The Necromancer’s Game

The first thing Draven Kaine felt was cold. Not the chill of air against skin — that would have meant life. This cold sank deeper, crawling into marrow, whispering through nerves that shouldn’t have existed anymore.

He was aware of nothing and everything at once — the weight of the earth pressing down on him, the muffled hum of silence, the strange rhythm that wasn’t quite a heartbeat but not quite dead either.

When he finally opened his eyes, darkness greeted him like an old friend.

Wood brushed against his nose. The scent of rot and soil filled his lungs. Lungs. He had lungs again.

For a long moment, he simply lay there — suspended in disbelief.

Then memory slammed into him like a hammer. The execution square. The jeering crowd. The iron chains biting into his wrists. A noose, tight around his neck. The whisper of the High Inquisitor: “May the gods deny you peace, necromancer.”

And then — nothing.

He had died. He remembered the snap of his own neck. The way the world folded into darkness. So why—

His thoughts shattered as the coffin lid groaned. It wasn’t moving by itself — it was splintering. Cracks crawled across the wood, and the soil above began to tremble, showering him with grit.

Instinct overruled reason. Draven raised a hand, the old habit of spellcraft flaring to life before thought could stop it. Power — dark, cold, and wrong — erupted from his palm.

The coffin exploded.

Soil and wood rained down as a wave of necrotic energy blasted upward, tearing open his grave. He gasped, dragging in air like it was fire. Every nerve screamed in agony. His body convulsed, his pulse hammering against a heart that shouldn’t beat.

And when the storm settled, he was lying half-buried beneath a blood-red moon.

Graveyard silence stretched around him. Hundreds of tombstones tilted like crooked teeth, shadows dancing across cracked marble. The air smelled of iron and rain — and something else. Something old.

Draven pushed himself up, trembling. His black hair clung to his face, plastered with soil and sweat. The wind tugged at the torn remains of the execution robe still clinging to his frame.

He should have been bones. Ash. Dust. Instead, he was whole.

Alive. Or close enough to pretend.

A bitter laugh escaped him. “So this is the afterlife? I expected more flames.”

The sound that answered wasn’t laughter — it was a voice, soft as a sigh and sharp as a blade.

“Oh, this isn’t the afterlife, Draven Kaine. This is your second chance to make things right… or worse.”

Draven froze. The voice came from behind him. Slowly, he turned.

A man stood among the graves, his figure pale and transparent beneath the moonlight. He looked about thirty — though his features carried the stillness of someone long past living. His eyes were hollow silver, and his expression was one of faint amusement.

Draven’s hand twitched toward the dagger strapped at his thigh — the only weapon buried with him. “Who the hell are you?”

The ghost tilted his head. “You don’t remember me?” “I’ve killed a lot of people. You’ll have to be more specific.”

The ghost’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Lucen Vale. Captain of the royal guard. You slit my throat the night you betrayed the Empire.”

Draven’s breath caught. That name hit harder than any curse.

Lucen Vale — the man who had guarded him, laughed with him, sworn friendship before discovering Draven’s secret. The man who tried to stop the necromancer from raising the dead army that burned their homeland. The man Draven had killed with his own hand.

He swallowed hard. “You’re dead.” Lucen gave a soft chuckle. “And yet, here we are. You and I — bound together by the same grave.”

The air grew colder. Draven could feel something crawling beneath his skin, a faint pulse echoing from his chest. When he looked down, he saw faint silver threads coiling across his heart — spectral veins glowing faintly, like chains made of moonlight.

Lucen stepped closer, his presence pressing into Draven’s mind.

“When you died, our souls tangled. A punishment, maybe. Or a gift. I’m not sure which.”

Draven gritted his teeth. “I don’t need your ghost haunting me.”

“You don’t have a choice. You killed me. Now you carry me.”

Before Draven could reply, the earth beneath the graves began to tremble. A low hum rippled through the night — not from wind or storm, but from power.

And then the shadows themselves began to move.

Shapes rose from the graves, human forms half-made of dust and bone. Their eyes burned with ghostfire, their mouths open in silent screams. The dead were stirring.

Draven took a step back, his fingers twitching with instinct. “No… this isn’t me.”

He hadn’t summoned them. He couldn’t have. His body was too weak — his magic fractured. And yet, the world around him was unraveling.

Lucen’s eyes gleamed. “Looks like you woke up the whole cemetery. Congratulations.”

The ground split. Out of the largest grave came a voice that made the world itself seem to hold its breath — deep, echoing, ancient.

“Draven Kaine.”

The sound of his name froze the air. Draven’s heart stopped. Even Lucen stepped back, his ghostly form flickering.

A figure emerged — tall, cloaked in black smoke and silver fire. Its face was hidden beneath a mask carved like a skull. Around it, the ground wilted, the grass blackening with every step.

The Reaper King.

Draven had read the myths — the god of death who ferried souls beyond the Veil. But gods did not appear in mortal graveyards. They did not speak names.

Yet here he was.

The Reaper’s voice rolled through the mist.

“You were executed for defying the balance. You raised the dead, tore open the Veil, and paid with your life. And yet, you were chosen.”

Draven’s throat was dry. “Chosen for what?”

The Reaper spread his skeletal hand. Around them, the world shifted — tombstones flickering into visions. He saw souls — thousands of them — screaming through a cracked sky. The Veil between life and death was torn open, and the dead spilled like smoke across the lands.

“The boundary is broken. The souls that should rest now wander. You will hunt them, bind them, and return them to me.”

Draven gave a harsh laugh. “You want me to clean up your mess?”

“You will do it, or your soul will unravel. The threads that bind you to life are mine to cut.”

He could feel it then — the pull of the silver chains in his chest. A tether linking him to the Reaper’s will.

Lucen whispered beside him, “Guess you’re working for Death now.”

Draven glared. “And what do I get out of it?”

The Reaper’s mask tilted, unreadable.

“A chance to live. A chance to reclaim what was lost. And perhaps… to win.”

Draven frowned. “Win what?”

“The Game.”

The world twisted. The graveyard dissolved into darkness — cold and infinite. Stars flickered above them, each one pulsing like a heartbeat. Voices whispered at the edge of hearing — thousands of souls calling his name.

“Every soul you reclaim is a move. Every victory, a sacrifice. Memory. Life. Soul.” “Play well, Draven Kaine. For the Game of Death has begun.”

And just like that — the Reaper vanished.

Silence fell again, heavy and suffocating. Only the whisper of wind through gravestones remained.

Lucen let out a low whistle. “Well. That went better than expected.” Draven didn’t answer. His gaze fell to his hands — faint silver symbols now glowing along his veins. The mark of the Reaper.

His pulse beat like a drum in his ears. Alive. Condemned. Bound to a ghost and a god.

He took one last look at the shattered grave behind him and muttered, “If this is a game…” A grim smile curved his lips. “…then I’m playing to win.”

The moon above flickered red, and somewhere in the distance, a child’s laughter echoed — high, broken, and wrong.

The first escaped soul had just awakened.