As Osira listened to the younger man speak his expression began to fall. Eyes narrowed ever so slightly as his brows knit together, and his lips tightened as they pulled his mouth down into a frown. If what Ezra said was true... the world could be in far greater peril than he once thought.
The man’s wings drew close to his body like a great feathered cape as Osira tapped a gilded clawed finger against his lap, the soft metallic clink being the only sound to hang in the heavy air. It felt like even the animals beneath his cloak dared not breathe. Even the leaves, both high and low, were still. It was as if nature itself held its breath.
When he spoke his voice had lost its smooth tenor, now hoarse and brittle with fear. “Are you saying...” A pause to swallow the dry lump in his throat. “Are you saying that there are not one but two types of these undead abominations?” His voice was wrought with disbelief and horror. “Ones that rise healed and whole, with little memories of their ordeal, and ones that arise as soulless abominations?”
He clasped his hands together and leaned forward to stare at his feet, wracking his brain for any knowledge he possessed that could even begin to explain such a thing. There was nothing. Nothing that could explain everything.
“The latter sounds like necromancy—a dark magic that involves raising the dead to serve as one’s servants—but for one to practice such magics on a scale this massive is unheard of, and I’ve never heard of a necromancer restoring a soul to its body. Once a soul has crossed the veil... there is no turning back. Even for sorcerers.”
Which meant their could only be one answer.
Osira looked up from the ground to his young audience, face heavy with the weight of his revelation.
“This can only be the work of the Gods.”
The man’s wings drew close to his body like a great feathered cape as Osira tapped a gilded clawed finger against his lap, the soft metallic clink being the only sound to hang in the heavy air. It felt like even the animals beneath his cloak dared not breathe. Even the leaves, both high and low, were still. It was as if nature itself held its breath.
When he spoke his voice had lost its smooth tenor, now hoarse and brittle with fear. “Are you saying...” A pause to swallow the dry lump in his throat. “Are you saying that there are not one but two types of these undead abominations?” His voice was wrought with disbelief and horror. “Ones that rise healed and whole, with little memories of their ordeal, and ones that arise as soulless abominations?”
He clasped his hands together and leaned forward to stare at his feet, wracking his brain for any knowledge he possessed that could even begin to explain such a thing. There was nothing. Nothing that could explain everything.
“The latter sounds like necromancy—a dark magic that involves raising the dead to serve as one’s servants—but for one to practice such magics on a scale this massive is unheard of, and I’ve never heard of a necromancer restoring a soul to its body. Once a soul has crossed the veil... there is no turning back. Even for sorcerers.”
Which meant their could only be one answer.
Osira looked up from the ground to his young audience, face heavy with the weight of his revelation.
“This can only be the work of the Gods.”
