The library was in the eastern wing of Ravencrest Manor, which meant I had to navigate through approximately seventeen corridors of gothic horror aesthetic before I could get there.
Not that I'm complaining.
Every hallway was a masterpiece of intimidation. Portraits of dead Raven ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes following my movement with what I was pretty sure was actual magic rather than artistic technique. Candelabras floated without visible support, their purple flames casting shadows that moved independently of any light source.
And the servants—
Oh, the servants.
I passed three skeleton butlers, two zombie maids, and what appeared to be a ghost who was genuinely surprised when I nodded politely at him instead of screaming.
"Good morning," I said cheerfully to a reanimated corpse carrying a tea service.
The corpse stopped, tilted its head at an angle that would have broken a living person's neck, and made a sound like grinding gravel attempting speech.
I have no idea what you just said, but I appreciate the effort.
"Lovely weather we're having," I continued, because apparently I was the kind of person who made small talk with the undead now.
The corpse made another grinding sound, bowed stiffly, and continued on its way.
I love this house.
I love this RIDICULOUS, OVER-THE-TOP, AGGRESSIVELY GOTHIC house.
Truck-kun, you absolute legend. You sent me to the PERFECT place.
The eastern wing grew darker as I walked, the purple flames giving way to actual darkness punctuated by occasional flickers of green witchlight. The temperature dropped noticeably, and I could hear whispers in languages I didn't recognize echoing from the walls.
This is either the library or the entrance to literal hell.
Either way, I'm going in.
The library doors were massive—easily fifteen feet tall, made of black wood carved with scenes of battles, rituals, and what looked suspiciously like human sacrifice. The handles were shaped like ravens with rubies for eyes, and when I touched them, I felt a pulse of magic run through my fingers.
Testing me. Seeing if I'm worthy.
I pushed harder, channeling what I hoped was magical intent, and the doors swung open with a sound like a death rattle.
Dramatic. I approve.
The library was exactly what I'd hoped for and somehow even better.
It was enormous—easily the size of a cathedral, with shelves that stretched up into darkness so complete I couldn't see the ceiling. The shelves themselves were carved from the same black wood as the doors, and they were packed with books, scrolls, grimoires, and what looked like bound collections of human skin.
Please let those be fake. Please let those be—
No, wait. I don't care. This is AMAZING.
Floating candles provided the only light, their flames shifting between purple, green, and occasionally a sickly yellow. The air smelled of old parchment, dried blood, and something else—something that made my skin prickle with awareness.
Magic. Real, tangible, dangerous magic.
This is where the forbidden knowledge lives.
In the center of the library was a massive reading table made of stone, carved with runes that glowed faintly in the darkness. And sitting at that table, reading a book that appeared to be bound in scales, was the grimoire keeper.
He looked up as I entered, and I got my first good look at him.
Oh. Oh, he's PERFECT.
The grimoire keeper was old—probably in his seventies, with long white hair pulled back in a severe ponytail and a face that looked like it had been carved from granite and then left out in a storm for a few decades. His eyes were pale gray, almost colorless, and they studied me with the kind of intensity that suggested he could see straight through to my soul.
He wore robes of deep purple trimmed with silver, and his hands—resting on the scaled book—were covered in scars that looked like they'd been made by claws, blades, and possibly teeth.
This man has SEEN things. Done things. Survived things that would kill normal people.
I respect that.
"Lady Isabel," he said, and his voice was like gravel grinding against stone. "Your mother informed me you would be coming."
"Master...?" I let the question hang, realizing I had no idea what his name was.
"Corvus," he said. "Master Corvus Blackthorn. I have served House Raven for forty-three years as keeper of the grimoires and instructor of the dark arts."
Corvus. Of course his name is Corvus. Because we're House RAVEN and apparently subtlety is not our strong suit.
I walked toward the table, keeping my posture straight, my expression composed. Inside, I was vibrating with excitement, but I knew better than to show weakness or excessive enthusiasm to someone like this.
He respects strength. Knowledge. Control.
Show him I'm worth teaching.
"Master Corvus," I said, inclining my head slightly—enough to show respect, not enough to show submission. "My mother said you could teach me the true arts of House Raven. I'm ready to begin."
His pale eyes studied me for a long moment, and I had the distinct impression I was being weighed and measured.
"Are you?" he asked. "The last time you came to this library, you cried when I showed you a basic animation spell. You said the magic felt 'wrong' and 'scary' and ran back to your rooms."
Oh, original Isabel. You absolute disaster.
No wonder everyone thought you were weak.
"That was before," I said simply.
"Before what?"
Before I died and got hit by a truck and reincarnated with the memories of a woman who thinks dark magic is the coolest thing ever?
Before I decided to become a legend instead of a victim?
Before I realized that 'wrong' and 'scary' are just other words for 'powerful'?
"Before I understood what power really means," I said instead. "Before I stopped being afraid of what I am."
Corvus's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those pale eyes. Interest, maybe. Or calculation.
"Your mother said something had changed about you," he said slowly. "She said you'd become... focused."
"I have."
"Why?"
Because I'm going to die anyway, so I might as well die as a legend.
Because I've been given a second chance and I'm not going to waste it.
Because the original Isabel was weak and pathetic and I refuse to be either of those things.
"Because I'm tired of being dismissed," I said, and that was true enough. "I'm tired of being seen as a pretty decoration for a prince who despises me. I'm tired of House Raven's power being wasted on someone who's afraid to use it."
I stepped closer to the table, meeting his gaze directly.
"Teach me," I said. "Teach me everything. I'm not afraid anymore."
Corvus studied me for another long moment, then slowly closed the scaled book and stood.
He was tall—easily six and a half feet—and his presence filled the space like a physical weight. This was a man who had spent decades mastering magic that could kill with a thought, and it showed in every movement.
I should be terrified.
I'm not.
I'm THRILLED.
"Very well," he said. "We'll start with the fundamentals. Blood magic—the foundation of all dark arts. The magic that flows through House Raven's veins."
He gestured to the stone table, and I noticed for the first time that the runes carved into it were actually channels—grooves designed to hold liquid.
Oh. Oh, those are for BLOOD.
This is going to be AMAZING.
"Blood magic," Corvus continued, "is the art of using life force as a conduit for power. Your blood, the blood of others, the blood of sacrifices—all of it contains energy that can be shaped, directed, and weaponized."
He pulled a small knife from his robes—a ritual blade with a handle carved from bone.
"The first lesson is simple. You will cut your palm, let your blood flow into these channels, and use your will to shape it into a basic sigil. If you can do that, we'll continue. If you can't..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear.
If I can't, I'm wasting his time.
If I can't, I'm just another weak Raven who doesn't deserve the family name.
If I can't, I'm the original Isabel all over again.
Not happening.
I took the knife without hesitation, feeling the weight of it in my hand. The blade was sharp—sharp enough that I barely felt it when I drew it across my left palm.
Blood welled up immediately, dark red and warm, and I held my hand over the stone table, letting it drip into the carved channels.
The runes began to glow.
Purple. Of course they're purple.
Everything in this house is purple.
"Now," Corvus said, his voice steady and commanding. "Focus your will. Shape the blood. Create the sigil—a circle with three intersecting lines. Simple geometry, but it requires control. If you lose focus, the blood will simply pool. If you push too hard, it will scatter."
Control. Not force.
Invitation. Not command.
Like Mother said.
I closed my eyes, feeling the magic thrumming through my veins, and reached for that dark, cold power that lived somewhere deep in my chest.
Shape it. Control it. Make it MINE.
The blood in the channels began to move, flowing along the carved grooves, forming patterns. I could feel the resistance—the way the magic wanted to scatter, to chaos, to entropy—but I held it firm.
Circle. Three lines. Simple.
You can do this.
You WILL do this.
The blood formed a perfect circle, then three lines intersecting at the center, glowing with that eerie purple light.
I opened my eyes.
I did it.
I ACTUALLY did it.
Corvus studied the sigil for a long moment, then nodded once.
"Adequate," he said.
ADEQUATE?
That was PERFECT and you know it.
But I saw the faint smile at the corner of his mouth, and I realized—
He's testing me. Seeing if I'll get defensive or angry.
Seeing if I can handle criticism.
"Thank you, Master Corvus," I said evenly. "What's next?"
The smile became slightly more visible.
"Next," he said, "you learn the cost."
He gestured to my bleeding palm.
"Blood magic requires sacrifice. Always. Every spell, every ritual, every act of power—it takes something from you. Blood. Life force. Pieces of your soul, if you're not careful."
He leaned closer, his pale eyes boring into mine.
"Are you willing to pay that price?"
Am I willing to pay the price?
I'm going to DIE in six months anyway.
What do I have to LOSE?
"Yes," I said without hesitation.
Corvus studied me for another moment, then reached beneath the table and pulled out a small wooden box.
He opened it.
Inside was a dead raven.
Oh.
OH.
We're doing NECROMANCY.
We're doing ACTUAL necromancy.
FUCK YES.
"Your task," Corvus said, his voice perfectly calm, "is to animate it."
He set the box on the table between us, the dead bird lying perfectly still, its feathers dull and lifeless.
"Let's see what you're truly capable of."
I looked down at the dead raven, feeling my heart race with a mixture of excitement and genuine fear.
Can I do this?
Can I actually raise the dead?
There's only one way to find out.
Let's find out.