The Necromancer’s Game

The Shadow of the Veil

Draven woke to the sound of bells.

Not the sweet toll of temple chimes — these were deeper, heavier, echoing through a city of stone and mist. Each note vibrated through his chest like a heartbeat too large for his body.

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the Blood Moon’s wasteland. He lay on damp cobblestone beneath a sky that refused to show the sun. The air smelled of rain and smoke, and somewhere nearby, the low murmur of a thousand whispers rolled through the fog.

Lucen’s ghost flickered into view beside him. “Well,” he muttered, “at least we didn’t land in another pit.”

Draven sat up slowly. The street stretched before him — narrow, crooked, lined with buildings that leaned inward like eavesdroppers. Windows glowed faintly blue from the lanterns within. And above, strung between rooftops, hung chains from which ghost-lights swayed gently in the wind.

He recognized it at once.

“Veilmoor,” he said. His voice came out rough. “The necromancer’s capital.”

Lucen tilted his head. “Looks worse than the stories.”

“It always did.” Draven rose to his feet, gripping his dagger. “This city was built to keep the dead inside.”

A faint laughter drifted from the mist — not cruel, but tired. It came from a figure watching them from an alley’s mouth. She stepped forward, her cloak trailing shadows behind her.

“Or to keep the living out,” she said.

Her eyes gleamed gold in the fog. She was young — no older than twenty — but the mark carved into her wrist glowed with a deep black light: the Sigil of the Bound Soul. A necromancer’s brand.

Lucen whispered, “Another player.”

The woman smiled faintly. “You’re late, Kaine. The Broker said you’d come through the Blood Moon alive.”

Draven’s jaw tensed. “And you are?”

“Seren Vale,” she said. “Disciple of the Silent Choir. Round Two survivor. Like you.”

Lucen’s ghost form flickered with irritation. “You talk like this is a tournament.”

Seren laughed softly. “It is.”

She stepped closer. Behind her, the fog stirred — and three more shapes emerged. One was a hulking man in rusted armor, his face hidden behind a mask of bone. Another, thin and pale, with veins glowing faintly green beneath translucent skin. The third wore a blindfold, his eyes stitched shut but bleeding faint light through the threads.

All bore the same sigil. All radiated the same corrupted aura.

“The other players,” Seren said simply. “Welcome to the Guild of Shadows.”

Draven’s pulse quickened. The Reaper King’s game wasn’t his alone. There were others — chosen, cursed, competing.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

The blindfolded one spoke first. His voice was calm, too calm. “A choice. Join us, and we survive longer. Refuse…” He tilted his head. “And you’ll feed the city’s gates.”

Lucen drifted closer to Draven’s shoulder. “He means they’ll kill you.”

Draven gave a low laugh that held no humor. “They can try.”

The armored one stepped forward, his boots cracking the stones beneath him. “You think because you wear Death’s mark you’re untouchable? Every one of us bears it.”

Seren raised a hand, stopping him. Her eyes stayed fixed on Draven. “You survived the first two rounds. That makes you valuable. The next trial begins soon — The Shadow of the Veil. You’ll need allies.”

Draven looked around at the ruined city. Ghosts drifted through the streets, whispering prayers in languages older than the Empire. Veilmoor felt alive — and hungry.

“Allies,” he repeated. “Or competitors.”

“Both,” she said.

A sharp clang echoed from above — one of the great bells tolling again. The fog shifted violently, rolling like a tide as faint figures began to move in the distance. Hundreds of them — silhouettes of the dead, crawling from the city’s shadows.

Lucen swore. “What now?”

Seren’s smile vanished. “The Reaper King grows impatient. He’s sending the next test.”

The ground trembled. The buildings groaned as black fire spread across their walls, etching runes that pulsed like living veins. Every ghost-light in the city flickered out at once.

Draven drew his dagger. “What’s happening?”

The blindfolded man whispered, “The veil is opening.”

A wind howled through the streets, tearing banners from rooftops. The mists drew together, spiraling into a column of silver fire at the heart of the city. From within that blaze, something vast moved — a shadow too large to belong to any man.

Lucen’s voice was a whisper. “That’s not a soul.”

Seren’s voice broke. “It’s Death’s emissary.”

Draven could feel it before he saw it — a pressure, cold and endless, pressing down on his chest until he could barely breathe. The fire parted, and a figure stepped through.

Tall. Hooded. Cloaked in chains that dripped with light instead of metal. Its face was a blur of shifting bone. When it spoke, every word rattled the air.

“The next round begins. Only the worthy will remain.”

Seren fell to one knee, trembling. The others bowed their heads. But Draven stood firm, though every instinct screamed at him to kneel.

Lucen hissed, “Draven—don’t—”

Draven’s gaze locked on the figure. “I didn’t come here to serve. I came to win.”

The emissary’s head tilted, studying him. Then it reached out a hand — skeletal, endless — and pointed directly at his chest.

The sigil burned to life beneath his clothes. Pain surged through him, blinding, searing. The other necromancers staggered back as the light grew brighter and brighter until it was the only thing left.

And in that light, a voice whispered directly into Draven’s mind.

“Then let the Game truly begin.”

The world shattered.