When he awoke, Tyron took the minimum of time to wash and eat before he rushed back to work, too excited with his current project to wait any longer than that. He was still stuffing the remains of a baked potato in his face when he arrived at the entrance to the Ossuary and pushed open the door.

The wyvern, rather expectedly, hadn’t moved from the day before, still laid out over the altar. Wiping his hands on his robe, Tyron quickly rushed over to inspect it, making sure there hadn’t been any fraying of the threading work he’d done, checking each and every joint to ensure he could see any errors. Other than re-tying a few threads he thought looked a little weak, everything seemed to be in order.

“Good,” he breathed to himself with satisfaction.

The hardest work had been done, and all that remained now was the Raise Dead ritual. Stepping back from the remains, Tyron pulled out his notebook and began to read over the contents. He had devoted over a dozen pages to the revisions necessary to create a wyvern, adapting his own version of the ritual to include the necessary modifications lifted from the process recorded by Arihnan’s assistant.

Truth be told, Tyron still wasn’t happy with it. He knew the work recorded by the assistant was… sub-par was putting it nicely, and why would the ritual found within be any different? Most of it could be thrown out for Tyron’s own version without any issue, but the artificial mind remained the limiting factor.

Despite all of his research, Tyron was still deeply unsatisfied with the progress he’d made at improving the basic artificial mind he’d learned from the Unseen. His skeletons reacted better than they had before, maintained their balance, and fought in a more coordinated fashion, even without being directed, but those were only minor improvements he’d achieved by tinkering around the edges.

Of the three major components that made up the Raise Dead ritual, this was the one that he least understood. For his regular skeletons, it had become less of an issue, as he could depend on his wights to manipulate them in battle, saving them from their own clumsy instincts. Yet here, he had a wyvern, a literal monster, with no soul to implant and guide the actions of the undead.

As of this stage, Tyron still wasn’t sure that kin had souls to begin with. They weren’t born in any natural sense, but were formed of magick itself. The chances of being able to create a revenant wyvern were next to nil.

Which meant the artificial mind had to be multiple times more capable than any he had created before. After all, this undead had to fly, which required complex decision-making, movement and coordination. He’d done everything he could to ensure it would have the magickal reserves, flexibility and power necessary; now the only thing that remained was creating an intelligence good enough to control it.

Not for the first time, Tyron was angered by his own lack of progress. The main thing preventing him from improving was that he simply didn’t know where to start. The creation of an artificial mind formed of magick was such an esoteric field that almost no other Class of Mage practiced it. He’d done what he could to learn from the Golem Masters amongst the Dust Folk, though he was sure they were still hiding many secrets, and the Vampires doubtless had found ways to develop their Skills in this area, but unpacking and applying what crumbs he was able to get was time-consuming, to say the least.

With a final, irritated glance, he snapped the book shut and slipped it back into his pocket. There was no point trying to make revisions now. He would simply have to evaluate how his current pattern worked and make changes when he got the chance to create another.

At the very least, he believed his version was a marked improvement from what had been recorded in Ahrinan’s notes. It would have to do.

At this stage, Tyron knew the Raise Dead ritual better than the back of his own hands. He knew it better than he knew his own face. On more than one occasion, he’d considered casting this ritual to put himself to sleep rather than using the spell designed for that purpose.

With his new Class, he didn’t even need to cast it himself, performing it through a demi-lich as a medium while he focused on something else. However, for the wyvern, he wanted to be at his very best.

He raised his hands, and began to cast.

Focusing, Tyron spoke the Words of Power and fluidly formed the sigils with his hands, moving from one to the next without flaw or pause. Magick thundered within the Ossuary as he shaped it to his will, pouring his power out and into the remains of the kin on the altar.

It was a flawless cast, he was sure of it. It took an hour and a half to get through the whole thing, with Tyron making sure to take his time moving through the complicated steps in creating the artificial mind. When it was done, he brought his hands together sharply, the final syllable ringing in the air. Idly, he noted that his endurance was vastly improved than what it had been before. Ninety minutes of ritual casting, and he wasn’t tired in the least, nor did this throat hurt. There wasn’t even the slightest trace of pain in his hands, which would usually ache fiercely after an extended cast.

He’d come a long way, but that wasn’t his focus. His eyes stared unwaveringly at the wyvern as it gradually stirred.

A light bloomed within the sockets of the wyvern, purple and malevolent. Slowly, it began to lift its head, as if testing the strength of its own neck. A skull roughly the same size as a bull’s, but with those massive jaws, rose up and turned towards the Necromancer, who watched carefully.

He could sense the crude intelligence of the minion as the magick continued to build within it. Piece by piece, the skeleton picked itself up, until finally it spread its mighty wings.

Ethereal green flesh shimmered in the dim light of the Ossuary, and Tyron nodded, satisfied. Hopefully it functioned as well as he thought it would.

“Well, we should get you outside and see how well you can move. It’s a little too crowded in here,” he said aloud.

“Don’t talk to the skeletons, you fucking weirdo,” said a familiar voice from behind him.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Tyron turned, a single brow raised.

“Oh, just when I needed a test dummy, one appeared before me. How lucky.”

“Don’t sic your new dog on me, you fiend! I’m playing messenger over here, doing you a favour.”

“Fine,” Tyron relented. He hadn’t seriously considered the idea. Well… he hadn’t seriously considered the idea for long. “What’s the message?”

“Your best and most favourite demi-lich has asked for your help working on the gateway. Apparently, there’s some conduit work they want done.”

They were already up to that stage? Master Willhem was working quickly. Tyron nodded, brushing himself down and preparing to head outside. There was no time like the present, and he could get a better sense of how well the wyvern could move in the larger space inside the temple. Before he left, however, he took a moment to assess Dove.

As always, there was nothing to read from the carved skull that was his former mentor’s face, yet his body language spoke of some nerves that the Necromancer hadn’t expected to see. Arms folded, leaning against the wall, Dove couldn’t seem to stop bouncing one of his feet, an odd habit to see in an undead.

“How are you feeling about returning to the Realm of the Dead?” Tyron asked him, probing with his eyes. “Looking forward to it?”

Dove barked a harsh laugh.

“Oh, yes. My favourite realm of all. I treasure my memories of it as dearly as I treasure that of my first boob.”

The skeleton turned wistful for a moment.

“She was a student at the academy with me. De’vonne was her name, fancy girl from a wealthy house. I wasn’t allowed to go under her shirt, but it hardly mattered to me.”

Seemingly lost in his memories, the skeleton looked into the distance, his hands held up, squeezing at the air rhythmically. But his foot… his foot was still bouncing.

“I’m going to be interested to see how you go in future, Dove,” Tyron told him.

The skeleton snapped to face him.

“That’s what De’vonne said!”

“... No she didn’t.”

“She did!”

“I doubt that.”

The two argued back and forth as they made their way out of the Ossuary and into the narrow passageways. Behind them, the wyvern stalked, keeping pace.

As he continued to needle the undead Summoner, Tyron kept an eye on his newest, prized minion. The wyvern couldn’t be said to be graceful moving over the ground, although there was a certain rhythm to its rolling gait. Wings tucked in, it used the claw on its elbow joint to stabilise itself as its powerful legs bore most of the weight, all the while its sinuous neck swayed from side to side.

So far, it didn’t appear to be impeded at all, but if all it could do was waddle over the ground, then this would have been a dramatic failure.

“Do you think it’s actually going to fly?” Dove asked him eventually, no longer willing to entertain Tyron’s doubts that ‘De’vonne’ had ever really existed in the first place.

“It should,” Tyron replied confidently. “If I didn’t think the design would allow it to fly, then I wouldn’t have raised it.”

“A flying undead,” Dove shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem right. How is a skeleton supposed to fly?”

“How is one supposed to walk?” Tyron countered. “With magick, obviously.”

Dove prodded his former student in the side.

“Oh, it’s that simple is it? ‘With magick’. Pah.”

“What?”

“You didn’t work for your talent, you know that? You were born with it, got it from your mother’s egg and your father’s–”

“Dove, don’t talk about my parents, or I’ll kill you on the spot.”

“–wowee, look at that… rock. Very interesting… uh… geological patterns… in the… lines.”

“The lines?”

“I don’t fucking know!” the skeleton threw up his hands. “There, your portal to death. I have delivered you, so I’ll take my leave before you threaten to kill me some more.”

“Thanks, Dove.”

Tyron waved him off, then brought the wyvern a little further into the main hall of the temple. In the centre of the floor, the arch which formed the body of the gate had been fully formed, with one demi-lich and one human Arcanist working on it. Masters Willhem and Halfshard were discussing something, completely oblivious to his presence. Not unexpected with people as focused as they were on their craft. It was a state of mind that he could very much relate to.

Not wanting to disturb them, he approached slowly until he was able to make out the details of the conversation.

“I’m telling you, we don’t need him,” Annita insisted. “I’ve worked on my conduits, they’re no less efficient than his.”

“No less efficient than his were,” Willhem corrected her. “You haven’t seen him work in some time.”

“Are they really better than yours?” Annita huffed. “I very much doubt that.”

The demi-lich shook his head.

“You still refuse to believe anyone can do anything better than you can. It’s always been a weakness of yours.”

“I have confidence in my abilities,” Annita countered. “And other than you, I’ve proven everyone else is inferior.”

“Almost everyone,” Tyron said, breaking into the conversation. He couldn’t help but smile as Master Halfshard rounded on him, glaring. She was far too competitive, but that was part of the reason she’d become so accomplished. “You might be better than me at literally every other aspect of enchanting, but I’m confident my conduit work is still superior to yours.”

“I hope you can back that up,” Master Halfshard stated, folding her arms. “If not, then we don’t need you on this project.”

“Fair enough,” Tyron allowed. “I have something I need to see to, briefly, then I can help. Give me a few minutes, won’t you?”

“What could you possibly have to do that’s more important than this?”

Tyron jerked his thumb at the undead monster behind him. Annita leaned to the side to see around him, stared for a moment, then coughed.

“Fair enough,” she allowed.

Tyron chuckled as he led the wyvern to the back of the temple. Here, the wall had fully crumbled over the centuries, and the skeletons had swept it away, creating a wide gap in the wall. He led the wyvern out into the open air. It was night outside, the darkness lying thick over the city and the chill piercing straight through Tyron’s thin robe. Not that he felt it anyway.

“Alright,” he muttered, “this is it.”

With a short mental command, he told the wyvern what to do.

The undead emitted a low growl, then began to stalk forward. It picked up a little speed with its first few strides, then spread its wings wide. Tyron almost had to duck to get under the wing as it suddenly expanded, then watched as the wyvern continued its run.

Its rear legs pumped hard to build up speed as those massive wings began to beat. Once, twice, three times, then it was off the ground, legs trailing just above the surface.

With every wingbeat, the wyvern gained height, lifting into the air as Tyron watched, a broad smile stretched across his face. When it was clear of the surrounding buildings, the wyvern began to circle as it climbed further, letting loose a piercing, ethereal shriek that surely awoke thousands of refugees.

Success!