It was a happy time.

All around me there were celebrations and festivals being planned, banners being strewn up, breads being baked, children learning little plays to put on.

I should have been happy, too.

The great and fearsome knight Llywelyn had defeated the dark mage Balizar, the great death, the necromancer that had been plaguing the land.

It didn’t matter to everyone celebrating that Llywelyn had been struck down in the process.

Even his sister had joined the festivities. His body was barely cold, had barely been laid to rest, and she was embracing his death as if it were part of some kind of grand plan.

I was there. I had been there, during the final fight. I had been his loyal light mage, his partner, his lover, and I had failed to protect him.

And now all around me were the reminders of my failure. The children reenacting Llywelyn’s final, selfless act, knowing that it would lead to his own downfall. The bards singing hastily-composed odes to his strength and heroics.

I was in some of those odes, always the noble companion, bringing his body back for a proper burial.

They don’t know that it wasn’t the only thing I brought with me when I left Balizar’s tower.

Tucked away, in the satchel with my own scrolls and charms, was the Grimoire of the Dead.

The spell for returning life to a body is surprisingly simple. Just an exchange. Several young lives, full of promise and potential, to return the spirit to a corpse. And here, in this place of laughter and gaiety, I had all the ingredients I needed.

I refuse to mourn any longer.