The Necromancer’s Game

The Cursed Companion

The graveyard had gone silent again. No whispers. No tremors. Just the low hiss of wind through dead grass — as if the world itself were holding its breath after what it had just witnessed.

Draven Kaine stood at the edge of his shattered grave, the dirt still fresh beneath his boots. The mark on his hands pulsed faintly, silver veins crawling up his wrists like living chains.

For a long time, he simply stared at them. A necromancer’s mark. A god’s curse. A lifeline and a leash all in one.

“You look like someone who’s regretting their resurrection,” Lucen drawled from behind him. The ghost hovered lazily, faint light flickering around the edges of his form. His voice was dry, sardonic — the same tone Draven remembered from years ago when Lucen used to mock him in the barracks.

“Regret requires the illusion of choice,” Draven muttered. “Fair point. But you still might want to start thinking about survival. Death-gods don’t hand out second chances for free.”

Draven crouched to pick up what remained of the coffin lid. The wood was charred where his power had erupted. He ran a hand over it, watching black ash crumble beneath his fingers. “I didn’t ask for this.”

Lucen snorted. “You didn’t ask for most of what you got. You never did.”

That earned him a glare. “Remind me again why you’re still here?”

“Because you murdered me.”

The words dropped between them like a blade.

Draven looked away first. The ghost’s tone hadn’t changed — but there was something behind it, something colder than anger.

Lucen stepped closer, translucent boots stirring no dust. “Whatever that Reaper creature did… it bound us. Your life, my death. I can’t wander far from you without being dragged back. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Then we both suffer.” “Not the first time you’ve made someone do that.”

Draven sighed, turning away. “I don’t have time for your ghosts.”

Lucen raised an eyebrow. “You have plenty of time now. You’re undead, remember?”

Draven ignored him and began walking toward the edge of the graveyard. The moon hung heavy and low, bleeding red light over the land. Far in the distance, he could see the outline of the city — Veilmoor, if memory served — its towers like jagged teeth against the sky.

He had no idea how long he’d been buried. Days? Years? The Empire had likely fallen by now. The war, his army of corpses, the rebellion that had devoured the world — all just whispers in history.

He could almost laugh. Executed as a monster. Now reborn as Death’s servant.

As he reached the iron gates, a flicker of motion caught his eye.

A shadow darted across the path ahead — small, fast, low to the ground. For a heartbeat, he thought it was an animal. Then he heard it: a laugh. High. Childlike. Echoing through the fog.

Draven froze. Lucen’s form flickered beside him.

“Tell me you heard that.” “I did.”

The laugh came again — this time behind them.

Draven spun, scanning the graves. The mist seemed to move on its own, curling into shapes that dissolved when he looked straight at them. Then a tiny handprint appeared on a tombstone — pressed into the moss, wet as though made by blood.

Lucen’s tone turned uneasy. “That’s not normal.” “None of this is normal.”

Draven stepped closer. The name on the tombstone read Mira Vell, Age: Seven.

Before he could think, the ground beneath it shuddered. A small figure crawled out from the soil — not with the jerky movements of a corpse, but smooth, deliberate, like she’d simply been waiting.

The little girl looked up. Her eyes were glassy white, her face pale as moonlight. A cracked doll dangled from one hand.

“Are you here to play with me?” she whispered.

Draven’s pulse faltered. He had raised countless dead, seen horrors crawl from their graves, but there was something different about this — about the way her voice echoed, as though it came from a thousand throats at once.

Lucen floated back. “Draven. That’s one of them. The souls he mentioned.”

Draven knew he was right. The Reaper’s command burned in his mind: Hunt them. Bind them. Return them to me.

He took a slow breath. “Mira Vell.”

The child tilted her head. Her neck cracked with the motion. “You know my name.”

“I know all the dead.” His voice was steady — calm, commanding. The tone of a necromancer addressing a spirit. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to return to the Veil.”

Her expression changed — from curiosity to fear. “No. The dark man wants to take me there. I don’t want to go.”

Lucen’s voice dropped. “Dark man?”

Draven didn’t answer. He could feel the energy around the girl — fractured, wild, tethered to something larger. The Reaper had said the escaped souls carried pieces of a greater puzzle. This one was tainted by something… older.

He raised a hand, his sigils flaring faintly. “I can make it painless.”

The girl’s head snapped up, her mouth opening in a scream that wasn’t human. The air shattered.

Wind roared through the graveyard as shadows poured from her body — twisting into shapes that clawed at the earth. The doll in her hand melted into black smoke.

Lucen cursed. “You’ve pissed her off!”

Draven gritted his teeth and slammed his palm to the ground. Glyphs burst from his fingertips, forming a ring of light around them. The spirits struck it and shrieked — trapped within the necromantic circle.

“Hold the barrier!” he barked.

Lucen glared. “With what hands?” “Then shut up and let me concentrate.”

The circle flared brighter as the child’s ghost struggled against it, her face twisting between innocence and rage. The air grew heavy with whispers — voices overlapping, murmuring fragments of memory.

“He left me in the fire… Mother said he’d come back… Why won’t anyone play with me?”

Draven hesitated. He saw flashes in his mind — a burning village, a child clutching her doll as the dead marched through the streets. Hisdead. His army. His sin.

His grip faltered.

The circle flickered. The spirit lunged — but Lucen threw himself between them, his ghostly body flashing with light as he forced her back.

“Focus!” he snarled. “You can’t fix what you did — but you can stop it from happening again!”

The words cut deep. They were true.

Draven exhaled, pushing his power harder. The runes flared, pure and cold. He spoke the binding words — old necromantic language that tasted like ash on his tongue.

“By death’s hand and mortal’s will, I bind the soul to stillness.”

Light burst from his palm. The girl’s scream rose, sharp and thin — then faded. Her small body crumbled into dust, leaving only the doll behind, now clean and whole again.

Silence returned.

Lucen hovered beside him, breathing out a long, ghostly sigh. “One down. A thousand to go.”

Draven picked up the doll. It was cold, but he could feel something pulsing faintly inside — a fragment of essence, the soul’s memory sealed within.

He looked up at the sky. The moonlight seemed dimmer now, as though the world had noticed.

A faint chime echoed — the same sound he’d heard when the Reaper spoke. Then a whisper brushed his mind:

One soul bound. The game remembers.

Draven dropped the doll, disgusted. “He’s watching us.” Lucen shrugged. “He’s a god. What did you expect? Privacy?”

Draven rubbed his temples. His head throbbed, and the mark on his hand pulsed again — this time, with pain. “This binding… it’s feeding him. Every time I capture a soul, I lose something.”

Lucen frowned. “Lose what?” He hesitated. Then, quietly: “A memory.”

He tried to recall the exact moment he raised his first army. The faces of his soldiers. The smell of the battlefield. But there was only fog.

The Reaper hadn’t lied. Every round of this game would cost him something — until there was nothing left to lose.

Lucen crossed his arms. “So what’s the plan, genius?”

Draven turned toward the city in the distance. “Veilmoor. If this curse started anywhere, it’s there. The Guild of Shadows will have records. Maybe even a way to unbind me from him.”

Lucen gave a low whistle. “You mean the same necromancers who sentenced you to death?” Draven’s smile was thin. “Yes. I imagine they’ll be thrilled to see me.”

The wind shifted. Far across the plains, a bell tolled — faint, eerie, echoing through the mist. The hour of ghosts.

Lucen hovered closer, his form flickering like candlelight. “You really think you can win this game?” Draven looked at the doll one last time, then let it crumble to dust.

“I don’t play to win,” he said quietly. “I play so Death remembers who he’s dealing with.”

He started down the narrow road toward Veilmoor, the red moon bleeding across the path. Behind him, the graves shivered — and one by one, faint lights began to rise from the earth, watching him go.

Lucen floated beside him, silent for once. The two of them — a living corpse and a vengeful ghost — walking into a world that had forgotten them.

And somewhere beyond the mist, a voice laughed softly — the Reaper King, amused.

The game has begun, Draven Kaine. Let’s see how much of you survives the first move.