Embers of the Dead

The dim glow of the laboratory's overhead lights cast long shadows across the worktable as Alina ground the dried herbs into a fine powder. The scent was sharp, a mix of bitter roots and something metallic that clung to her senses. The air in the lab was thick with the aroma of past concoctions, a layered perfume of decay and sterile precision. She measured the powder carefully, ensuring the proportions were exact—just as Dr. Thorne had taught her.

Beside her, Thorne observed in silence, her sharp eyes flickering between Alina's hands and the ingredients. "You're steady," the doctor finally said. "Good."

Alina exhaled, allowing herself a moment of satisfaction. It was strange how normal this felt—mixing tinctures, weighing reagents, preparing a ritualistic paste for a process she barely understood. She took a small glass vial filled with a viscous, dark liquid and poured it slowly into the powdered mixture. The paste formed immediately, dark and glossy, as if absorbing the very light around it.

Thorne reached forward, taking a small sample between her fingers. She rubbed it between them, testing its consistency. "It's correct." A rare note of approval tinged her voice. "Now for the application."

Alina hesitated. She knew what came next, had been warned of the process, but the reality of it still felt foreign. A deep, cold instinct in her core rebelled at the idea, though the rest of her, the parts that still functioned under Thorne's guidance, remained obedient.

She sat on the cool metal floor and focused. The connection was there—thin, like a thread straining under tension. She willed her hands to move, not with muscle, but with thought. A pulling sensation bloomed in her wrists as her fingers trembled, then separated from her arms. The detachment was seamless, painless, like they had never truly been bound to her body at all.

Floating before her, her hands grasped the brush instinctively, dipping it into the thick paste. Alina turned, exposing her back to the cold air. She could feel it now, the faintest brush of presence against her skin as her own hands worked, tracing the intricate emblem in slow, deliberate strokes. The brush tickled at first, but soon the sensation deepened, turning into something more profound—a weight settling into her flesh with each completed line.

Thorne stood behind her, watching as the dark markings spread across Alina's back, snaking down to her forearms in elegant, complex shapes. They looked almost alive, shifting subtly as if breathing. The symbols were foreign yet familiar, remnants of an ancient language of preservation and power.

Alina felt her breath quicken. The completion of the emblem brought a strange finality, like stepping past an unseen threshold. She clenched her fists, trying to shake the odd tingling spreading through her limbs.

Thorne stepped closer, inspecting the work. "Almost perfect." She reached out, fingers cold against Alina's bare skin, and corrected a few strokes. "There. Now, we begin."

The doctor's voice lowered, murmuring in a tongue that didn't belong to the living. The room seemed to darken, the air pressing in as the symbols ignited with an unnatural glow. Heat surged through Alina's back like fire branding her soul. The pain was exquisite, a sharp bite that blurred into something almost pleasurable. It coiled inside her, sending shivers down her spine, her body caught in a balance between agony and ecstasy.

She gasped, her fingers digging into the cold floor as the burning intensified. The symbols twisted and spread, sinking deeper into her skin. Her vision swam, colors bleeding into one another as her nerves screamed and sang at the same time.

Then, suddenly, the pain stopped.

Alina gasped for breath, her body trembling. She lifted a hand to her back, expecting raw wounds, but instead, her skin was smooth. The marks had embedded themselves fully, no longer mere ink but a part of her flesh. Strength pulsed through her, an undeniable energy humming beneath her surface. She flexed her fingers and felt an immediate response—sharper, stronger, more controlled.

Her limbs felt renewed, her senses heightened. The dull ache that had plagued her undead body since her revival was gone, replaced by something else—something more.

She turned to Thorne, eyes wide. "I feel… different."

Thorne nodded, as if this was expected. "You are. Your body is adapting. The decay slows, the control over your form sharpens. You are less brittle, more resilient."

Alina swallowed. "So… is the embalming complete?"

Thorne's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Oh, Alina. This was merely a foundation. The preservation of a normal corpse is rudimentary compared to what we must do for you."

Alina's stomach sank, the flicker of hope dimming slightly. But she had felt something—something real. If she could continue, if she could endure, perhaps she could reclaim more of herself. Maybe, just maybe, she could be human again.

Yet as her fingers traced the darkened symbols now etched into her skin, a small part of her ached. She could see her parents in her mind, their disapproving frowns. They had always hated tattoos, had always spoken of keeping the body clean, whole. And now, here she was, adorned with something that could never be erased.

She looked up at Thorne, determination flickering in her eyes. "Then let's continue."

Thorne smirked. "That's the spirit."