The Grimoire of Grave Fates

In a small room in the Swords Tower of the Galileo Academy for the Extraordinary sat a young Sorcerer who—according to their stepfather—had been born under unlucky stars. Wren sat cross-legged on the bed while a dead spider crawled across the bedspread. Despite the late hour, Wren still wore their regular clothes. A dark hoodie, easily two sizes too large. Compression gloves on their hands. A bulky walking brace around their left ankle, which had dislocated again. They tugged strands of blue and silver hair behind their ear, and a small bubble of low magical light that floated above their bed flickered.

The light barely illuminated their bland, narrow room, with its pale walls and looming wardrobe. Wren had never made an effort to decorate. The only signs that a student lived here at all were the stack of textbooks near the door, a stack of sketchbooks on the windowsill—filled with endless patterns and paintings that Wren didn’t share with anyone—and the rat skeleton on the bedside table.

The dead spider shivered before its legs gave out from under it, and it curled up again, lifeless and broken.

Wren grimaced. With a wince of pain, they tossed the spider corpse out the open window. The bubble of light above them wavered briefly once more, and their hands trembled.

Stop it, Wren hissed—and the light steadied.

Focus, they told themself sternly—but their hands kept trembling.

There was a restlessness inside them that set Wren’s teeth and joints on edge. Even though the Swords Tower was quiet and the night calm, Wren felt like their bones were going to crawl out through their skin. Because every time they closed their eyes, their mind replayed the afternoon’s encounter at the Gargoyle Keep, and every part of them wanted to disappear.

They’d needed time for themself after spectacularly failing yet another telekinesis test, and the bestiary had been crowded with Cups students and their biology classes. So Wren had kept walking in the direction of the Gargoyle Keep to stare for a while at the majestic stone creatures—only to collide headlong with Professor Dropwort, Galileo’s history teacher and the school’s prime bully. He was the type of teacher who looked down his nose at any student who wasn’t a legacy student, or at the very least a fine young cis man, whole of mind and body. Wren’s mere existence as a Sorcerer was an abomination and an offense to his sensibilities.

Just like their appearance in the Gargoyle Keep had been an affront to him, apparently. He’d stepped back, brushed down his clothes, and lifted his chin. Thinking of adding ‘assaulting teachers’ to your list of failures, Willemson?

Wren had mumbled an apology and turned to walk away, when the professor’s voice had stopped them. I’ve spoken to your head of house, you know. Professor MacAllister tells me you’re last in all your classes, in direct violation of your scholarship. There’s no place for a disappointment like you here at Galileo.

The all-too-familiar words had landed like physical blows, and Wren had frozen in place, their hands clenched into fists, and their heart pounding the same rhythm over and over again.

Cursed. Unlucky. Failure.

Professor Dropwort had laughed. Run along now.

Wren still didn’t know how they’d made their way back to the Swords Tower, or their own room. They must’ve eaten dinner, but the encounter kept plaguing them, even now. It hurt. It hurt so freaking much.

Cursed. Unlucky. Failure.

Professor Dropwort might have been a malicious malcontent, but he wasn’t wrong about Wren failing their tests. Professor MacAllister had told Wren the same thing just before the school had made port in Stockholm. Wren’s aptitude for kinetics and manipulating approved forms of magical energy was meager, scarcely enough to justify a magical education. If they got kicked out now, they’d be forced to return to an unwelcome home, where their stepfather would know they were all but powerless. There’d be nothing they could do to protect themself or their Neutral sister from his cruelty.

I hate him, Rat, Wren whispered.

They slammed a fist into their pillow, and they did the only thing they could do. They took all their pain and rage and flung their awareness outward.

Earlier in the night, the darkness had remained opaque and impenetrable. But now, it opened up to Wren. It flooded with colors. Neon green and pale orange. The softest of pinks and the deepest of purples. Here a bright blue thread stretched out and led all the way to Professor Ram, the head of Wands and a world-renowned textile mage. It rather looked like the magic thread he used to weave spells. Further, the soft golden threads of Principal Fornax’s life force spread like a web across the entire school.

Wren’s shoulders loosened.

They’d never found the right word for what they saw, exactly. It was energy and magic, but not like the bland energy they were tangling with in their classes. It was life, and whenever Wren managed to get their focus just right, it turned Galileo into a kaleidoscope of constantly changing shapes and colors, like the endless patterns they sketched, though they’d never been able to get this sensation quite right.

With their hands in front of them, Wren sorted through the tangle of energy. They reached out beyond their own bedroom toward their neighbor Saga, whose energy was a warm burnt amber, like narrow flames sparking up and away from her. The energy burned radiantly when Saga was casting—or throwing snide remarks in Wren’s direction—but it still danced while she was asleep.

Wren tilted their head and reached a hand toward the flames. They summoned their own energy—glinting like sharp silver knives—and cut a piece of Saga’s energy away. The flames’ warmth seeped into Wren’s skin like molten wax. It curled around their ankle and numbed the pain, and on the bedside table, Rat, the rat skeleton, moved. It turned to face them and chattered brightly.

Wren’s frown softened. They might not excel in kinetics, but they had this at least. This ability to see and control the magic in the world around them. No one else knew about this aptitude, because manipulating life energy and life force, like all other forms of necromancy, was strictly forbidden at Galileo and beyond. But it wasn’t the all-encompassing destructive force that people whispered it was. It helped Wren kill their pain, envision a brighter world, and connect with Rat.

Nothing else.

Until Rat’s squeaks made way for a different sound. A voice, as loud as the brightest colors.

Hunger, it whispered, a dozen voices amidst a swirling slate-gray energy, shaped like small rocks and pebbles, and equally rough.

Wren started. They tried to pull back from the energy, but just like it had been impossible to focus all night long, now it was impossible to let go. Wren reached for Rat and cradled the skeleton close. They saw energy. They’d never used it as a means to communicate. They hadn’t even known that was possible. Who’s there?

Their voice wavered only slightly. Who had they bumped into now?

The room stayed quiet.

Then, Come.

Wren shivered. Show yourself, they tried again. They reached deeper. Desperation turned to determination. They took more of Saga’s energy. A haphazard snap of another student’s blustery gray. Who are you?

Death.

Wren bit their tongue. When Wren had accidentally reanimated a kitten once, as an eight-year-old, their stepfather had made it painfully clear to them that they were cursed and useless. Courting death, he’d called it. Was this what he’d meant? For Wren, their necromancy never felt like a curse. It felt like a comfort.

Wren haphazardly seized a maroon branch of energy and drew strength from it. Who are you? What do you want?

The answer came after a torturously long moment.

Wren.

The gray mass swirled together, and Wren reached for more energy still—more than they’d ever tried to hold at once. A ribbon of deep magenta that danced through the air and briefly connected Wren with Bhavna, one of the other students in the Swords Tower. A tendril of soft pink flitted around Wren and reached all the way back to the Wands Tower. Wren gathered as much power as possible, until the voice sharpened and cleared. Energy became image. Pebbles became teeth. Rocks formed claws. Dark cavities where eyes would be. Hungry, ferocious, gleeful grins.

Gargoyles! Wren’s eyes shot open, and in their shock, they lost their focus. The bubble of light floating above them extinguished. Rat curled up and hissed. And the sound formed a roar that rumbled through Wren’s bones before it faded away, leaving nothing but silence and a dark night once more.

Wren cursed softly. Their hands still trembled, and Wren felt worse than they had minutes ago. What do you want? Their voice cracked. They didn’t expect a reply—their connection to the energy around them was gone. Rat would be awake for a few minutes more at best, and Wren had failed at this—whatever this was—too. They hadn’t known it was possible for gargoyles to reach out like this. How did they do that? And more important, why? What if they had an important reason to? What if they needed help? What if Wren was the only one who could hear—

Come.

Wren nearly dropped Rat when the voice still echoed around them, the energy not entirely gone. What’s wrong? How can I still hear you?

Come. A call. A beckoning.

Wren got to their feet. They pushed a trembling hand through their hair. Why? Do you need anything?

Come.

The gargoyles didn’t elaborate, but Wren realized that the answer was obvious. As far as they knew, there were no other necromancers at school. No one else who knew about the life energy that swirled around them. Wren was the only one who could hear this. That meant they were the only one who could answer, and the gargoyles must need them for a reason.

Was this their curse? Or a chance? They’d learned to shield their aptitude when they were small, but they longed for the day when that wouldn’t be necessary anymore, when people would see that what they did was good, actually. That their necromancy wasn’t to be feared but understood. They longed to find ways to prove themself. To bastards like their stepfather. To the Professor Dropworts of the world.

To themself.

No longer Wren, the failing Swords student, whose only official claim to magical prowess was being able to summon decent barriers and accidentally succeeding in telekinetically moving a pen. Once. Wren, the quiet, odd one. Cursed. Unlucky. Failure.

No more. They took every last scrap of their self, their determination, their anger and reached out.

Come.

I will.

They’d show Galileo exactly what they were worth.

Wren grabbed Rat, pulled their hood up high, and prepared to leave the room, while the voices of the gargoyles still echoed around them.

Death.

—

Some fifteen minutes later, Wren snuck through the hallway. Rat sat in the pouch of Wren’s hoodie, peeking out and squeaking softly.

It’s well after midnight, Wren muttered. No one is out here anymore.

Rat chattered a protest. She usually became her stiff skeleton self again in the heartbeats after Wren dropped their focus, but right now, she was still awake and full of opinions.

Fine, you tell the gargoyles I’m not coming.

Rat squeaked.

Yes, I know, we’ll be in trouble if we get caught. So we have to make sure that doesn’t happen.

Something else had changed too, Wren realized when they inched past the doorway to Saga’s room. It was still shimmering with the same amber light that they’d seen earlier. In fact, if they focused just right, every door in the hallway glowed with a different color. The energies that usually dissipated once Wren lost their focus now wrapped themselves around Wren. Tonight they’d reached out further than they ever had before, and it felt as if, as a result, their connection was stronger than ever before too. Wren didn’t understand where the power came from, but the sprawling Gothic building, with its gloomy shadows and hard edges, shone.

Brass fire behind one door. A copper gleam underneath the next. Blue waves so dark they were nearly black, and amethyst storm clouds. Tendrils of emerald energy crackling like electricity.

Necromancy wasn’t just strictly forbidden; it was considered horrifying. But Wren didn’t understand how anyone could be scared of this. This was beautiful. This was where Wren wanted to belong.

—

A large staircase led down from Swords Tower to the main hall. Wren took the stairs carefully, little flares of pain bouncing up their left ankle with every step. By the time they reached the bottom, Wren already regretted not taking a little slice of copper gleam or section of amethyst storm clouds.

Even in this place of magic, where staircases turned into ramps and previous principals had begrudgingly accepted accessibility modifications to the ancient building, Wren still hurt. Daily. Constantly. Galileo might be doing its best to be inclusive and open, but that didn’t necessarily mean it succeeded. Like that bloody telekinesis test. It hadn’t just involved moving things around with their mind, but running and dodging, and Professor Mathews had refused to give Wren a pass. He’d told them they needed to learn how to perform magic under suboptimal circumstances, but how could something that harmed also be educational?

Meanwhile, necromancy wasn’t macabre—it helped. So how could something that healed also be harmful?

A whisper caressed the back of their neck. The echo of chuckling bounced through the massive Gothic hall, where dim lights illuminated the solemn portraits of former principals and teachers.

A bright glow appeared at the edge of Wren’s vision, and Rat squeaked an alarm. Without time to think, Wren pushed themself into the nearest corner, the darkest spot they could see, and held their breath.

In Wren’s strange double vision, ghosts were brighter, their life energy not contained by any sort of corporeal form. But while some ghosts might be lured into curious conversations with a budding Sorcerer in the privacy of their room, the ones that patrolled the school’s buildings wouldn’t be amused at finding Wren wandering. They kept the halls safe at night, and operated under a strict code of conduct that required them to remain visible to students and staff at all times. In other words, they were serious about their job.

Rat retreated into her pouch.

Wren kept still and reached for the nearest tendril of energy they could find. For a pulse-racing desperate moment, the only things that surrounded them were the thick stone walls of the school and the disapproving stares of its teachers.

Then a collection of dark magenta stars sparkled at the edge of Wren’s vision. They plucked a handful of stars without hesitation. One to keep themself standing without trembling. One to ease the tension in their cramped hands. One, two, three to keep them hidden.

Death, the voice called from somewhere far below. Wren frowned. They’d expected the gargoyles to be outside, near the Keep. Instead the sound was coming from the opposite direction, and below the school, where no gargoyles should be. Where the loading docks underneath the school’s gyroscopic structure connected Galileo to the outside world. It was off-limits for students. It was certainly off-limits for gargoyles.

And—wasn’t the school supposed to be traveling tonight?

Come.

The voice still beckoned.

The patrolling ghost floated closer, his low chuckling louder.

Fear coursed through Wren. They twisted their ankle until pain bloomed, and used the pain to focus. They pulled a barrier around them, like they had a hundred times in their classes, and countless times to hide their true aptitude.

Tonight, though, instead of using their approved-but-meager kinetic talents, they wove life energy itself into their barrier. The magenta grew darker the closer it got to Wren, and that was their intention. The barrier didn’t merely exist to hide them. They wove fear into it, and loneliness. Repulsion too, so that everyone who looked in their direction would want to look away.

Pain. Perhaps they should have tried to use pain as a barrier before.

The ghost drew closer, and Wren pushed back against the wall. They recognized the spectral visage of Castelli, one of the oldest poltergeists on the grounds. Castelli had been Galileo’s first student, and now spent his days drifting through walls, muttering about the natural order of the world, and being entirely too impressed with himself. Any student unlucky enough to be caught out of bounds by Castelli was invariably treated to a long lecture in barely audible Italian, and Wren had enough sense to stay well clear of him.

Castelli floated in place and stared in Wren’s direction for what felt like the longest time, his lips constantly moving. E le medesime cose seguiranno quando ambidue fossero corpi calamitici in primo significato…

Wren held their breath and clung to their barrier.

Rat trembled in her hideout.

And Castelli continued to mutter, while he slowly drifted away to resume his patrol.

Wren breathed out but didn’t move. Only when Castelli was out of earshot did they laugh. Rat squeaked and climbed out of her hiding spot, which made Wren laugh again, and they struggled to keep the barrier in place.

I didn’t think anyone could fool the ghost patrol, they whispered. "I didn’t think that would work."

They stared at their gloved hands and the barrier that shimmered in front of them, and they clung to the feeling of power. A barrier this powerful proved they weren’t useless, no matter what their stepfather might say, or what their professors might think. It proved they were worthy of belonging here, amidst the other students. The extraordinarily talented ones they were intimidated by, and the ones they wanted to befriend. Like Bhavna in Swords, who moved through the school with such bright grace that Wren didn’t know how she did it. Or Nadiya, with her cute berets and even cuter freckles, who sometimes looked at the school around her like there was a potential disaster hiding in every shadow. Wren understood that wariness well. Or Irene, who seemed to be well on her way to taking over the world one day.

Even—even Jamie. The only person in the school—other than Nurse Fibula, of course—whose life force Wren could never quite see or feel. They’d tried, several times, but Jamie remained elusive. Not like he was as lifeless as his wardrobe suggested, but like Wren couldn’t get through. It intrigued Wren, even as it made them uncomfortable.

But the point was, Wren knew all of them. They saw all of them. They wanted to be worthy of them.

Rat squeaked, and Wren petted her. I know you believe in me.

But perhaps Wren could too.

Come.

—

The school grounds were a spectacular, vibrant green when Wren stepped out of the Swords Tower. The weeds that pushed up between the stones were surrounded by swirls of flowers, and the handful of midnight birds tumbling through the air left softly colored trails. The stars were like a painting. And Wren was sweating, fatigue and adrenaline battling for dominance. They’d never kept their magic up for this long before, and they weren’t sure how to make it stop again. But it was a good type of fatigue. Not from pain or from sleeplessness but from purpose.

Wren crouched and trailed a hand along a cluster of closed poppies that pushed up around the steps to the tower. Their gentle red light clung to Wren’s fingers, and Wren smiled when it briefly eased their aches, though the flowers themselves shuddered and crumbled.

What I do isn’t malicious. Wren rubbed a fallen and unscathed petal between their forefinger and thumb, and sparks flew up around them. Look at it, Rat. This isn’t evil. They never took more energy from others than those others could or would miss either. And if they wouldn’t miss it, why shouldn’t Wren use it?

Outside, the gargoyles were louder too, but like before, the sound came from below Wren, near the location of the main entrance to Galileo. But what would gargoyles do there? They didn’t usually leave school grounds. What would bring them there? Why would they call Wren there?

Death.

Come.

Wren wavered, but they wouldn’t turn back. Even if only Rat and the gargoyles knew what they did here tonight, they refused to fail at this too. They plucked a poppy and crushed the flower in their fist.

I’m coming.

—

By the time Wren had found their way to the source of the gargoyles’ call—with their barrier pulled up high all the way through Arcana Tower, then in the elevator that led down to the main entrance and the loading docks underneath the school—they were swaying and yawning, struggling with their braced ankle, dragging their foot behind them. They’d left a trail of poppy crumbles in their wake.

The school’s buildings were suspended above Wren in the magical gyroscope; massive pillars created a stable docking point, and the main entrance and the loading docks provided access to the school, while the school was stationary. From the academy’s vantage point just outside of town, a sleepy Stockholm spread out in front of them, the city covered under a blanket of artificial light against the night. Wren stared at it for a second, wondering what the city’s energy would look like from within its winding roads and old bright houses. If Wren’s powers were strong enough to see all the energies of Galileo, what would a whole city look like?

At the same time, a practical question wormed its way through their mind. The school was meant to travel tonight. Why were they still here?

A large shadow flew past, and Wren ducked, the colors around them dimming for the first time that night. A slender but tall gargoyle, with sharp wings and hungry claws, passed them by and circled around the pillars toward the loading docks.

Hungry.

Its gnashing call nearly drove Wren to their knees, and they covered their ears.

What is it? Wren asked. Perhaps the gargoyles could respond properly now that Wren was closer. I’m here. What do you need?

Hungry.

Another call. Then, a response, from behind them.

Death.

Come.

With a sinking feeling, Wren put the pieces together.

Hungry.

Death. Come.

It didn’t sound like a cry for help; it sounded like a call to come down for dinner.

Wren’s hands twitched. Had the gargoyles ever been calling out to them? Or had Wren simply overheard their cry to the rest of their pack? They’d called Wren by name, or—

Had they simply realized Wren was listening in?

Even so, this was a chance to prove their skill and worth. They had to cling to that chance. They refused to give up now.

They kept an eye on the sky above them to make sure no other gargoyles came closer, and they carefully walked around the main entrance and the pillars on which the gyroscopic school rested, in the direction of the loading docks.

Rat hissed, and Wren pushed a trembling hand into the hoodie’s pouch to pet the skeleton.

I don’t know what they eat, but I won’t let them eat you. Don’t worry. A sad smile tugged at their lips. Not a lot of meat on your bones anyway.

When they circled around the school’s entrance, three large gargoyles came into view. They were gathered around something—some sort of shadow—on one of the loading docks, where the service entrance to the school was located. The gargoyle that had passed Wren was circling above them, while a fifth had taken to the skies and now flew up high, back in the direction of the Keep.

Wren pulled the barrier closer. They pulled feathers of energy from the gargoyles. Stars from the night sky. Yearning from their own pain, until they were sure they were as protected as they could be.

They took a step closer to the gathering, and they could hear the same voiceless whisper, over and over. Hungry, from the gargoyle that circled overhead.

And the same constant call from the three on the loading dock. Come.

Not one of them paid attention to Wren. They clenched their jaw. How very like them, to think someone was calling out to them, when in fact the person was just waving at the person behind Wren or smiling out of politeness.

Rat squeaked, and Wren shook their head. I know. Thanks…

A subtle hint of sickly yellow energy wound its way around the gargoyles. Wren’s focus shifted to the shadowy figure beyond the gigantic stone beasts, and they stumbled when recognition hit them.

A body.

And not just any body.

The tufts of white-gray hair. The mustache. The ever-spotless traditional suit, its creases as sharp as the wearer’s tongue, now torn and marred with spots of red. There were claw marks across his face and clothes.

Professor Dropwort.

Professor Septimius Dropwort. Motionless. Without the usual glow of magic clinging to him. Without any sign of life, but for that wisp of color.

Had the gargoyles somehow attacked him? Nervous jitters bubbled up inside Wren, and they choked back a laugh. Professor Dropwort, Wren, and gargoyles. It was a recipe for disaster, and Wren wanted to be anywhere but here. Whatever had happened on the loading dock wasn’t good, and Wren was certain that they didn’t want to get involved in it.

Except. There was that fading yellow energy, reaching out from between the gargoyles that planned to feast on the professor, the color growing paler by the moment. Dropwort might not be alive anymore, but he was not completely gone either.

Wren bit their lip. If it hadn’t been for their insistence to prove themself, if it hadn’t been for their forbidden second sight, they would never have known about the professor—or that there was something left of him.

They could easily do the exact same thing so many others had done around Professor Dropwort. Close their eyes and pretend they hadn’t seen his cruelty, hadn’t heard his harsh words. Walk away.

Thinking of adding ‘murder’ to your list of failures, Willemson? Wren muttered viciously.

But the moment they asked that question, they knew the answer. Perhaps they were failing at all their classes. Perhaps they didn’t belong here. Perhaps they could only ever numb the pain, never find a way to cure it, and they’d lose all the focus they’d gained tonight. But they were still better than Professor Septimius Dropwort.

They were meant to be here for a reason.

Wren caressed Rat’s skull. Sorry, buddy. You’re not going to like this.

With one last-ditch effort, their hands cramping, their knees buckling, and a haze of pain surrounding them, Wren drew energy from all around them, as much as they could handle without combusting. From the ground where the school was docked. From the city beyond it. From the gargoyles. From the echoes of other spells. From their anger at the injustice of it all. From inside themself. Then, in one massive swipe, they shoved the gargoyles aside.

The stone monsters scattered like birds, tumbling over each other and clambering to safety. Wren’s hands hummed with power, and every cell in their body felt charged with energy and determination and purpose.

Wren stood in the middle of a sphere of magical energy, shielding not just themself but Rat and Professor Dropwort from the gargoyles.

Leave him be, Wren demanded, making sure their voice carried. For once, they wanted to be heard.

From a slight distance, the biggest gargoyle tilted its head, and a fierce grin appeared, growing wider and wider, until it seemed as though it cut its face in two. Sharp teeth, made for tearing meat off bones. Stony eyes. Hard, lean muscles.

Behind the first, the other two fixed their gaze on Wren as well.

Wren. The sound went from recognition to challenge, and the message was quite clear. Student out of bed and out of bounds. They were not supposed to be here.

Wren straightened as much as they could. You’re not supposed to be here any more than I am, they replied, their voice wavering only slightly. You’re supposed to protect the grounds, not eat professors.

Hungry.

Wren jutted out their jaw. So am I, they responded.

One of the gargoyles broke away from the pack and dashed toward them, only to bounce off Wren’s shield. The biggest gargoyle snarled, while one of the smaller ones tried to run at them again. It leered at their brace. The fourth, who had remained airborne, called a challenge but didn’t come any closer.

I can keep this up all night, Wren said. They were lying through their teeth, but no one would know that.

They stared up at the gargoyles, Rat squeaking her own challenge from the safety of Wren’s hoodie.

The gargoyles hovered near. One flew closer but didn’t attack the barrier. The other three remained in a holding pattern above the barrier. And Wren’s arms began to tremble.

Wren acted on pure instinct. They took their magic, shaped by curses and hurt and misinterpretation, and flung it in all directions, sending the biggest gargoyle tumbling several feet past the loading dock. When it regained its balance, its grin was replaced by a snarl.

Try me again, Wren taunted the stone creatures, though the only things keeping them standing were their ankle brace and their spite. If you don’t stop this, I’ll call Sally on you.

Sally, the gargoyle keeper, would not like to see the gargoyles here any more than Wren did, and perhaps that would be the last nudge the massive magical creatures needed.

The gargoyles kept their holding pattern, but they moved with a new hesitancy.

Wren held their gaze, fixing their stare on the biggest gargoyle. They felt the seconds tick away. The pain spread. And the gargoyle made up its mind. Finally, facing down Wren with derision, it broke. It slowly led the others away from the dock. It stopped just before it was fully out of sight, and it turned its stony gaze back to Wren.

Remember.

Oh, I will, Wren promised. They’d never felt this strong and this right before. I will remember.

Wren waited until they were sure they were alone before they dropped the shield and dropped to their knees next to Professor Dropwort. Wren gagged as they took in the state of him. His clothes were torn, and one of the most enterprising gargoyles had eaten away at one of the professor’s eyes. Another had bitten into his cheek and exposed flesh and jawbone. But by the looks of it, that wasn’t what had killed him. Dropwort had five deep puncture wounds in his chest, and his shirt was torn and ringed with rust-colored tinges where he had been stabbed, though, oddly, no blood was visible on his flesh.

Wren forced themself to lean in closer for a better look. They reached out and traced the puncture wounds that definitely weren’t from gargoyle claws. They checked the professor’s pulse. Nothing. Not