mark's stomach and didn't leave.
"Doesn't it bother you? Doesn't it bother you that I… that I…"
"That you saved me?" Ely smiled, and it was so genuine it almost hurt to look at. "Master, you gave me a second chance. A purpose." She paused. "You gave me love."
I didn't give you love, he thought. I programmed you to believe you had it.
But he didn't say it. What was there to say?
"Master." Her voice dropped, softer now. She moved closer, and her cold hand came to rest over his. "I can feel your guilt. Your unease. But you don't need to carry that."
"Don't I?"
"No. Whatever you did… it brought me to your side. And there is no other place I would rather be."
Mark looked at her. Searched for the seams of it—some sign of the programming underneath, something artificial, something manufactured.
He found only sincerity.
A sincerity I built. But sincerity all the same.
Does it matter if it's real? Does it matter if her feelings were given to her rather than grown? He stared at the ceiling again. For her, they're real. For her, this is all there is.
It was a hollow kind of comfort.
But it was the only kind he had.
"Thank you, Ely," he said at last. "For… for everything."
"You don't need to thank me, Master. Serving you is my greatest joy."
They stayed like that for a while—just the dark room and the quiet and Ely's cold hand resting on his.
And for the first time since waking up in that dungeon, Mark felt something that wasn't dread.
I may not be a good person, he thought. Maybe I never was. But at least I'm not alone.
"Ely," he said. "Tomorrow we're leaving this place."
"Leaving?" She looked at him. "Where would we go, Master?"
"I don't know yet." He closed his eyes. "But we'll figure it out together."
Elyndra was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was very soft.
"Together," she repeated. "I like how that sounds."
Mark didn't answer. The weight of the day was finally catching up to him, pulling him down into something that felt almost like rest.
Together, he thought, somewhere at the edge of sleep.
Yeah. I like how that sounds too.