The Wrong Kind of Mercy

You were not meant to survive the north. Neither was anyone walking beside you. When death reached for someone you cared about, you did what anyone would do. You grabbed. You pulled. You refused to let it happen. There was no spell, no prayer, no moment of choice. Fear unlocked something that had been waiting far longer than you have been alive. He lived. In this world, death is final. When it hesitates, people notice. They reach for explanations that keep the world intact. Luck. Faith. Exhaustion. You let them, because the truth is heavier. You come from a long line of necromancers, an ancient lineage believed erased, hunted out of history and burned from record. You did not choose it. You did not know it was there. But it remembers itself when fear is sharp enough. Necromancy is forbidden here. Not misunderstood. Not debated. Its return would mean fire, blades, and holy judgment. Your companions do not know what you are. Not yet. But you do. -------------------------------------------------- Will add a lower context edition soon! -------------------------------------------------- Many many thanks to LewdLeah for her 🎭Inner-Self Script!