Chapter 131

Chapter 131: Chapter 131

Julian’s pov

The heavy iron cauldron sat in the center of the stone cellar.

I dumped the contents of the black velvet satchel onto the wooden table beside it. Reagents bought off black-market purveyors at absurd prices, and the two crucial pieces Darius had managed to procure for me.

A soil sample from the unmarked grave where Gideon’s corpse had been dumped months ago and a dirty boxer belonging to Lysander.

I picked up the material, running my thumb over the fine weave. The fabric still held the faint, lingering signature of the boy’s essence, a light, sweet undertone of vanilla threaded through with the quiet, unmistakable trace of his blood..

I spat onto the floor beside my feet. The thought of this delicate, golden-haired boy sleeping in Drake’s bed, taking his claim, made a surge of jealousy burn straight through my ribs. For years I had rotted in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to reclaim what was mine, believing Drake’s heart was buried with me.

And he had replaced me with a boy who painted pictures.

"Not for much longer," I whispered to the empty room.

I picked up the dagger from the table, its blade gleaming in the dim candlelight. The runes etched along the hilt hummed with dark, illegal magic, necromancy forbidden by the High Council. Executing a blood resurrection was treason punishable by public execution and the permanent burning of one’s soul.

I didn’t care. If bringing a dead dog back to life was what it took to rip Lysander out of Drake’s arms, I would tear the gates of the abyss open with my bare hands. I would go to hell and dominate there, if it means I would be in Drake’s strong arms again.

I unbuttoned the cuff of my dark shirt, pulling it back to expose my forearm.

I pressed the edge deep into my skin, dragging the blade from my wrist down toward my elbow in a single, smooth stroke. Black blood welled up instantly, thick and hot, pouring down my arm in a steady stream.

I held my arm directly over the iron cauldron, letting my blood fill the bottom.

"By the blood of the first lineage," I rasped, my voice echoing off the damp stone walls as the ancient words of the rite rose in my throat. "I call upon the bone, the shadow, and the lingering spirit."

I grabbed the jar containing the grave dirt, breaking the wax seal with my teeth, and dumped the dark, clumped soil into the pooling blood. The liquid hissed violently upon contact, a thick, violet smoke rising from the iron bowl, filling the cellar with the sharp, sickening smell of ozone and damp earth.

My head swam slightly from the sudden drain of my essence. Necromancy demanded a heavy price; it didn’t just take blood, it consumed the caster’s core energy to weave a soul back into rotting flesh. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the cold sweat breaking out across my forehead, and reached for the stolen silk shirt.

"By the anchor of his heart’s desire," I spat, tossing Lysander’s boxers directly into the smoking cauldron.

The moment it hit the mixture, the violet smoke flared into a blinding flame. The fabric didn’t burn to ash; instead, it dissolved into the liquid, turning the blood and dirt into a thick, glowing, tar-like slurry that churned and bubbled against the iron.

The room grew freezing cold. The flames of the candles around the cellar flickered, shrank, and turned a sickly green.

I dragged my dagger across my palm again, squeezing fresh drops of blood over the edges of the cauldron to seal the intent. "Gideon. Hear the call of the blood. Hear the name of your mate. Rise and claim what was stolen from you."

A low rattle vibrated through the stone floor beneath my boots.

In the center of the room, the stone slab where the stolen, preserved corpse lay wrapped in dark linen began to tremble. The air grew so thick it felt like breathing glass. The liquid in the cauldron boiled over the edges, spilling onto the floorboards in black, glowing tendrils that slithered like serpents across the stone, climbing up the wooden legs of the slab, wrapping around the shrouded body.

I stepped back, clutching my bleeding arm to my chest, my heart hammering a furious, wild cadence against my ribs.

The black tendrils sank directly into the linen wrap, disappearing into the cold, gray skin beneath. For a long, agonizing minute, the room fell dead silent. The green candlelight stilled. The smoke cleared.

Nothing moved.

A wave of cold, nauseating panic hit my stomach. It failed, I thought, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the table behind me. The blood wasn’t enough. The essence was too weak—

A sharp, violent gasp tore through the quiet.

The body on the slab bucked upward, its back arching at an impossible angle as if struck by a bolt of lightning. The linen wraps tore open with a loud, dry snap.

Gideon’s chest heaved in ragged, desperate hitches, sucking air into lungs that hadn’t breathed in months. His hands, pale, scarred, and blue-veined clutched wildly at his throat, his fingernails digging into his own flesh as his chest rose and fell in frantic, panicked bursts.

I took a slow step forward, my boots clicking softly against the stone.

Gideon’s eyes snapped wide open. They were bloodshot, milky, and completely unfocused, staring up at the stone ceiling with the raw, terrifying confusion of a creature dragged back from the void. His gray lips parted, shivering violently as cold air rushed into his throat.

"Where..." Gideon choked out, his voice a ruined, gravelly wreck. His chest heaved as he tried to roll onto his side, his muscles twitching violently as blood began to flow through his cold veins once again. "Where... is... Lysander...?"

A dark, victorious grin spread across my lips. It worked. The hybrid’s shirt had anchored the soul completely. The first thought, the only thought burning in this resurrected corpse’s mind, was the boy.

"He’s waiting for you, Gideon," I murmured softly, stepping up to the side of the slab.

Gideon let out a weak, agonizing dry heave, his body convulsing as the black magic fought to settle inside his flesh. His veins bulged black against his pale skin, starving for the vital energy needed to bind his soul permanently to the physical world. He clawed at his chest, his milky eyes rolling back as a strangled whimper escaped his throat. He was dying again right in front of me, his body rejecting the cold air.

"P-please..." Gideon rasped, his vision dark, his fingers trembling helplessly against the cold stone slab. "It... burns..."

I sliced the fresh wound on my forearm open once more, letting the blood pool over my skin.

I stepped closer, grabbing Gideon by the back of his neck and hauling his upper body off the slab. I pressed my bleeding wrist directly over his pale, cracked lips.

"Drink," I commanded, "Drink the blood that raised you."