The Necromancer’s Game

The Echo of Who He Was

Draven didn’t hit the ground.

He simply kept falling, suspended between worlds—weightless, breathless, swallowed by a darkness that felt ancient, patient, and terribly aware of him.

The abyss around him pulsed like a living heart. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just… watching.

This isn’t death, he thought. This is memory.

Whispers drifted through the black, drifting like smoke.

“Draven Kaine…” “The Empire’s monster…” “The boy who never should have lived…”

He reached for his magic, but his power felt muffled—as though the darkness didn’t want him to use it.

Then a faint glow formed below him.

A floor. A room. A memory.

He landed gently.

And the world snapped into shape around him like shattering glass.

A small chamber. Stone walls. A single torch flickering in the corner.

He recognized it instantly.

The Imperial Apprentices’ Hall.

Where he had trained when he was thirteen.

Draven’s chest tightened. “Why bring me here?”

A voice behind him answered.

“Because this is where you began.”

Draven turned sharply—

—and froze.

A younger version of himself stood before him.

Thirteen years old. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Hands shaking as he stared at a spellbook far too powerful for a child.

Draven felt his throat tighten. He had forgotten this. Buried it.

Young Draven whispered to the empty room, “If I master this, they’ll stop fearing me… right?”

The older Draven closed his eyes.

He remembered the truth: No matter how much magic he mastered, they never stopped fearing him. They only feared him more.

Death’s voice drifted through the chamber, echoing from nowhere and everywhere.

“Your soul fractured here… long before you died. Fear does that to a child.”

Draven’s jaw clenched. “Why show me this? To make me pity myself?”

Death chuckled softly. “No. To make you understand what I had to repair.”

The memory shimmered, dissolving into smoke.

Another scene snapped into place.

This time: A battlefield.

Draven—older now, maybe twenty—stood at the center of a burning field. Soldiers circled him, terrified.

Not because of him.

But because of what floated behind him.

A ring of spirits—bound to him, begging, screaming, clawing at nothing.

Draven staggered back at the sight. “I never— I didn’t bind that many—”

“Oh, you did,” Death murmured. “You simply forced yourself to forget.”

The spirits writhed. Draven could hear them crying out his name, accusing him of stealing their last breath.

He grabbed his head, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. “Stop. I didn’t want this. I lost control—”

“No,” Death corrected gently. “You surrendered control. That’s why your soul tore itself apart.”

The battlefield memory shattered.

Darkness returned.

Only one last light formed in front of him—small, trembling.

Draven recognized the scene before it fully formed.

And his heart stopped.

A temple courtyard. Moonlight spilled across white stone. Wind tugged at the edges of a healer’s robe.

Eira.

She stood younger, softer, smiling at him with a trust he didn’t deserve.

Draven’s chest ached like something was clawing from inside.

He whispered, “Don’t show me this.”

But the memory didn’t listen.

Eira brushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear and said, “One day, when you’re ready, you’ll tell me everything you’re carrying… and I’ll help you lift it.”

Draven felt the air leave his lungs.

Death’s voice softened. “She was the light you destroyed trying to save. And she is why you fear remembering.”

The memory dissolved like mist.

Draven was alone again.

Floating in the abyss.

Breathing hard.

Hands shaking.

Death materialized above him—or rather, the impression of Death. A silhouette woven from shadow and starlight.

“You want truth,” the figure said. “Then hear it.”

The darkness convulsed, rippling like a disturbed ocean.

“Your resurrection was not a gift,” Death said. “It was a bargain.”

Draven stared at him. “A bargain with who?”

Death’s voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to press against Draven’s bones.

“Not with me.”

The abyss trembled violently.

A deeper, older presence stirred—a presence Draven had never felt, even in death.

Cold. Endless. Watching him with a hunger that felt cosmic.

Death’s silhouette stepped back, as though making room.

“You asked why your soul was rewritten,” Death murmured.

The darkness behind him unfurled—vast, ancient, like a god brushing open its eyes.

“And now you will meet the one… who demanded it.”

The abyss split apart like a wound.

A colossal shape began to emerge.

Not Death.

Not a god he knew.

Something older.

Something that had been waiting for him.

Its voice shook the realm:

“Draven Kaine. Come closer. We’ve been waiting a very… very long time.”