The Necromancer’s Game

The Dead Man’s Deal

Draven hit the ground hard. The impact ripped the breath from his lungs, the world spinning in a blur of dust and bone. His body screamed in protest as he rolled across rough stone and came to a stop against something cold—something that breathed.

A skeletal hand clamped down on his shoulder.

He jerked away, scrambling to his feet. Around him, the catacombs had changed. Gone were the narrow tunnels of stone; this chamber was vast, circular, carved with symbols that pulsed faintly with violet light. The air here reeked of burnt incense and decay. A thousand whispering voices murmured from the darkness above, where rows of suspended coffins hung like grim chandeliers.

Lucen’s ghost flickered beside him, his form hazy and fractured from the fall. “Where the hell are we?”

Draven steadied himself, brushing blood from his lip. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the raw pulse of magic that filled this place. The veil was thin here. Too thin. “We’re in the Undercrypt,” he said quietly. “The place where the first necromancers were judged.”

Lucen hovered closer. “Judged? By who?”

A voice answered, deep and amused. “By me.”

Draven turned sharply.

At the far end of the chamber, a figure sat upon a throne of skulls and black stone. His body was cloaked in tattered silver robes, his face hidden by a bone mask shaped like a jackal’s skull. His eyes glowed faintly from within, pale and inhuman. The space around him shimmered with ghostly energy, and behind his throne floated dozens of chained spirits—moaning softly as if in pain.

Draven’s hand went to his dagger. “Who are you?”

The figure’s grin was visible beneath the mask. “A question I could ask you as well, Draven Kaine. The traitor of the Empire. The butcher of Aedryn. The man who tried to play god and lost.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on one clawed hand. “But here, names don’t matter. Here, only deals do.”

Lucen whispered, “It’s him… the Dead Broker.”

The name struck Draven like ice. The Dead Broker was myth—a spirit said to trade power for pieces of the soul. Every necromancer child heard his story: make a deal, gain what you desire, and lose what makes you human.

Draven’s jaw tightened. “I don’t make deals.”

The Broker chuckled, the sound echoing like a dozen voices at once. “You already did the moment you touched the Warden’s tomb. You woke the game, boy. And now, you either play… or perish.”

The torches lining the walls burst to life. Dozens of skeletal warriors lined the perimeter of the chamber—his newly bound dead. Their eyes burned faintly blue, awaiting command.

Draven looked from them to the Broker. “What game?”

“Death’s Game,” the Broker purred. “A contest between those who defied mortality. Win, and you inherit the Reaper’s throne. Lose…” He snapped his fingers.

One of the coffins hanging above shattered. A body fell—still breathing, still alive, until it hit the ground with a crunch. “Lose, and you become part of the next round.”

Lucen glared. “You expect him to just play along?”

The Broker tilted his head toward the ghost. “He doesn’t have a choice. The curse already binds him. Every soul he raises becomes a thread tying him closer to the veil. Eventually, he will cross over—and when he does, Death will own him.”

Draven felt the pulse beneath his skin again—dark veins creeping up his neck. The curse was spreading. Faster now. He clenched his fists. “What do you want from me?”

“Survive,” the Broker said simply. “Win the rounds. Earn the sigils of the dead. Each victory brings you closer to freedom—or to damnation. The choice is… academic.” He smiled behind the mask. “Round One has already begun.”

The chamber trembled. The ground cracked open in front of Draven, revealing a pit of swirling mist. From within, shapes began to emerge—shadows with form, with hunger.

Lucen hissed, “They’re soul phantoms. They devour essence—no physical weapon will stop them!”

The Broker leaned back in his throne. “Consider this your first test, necromancer. If you can command death, prove it.”

Draven’s heart hammered as the first phantom lunged out of the mist, shrieking. He raised his hand instinctively, black fire swirling around his arm. The curse surged to meet his will, wild and violent. The dead around him stirred, their blue eyes flaring brighter.

“Protect your master,” Draven snarled.

The skeletal soldiers roared silently and charged forward. Their blades met the shadows, striking with eerie precision. Each blow dispelled a phantom into smoke, but for every one that vanished, two more took its place.

Lucen circled Draven. “You can’t win this way! They’re endless!”

Draven’s eyes darted to the glowing symbols carved into the floor. He recognized them now—binding runes. The chamber itself was a seal, a prison. The Broker wasn’t just testing him; he was feeding on the chaos.

“Then we break the seal,” Draven muttered.

He stabbed his dagger into the ground, channeling necrotic energy into the cracks. The symbols flared, resisting him. He poured in more power, the curse burning through his veins like liquid fire. The dead screamed around him as the runes shattered one by one.

Lucen shouted, “Draven, stop! You’re drawing too much—”

The last rune broke.

The room exploded in a blinding flash of violet light. Every phantom froze mid-scream, their forms twisting, collapsing into a single vortex of energy that rushed toward Draven. He had no time to react. The power slammed into him, knocking him to his knees.

The Broker’s laughter echoed. “Impressive. You’ve devoured them.”

Draven gasped, clutching his chest. His heartbeat was no longer steady—it pulsed with something foreign. He could feel the phantoms writhing inside him, whispering in his blood.

Lucen hovered close, horrified. “You didn’t bind them… you absorbed them.”

The Broker clapped slowly. “And so, the necromancer learns the first rule of the Game: every victory costs you a piece of yourself.”

Draven looked up, eyes glowing faintly violet now. His voice was rough, layered with echoes not his own. “And when I win?”

The Broker leaned forward, his grin wide. “Then you’ll be the one making the deals.”

He raised a skeletal hand. The ground trembled again, but this time, it wasn’t the crypt breaking—it was a portal opening beneath Draven’s feet.

“Round Two awaits,” the Broker said, voice turning cold. “Survive long enough… and you may even find the soul you lost.”

Draven’s head snapped up. “Eira?”

The Broker’s eyes gleamed. “Ah. So the dead heart still beats.”

Before Draven could speak again, the floor gave way entirely. He and Lucen plunged into darkness once more—falling through layers of shadow and memory.

But this time, he wasn’t falling alone.

The whispers that filled the void were not ghosts.

They were screaming his name.