The Necromancer’s Game

The Shadow Thief

The sun had climbed high over Veilmoor, but Draven cast no shadow.

Every step he took left the ground bare, as though light refused to acknowledge his existence. The absence followed him — mocking, unnatural, wrong.

Lucen drifted beside him, face pale even for a ghost. “I’ve seen a lot of cursed things, Draven, but this? This is different. You don’t even feel right.”

“I noticed,” Draven muttered, voice rough. His fingers brushed the mark on his palm — the new one, dark red and pulsing faintly. The edges were still burning, the sigil twisting like a living thing.

Lucen frowned. “It’s feeding on you.” Draven didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The energy from the mark throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat — and every pulse left him colder.

The streets of Veilmoor were still silent, filled with those eerie, hollow statues. The city of the dead, once ruled by necromancers, had become a mausoleum of its own making.

Draven moved carefully, scanning the fog that hung low over the cobblestones. “He’s still here,” he said. “My double.” Lucen cocked a brow. “You sure? He vanished like smoke.” “Smoke leaves traces. Shadows don’t.”

They turned a corner — and both froze.

In the middle of the street stood a mirror. Tall, silver, untouched by dust or time. It hadn’t been there before.

Draven’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s taunting me.”

Lucen floated closer, eyeing the mirror warily. “If this turns into a horror cliché, I’m out.”

Ignoring him, Draven approached. The reflection in the mirror was wrong. The street behind him looked dimmer. His own face seemed too still, too calm.

And then, slowly, the reflection smiled.

Draven didn’t.

The glass rippled like water. His mirrored self stepped forward, its expression twisting into something cruel and deliberate.

“You shouldn’t have come back, Kaine,” the shadow said. Its voice was softer than his — and colder. “You died for a reason.”

Lucen swore under his breath. “Draven, this thing—” “I know.”

He drew his dagger, the blade catching the dim light. “You took my shadow.”

The double tilted its head. “Correction: you gave it away. You wanted power, didn’t you? You wanted to cheat death, and now death wants something back.”

Draven took a slow step forward. “Give it back.”

The shadow’s grin widened. “Win it.”

With a snap of its fingers, the ground beneath Draven cracked open. Black tendrils shot upward — spectral arms clawing from the cobblestones, dragging him down.

Draven cursed, slashing at them, but the tendrils regenerated, tightening around his legs. Lucen darted forward, trying to disrupt the magic, but his spectral form passed straight through.

“Draven, they’re not physical! It’s pulling you into a soul plane!”

“Then we go with it,” Draven hissed, and instead of resisting, he slammed his hand down — channeling his own necromantic power into the tendrils.

For a heartbeat, the world fractured.

The street dissolved into darkness. The air thinned, then shattered like glass.

And then—

They were standing in a vast, black plain under a blood-red sky.

Lucen’s light flickered weakly. “Where the hell are we?” Draven’s eyes narrowed. “Inside the Veil. Between life and death.”

Across the crimson horizon, figures began to emerge — shadows shaped like people, all whispering in distorted voices. Every one of them bore Draven’s face.

Lucen’s voice trembled. “These are—” “Versions of me that died,” Draven finished. “Failures.”

The shadows circled slowly, their whispers forming a single phrase that crawled through his skull:

“Only one of you deserves to live.”

The real shadow stepped forward — the doppelgänger he had fought before, its eyes now glowing like twin moons. “The Reaper calls this test The Reckoning. To return your shadow, you must face what you are.”

Lucen floated behind Draven. “He’s trying to break you.” Draven gave a grim smile. “Let him try.”

The first shadow lunged. Draven sidestepped and cut it cleanly in half — but instead of fading, it split into two, both shrieking.

Lucen cursed. “Oh, great. Now they multiply when you hit them!”

The next wave came faster. Dozens of versions of Draven swarmed around him — each one representing a piece of him: pride, guilt, rage, fear.

They spoke as they attacked.

“You murdered for power.” “You betrayed your people.” “You begged the Reaper to save you.” “You don’t deserve life.”

Every strike he made landed, but each whisper sank deeper. Memories flared behind his eyes — faces of those he’d sacrificed, Lucen’s final scream, the burning capital he’d destroyed.

Lucen shouted something, but Draven barely heard him. The battlefield blurred into a storm of noise and faces.

He struck again and again, but with each blow, his energy faltered. The mark on his hand flared brighter, hungrier.

Until one of the shadows — his shadow — stepped through the chaos and grabbed his wrist.

Draven froze. The touch was ice.

“You can’t kill what you are,” it said softly. “You can only accept it.”

And before he could react, the doppelgänger pressed its hand against his chest.

Pain exploded. Memories poured into him — every death he’d caused, every betrayal, every lie.

Lucen screamed his name, trying to reach him, but a wall of black energy flung the ghost away.

Draven fell to his knees, clutching his chest. “Stop…”

“You wanted life,” the shadow whispered. “So take it — all of it.”

It leaned close — and began to sink into him.

Lucen forced himself forward, shouting, “Draven, fight it!”

But it was too late. The shadow’s form dissolved into black smoke, seeping through Draven’s skin. The ground cracked beneath him as his power surged uncontrollably. The red sky split open with lightning.

Draven screamed, light bursting from his eyes and mouth. His magic lashed out in waves, shattering the plain.

Lucen tried to reach him — but the explosion threw him back into the void.

When the light finally died, the battlefield was silent.

Draven stood alone — breathing hard, eyes dark silver again. But something had changed. The air around him shimmered, and his reflection appeared faintly in the black sand.

He had his shadow back.

Lucen approached cautiously. “You did it.” Draven didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the horizon — where something new was forming in the red mist.

A throne.

Tall, carved from bone and obsidian, rising from the darkness like a crown for a god.

And seated upon it was a figure cloaked in tattered black, its face hidden beneath a skull mask. The Reaper King.

Lucen swallowed. “Oh no…”

The Reaper’s voice echoed across the void — smooth, ancient, terrible.

“Congratulations, Draven Kaine. You have reclaimed what was stolen. But every victory has its cost.”

Draven’s throat was dry. “What cost?”

The Reaper raised a skeletal hand.

“Your shadow was not taken — it was split. Now, one of you walks this plane, and the other walks the world above. Both marked. Both real. Only one will remain by the end of the game.”

Lucen’s eyes widened. “You mean—”

The Reaper’s voice deepened, resonating through the air like thunder.

“Two Dravens. One fate.”

The ground trembled. The plain began to collapse around them, dragging them back toward the mortal world.

Lucen shouted, “What does he mean, two of you?!” Draven’s eyes flashed. “It means he’s turned my life into a hunt.”

The world shattered.

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing in the ruins of Veilmoor’s square — but the city was no longer empty. Fires burned in the distance, and people screamed.

Lucen gasped. “Draven… your other self. He’s here.”

Draven turned — and saw him.

Standing atop the city gate, wearing his face, his armor, his power — only darker, sharper.

The false Draven smiled and raised a hand, revealing the same twin marks glowing on his palm.

“Let the game begin, Kaine.”

A portal of black fire opened behind him, swallowing him whole.

Draven sprinted forward, shouting his name — but the gate collapsed into ash before he could reach it.

Lucen hovered beside him, shaken. “He’s free. Out there.”

Draven’s eyes burned silver, his jaw clenched. “Then we hunt him.”

He looked at the sky, where the clouds were bleeding red, and the whisper of the Reaper still lingered in the wind.

“The game remembers.”