"Ashkar…" Ludwig muttered, the name didn't sound familiar.
The word left his mouth and seemed to sit in the room rather than pass through it. The training chamber was sealed, stone-lined, and cold enough that breath could have been visible if the air had any kindness left in it.
It didn't. It was dry, stale, and edged with the faint metallic bite that always clung to places where necromancy had been practiced too often. Somewhere behind Ludwig, his lantern's glow held steady, but the light felt unwilling, like it was being forced to exist.
But it held power in it.
That was the problem with names. Some were just sounds. Some were labels that people used until they forgot what the label belonged to.
And then there were names like this, names that didn't care whether you understood them. Names that behaved like keys even when you didn't know what lock they fit.
