Change did not announce itself.
It seeped in quietly, the way rot softened wood from the inside long before collapse. Aldir did not notice it at first—not because it was subtle, but because he had never imagined necromancy could be influenced rather than obeyed.
The first sign came at dawn.
They had camped in a ravine thick with thornbrush, the kind of place sound died quickly and light arrived reluctantly. Isabella slept poorly, curled close to the fire, muttering half-formed spells under her breath. Aldir stood watch, as he always did, awareness stretched wide.
A corpse lay nearby.
A bandit he had killed the night before—quick, precise, necessary. The body should have answered him without delay. He reached for it out of habit, intending to raise it briefly as a perimeter watcher.
The tether failed.
Not snapped. Not resisted.
Blurred.
Aldir frowned and focused, tightening his will. The necromantic thread formed—but it was thinner than it should have been, unstable, like smoke pretending to be rope.
The corpse twitched, then stilled.
Aldir withdrew his hand slowly.
That had never happened before.
Isabella stirred, eyes half-opening. "Something wrong?"
"No," Aldir said automatically.
That, too, was new.
They traveled on, but Aldir tested his control repeatedly throughout the day. Each time, his necromancy responded—but not with its former precision. The dead still obeyed, but they felt… resistant. Not defiant. Heavy.
Like something had been added to the equation.
By nightfall, he understood.
Isabella.
Not her presence—but her proximity.
When she walked beside him, his necromancy thinned. When she moved away, it strengthened. When she slept, the effect lessened—but never vanished entirely.
"You're interfering," he said that night, voice low and controlled.
She stiffened. "I'm not casting anything."
"I know."
"Then what are you accusing me of?"
"Existing," he replied.
She turned to face him fully. "You're serious."
"Yes."
Her brow furrowed as she considered—not defensively, but analytically. "Witchcraft isn't structured like necromancy. It resonates outward. Emotion, belief, intent—they bleed into surrounding magic."
"You're contaminating my control."
"I'm grounding it," she countered sharply. "You dominate death so completely that it stops behaving naturally. I'm reintroducing resistance."
Aldir stared at her.
"That resistance," he said slowly, "is what keeps people alive."
"Or what makes you hesitate," she shot back. "You said it yourself. Control precedes expression. Maybe now you're finally feeling consequence precede action."
The devils stirred, unsettled.
Her influence is… anomalous, they conveyed. She introduces variables.
Aldir ignored them.
For the first time since undeath claimed him, his power was no longer absolute.
And that terrified him.
Three days later, restraint demanded payment.
They arrived at the river-city of Virel too late.
Smoke curled from the western quarter. Bells rang—not in warning, but mourning. The streets were choked with refugees fleeing inward, faces smeared with ash and blood.
Aldir caught the scent of massacre immediately.
Not devils.
Men.
A mercenary host bearing the sigil of a rival kingdom—contracted violence, sanctioned slaughter. They had crossed the border under false truce and fallen upon Virel while its garrison was away.
Isabella grabbed Aldir's arm. "We have to help."
He already knew the numbers.
Hundreds of mercenaries. Reinforced steel. Battle-mages among them. The city's defenders were broken, scattered, dead.
Aldir could end it.
He could raise the fallen in waves. Turn the mercenaries' own casualties against them. Collapse the slaughter within minutes.
But Isabella stood beside him.
And his necromancy felt thick, sluggish—like drawing a blade through mud.
"Evacuate who we can," he said instead.
Isabella stared at him. "That won't be enough."
"No," he agreed. "It won't."
They moved anyway.
They fought street by street—not with armies of the dead, but with fire and blade, spell and precision. Aldir killed efficiently, but limited. Each time he reached for necromancy, Isabella's presence dulled it further, forcing him to commit more of himself physically.
They saved dozens.
Not enough.
They reached the central square just as the mercenary commander ordered the execution of prisoners—men, women, children lined along a fountain already choked red.
Isabella screamed.
Aldir felt something tear.
This time, the devils did not wait.
Release restraint, they urged. Your hesitation multiplies loss.
Aldir stepped forward.
Isabella caught his sleeve. "Don't."
He turned on her, eyes burning. "They will die."
"They already are," she whispered. "But if you do this—you won't come back from it."
He looked at the prisoners.
At the mercenaries laughing.
At Isabella—terrified, resolute, refusing to move.
The necromantic threads coiled around his heart, begging release.
He chose restraint.
The executions proceeded.
One by one.
Screams cut short.
Aldir stood frozen—not powerless, but deciding not to be powerful.
When it was over, the square was silent but for weeping.
Isabella collapsed to her knees.
Aldir did not move.
He felt it then—not guilt.
Weight.
Actual weight, crushing and undeniable, settling into his core. Every death he could have prevented pressed into him, heavy and permanent.
That night, the devils spoke without subtlety.
This is inefficiency elevated to cruelty.
Aldir stared into the river, watching blood thin and disappear. "I chose."
And others paid.
"Yes."
You are degrading.
Aldir closed his eyes. "Or learning."
Isabella approached him hesitantly, eyes red. "I didn't think you'd listen."
"Neither did I."
"You could have saved them."
"Yes."
Her voice broke. "Then why didn't you?"
Aldir answered honestly. "Because if I hadn't stopped… I wouldn't have noticed when killing became the only answer I had left."
She said nothing.
But she stayed beside him.
And the necromancy—changed forever—settled into a new shape around them both.
Not weaker.
Slower.
More deliberate.
More human.
And far away, beyond gods and devils alike, something ancient marked the moment Aldir Frost first chose restraint knowing exactly how much it would cost.