The Necromancer’s Game

The Blood Covenant

Dawn crawled slowly across Veilmoor’s ruins, reluctant and pale, as if even the sun feared to touch what the night had become.

Draven sat at the edge of the shattered square where the Queen of Ashes had fallen. The spectral glow had faded, leaving behind only dust and silence. The air smelled of iron and burnt magic. His hands still trembled, though not from weakness — from the echo of power that refused to die inside him.

Lucen hovered near the fountain, faint light flickering in and out. “You’ve been quiet for too long,” he said. “That’s never a good sign.”

Draven didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the mark on his chest. It pulsed faintly now, but with a second rhythm — something alien threaded through it, something old. The Queen’s magic hadn’t just touched him. It had fused with the Reaper’s brand.

Seren stirred beside him, clutching her arm where the invisible chains had bitten into her skin. “Whatever she did, it’s still in you.”

He finally looked up. “She was right about one thing — her power’s part of mine. That’s why Death chose me.”

Lucen frowned. “Chosen? You make it sound like he had a plan.”

“He did,” Draven murmured. “He always does.”

A sound interrupted him — soft footsteps on stone. All three turned.

The emissary had returned.

This time, it didn’t hide behind mist or grandeur. It appeared as a tall, androgynous figure dressed in robes of living shadow, its face featureless except for two hollow eyes burning faint silver.

“Well done, Crown Piece,” it said. “You survived the Whispering City.”

Seren rose to her feet, blade ready. “You call that a trial? That was slaughter.”

The emissary tilted its head. “All games demand sacrifice.”

Draven stepped forward. “What do you want now?”

“The next round will not be in this realm,” it replied. “The Reaper King has taken interest in you — and interest always comes with a price.”

Lucen scoffed. “He owes us, not the other way around.”

The emissary’s eyes shifted toward the ghost. “You were not invited to speak, spirit. You exist on borrowed flame.”

Lucen’s light dimmed involuntarily.

Draven stepped in front of him. “Touch him and this ends.”

“On the contrary,” the emissary said smoothly, “this is only beginning.”

It raised a hand. The ground trembled, and the cobblestones rearranged into a sigil that pulsed with blood-red light — a circle large enough for all three of them to stand within. Runes spiraled outward like veins, humming with power older than time.

“The Blood Covenant,” it declared. “A pact of allegiance. Refuse, and your mark will devour you before dusk.”

Seren’s eyes widened. “You’re forcing us?”

“No,” it said with amusement. “Choice is an illusion granted to those too weak to see the chains.”

Draven glanced down at the circle. He could feel it already — the pull of the Reaper’s magic, the promise and threat intertwined. If he refused, the power within him would burn itself out, taking him with it. If he accepted, he’d be bound even tighter to Death’s will.

Lucen hissed, “Don’t do it.”

Draven’s jaw tightened. “If I don’t, we die.”

“Then we find another way—”

“There is no other way,” he snapped.

The emissary smiled — or rather, the air shimmered as if it might have. > “Kneel, Draven Kaine. Offer your blood, and claim your place in the Reaper’s game.”

For a moment, he stood still. The wind carried whispers — the ghosts that still lingered, drawn to his indecision.

Seren whispered, “You don’t have to kneel.”

He gave her a faint, humorless smile. “I think that’s exactly why I have to.”

He drew his dagger and sliced his palm. Black blood — darker than ink — dripped into the sigil. The runes flared alive. The circle blazed red and swallowed him in light.

Lucen shouted his name, but it was too late.

The world folded.

Draven found himself standing in a hall of obsidian mirrors. Each mirror reflected not his face, but versions of him — twisted, crowned, dying, laughing. The Reaper’s throne loomed at the end of the corridor, carved from bone and smoke.

A voice echoed all around him.

“You accept my covenant.”

Draven’s voice was steady. “You left me no choice.”

“There is always a choice. Some merely prefer the one with sharper edges.”

The darkness pulsed, and the Reaper appeared — not as a man, but a presence. Cloaked in eternity, faceless and vast. The void around him shimmered with fragments of memory — souls he had claimed, empires he had ended.

“You impressed my emissary,” the Reaper said. “You defied the Queen of Ashes and survived her curse. That earns you a place at my table.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Draven said quietly. “I did it because I refuse to die your pawn.”

“Then become my knight.”

The words hit him like a blade.

Draven laughed bitterly. “You really think I’ll serve you?”

“You already do. You bear my mark, my power, my game. Serve willingly, and I will give you what you seek.”

His heart stuttered. “Eira.”

“The girl who still dreams of you across the veil,” Death said softly. “Her soul lingers at the edge of oblivion. Bring me what I desire, and I will restore her.”

Draven’s breath caught. “What you desire?”

“The pieces of the Scythe — my broken weapon, scattered across worlds by traitors. Retrieve them, and the gate between life and death will open once more.”

Draven’s eyes narrowed. “And when I do?”

“You will have the power to rewrite fate — hers, and your own.”

Silence. Draven’s hand curled into a fist. He knew a lie when he heard one, but the promise of even a fragment of truth was too heavy to ignore.

He looked up at the Reaper’s shifting form. “Swear it.”

“You have my word.”

Black fire wrapped around his wrist, branding another sigil — a new mark, shaped like a crescent blade. It burned deep, merging with the old.

“Find the first fragment,” Death whispered. “In the ruins of Aetheris, where the dead still sing.”

Then the darkness collapsed.

Draven gasped as he re-appeared in the ruined square. The sigil beneath him had gone dark. Lucen and Seren stared at him — both pale, both afraid.

“What happened?” Seren asked.

He looked down at his hand. The new mark still glowed faintly.

“I made a deal,” he said.

Lucen floated back, horrified. “You did what?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“That’s what you always say before everything burns.”

Draven met his eyes — haunted, but resolute. “Then let it burn. As long as she lives.”

Before either of them could answer, the air rippled again. The emissary reappeared, voice gleaming with satisfaction.

“The Blood Covenant is sealed. The next trial awaits.”

Seren’s sword flashed. “Where?”

The emissary smiled. “Beyond the world you know.”

The sigil reignited beneath their feet. Wind howled. The stones cracked.

Lucen shouted, “Draven, what did you do?”

He didn’t answer — because he could already feel it pulling him apart again, dragging him toward another realm. Another game.

The last thing he heard before the light consumed him was the Reaper’s voice, soft and amused.

“Every game has a winner, Draven Kaine… and every winner must one day pay.”

The world shattered.