The Necromancer’s Game

The Whispering City

The light devoured everything.

Draven felt his body being pulled apart — bone, breath, and thought dissolving into a river of white fire. He tried to scream but had no voice. The world bent, shattered, then reformed around him with a roar that sounded like a thousand souls exhaling at once.

When he opened his eyes again, the city was gone.

No, not gone — changed.

He stood in the middle of Veilmoor’s heart, but it no longer resembled a city. The streets coiled into impossible patterns, looping back on themselves like the ribs of a great beast. Towers hung suspended in the air, inverted and dripping with black ichor. The fog had thickened, alive and whispering — voices threading through the air like silk.

He’s back… The cursed one walks again…

Lucen appeared beside him, his ghost form flickering, struggling to stabilize in this warped reality. “Where are we?”

Draven’s voice came out low. “Inside the trial.”

He could feel it — the city breathing, watching. Every building was a rib, every street a vein. Veilmoor itself was Death’s construct now, a sentient labyrinth meant to test the souls trapped inside it.

A distant scream echoed — sharp, human, then abruptly cut off.

Lucen turned. “That came from the east.”

Draven’s eyes glowed faintly red as the sigil on his chest pulsed. “Then that’s where we’re going.”

They moved through the crooked streets, each step sinking into puddles that reflected distorted faces — echoes of the damned. The air was colder than before, so cold it bit through his bones. Once, he thought he saw his own reflection grin at him, even though he hadn’t moved.

The first corpse appeared near a broken well.

A necromancer — one of the players from earlier — sprawled across the cobblestones, throat torn open. His sigil was gone, burned out like a dead star. What killed him hadn’t been human.

Lucen crouched beside the body, frowning. “This wasn’t a fight. Something took him by surprise.”

Draven knelt, pressing a hand against the dead man’s chest. His magic flared faintly, and for a heartbeat, the corpse’s eyes opened.

“Run.”

The word escaped the corpse’s mouth before the spell collapsed. The body went still again.

Lucen swallowed. “I really hate it when you do that.”

Draven stood, scanning the mist. “Something’s hunting the players.”

“Something, or someone?”

A voice answered from behind them. “Both.”

Seren Vale stepped out from the fog, her cloak torn, a faint cut across her cheek. She was breathing hard but alive. Behind her, the blindfolded man and the armored brute were gone.

“They didn’t make it,” she said quietly.

“What happened?” Draven asked.

She pointed toward the heart of the city — where the cathedral loomed, now twisted into a massive spire that pulsed with blue fire. “The emissary called it The Whispering City.It shifts every hour. The dead here… they’re not just ghosts. They remember. They speak.If you listen too long, they crawl into your mind.”

Lucen’s gaze darted around. “And the others?”

“Scattered,” Seren replied. “But the trial’s simple: survive until dawn.”

Draven gave a dry laugh. “Simple.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “There’s more. The emissary said one of us has been marked as the Crown Piece. The whispers said killing that one will end the trial for everyone else.”

Lucen looked at Draven sharply. “Don’t tell me—”

Seren’s eyes flicked to his chest. “Your mark glows brighter than the rest. It’s you.”

The air went cold enough to burn.

Draven said nothing. He already knew.

Lucen cursed softly. “So they’ll all come for you.”

Seren nodded. “And the city will help them.”

As if on cue, the fog thickened again. The streets shifted under their feet. Buildings turned like clockwork gears, rearranging themselves. A bridge that had stood ahead of them seconds ago folded inward, vanishing into darkness. The whispering grew louder — a thousand overlapping voices murmuring his name.

Draven Kaine… The betrayer… The Reaper’s heir…

Draven’s hands tightened on his dagger. “We move.”

They ran through the twisting streets, dodging falling debris as the city reshaped itself. Shadows darted through the mist — pale figures in tattered robes, their mouths sewn shut but still whispering through the stitches. Every time they passed, the air crackled with cold energy that gnawed at the edges of sanity.

Lucen struggled to keep up, his ghost form flickering violently. “They’re pulling power from the same source as me,” he gasped. “This place drains the dead!”

“Then stay close,” Draven said. “Or it’ll drain you.”

A sudden clang rang out behind them — metal against stone. Draven spun, blades ready, but it wasn’t the emissary this time.

It was the armored necromancer — alive, barely. His mask was cracked, his armor soaked in spectral blood. He staggered toward them, eyes wide with madness.

“She’s coming,” he croaked. “The Queen of Ashes — she woke—”

Before he could finish, black fire erupted beneath him. His scream was short, silenced as his body disintegrated into ash.

The ground trembled.

Lucen whispered, “What was that?”

Draven didn’t answer. He already felt it — a presence older than the Reaper King’s trial itself. Something that had been buried under Veilmoor long before Death’s Game began.

Seren backed away. “The whispers warned about her. The one who ruled the city before Death took it. The first necromancer.”

A voice filled the air — deep, melodic, cruel.

“Who dares walk my bones without offering blood?”

The mist parted, and she emerged.

Tall. Ethereal. Her skin pale as marble, her eyes two burning pits of blue fire. A crown of bone curved from her temples like horns, and her dress was made of hundreds of ghostly veils that moved as if underwater.

The Queen of Ashes.

Even Draven felt it — a pulse of power so immense it crushed the air from his lungs.

Lucen’s voice was barely a whisper. “She’s not part of the trial, is she?”

Seren shook her head, terrified. “No… she’s something else.”

The Queen’s gaze swept over them and settled on Draven. When she smiled, the temperature dropped further.

“Ah. The Reaper’s chosen toy.”

Draven met her gaze. “If you’re here to kill me, get on with it.”

Her laughter rolled through the ruins like a song. “Kill you? No, little necromancer. You wear my mark beneath his. I can feel it — my magic still stains your soul.”

Draven froze. “Your magic?”

She stepped closer, and the ghost-lights around them flickered to life, revealing ancient symbols carved into the stones beneath their feet. “You raised the dead army that burned the Empire. Did you truly think that power was yours?”

Her hand brushed his chest — and for an instant, the memory surged.

A battlefield. A thousand corpses rising. His voice chanting spells that weren’t his own. A crown of ash resting on a skeletal throne.

Lucen’s voice broke through the haze. “Draven—stop! She’s getting inside your head!”

He staggered back, clutching his temples as the Queen’s power clawed at his mind.

“You are my heir,” she whispered. “The Reaper only borrowed you. Come back to me, and I’ll make you whole again.”

Seren raised her blade, defiant. “Get away from him!”

The Queen’s eyes flared. With a flick of her fingers, invisible chains wrapped around Seren’s throat, dragging her to her knees.

“Mortals should not interrupt gods.”

Draven’s rage snapped.

“Let her go!” His voice thundered through the street, raw and commanding. The ground split beneath him as black energy erupted from his mark. The Queen stumbled back, momentarily surprised.

“Impossible—”

Draven’s aura darkened, his eyes burning crimson. “You may have birthed the art,” he said, stepping forward, “but I perfected it.”

The fog exploded outward. Dead souls rose from the stones, answering his call — hundreds of them, clawing their way from the cracks, bound to his will. The Queen’s smile returned, proud and wicked.

“Yes,” she purred. “That’s the power I wanted.”

She raised her hand, and her own army emerged — spectral knights, their armor aflame with blue fire.

The two forces collided.

Ghosts screamed. Chains clashed. The air tore itself apart. Lucen shouted something, but Draven barely heard him — the magic roared in his veins, drowning out everything else.

He fought like a storm, his dagger slicing through ethereal forms, his command absolute. But the Queen was older, stronger. Every time he struck, she absorbed part of his power, feeding it back into the city.

“You can’t win,” she said. “You were born from my ashes.”

Draven smiled grimly. “Then you should’ve stayed buried.”

He slammed his dagger into the ground. A shockwave burst outward, consuming the battlefield in red fire. The ghosts wailed and vanished. The Queen shrieked as her form flickered, collapsing into dust and light.

When the smoke cleared, the city was silent again.

Seren gasped for air, the invisible chains gone. “You… you killed her?”

Lucen hovered shakily. “No. He banished her. For now.”

Draven stared at his hands, still trembling with power. “The trial isn’t over.”

As if to confirm it, the emissary’s voice echoed faintly through the air.

“Round Three complete. The Crown Piece endures. Dawn approaches.”

The sigil on his chest dimmed.

Seren sank to the ground, exhausted. “What happens now?”

Draven looked toward the cathedral’s twisted spire. The fog was thinning, faint sunlight bleeding through. But even through the light, he could feel Death watching him — amused, expectant.

He wiped the blood from his lip and whispered, “Now we wait for the next move.”

Lucen frowned. “And if the others come for you before dawn?”

Draven’s smile was dark, cold.

“Then I’ll remind them why the Empire feared my name.”