The Necromancer’s Game

The Price of Defiance

For a heartbeat, the entire chamber fell still.

Dust hung in the cold air. The torches remained dead. The mirrored ceiling reflected only the white blaze radiating from Lucen’s eyes.

And Draven—

He did not kneel.

He stood frozen, breath shallow, mind racing. Not from fear. From fury.

Lucen’s body jerked, harsh and unnatural, as the Reaper King forced his gaze down onto Draven.

“Kneel,” that ancient voice thundered, echoing through the stone like the judgment of a god. “Your refusal will break him.”

Lucen’s face twisted in agony—his mouth opening in a silent scream.

Eira stepped forward, golden light flickering around her palms. “Draven—don’t listen. He wants you to surrender. He wants to bind you.”

Lysandra hissed, blade raised. “We fight. Even a Reaper bleeds—somehow.”

But Draven didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Because Lucen’s body—the one glowing, cracking, trembling—wasn’t just a vessel.

It was a person.

One he had killed once.

And he was not doing it again.

Draven spoke slowly, voice low, steady, controlled:

“Let him go.”

The skeletal hand protruding from Lucen’s torso tightened into a fist, grinding against bone.

“You are in no position to bargain with Death.”

Then—another shockwave rolled through the chamber, powerful enough to fling Aric backward.

Eira shielded him with a barrier of holy light, grimacing under the force.

“Draven!” she shouted. “You have to decide—now!”

But Draven had already decided.

He stepped forward.

The Reaper King’s voice darkened.

“If you take another step—your companion shatters.”

Cracks spread down Lucen’s arms, splitting his form like glass struck by a hammer. Faint wisps of soul-light leaked from the fractures.

He was breaking.

Truly breaking.

Lucen managed to choke out a whisper—raw, fragile:

“Draven… don’t… kneel…”

A trembling hand lifted—half-transparent, half-cracked. He pointed at Draven, eyes pleading through the white blaze.

“Don’t do it… I’d rather… vanish…”

Draven’s chest tightened as if a hand squeezed his heart.

Aric yelled from behind a pillar, “If he collapses fully, he’ll disperse—his spirit will be erased!”

Eira’s voice strained. “Draven—save him!”

Lysandra bared her teeth like a warrior preparing for a suicidal charge. “Tell me who to stab and I’ll do it.”

But Draven took another step.

Then another.

Until he stood directly before Lucen.

The Reaper’s skeletal hand rose, dripping black fire.

“KNEEL—”

Draven looked up at the blazing eyes of the ancient god.

And whispered:

“No.”

He slammed his palm against Lucen’s chest.

Dark runes spiraled outward instantly, forming a swirling sigil between them. Eira gasped, recognizing the spell.

“Draven! That’s forbidden—if you miscast that you’ll kill BOTH of you—”

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because the moment his hand touched Lucen, the world fractured.

—

He fell into memories.

Not his.

Lucen’s.

Flashes—fragments—waves of agony and longing.

A childhood home burned to ashes. A brother lost in war. A promise broken. A face he hated—Draven’s—looming over him on the day he died.

And then—

A quiet moment. A moment Lucen had never spoken of.

Lucen, long before his death, watching Draven train, eyes filled with something complicated—anger, envy… and admiration he hated himself for.

The bond between them twisted, surged, deepened—

Until Draven could feel Lucen’s pain as if it were his own.

—

Back in the chamber—

Lucen screamed—not in fear, but relief. The white blaze dimmed, fighting against the Reaper King’s control.

The skeletal hand crackled with fury.

“IMPOSSIBLE—”

Draven poured power into the sigil—dark, unstable, raw. Magic that no necromancer should touch.

He forced his voice through the pain ripping up his arm.

“I bind no soul against its will—” The sigil brightened. “—except my own!”

Light exploded between them.

Lucen convulsed, body jerking violently as the Reaper King’s control slipped.

Cracks closed. Light dimmed. White fire sputtered—

The skeletal hand let out a raw, furious roar.

Lysandra shouted triumphantly, “He’s weakening!”

But then—

Everything stopped.

Lucen lifted his head slowly.

His eyes were no longer white.

They were empty.

Completely empty.

A hollow, endless black.

The Reaper King spoke again—but this time, quiet. Cold. Triumphant.

“You think you saved him.”

Draven froze.

“No…”

Eira’s breath caught.

Aric gripped her arm. “What does he mean—?”

Lucen’s lips curled into a hollow, broken smile.

The Reaper King finished:

“You only made him MINE.”

Lucen’s hand shot forward—faster than thought—and clamped around Draven’s throat.

Eira screamed.

Lysandra charged.

Aric scrambled backward.

Lucen whispered, voice layered with the Reaper King’s:

“Now kneel.”