I breathe in and the air rushes through my lungs, pouring from between the fibers of muscle tissue and ligaments, sinking into my bones and pressing against the tender lining of my skin. My whole body ignites with it and I am like a beacon for the dead; one glimmering, fluttering flame in the wind of a barren land, desolate and cold and eternal. The danger is claustrophobic. A necromancer dances inside of my bones, taunting those I wish away but the ghosts glitter an unearthly grey and coalesce. I watch density settle over them like a cloak meant to be seen in the darkness and anticipation is another rhythm entirely in my chest.