The Necromancer’s Game

Death’s Truth

Silence swallowed the courtyard as the figure approached. Not just silence—absence. A stillness so complete that even the fog froze around them, suspended like glass dust.

Death did not walk. He arrived, existence bending to make room for him.

Draven could not breathe.

He faced the one being he once served… the one who had ended him… the one who had brought him back.

Death’s eyes—dark, depthless, unreadable—rested on him with a quiet fondness that made Draven’s skin crawl.

“Hello, my favorite disappointment,” Death murmured.

Lysandra stepped forward immediately, blade half-drawn. “Don’t come closer.”

Death didn’t even look at her. He did not need to.

Her blade trembled in her grip, refusing to leave its sheath.

Aric backed up behind a half-crumbled column, heart pounding so loudly Draven could hear it.

The rival necromancers lowered their gazes, forced into a wordless bow by the weight of Death’s presence.

Draven alone stood unmoving—the only one who dared to meet Death’s eyes.

And Death seemed amused by that.

“You’ve changed,” he murmured, circling Draven with slow steps, hands clasped behind his back. “You’re quieter. Heavier. More afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Draven said, voice tight.

“Mm.” Death smiled faintly. “You always were a terrible liar.”

The masked necromancer cleared his throat, summoning courage. “You said you rewrote him. Why? What does that even mean?”

Death’s gaze slid toward him like a blade made of shadow. “You interrupt because you wish to feel important. Don’t.”

The man swallowed so hard his mask shifted.

Death returned his attention to Draven.

“You want answers.” He lifted a finger, tracing the air near Draven’s heart—never touching, but somehow burning.

“And I want… honesty.”

Draven braced himself. “Then speak.”

Death exhaled a soft breath, almost weary. “Very well.”

The fog thickened, curling around their feet like serpents.

“Your soul was broken when you died,” Death said. “Torn apart by your own magic, your own guilt, your own rage. There was nothing left to resurrect.”

Draven’s heart clenched painfully.

Lysandra’s eyes widened. Aric’s breath hitched.

Death continued, voice a quiet, cruel whisper.

“So I made a new one.”

Draven stared at him. “A new soul?”

“A repaired version,” Death corrected. “Stronger. Calmer. Controlled.”

Draven felt cold spread through his lungs. “Controlled by who?”

Death smiled. “By me, of course.”

Lysandra stepped forward again, voice shaking with fury. “You can’t control a soul—”

“Oh, but I can,” Death murmured. “And I did. Because the old Draven Kaine was… inconvenient.”

Draven clenched his fists. “So you killed me.”

“I ended you,” Death corrected softly. “There is a difference.”

“And then brought me back to use me,” Draven hissed. “Why?”

Death stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stopped everything.

His voice dropped low.

“Because something worse than me is coming.”

The words fell like stones.

The rival necromancers tensed.

“What could possibly be worse than you?” the young necromancer whispered.

Death lifted his gaze toward the ruined sky.

“The Veil is weakening. Something in the dark beyond it has awakened. Something ancient. Something hungry.”

He turned back to Draven.

“And it will only speak to you.”

Draven took a step back. “No.”

“Yes,” Death murmured. “Because your rewritten soul is woven from shadow and memory and my own signature. You are the only one capable of hearing its voice without being torn apart.”

Draven shook his head slowly, breath trembling. “I never asked for this.”

Death’s expression softened—strangely, genuinely.

“No one asks for their purpose.”

For a moment, they simply stared at each other—Death and the man he had shaped.

Then Death extended his hand, palm up.

“Come with me, Draven. I will show you what hunts us.”

Lysandra moved instantly between them.

“He’s not going anywhere with you.”

Death finally looked at her fully.

And the world seemed to hold its breath.

“You care for him more than you should,” Death said quietly. “Be careful, little warrior. Love is the quickest way to die in my game.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t move.

Draven touched her arm lightly. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she whispered. “He’s using you.”

“I know.”

But Draven stepped past her anyway.

He stopped inches from Death’s outstretched hand.

“Before I choose anything,” Draven said slowly, “I want the truth.”

Death tilted his head. “Which truth?”

“All of it.” Draven’s voice was steady. “Why me? Why my soul? Why this game?”

Death’s eyes glimmered—dark amusement mixed with something eerily close to… pride.

“You want the full truth,” Death murmured. “Fine.”

He snapped his fingers.

The fog split apart.

The ground cracked open beneath them.

A swirling abyss of shadows, memories, and screams roared to life at Draven’s feet.

Aric yelled his name. Lysandra lunged toward him.

But it was too late.

The world fell away.

And as Draven plunged into the darkness, Death’s voice echoed after him:

“Let me show you what you were… before you were mine.”