The Necromancer’s Game

Into the Hollow Crypts

The entrance to the Hollow Crypts yawned before them like the mouth of an ancient beast—jagged stone teeth, breath cold enough to sting their skin.

Draven stood at the threshold, a torch in one hand, the other wrapped tightly around the hilt of a blade he rarely used. Magic was his strength, but in this place, magic was unreliable. The Crypts fed on it—twisted it—returned it broken.

Behind him, Eira adjusted the strap of her satchel, determination simmering in her eyes. Lysandra stood beside her, sword drawn, posture poised and predatory. Aric lingered a step back, hands shaking slightly, but refusing to turn away.

The wind rattled through the dead trees around the entrance, carrying a faint whisper that brushed against Draven’s ear.

Turn back.

He ignored it.

The torches hanging near the crypt entrance flickered to life the moment he stepped forward, igniting in a spiral of ghostly blue flame. The ground trembled as though waking from centuries of sleep.

Lysandra muttered under her breath. “Those torches aren’t welcoming us. They’re warning us.”

Eira stepped closer to Draven. “Then we stay together.”

Draven nodded, though something cold knotted in his stomach. Together… yes. But the deeper he went, the more he felt that the Architect’s words would become impossible to ignore.

They descended into the darkness.

The air tightened around them, thick with the scent of old stone, damp earth, and something metallic—something like blood.

Carvings lined the walls: spirals, runes, symbols of ancient kings and long-dead necromancers. Some Draven recognized. Others were older than language itself.

Aric ran his fingers gently over one. “This place is… incredible. Terrifying, but incredible.”

“More terrifying than incredible,” Lysandra corrected.

Their footsteps echoed too loudly. Every sound stretched unnaturally—like the Crypts were swallowing the noise and spitting it back distorted.

Halfway down the corridor, Draven stopped abruptly.

A faint pulse thrummed through the stone floor. Rhythmic. Steady. Almost like… a heartbeat.

Eira noticed his stillness. “Draven? What is it?”

He swallowed. “He’s close.”

Lucen.

The bond between them tugged painfully now, a constant pull dragging him deeper.

They rounded a turn and entered a vast chamber carved into the earth—its ceiling soaring high, broken pillars jutting like fractured bones.

In the center stood a stone dais. Above it, a swirling orb of pale light hovered, throbbing in time with the pulse beneath their feet.

Aric whispered, breath catching, “What… what is that?”

Draven knew.

“A beacon. A guide. Lucen wants me to follow it.”

But Lysandra was already circling it cautiously, blade raised. “Or it’s bait meant to lure you deeper.”

Eira stepped beside Draven. “What do you feel?”

He hesitated.

“Fear,” he admitted. “His… and mine.”

He climbed the steps of the dais slowly. The light pulsed brighter with each step, reacting to him—recognizing him.

When he reached out, the orb dissolved instantly into a single line of white flame that shot across the room, streaking down a narrow tunnel.

A path.

Eira exhaled shakily. “Well… that’s subtle.”

Lysandra clicked her tongue. “The dead are dramatic. Shocking.”

Aric glanced nervously at the tunnel. “Do we follow it?”

“Yes,” Draven said. “There’s no other way.”

They entered the narrow passage, the air growing colder, the pressure heavier. The walls closed in until their shoulders almost touched the stone. Whispers slithered along the corridor—fragments of voices, indistinct but filled with anguish.

Draven felt Eira grasp the back of his cloak, grounding herself. And maybe grounding him too.

Suddenly, the tunnel opened into another chamber—but this one wasn’t empty.

Something stood in the center.

A figure. Tall. Cloaked in shadow.

Draven’s breath left him.

“Lucen…?”

But the figure didn’t move. Didn’t speak. It stood unnaturally still, head bowed, as though waiting.

Eira whispered: “Draven, wait—”

He moved anyway.

“Lucen,” he said again, louder. “Look at me.”

The figure twitched.

Then slowly—so slowly it made the hair on the back of Draven’s neck rise—its head lifted.

Not Lucen’s face.

Something worse.

A hollow, empty skull with faint embers glowing in the sockets. The lower jaw hung loose, cracked down one side. The faintest imprint of Reaper markings still burned on the bone.

Lysandra swore violently. “That is not Lucen.”

No—it was what remained of something that had once been like him.

A corrupted Reaper.

The moment Draven understood, the creature lunged.

It moved with impossible speed, bones cracking, limbs jerking like a puppet pulled by angry strings.

Lysandra shoved Eira aside. “Move!”

Draven barely got his arm up before the creature collided with him, sending him crashing into the wall. Pain burst through his ribs. He fired a blast of necrotic energy instinctively—

It passed straight through the creature.

Aric yelled, panicked, “It’s absorbing the magic! It’s feeding on it—Draven, don’t—”

Too late. The creature grew taller, its bones thickening as the stolen power pulsed beneath its ribs.

Lysandra leapt forward, blade slicing through the air— But the creature caught her sword in one hand, bending the metal as though it were soft clay. She stared, stunned.

It roared—a sound like grinding stone—and struck her with enough force to fling her across the chamber.

“Lysandra!” Eira cried.

Draven pushed himself upright, breath ragged. His head pounded. “Stop—STOP—”

But the creature didn’t stop.

It turned toward Eira.

Her eyes widened. She stepped back, hand trembling as she reached for a spell— But the creature was faster.

It leapt.

Eira screamed—

And Draven’s vision blackened at the edges.

He didn’t think. He didn’t breathe.

He unleashed a burst of power so raw it shook the chamber.

Black fire exploded from his hands and struck the creature mid-air. For a fraction of a second, it froze—its bones glowing from within, cracks spreading across its ribs—

Then it shattered.

Fragments of bone scattered across the stone floor, clattering like broken teeth.

Silence fell.

Eira was on her knees, shaking.

Draven ran to her, falling beside her. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, breath unsteady. “Just… stunned. Draven, your eyes—they went fully black.”

He didn’t feel fear for the creature. He felt fear for himself.

Lysandra staggered back to her feet, rubbing her jaw. “If that was what the Crypts keep as guard dogs, I really don’t want to meet what’s deeper in.”

Aric crouched over one of the bone fragments. “This thing was—twisted. Something corrupted it.”

Draven said nothing.

Because he knew.

Because he could feel the truth in his bones.

Because the Architect’s warning was no longer just words.

Something deeper in the Crypts was waking. Something connected to Lucen. Something that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Eira rose unsteadily and met his eyes.

“Draven… what exactly are we walking toward?”

He opened his mouth— But before he could answer, a cold breath swept through the chamber.

The air shifted.

Whispers swelled.

And from the darkness deeper ahead…

A familiar voice drifted toward them.

Breaking. Strained. Almost unrecognizable.

“Draven… please… hurry…”

Lucen.

But this time, he didn’t sound afraid.

He sounded as though something was dragging him under.

The ground trembled beneath their feet.

And then—

A blood-curdling scream tore through the Crypts.

Lucen’s scream.

Draven froze.

Eira’s hand clasped his.

Aric staggered back.

Lysandra’s eyes sharpened.

The scream echoed again—

And then cut off.

Abrupt.

Horrifying.

Unnatural.

Draven whispered, voice cracking:

“Lucen…”

The tunnel ahead pulsed with a faint, sickly light.

Something had just happened to him.

And whatever it was…

Draven was already too late.