The Necromancer’s Game

The Blood Hunt

The flames of Veilmoor burned through the mist, twisting the city’s once-cold air into heat and smoke.

Draven stood among the ruins, every muscle tight, his silver eyes fixed on the horizon where his double had vanished.

Lucen hovered beside him, voice low and unsteady. “Two Dravens. You realize how insane that sounds, right?”

Draven ignored the jab. He knelt, touching the ground where the shadow-portal had collapsed. Black residue coated his fingertips — necrotic energy, still warm. “It’s not just a copy,” he said. “He’s real. The Reaper made him from my soul.”

Lucen folded his arms. “So, what, he’s like your evil twin? That’s not ominous at all.”

Draven didn’t respond. He was already moving — following the trail of energy bleeding from the portal.

The streets were alive again. Screams echoed in the fog as corpses shambled through the firelight. The undead — hundreds of them — raised by the false Draven.

Lucen swore. “Oh, perfect. Your shadow decided to start an apocalypse.”

Draven’s grip on his dagger tightened. “He’s making a statement. Showing me what I could’ve been if I’d stopped pretending to care.”

They moved through the smoke and ruin, shadows flickering against the broken walls. The deeper they went, the more the air vibrated with magic — necromancy thick enough to taste.

At the end of the avenue stood a cathedral. Once holy, now desecrated. Its stained glass windows burned from the inside, and black veins of corruption crawled across its stone.

Draven paused. “He’s here.”

Lucen frowned. “How can you tell?” Draven’s lips curled into a grim smile. “Because it’s exactly where I’d go.”

Inside, the air was thick with ash. Candles burned blue. Pews were overturned, bones scattered across the marble floor.

And in the center of the altar — symbols of the Reaper etched in blood.

A woman knelt before the altar, chains binding her wrists. Her eyes were open but vacant, glowing faintly with ghostlight.

Draven stepped closer. “A vessel,” he murmured. “He’s using her as an anchor.”

Lucen floated nearer. “An anchor for what?”

Before Draven could answer, the woman’s lips parted — and his own voice came out.

“You’re late.”

Lucen recoiled. “Oh, that’s disturbing.”

Draven’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you?”

The woman’s head tilted unnaturally, a smile twisting across her face. “Everywhere you’re not. Every mistake, every regret — I am the shadow you left behind.”

The chains snapped.

The woman lunged forward, moving like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. Draven blocked her strike, his blade clashing with her bare hand. Sparks flew. Her flesh was already turning black, rotting mid-motion.

Draven shoved her back with a burst of necrotic energy, but she only laughed — his own laughter, echoing from her mouth.

Lucen called out, “She’s not human anymore!”

“I noticed!” Draven growled, slashing his dagger through the air. Runes flared in silver light — a soul trap sigil. The woman screamed as tendrils of energy wrapped around her.

But instead of collapsing, her body split open.

From within her chest, a second figure stepped out — tall, cloaked, identical to Draven but darker, sharper, his eyes burning red instead of silver.

The shadow-self.

“Hello, Kaine.” His voice was calm, chillingly casual. “You’ve been busy reclaiming your life. I’ve been busy improving it.”

Draven raised his weapon. “You’re not me.”

“Oh, but I am,” the false one said softly. “I’m the part that never begged for forgiveness. The part that didn’t die in chains.”

Lucen hovered between them. “You’re a parasite wearing his skin.”

The shadow smiled. “And you’re a ghost clinging to your murderer. Funny how we all play our roles.”

He raised a hand — and the blood symbols on the floor ignited. Circles of power flared beneath the cathedral’s cracked ceiling.

Dozens of corpses stirred around them, their eyes glowing with the same red hue as the false Draven’s.

“Round one,” the double said. “Let’s see which of us deserves the title of Death’s heir.”

The corpses surged.

Draven moved instantly — his dagger flaring with cold light, slicing through the first wave. Each kill released a burst of black energy that tried to latch onto him. He resisted it, forcing the souls back into the sigil traps.

Lucen dove through enemies, trying to disrupt the runes on the ground. “He’s using your own spells against you!”

Draven clenched his teeth. “Then I’ll rewrite them.”

He slammed his palm into the floor. Silver fire spread outward, colliding with the red circles. The entire cathedral shuddered, the two opposing magics tearing through the foundation.

The shadow laughed, voice echoing through the chaos. “Still fighting yourself. You’ll never win that way.”

Draven’s energy faltered. The mark on his palm burned again, brighter than ever. He could feel the pull — the urge to consume, to let go, to embrace the darkness that was once his strength.

Lucen’s voice broke through the noise. “Draven, don’t!”

But the temptation was too loud. The undead kept coming. The double stood untouched, smiling like a god.

Draven’s blade trembled — then stopped.

He looked up, eyes cold. “You want the monster? Fine.”

He opened his hand, and the sigil on his palm erupted in black flame.

Lucen shouted, “No—!”

The ground split open. Every corpse in the cathedral screamed as Draven’s power exploded outward — absorbing their souls in a single surge.

The walls cracked. The stained glass shattered.

The false Draven stepped back, eyes narrowing. “You’re learning.”

When the light faded, the cathedral was silent again. Only two figures remained — Draven, breathing hard, and his double, watching with cold amusement.

Draven’s skin was pale, almost translucent. His veins glowed faintly with silver.

Lucen’s voice was barely a whisper. “What did you just do?”

Draven didn’t answer. He could feel the weight of the stolen souls swirling inside him. The power was intoxicating — alive, hungry.

The false Draven smiled. “See? You remember what it’s like. Power without guilt.”

Draven took a step forward. “You talk too much.”

He lunged. Their blades met — a clash of mirrored fury and magic that sent shockwaves through the air. The sound was deafening, like thunder wrapped in flame.

Lucen covered his ears. “This is suicide!”

The two Dravens fought like reflections — every strike, every movement identical. It was like watching one man tear himself apart.

Then, suddenly, the false Draven twisted his blade, catching the real one off balance. His dagger sliced across Draven’s chest — not deep, but enough to draw blood.

The shadow stepped back, holding up the blade slick with crimson.

He smiled. “Interesting. Your blood’s still human.”

Draven steadied his stance, panting. “What of it?”

“Means I can kill you the old-fashioned way.”

He flicked the blood onto the runes at his feet. They lit up instantly, reacting to Draven’s essence. The cathedral floor began to glow brighter and brighter — the symbols transforming into a summoning seal.

Lucen’s eyes widened. “Draven, that’s a gate!”

The false Draven laughed as black fire coiled upward, forming a massive rift. From within came a rumbling sound — deep, ancient, wrong.

“You remember the Hollow Crypts, don’t you?” the shadow said, stepping toward the fire. “I’ve decided to wake the kings you buried there.”

Draven’s face went pale. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I already have.”

He stepped into the portal, smirking. “Catch me if you can.”

The gate collapsed in on itself, leaving only smoke and silence.

Lucen floated to Draven’s side. “What’s in the Hollow Crypts?”

Draven’s jaw tightened. “The old kings. The ones who made necromancy a sin.”

He looked at the smoldering seal, his eyes burning silver again. “He’s going to raise them — turn the world’s history into his army.”

Lucen’s expression turned grim. “Then what do we do?”

Draven’s dagger glowed faintly in his hand.

“We hunt him,” he said. “Before the kings wake.”

Lucen sighed. “You know, you could at least pretend this is a terrible idea.”

Draven looked out the shattered window at the burning city below. “It is.” He turned, cloak snapping in the wind. “But it’s the only one we have.”

They started toward the exit — and then, faintly, from the air behind them came a voice.

Not the Reaper’s. Not the shadow’s.

A woman’s voice. Soft. Familiar.

“Draven…?”

He froze.

The sound was unmistakable.

Lucen blinked. “That sounded like—”

Draven turned toward the broken doorway. Through the smoke and fire, a figure stood — wrapped in light, her face half-hidden but achingly familiar.

Eira.

Her eyes met his across the ruins.

“You shouldn’t be alive.”

Draven’s breath caught. “Eira…”

The air trembled, the Reaper’s whisper sliding through the ashes.

“Every soul has its price. You’ve just met yours.”

The cathedral walls collapsed in a burst of fire and shadow — cutting them apart.