The Necromancer’s Game

The Shattered Gate

The fall into the next realm felt nothing like the others.

No spinning void. No twisting corridors of shadow. No whispers clawing into his mind.

Just silence—vast, absolute silence—as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Then the ground rushed up beneath them.

Draven landed hard on stone, instinct breaking the impact. Seren stumbled beside him with a curse. Lucen flickered into existence a heartbeat later, light sputtering as if the air itself resisted him.

The sky above them was not a sky at all—just a gray, endless expanse, cracked like shattered glass. Every fracture pulsed faint blue, leaking what looked like… starlight.

Seren whispered, “Where are we?”

Draven rose slowly, staring at the landscape.

Miles of stone ruins stretched in every direction, swallowed by fog. Statues of forgotten kings lay toppled. Towers once tall enough to kiss the heavens now stood snapped in half. Broken bridges hung suspended in midair, held by threads of impossible magic.

Aetheris.

He could feel it.

The dead kingdom that vanished centuries ago—the first city ever built in homage to Death.

Lucen drifted closer. “This place feels wrong. Like the world died… and someone stitched the remains back together.”

Draven didn’t answer. He knelt, touching the stone beneath them. It was cold—not the cold of weather, but the cold of absence, like touching memory instead of matter.

And beneath it pulsed something else.

Magic. Ancient, bitter magic that tasted of endings.

Seren scanned the horizon. “The Reaper said the first fragment is here. Do you sense anything?”

Before Draven could reply, a low hum rolled across the ruins—a vibration deep enough to rattle the mist.

It wasn’t sound.

It was a voice.

A chorus of hundreds whispering at once.

“Do not seek the Scythe…”

Seren stiffened. Lucen froze. Draven’s pulse jumped.

The fog stirred.

Something approached.

A figure emerged from the mist—hooded, cloaked in rags of spectral light. Its feet did not touch the ground. Its hands were bone wrapped in pale flame. A chain of silver links hung from its wrists, each link bearing a carved rune.

A Sentinel of Aetheris. Guardian of the Reaper’s relics.

Draven had read about them only in forbidden scrolls. They were said to be the first souls Death ever bound—loyal, merciless, eternal.

The Sentinel spoke again, its voice layered with countless others.

“Turn back. The Scythe is not yours to claim.”

Seren stepped forward, blade drawn. “We’re not here to fight.”

The Sentinel floated closer, ignoring her weapon entirely.

“Lies weigh heavily in the realm of the dead.”

Lucen raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to sound poetic or terrifying? Because right now it’s both.”

Draven silenced him with a look. “We were sent by the Reaper King.”

At the name, the ruins trembled faintly.

The Sentinel turned its hollow gaze on him. “Then you are the one who bears the brand.”

Draven lifted his wrist.

The crescent-mark burned in response.

The Sentinel recoiled—not in fear, but in recognition.

For the first time, Draven saw something like emotion flicker behind its faceless hood.

“You should not exist,” it whispered. “And yet… here you stand.”

Seren frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Draven narrowed his eyes. “Take us to the Scythe fragment.”

The Sentinel’s chains clattered softly—like bones whispering.

“To claim the fragment, you must pass its trial.”

Draven expected that.

But nothing prepared him for what the Sentinel said next.

“The trial is not of battle.”

Its voice deepened, echoing through the ruins.

“The trial is of memory.”

The mist behind the Sentinel twisted. A doorway formed—shaped like an archway of black stone, cracked and glowing faintly. Within it swirled something like water, but darker. Deeper.

A mirror.

No—a gate.

Lucen drifted closer, eyes widening. “Draven… something’s inside it.”

Draven stepped forward.

And froze.

Because inside the dark mirror was a reflection—not of him now, but of him as he once was.

Younger. Unscarred. Eyes still bright with ambition rather than regret.

And beside that reflection stood someone else.

Someone with golden hair.

Someone whose smile once softened every corner of his life.

Eira.

Alive. Laughing. Reaching for him.

Seren inhaled sharply. “That’s—”

“I know.” Draven’s voice cracked.

The Sentinel raised its chained hands.

“The Scythe fragments feed on truth. Before you can wield one… you must face what you fear most to remember.”

Lucen’s glow dimmed. “This is a trap.”

“No,” Draven whispered. “It’s worse. It’s honesty.”

The air thickened. The mirror shimmered.

Eira’s reflection lifted her head… and looked at him directly.

“Draven?”

His heart stopped. She couldn’t be real. This realm twisted memory, painted illusions—but the way she said his name, the softness, the warmth—

It was exactly as he remembered.

Seren grabbed his arm. “Draven, don’t go in. This is how people lose themselves.”

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

The reflection of his past self took Eira’s hand. The light around them glowed brighter — the life he’d ruined playing before him like a cruel dream.

Lucen hovered close. “If you walk through that gate, you might not come back.”

Draven exhaled, shaking.

“I don’t care what the trial is. If she’s in there — even a memory of her — I have to go.”

Seren’s grip tightened. “You’re not doing this for the Scythe fragment.”

“No,” he whispered. “I’m doing it for her.”

The Sentinel watched silently as Draven stepped toward the gate.

Three steps. Two steps. One—

The mirror split open.

A force dragged at him with sudden, violent hunger.

Seren shouted his name. Lucen reached out to grab him— The Sentinel did nothing.

With a pull like a void swallowing the world, Draven was ripped into the darkness—

—and the gate slammed shut behind him.

The last thing he heard before the mirror sealed completely was Eira’s voice, soft and trembling:

“Draven… why did you betray me?”