Moonlight glimmered in the spilled wine running in amethyst rivers along the marble floor.
Drops of blood joined the spiced wine and the river swirled darker, drawing winding courses around the bodies of the fallen warriors who were rejoicing but moments ago. Starlight now shone in their lifeless eyes, faces twisted in dead horror.
The great hall was unlit, all torches and braziers extinguished. Moonlight streamed in through a circular window in the middle of the high, domed ceiling. From the walls on either side, portraits of previous rulers stared down with depthless eyes, their faces pallid in the low light.
And there she stood amidst the massacre, dressed in the darkest black, hair loose and flowing, bathed in the silver night. Blue-flamed candles burned low in a circle around her.
Waves of dark sorcery washed over Emric as he stepped into the great hall, her presence overwhelming his frayed senses yet bringing him calmness-- a feat only she had the power to accomplish, she who was the Wielder of Chains, she who was announced dead by her own kingdom, yet here she was-- alive and well and brimming with sorcery. She was Avalyn Loneblight, Royal Sorceress of Drisia.
Dark swirls of raw power surrounded her, a smell of storm lingering in the crisp night air. The corpses had been arrayed in neat rows all around her. The sorceress liked order, whether it was papers on her desk or dead-bodies waiting to be brought back to life.
Hushed incantations, words of a long lost Drisian dialect escaped her wine-red lips, arms stretched skyward-- offering the sacrifices Pertheran had finished slaughtering for her, down in the dungeons.
"Go forth, take their places in the Realm of the Dead."
King Krugmann watched her in silence from his throne, his handsome, square-jawed face resting upon one hand lazily, dark eyes fixed on her lithe figure. His Majesty might watch her all day, but he saw nothing. Only Emric knew the true Avalyn, down to her very soul.
Yet he loathed how the king's eyes roamed down her body, taking in hungrily every bit of her presence in the room.
The rage he felt inside him was vicious, but rather silly. What use was there holding a grudge against someone who would soon be around his finger?
Just you wait, Your Majesty.
"Ah, Captain. You're back." King Krugmann offered him a smile, drinking deeply from his silver goblet, as though he had not just witnessed his friends get slaughtered right before his eyes. "I was beginning to worry you might miss this grand moment."
He brought his hands together and bowed deeply. "I would remain with you through this all. After all, that's the least I can do, for you have so generously offered us your help."
"I'm simply helping myself, am I not?" The king chuckled, twirling the goblet about, watching the crescent moon twist and contort on the wine's surface. His eyes, thankfully, left Avalyn and travelled over the bodies littering the floor opposite him. "This mess wouldn't have happened, had they only agreed to my offer. A simple, almost painless death could be delivered to each of them, and they could be raised again, like a gentle awakening from a brief slumber. But they refused this divine gift of immortality."
"You are not to blame for this situation, Your Majesty." Emric's hushed voice was like silk. "You called them your friends, honoured them no less than heroes, showed them such hospitality-- yet they had the audacity to refuse such an offer! I insist you do not feel guilt over this. They left you no other choice."
The king acknowledged him with an indulgent smile, looking not much burdened with guilt.
Yet he repeated to himself quietly. "...they left you no other choice."
Whose was the guilt he was trying to lessen? The king's, or his own?
You leave me no other choice. His own words, which he had thrown at Pertheran but moments ago, rang back to him. That young man always managed to push his limits until his temper would snap.
His finger distractedly fumbled with his ring as he watched the king's servants help arrange the dead bodies neatly around the Royal Sorceress. He loathed himself for using the ring, for making the private relive the moment of his death over and over.
But what was he supposed to do?
When the Midaelians left the him to rot on the shore, it had been Emric who carried him in his arms. He had been the one to seek out the sorceress and bring him back from the dead-- gift him with a new life. It had been Emric who took full responsibility of his sister's education when he came to know he could not afford it-- be it out of guilt rather than generosity. What more should he have done?
And yet, he looked at the captain with only fear and disdain in his eyes, refusing to obey his commands. But showing concern for the Midaelian captive had been the last straw.
Pertheran left him no choice but to become the monster they all feared.
Yes, it was all Pertheran's fault-- his and of the vile man now seated high on the throne before him. King Krugmann, the benevolent and generous ruler the Gods had bestowed to Drisia-- and the one who destroyed his home.
May your reign never end, Your Majesty.
A sick grin spread across his face as the king laughed at something one of his courtiers pointed out. Rejoice while you still can, my king.
Emric schooled his expression to a polite smile soon as his gaze swung to him again.
"You know, Captain, weren't it for you, this would never be possible. For you, I today now have the power of Ancient Sorcery at my side, an invincible army at my disposal. These... drunkards--" he waved unimpressedly at the bodies, "--may call themselves heroes of the land. But me? I would give that title to you any day."
His lips stretched into a tight smile. "His Majesty is too kind."
King Krugmann drunkenly cut him off. "Hush, you, do not interrupt when your king is speaking. From the day I found you at Larton, I knew you had it in you to achieve greatness. Ah, this sure brings back memories."
Memories of crumbling houses and burning flesh. Pleasant indeed. Pleasant for the conqueror, no doubt.
But what of the ones conquered?
King Krugmann laughed, refilling his goblet.
Emric's head was spinning. A knot of pain twisted behind his eyes, rising to a brain-racking headache. He didn't know how long he would be able to keep his composure. Anyone would be glad to be in his place, to have won King Krugmann's favor. Not this Captain Reylan-- or rather, Emric Shafforn, who had lost his home at Larton. Who had his childhood snatched away. Who was conscripted into the enemy forces-- all because the king had taken a liking to him.
Calm your nerves. He'll be dancing at your will in just a few days. Why ruin the fun so soon?
He planned to cherish that moment, to slide his blade slowly into the man's heart and watch the life drain from his eyes, to hold him above roaring flames and hear his screams like music. The last thing he wanted was for it to turn into a murder sloppily committed in a rage. Emric was a patient man. He had waited decades, building his stage brick by brick, and he could surely wait a few days more.
"...and here you stand today, Captain. No, I cannot ever thank you enough for all you've done," King Krugmann slurred, "I hereby promote you to-- General!"
Emric crossed his arms and let out a chuckle. "I wish you could rule forever, Your Majesty. I would serve you for the rest of your life."
"Well, in that case, let's just plunge daggers in our own throats and dear Avalyn can make us immortals, like these poor bastards right here!" The King's raucous laughter echoed in the hall.
Soon.
He directed his gaze back to Avalyn.
The giant doors to the great hall slammed open and gusts of wind swept through, carrying with them a smell of decay, like a forlorn breeze which washed over old headstones in a forgotten cemetery. The wind did not, however, blow out the candles, instead fed the blue flames and up they burned, higher and higher until it seemed they would engulf Avalyn.
Yet is a dragon ever hurt by her own fire?
Startling all the servants, remaining courtiers and even King Krugmann himself, ghostly shapes rose from the stone floor, from the depths of the castle itself, down below where stood the sacrificial altar upon a blood-slick floor.
"Go forth, to the Celestial Realm!" Avalyn commanded the mortal souls, "and take the places of these fallen warriors! Bring them back in your stead."
In her burned a cold fire, not merely the dark powers of a necromancer, but of a sorceress dedicated to her craft, of a researcher whose decades worth of work was snatched away from her ink-stained fingers-- a fire which the blood from a hundred butchered bodies could not extinguish.
It need not be. Emric wished the fire would soar ever higher.
Pained howls and wails of the sacrificed mortal souls filled the room, the ghostly shapes writhing and twisting in protest-- but Avalyn was relentless.
A rip appeared in mid air, in the fabric of space itself-- a gateway to the Celestial Realm forced open. Utensils clanged to the floor, silk curtains whipped and billowed as the rip sucked in all the sacrificed souls. In they went, raising a whirlwind of chaos and with a loud snap, the gateway was sewn shut once more.
Pride swelled in Emric's heart from the look of awe in everyone's eyes, the bitterness of the earlier moments washed away.
This was where Avalyn Loneblight belonged, where her talents would be recognised, where she would command fear and respect-- not in a shabby, run-down cabin in the middle of nowhere, hidden from everyone's eyes.
He wished he could stride up to her and hold her hands up, scream at the top of his lungs her name to the entire land of Stormvale, find out the old sorcerer who had dared to steal her work and put his ugly head on a pike.
A soft, wordless smile spread across her lips as her eyes locked with his from across the room. A subtle nod, ever so lightly, came in his direction.
King Krugmann's scowl deepened.
Now came the final act of her sorcery which had earned her the title: the Wielder Of Chains.
The act of dragging back the souls of the dead, those which had ascended to immortality, and planting them back into their mortal bodies. The final and crucial step in the creation of the Vasaeni--the corpse-vessels.
A swift brandishing of her elegant arm, and the air in the room shifted.
Sorcerous bindings, pitch-black as though fashioned out of pure darkness-- the Chains-- materialized all around her, twisted around her wrists like pet serpents and shot out in every direction.
The Chains blocked out the ray of moonlight.
Around the necromancer there opened up several portals-- a golden gateway encased in each.
Emric recognised the gates. She had conjured a singular one of those, back when she had brought back Perth. She'd chained the doors shut.
It had been a single gate back then, but this here today was the chaining of several souls at once.
The sorceress's voice rang out of the darkness, loud and shrill and clear.
"You who hath proven thyself worthy,
You who stride the scorched land of Death's own realm,
I summon thee,
Claim once again the body you possessed,
Walk once again the face of the world you left,
From the darkest depths of the abyss
I summon thee."
The great Chains shot out like crossbow quarrels, coiling themselves around each of the gates, and one by one shut all.
All Emric could see among them was King Krugmann, closing the doors of his own ways out, locking himself in and throwing himself at the mercy of two Midaelians unknowingly, intoxicated by the lust for power.
He watched the king's afeard expression with glee. King Krugmann had no clue, too bewitched by Avalyn's sorcery to think of anything else.
Where will you run, when the time comes, Your Majesty? You have locked the doors and bestowed me the key.
One by one, Avalyn's Chains shut the gates, the only way for the immortal souls to find freedom, and thereby putting a stop to the process of the departed souls passing on, reversing death itself.
The mighty yet merciful Goddess of Death was thus deceived.
✦✧✦✧
The darkness cleared away and the moon shone through once again.
The corpses arrayed around the Royal Sorceress began to stir. The spilled blood rotted away, darkening to black.
Here a man staggered to his feet, another looked at himself in horror, there a woman growled, realising what had been done to them all.
The warriors, now undead, got to their feet, as the servants and courtiers shrank away, looks of terror on their faces.
✦✧✦✧
"Vyncent!" shouted an elderly man from among the warriors, his withered, trembling finger pointed at King Krugmann, "so this is how you treat your friends? Strike them down when they are defenseless, and raise them from the dead with foul necromancy?"
"I made you an offer, and left you with the choice to decide. I stretched toward you a generous hand, but you bit and spat at it," said the king, a look of false hurt in his face.
"You have forever tainted your family name! You have brought shame upon your entire bloodline!" yelled another, "and we will not stand it!"
All around, they began to unsheath their weapons. A hundred undead warriors against an unarmed king and a handful of servants.
King Krugmann smiled, bringing a hand to his ear, as though he was having trouble hearing.
"What is that I hear? Words of protestation? Resistance?"
The warriors lunged at him, furious in their freshly reanimated bodies.
"Not so fast, my friends. That's not how you greet your king." Avalyn clenched her fists and yanked back an invisible string.
Emric's hands shot up to cover his ears as piercing screams filled the great hall and reverberated off the walls. The wounds which had taken the lives of those warriors ripped open, black blood bursting out of them with sickening squelches. Thus they were made to relive their final moments, and the macabre training would continue until they were tamed.
Blood splattered across the floor, and droplets flew-- to settle upon the portraits of the previous rulers of Krugmann's bloodline.
Such was the power of Ancient Sorcery, which had ravaged the land during the Great War, which had brought upon all the Apocalypse many centuries ago.
The forgotten power had awakened, once again in the hands of a mortal no less than a Goddess.
Emric cleared his throat, striding up to stand before the throne, looking at the undead down his nose.
"You may wield god-like powers, you may possess immortal souls," he said, "but do not dare to take a single step against the one who granted you this life. For your own good."
His eyes flitted to Avalyn's. The wounded Vasaeni sputtered and hissed.
"Me? Listen to this vile-- witch?" snarled one of them. "This filthy necromancer?"
A boot slammed into the man's face and sent him tumbling across the floor. Emric's well-polished, spotless boot, to be precise-- now marred with the stains of black blood.
The king simply sat back and smiled, draining his goblet.
With a graceful swish of her sleeves, Avalyn put out the blue flames, and at a snap of her finger, the torches and braziers all around the room blazed into life. Warm light filled the hall once again as she bowed before the king.
"My job is now finished, Your Majesty," she said, "the Vasaeni are now yours to command. I will remain ever vigilant, should they think of being disloyal again."
Another tug at the Chains brought the warriors to their knees, begging for mercy.
"Thank you. You may rest now, my dearest," said the king in a honeyed tone. "You have done excellently! I'm most pleased."
Avalyn bowed deeply, and much to the king's aggravation, strode to Emric's side, resting her palm on his arm ever so gently.
"Shall we go, General?"
"Indeed we shall, Royal Sorceress," said he, his heartbeat picking up pace. He gave the king a nod, and strode down the hall towards the doors with her, the undead crowd shrinking away to give them a wide berth.
"Let this night be a lesson to you all, dear friends," said Emric with a note of finality in his voice, "may you learn from your mistakes and never again oppose our benevolent king."
He then glanced over his shoulder and his eyes locked with the king's jealous, scowling ones.
Never raise your weapons against the king, my undead friends, for he is my prey only.