The Necromancer’s Game

The Reaper’s Mark

By the time the sun rose, Draven Kaine had already learned that daylight didn’t warm him anymore.

The road to Veilmoor wound through what used to be farmland — now overgrown with blackened grass and strange white lilies that only bloomed near graveyards. The morning light touched everything but him; where it met his skin, the glow dimmed slightly, as though he was something the world didn’t recognize.

Lucen floated beside him, flickering faintly with each step. “You’re not exactly subtle, you know. Dead man walking down a public road — what could possibly go wrong?”

Draven didn’t respond. His mind was still replaying the night before — the child’s ghost, the binding spell, the Reaper’s whisper in his head.

One soul bound. The game remembers.

He could still feel it — a faint thread of energy stretching from his heart to something vast and distant. The connection to the Reaper King. He didn’t know if it was watching him, testing him, or simply waiting.

Whatever it was, it made his skin crawl.

Lucen gave a low hum. “You’re quiet.” “I’m thinking.” “About?” “How to kill a god.”

Lucen barked a laugh. “That’s cute. You couldn’t even control a ghost child without shaking. What makes you think you can outplay Death?”

Draven glanced at him. “Because he made a mistake.”

Lucen raised a brow. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

“He brought me back.”

For a moment, Lucen said nothing. Then a slow smirk crept over his ghostly face. “There’s the Draven I remember. Arrogant. Stupid. And just reckless enough to make it interesting.”

Draven allowed himself a faint smile. It felt strange — heavy, almost painful — like using a muscle that hadn’t moved in years.

The city loomed ahead.

Veilmoor had once been the crown jewel of necromancy — a fortress built atop a thousand catacombs. Its towers rose from fog and shadow, black spires etched with glowing runes. Even from afar, Draven could feel the hum of death magic pulsing from its walls.

But something was wrong.

The gates hung open, the guards gone. The air reeked of incense and rot.

Lucen frowned. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.” “Someone’s here,” Draven said quietly. “The city’s still breathing. Just… differently.”

He stepped through the archway.

The streets were lined with statues — hundreds of them. Men, women, even children, all frozen mid-motion. Their eyes wide. Their faces twisted in silent screams.

Lucen drifted closer, inspecting one. “Petrified?” Draven shook his head. “Not stone. Soul-drained.”

He knelt beside one statue, pressing his fingers to its neck. The flesh was still warm — as if life had been stolen moments ago.

Lucen’s tone turned cautious. “You think this is the work of another escaped soul?” “No,” Draven murmured. “This is something else.”

A low whisper drifted from the alley ahead. Then another. Then a third.

Draven straightened, his senses sharpening. The whispers grew louder, forming words that crawled under his skin.

“Thief of death… traitor of life… returned to finish the game…”

Lucen’s form flickered. “They’re talking about you.” “Maybe. Or maybe they’re welcoming us.”

He drew his dagger — the same curved blade that had once ended Lucen’s life — and started forward.

The alley opened into the old necromancer’s square. The sigil of Veilmoor, an obsidian circle carved with runes, still dominated the ground. But the altar at its center was shattered — replaced by a black crystal pulsing with faint light.

Lucen floated closer, eyes narrowing. “That thing’s alive.” “It’s a Soul Core,” Draven said, recognition dawning. “The Guild used them to store essence during resurrection rituals.”

Lucen frowned. “So why is it humming like it’s about to explode?”

Draven didn’t answer. He knelt and touched the crystal’s surface. It was cold — unnaturally so. And beneath that cold, he felt something familiar.

A signature. The same pulse that marked his hand — the Reaper’s power.

The realization hit like a blade. “He’s already been here.”

Lucen tensed. “The Reaper?” “No. One of his other players.”

Before Lucen could ask what that meant, the Soul Core shuddered — and then cracked.

A scream erupted, tearing through the air as spectral energy burst outward. Faces — dozens of them — flickered within the light, mouths open in agony.

Draven barely had time to throw up a shield. The energy slammed into it, sending cracks through the barrier.

“Run?” Lucen shouted. “Too late.”

The crystal shattered completely — and from the storm of souls, a figure emerged.

Tall. Hooded. Clad in black armor etched with the same silver veins that crawled across Draven’s own skin. But where Draven’s mark glowed faintly, this stranger’s burned like molten fire.

Their voice was distorted, echoing like two people speaking at once.

“Draven Kaine. The Reaper’s newest pawn.”

Lucen’s form wavered. “Oh, this looks bad.”

Draven straightened, dagger ready. “Who are you?”

The figure laughed softly. “A competitor.”

Their hood fell back, revealing a face pale as bone, eyes burning silver — like Draven’s, but hollow. Around their neck hung a chain of glowing runes — each one pulsing like a captured soul.

“I’ve been hunting for days,” the stranger said. “You’re late to the game.”

Draven tightened his grip. “And what do you get if you win?”

“Freedom. Power. The throne of Death itself.”

Lucen drifted between them. “So you’re telling me there are others like him?”

“Hundreds,” the stranger said. “But only one will survive long enough to be crowned.”

Draven’s mind raced. The Reaper hadn’t told him this. He hadn’t mentioned there were others.

A game, yes — but not a solitary one. A tournament.

The stranger raised a hand, black fire flaring around their fingers. “Consider this your first trial.”

The ground cracked. Shadows erupted from beneath their feet, forming spectral blades. Draven reacted instinctively, summoning his own magic. His dagger ignited with blue flame, the energy searing the air.

Lucen shouted something — but the sound was lost in the explosion that followed.

Steel met shadow. Magic collided. The square became a storm of light and smoke. Every strike rattled the bones of the dead beneath the city.

Draven moved like he had in his prime — swift, ruthless, efficient. But every time he struck, the stranger mirrored him, as though reading his thoughts.

It was like fighting his own reflection.

Lucen appeared beside him, panic rising. “Draven — he’s using your soul signature!” Draven gritted his teeth. “He’s not using it — he is it.”

The truth hit as their blades locked: the energy radiating from the stranger wasn’t just similar — it was identical. The Reaper’s mark duplicated.

The stranger smirked. “Now you understand. You’re not special. You’re replaceable.”

He shoved Draven back with a surge of black fire. The impact hurled him across the square, slamming him into the altar steps. Pain exploded through his ribs.

Lucen flew to him, flickering violently. “Get up!” Draven groaned, blood on his lip. “He’s feeding off me… drawing from the same source.”

He looked down at his hand — the Reaper’s mark was glowing brighter, as though responding to the other’s power.

The stranger lifted his sword, the air distorting around it. “Don’t worry, Kaine. When you die again, I’ll make good use of your soul.”

Draven spat blood and forced himself upright. “You can try.”

He thrust his hand toward the ground. Necromantic glyphs flared beneath the stone, forming a ring of runes around his feet. The old magic — forbidden, forgotten — roared to life.

Lucen’s eyes widened. “Draven, that spell—” “I know.”

The circle pulsed once, twice — then detonated.

A shockwave of death magic erupted from Draven’s body, tearing through the square. The stranger staggered, their armor cracking under the blast. The statues around them shattered into dust.

When the smoke cleared, Draven stood at the center of a crater — breathing hard, his hands trembling. The mark on his arm had spread up to his neck, glowing like molten silver.

Lucen hovered beside him, voice shaking. “You’re burning yourself alive.” Draven didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the rubble where the stranger had fallen.

But before he could move, a whisper slid through the air.

“Good move, necromancer.”

The stranger rose — barely harmed. Their hood had fallen back completely now, and Draven’s heart froze.

It was his face. Every scar. Every shadow. Every line.

Lucen whispered, horrified, “Draven… that’s you.”

The doppelgänger smiled — a perfect mirror. “Not yet. But soon.”

And before Draven could react, the copy pressed a hand against the Reaper’s mark on its own arm — and vanished into shadow, leaving only laughter behind.

The mark on Draven’s hand burned like fire, and the Reaper’s voice echoed in his skull:

“Round one is over, Draven Kaine. The game remembers.”

Draven fell to his knees, gasping as the sigil flared brighter than ever — and then seared a second mark into his flesh.

Lucen reached for him, panic rising. “Draven! What did he do to you?”

Draven looked down at his palm. The new symbol gleamed dark red beside the silver one. It pulsed like a second heartbeat.

A mark not from the Reaper — but from his double.

He met Lucen’s wide eyes. “He took something from me.”

Lucen swallowed. “What?”

Draven’s voice was hollow. “My shadow.”

He turned slowly toward the street, where the sunlight should have cast his shape across the ground.

But there was nothing.

No shadow. No reflection. Just him.

And somewhere beyond the mist, his other self laughed — walking free under a sky that no longer recognized which Draven Kaine was real.