The Necromancer’s Game

The Chamber of Echoes

The Crypts swallowed the last echoes of Lucen’s scream, leaving behind a silence so heavy it pressed against their lungs.

Draven didn’t remember moving.

One moment he was standing beside Eira— the next he was already striding into the tunnel, torchlight trembling in his hand.

“Draven—wait!” Eira’s voice chased him.

But he couldn’t stop.

Not now.

Not after that scream.

The tunnel twisted sharply, sloping downward until the air grew colder—wet, metallic, alive with whispers that clung to the edges of his hearing. The walls here were carved with newer marks, fresher lines—deep gouges made by something with claws.

Lysandra caught up, blade drawn. “Whatever did this… it wasn’t human.”

Aric swallowed hard. “Or dead.”

They stepped into a vast chamber.

It was unlike the others—wide, circular, with a domed ceiling covered in mirrored glass that reflected their torchlight in fractured pieces. Shattered bones littered the floor, forming a spiral leading toward the center.

And at the center—

Lucen knelt on the stone.

His form flickered, unstable, like a flame about to go out. His hands clawed at the ground as though fighting to anchor himself.

Draven’s heart seized.

“Lucen!”

He ran toward him.

But five steps in, Lucen’s head snapped up.

His eyes were wrong.

Not the soft ghost-blue Draven had come to recognize— but a violent, pulsing white, burning from within like starlight trapped in a skull.

Eira grabbed Draven’s arm, stopping him. “Draven—wait. Something else is inside him.”

Lucen opened his mouth— and when he spoke, two voices came out.

His.

And another.

Older. Deeper. Resonating with command.

“Bearer of the Mark… you bring the key to my door.”

Lysandra swore under her breath. “Oh, perfect. Now he’s speaking in riddles.”

But Draven’s blood ran cold.

That second voice… He had heard it only once before.

When he died.

Aric backed up a step. “Is that—the Reaper King?”

Lucen’s body jerked violently, as though something inside was tearing at him. His fingers dug bloody grooves into the stone.

Then he spoke again, this time in his own voice—raw, shaking.

“D-Draven… he’s taking… control… I can’t—stop him—”

Draven tore free of Eira’s grip.

“Lucen, look at me—focus on my voice.”

Lucen lifted his head again, his face contorting between agony and something worse—a cold, detached calm that didn’t belong to him.

The older voice returned.

“He was always meant to be my vessel.”

Draven’s jaw clenched. “Let him go.”

Silence.

Then—

“Make me.”

The torches around the chamber guttered, then blew out, plunging the room into darkness. Only Lucen glowed now—white cracks racing across his translucent skin like lightning under glass.

The Crypts shuddered.

The mirrored ceiling trembled.

Eira’s breath hitched. “He’s destabilizing the entire chamber—Draven, if he loses control—”

“He won’t,” Draven said, though fear gnawed at his spine.

Lucen’s body rose slowly from the ground, lifted by invisible threads. His arms fell limp at his sides as the white cracks opened wider, spilling light.

Aric shielded his eyes. “He’s going to explode—!”

Draven stepped forward anyway.

“Lucen,” he said, voice low but steady, “listen to me. You told me once that you hated me more than death. That killing me was your unfinished business.”

Lucen’s flickering form hesitated.

Draven kept going.

“Well, I’m right here. Don’t let him take that away from you.”

A faint laugh escaped Lucen—broken, pained. For a second, the glow dimmed.

Eira whispered, astonished, “It’s working…”

But the deeper voice surged back, furious.

“He is MINE.”

A shockwave blasted outward from Lucen’s body. The ground cracked beneath their feet. Shards of mirrored glass rained from the ceiling, shattering around them.

Lysandra grabbed Aric, pulling him behind a pillar. Eira raised a barrier of golden light just in time to deflect the falling debris.

But Draven stayed where he was.

Lucen’s voice—his true voice—fought through the roaring power.

“D-Draven… run… please…”

Draven shook his head.

“No.”

He lifted his hand.

Dark runes coiled around his fingers—unstable, dangerous, burning with forbidden magic.

Eira gasped. “Draven—no! That spell, it could tear you apart—”

“I don’t care.”

Because Lucen was more than a ghost tied to him. More than a debt. More than a mistake.

He was the only person who still remembered the man Draven used to be—even if he hated him for it.

Draven stepped forward.

“Lucen. Hold on.”

Lucen screamed— light bursting from his chest—

And then—

A massive, skeletal hand wrapped in black fire erupted out of Lucen’s body, slamming into the ground and dragging itself free.

Aric screamed, “WHAT IS THAT?!”

Lysandra cursed. “That’s not a vessel anymore—that’s an INVASION!”

Draven’s heart dropped.

Because the shape emerging from Lucen’s chest wasn’t just a creature.

It was a throne-bound arm.

A Reaper’s arm.

The Reaper King was pulling himself through Lucen’s body.

Eira’s voice trembled with dawning horror.

“Draven… if he finishes manifesting…”

Draven whispered:

“I know.”

The skeletal hand tightened—cracks spreading across Lucen’s torso.

Lucen’s voice—tiny now, desperate—escaped through the fractures of light:

“D-Draven… please… don’t let him… take me…”

Draven reached toward him, magic surging violently at his fingertips.

But before he could speak the spell— before he could make a choice—

Lucen’s body snapped upright.

His eyes burned pure white.

And with the Reaper King’s voice roaring through him, he issued a command that froze Draven’s blood:

“Kneel… or watch him DIE.”