The Necromancer’s Game

The Whispering Coffins

The storm outside the catacombs had passed, but the silence that followed was far worse. A stillness so heavy it pressed on the bones of the dead — and on Draven’s heart.

He moved through the lower crypts with a torch in hand, its golden light casting eerie shadows that danced across the coffins stacked into the walls. The deeper he went, the colder it became. The air smelled of iron and dust and something faintly sweet — decay, old and patient.

Behind him, Lucen’s spectral glow flickered weakly. “You’re pushing yourself too far,” the ghost murmured. “The curse feeds on your energy. You keep using necromancy like it’s not eating you alive.”

Draven didn’t slow down. His boots echoed softly on the stone. “If I stop now, we lose everything we’ve gained.” “Gained?” Lucen’s voice sharpened. “You’ve raised the bones of men who can’t rest. You’re hunted by Death itself, and the veil’s thinning every hour—how is that gain?”

Draven ignored him. His hand brushed along the coffin lids as he passed. Each one was engraved with the sigil of an ancient house — noble families long since erased from history. But when his fingers touched the last coffin in the row, the torchlight flickered violently.

The coffin vibrated beneath his hand.

He froze.

A whisper rose from inside it — faint, like breath brushing the inside of glass. “Draven Kaine…”

The voice was feminine. Familiar. And impossible.

He stumbled back, torchlight quivering. “Eira?” he whispered.

Lucen drifted forward, his translucent form solidifying with alarm. “Don’t—Draven, don’t open it.”

But the necromancer’s hands were already on the coffin lid. The carvings glowed faintly, reacting to his touch. His heart hammered in his chest. If it was truly her—if Death had bound her soul here—

He couldn’t stop himself.

The lid slid open with a low hiss of escaping air. Inside lay not Eira’s body, but a woman’s corpse in ceremonial armor, her skin like marble, her hair pale gold. Her hands were clasped over her chest, and between them rested a black crystal that pulsed with light.

Draven’s breath caught. The crystal was alive. Or more accurately—awake.

“Lucen,” he said quietly, “do you feel that?”

Lucen didn’t answer. His eyes had gone wide, his glow flickering like a candle in a storm.

The crystal pulsed again — faster this time — and the air around the coffin thickened. Frost spread across the lid, creeping toward Draven’s hand. He stepped back, but not fast enough.

The crystal exploded in a burst of black mist.

A cold scream filled the crypt — not of sound, but of memory. A thousand whispers slammed into his mind at once. Names, cries, unfinished prayers. And through it all, one voice rose above the rest — beautiful, cold, and vengeful.

“You should not have come here, necromancer.”

The mist twisted, taking form. It shaped itself into a woman’s silhouette — tall, regal, her eyes burning silver. Her lips curved into a cruel smile as she stepped forward, her form half-shadow, half-light.

Lucen’s voice was a hiss. “That’s not Eira. That’s one of Death’s keepers.”

The figure’s eyes flicked toward him. “The traitor ghost speaks true,” she said, her voice layered, echoing like many voices speaking as one. “I am the Warden of the Gate. The one who guards what should not be disturbed.”

Draven raised his hand, black veins pulsing beneath his skin as he summoned necrotic energy. “If you guard the dead,” he said, his tone low, “then tell me why the dead whisper my name.”

The Warden smiled. “Because Death has made you his player.”

Her hand snapped forward, and the shadows obeyed her command. The walls of the crypt shuddered. Coffins burst open one by one — skeletal hands clawing out of the stone. Skulls rolled across the floor, empty eyes flaring with ghostly blue fire.

Draven’s torch went out.

The darkness swallowed him whole.

He could feel them moving — the dead crawling toward him, drawn to his pulse, his warmth, his power. He threw out his hands, muttering an incantation through gritted teeth. Necrotic symbols flared across the ground in a wide circle, forcing the corpses to halt.

But his control slipped. The curse inside him rebelled, twisting the spell. Instead of forcing the dead back — it bound them to him.

The corpses straightened. Their bones cracked into place, their heads turning toward Draven in perfect unison.

Lucen’s eyes widened. “Draven, what did you just do?”

“I—” His voice faltered as he realized. “I think I just accepted her challenge.”

The Warden’s smile deepened. “Good. The game has begun.”

The ground trembled violently, the catacombs splitting open beneath them. Black fire surged upward, swallowing everything. The last thing Draven saw before the world went dark was the Warden’s face — her hand raised in a gesture of benediction.

“Round one,” she whispered. “Survive.”

The floor collapsed.

And Draven fell into the abyss — surrounded by the dead he had just unwillingly bound to his will.