Necromancy for the Chronologically Challenge

Chapter 4

The first Warden’s staff struck the mossy earth with a metallic thud, and the world suddenly felt like it was being poured through molasses.

“Uh, Della? Is the world lagging, or did I just have a stroke?” Eron gasped, his voice sounding like a slowed-down phonograph record.

“Temporal stasis field, Master!” Della’s voice echoed inside his head, vibrant and unaffected. “They’re slowing your personal timeline. To them, you’re a statue. To you, they’re just... really, really fast.”

“Great. Fantastic. I’m a sitting duck in slow motion,” Eron grunted, straining against the invisible weight of the air.

“Not if I hijack your motor functions!” Della chirped. “Hold on to your soul, Eron. This is going to tickle!”

Violet lightning arced through Eron’s veins. His body jerked, his limbs suddenly snapping into motion with a speed that made his joints scream. He dove to the left just as a golden beam of ‘erasure’ light incinerated the spot where he’d been standing.

“Mavren! Saphira! Get to the crypt!” Eron yelled, pointing toward the massive stone mausoleum at the edge of the clearing. “We can’t fight them in the open if they’re messing with the clock!”

“He’s right!” Mavren shouted, parrying a Warden’s staff with a conjured blade of blue light. “Phira, move! I’ll cover the rear!”

“I don’t take orders from a corpse, even if it is yours!” Saphira barked, though she was already retreating toward the heavy iron doors of the Valther ancestral tomb.

They scrambled inside, the heavy doors groaning as Mavren slammed them shut and Saphira melted the hinges with a burst of white-hot magic. The interior of the crypt was freezing, smelling of dust and stagnant air.

“Okay, we’re trapped in a box of dead people,” Eron panted, leaning against a stone pillar. “Next step of the plan?”

“We need muscle, Eron,” Della said, materializing beside him. She looked toward a particularly large, ornate sarcophagus in the center of the room. “Someone who doesn't mind a little time-dilation. Someone... grumpy.”

“You mean him?” Eron asked, eyes wide. “Della, that’s Korvin Ashar. He’s a legend! He’s also supposed to be a total jerk.”

“Perfect for a party guest, then,” Della winked. “Do it. Now.”

Eron bit his lip, slamming his palms onto the cold stone lid. “By the blood of the fallen and the debt of the grave! Korvin Ashar, I call you to the front!”

The stone lid didn't just slide; it exploded. A massive figure, clad in rusted, jagged plate armor, sat bolt upright. He had a beard like a bird’s nest and eyes that burned with a faint, annoyed green fire.

“Who?” the corpse demanded, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. “Who has the audacity to interrupt my nap? I was having a lovely dream about a mountain of ale and a very large woman.”

“Me! I did! Eron Valther!” Eron shouted as the crypt doors began to buckle under the Wardens’ assault. “I need you to kill those guys in the bronze masks!”

Korvin looked at Eron, then at Saphira, then at his own skeletal hands. He let out a long, rattling sigh.

“You?” Korvin sneered, hopping out of the sarcophagus with surprising grace. “You’re my summoner? Look at those arms. I’ve seen more muscle on a starved pigeon. How do you even lift a spoon, boy?”

“Hey! My arms are fine!” Eron protested.

“They’re twigs. Pitiful,” Korvin muttered, summoning a massive, ethereal greataxe. “And your posture is appalling. Tuck your chin in, you look like a confused turtle.”

The doors shattered. The Chronos Wardens flooded in, their staves humming.

“Anomaly detected,” the lead Warden droned. “Purge the—”

He didn't finish. Korvin moved like a blur of rusted steel. CRACK. The greataxe took the Warden’s head clean off, the bronze mask spinning across the floor.

“Too much talking!” Korvin roared, swinging the axe in a wide arc that forced the other Wardens back. “Back in my day, we killed the intruders first and did the monologue over their steaming entrails! You lot are soft! And you, Master Twig! Stop staring at my backside and help!”

“I’m trying!” Eron yelled, throwing bolts of necrotic fire that Della channeled through his fingertips.

The room became a chaotic symphony of golden light and violet flames. Saphira was a whirlwind of silver, her claymore clashing against the Wardens’ staves. But the Wardens were relentless. They began to chant in unison, the air in the crypt starting to shimmer and crack.

“They’re collapsing the local timeline!” Mavren warned, his image flickering like a bad transmission. “If they finish that spell, this whole crypt gets erased from last Tuesday!”

“Not on my watch!” Saphira screamed, lunging toward the center of the circle.

“Saphira, wait! It’s a trap!” Eron saw the lead Warden’s staff glow with an intense, blinding gold. The energy wasn't a beam; it was an explosion.

Eron didn't think. He felt the bond with Della surge, a desperate heat blooming in his chest. He lunged forward, his hands outstretched.

“Della! Shield!”

“I’ve got you, Eron!”

He tackled Saphira just as the blast detonated. The force sent them flying backward, crashing through a narrow stone partition and tumbling into a deep, shadows-drenched alcove. They slammed into a small, open sarcophagus—luckily empty—and Eron’s momentum carried them deep into the narrow space.

The stone lid, loosened by the shockwave, slid shut with a heavy, final thud.

Silence.

The world outside was a muffled roar of Korvin’s insults and exploding magic, but inside the sarcophagus, it was pitch black and deathly quiet.

“Ugh... Valther?” Saphira’s voice was a ragged whisper. “Are you... are you on top of me?”

Eron’s face went scarlet, though she couldn't see it. He was pinned. The sarcophagus was designed for one person, and having two full-grown adults squeezed inside meant every inch of their bodies was pressed together.

“I... I think so,” Eron stammered, his breath hitching. “I can’t move my arms. They’re stuck between us.”

“Your hands,” Saphira hissed, her voice trembling with something that wasn't just anger. “Eron, where are your hands?”

“I think... one is on your waist. The other... uh... I think it’s on your shoulder?”

“It’s not on my shoulder, Valther. It’s significantly lower.”

“Oh god! Sorry! I’m sorry!” Eron tried to shift, but the movement only caused his hips to grind against hers. The friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to his gut.

Saphira gasped, her body stiffening. “Stop! Stop moving! You’re making it worse!”

“I can’t help it! It’s tight in here!” Eron’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He could feel Saphira’s heart, too—fast, frantic, and surprisingly loud.

The air was getting hot. Not just warm, but a heavy, humid heat that smelled of Saphira’s iron-scented perfume and Eron’s own frantic sweat. Her breath was warm against his neck, each exhale sending a shiver down his spine.

“You saved me,” Saphira whispered. Her voice had lost its lethal edge. It sounded small. Vulnerable. “That blast... it would have unmade me.”

“I wasn't going to let that happen,” Eron said, his voice dropping an octave. He could feel the curves of her body—the hard line of her armor, but beneath it, the softness of a woman who spent her life fighting. “I need you, Phira. We’re a team, remember?”

“Don't call me that,” she breathed, but she didn't sound like she meant it. She turned her head slightly, her lips inches from his ear. “Why are you so warm? Necromancers are supposed to be cold. Like the grave.”

“It’s Della,” Eron murmured, his eyes adjusting to the sliver of light peeking through the crack in the lid. “She’s... she’s pumping mana through me to keep us from freezing. The crypt is reaching sub-zero temperatures because of the Wardens’ spell.”

Saphira shivered, and instinctively, she pressed closer to him, her legs intertwining with his. “It’s... it’s a lot of mana.”

“Yeah,” Eron choked out. The physical sensation was becoming unbearable. The way her chest rose and fell against his, the way her hair tickled his nose. “I can feel everything, Saphira. I can feel your pulse. I can feel your... everything.”

“Shut up,” she whispered, but she leaned her forehead against his. “Just... keep the heat coming. If you stop, we die.”

“I won’t stop,” Eron promised, his hand on her waist tightening.

Outside, the sounds of battle were fading, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thumping of Korvin Ashar kicking something repeatedly.

“And stay dead, you gold-plated pocket-watch!” Korvin’s muffled roar echoed through the stone. “Master Twig! Where are you? I’ve finished the laundry and I’m still thirsty!”

Eron and Saphira stayed frozen, their breaths mingling in the tiny, dark space.

“We should probably get out,” Eron whispered, though he didn't move an inch.

“In a minute,” Saphira replied, her eyes catching the faint violet glow of Eron’s mana. She looked at him—really looked at him—and for the first time, the ‘Class-D’ failure saw a flicker of something intense, dark, and hungry in the Exorcist’s gaze. “Let them wait.”

Eron realized then that the Chronos Wardens were the least of his problems. The real danger wasn't the end of the world; it was the fact that he was starting to like being trapped in a coffin with a woman who had spent the morning trying to kill him.

The temperature outside dropped another ten degrees, but inside the stone box, the fire was just getting started.