#crownwardens

“Chapter 7: The Price of Success”

Unceasing’s Oath

Ocrovos was ready to put his new knowledge to use and he already had the perfect test subject: Mordane. He needed to raise the corpse at least enough for Lior and Zeke to bring it back to Duke Veylan. Nothing more of Mordane needed to return. So he sifted through the foreign memories implanted in his mind by Plague for what to do.

First, he needed to check which parts of Mordane’s Essence still lingered.

He had learned from the Stellan Lyceum that all magic required the presence of three things: the intent, the willpower, and a component. The first two were easy. He had a sufficiently clear idea of what he wanted the magic to do and what he expected it to do—show me which parts of Mordane’s Essence remain; tug at those parts of my own Essence to tell me which ones. The willpower was just mental fortitude, something he had practiced for many years during his time as a scholar. It was not unlike standing strong and holding one’s ground in the sand against a waist-high wave cresting onto the beach. The only thing he didn’t fully understand was the required component.

Ocrovos searched Plague’s knowledge and what appeared was a confusing jumble of tenses, histories, genders, and past lives. He had been a woman 97 years ago, searching for what remained of her son’s Essence, and died only ever learning that the magic responded to the physical shape of sound waves. He had been an elderly man 80 years ago, and died only ever learning that the arrangement of the sound waves was in the shape of words. And he had been the youngest of King Wendell’s secret coterie of Necromantic scholars 44 years ago, eventually discovering that the words were a whispered conglomeration of untranslated words from the Age of Myth.

So Ocrovos held the intent clear in his mind, stood fast against the coming psychic resistance, and whispered the words to the corpse. They made no sense to him. He didn’t even know how to spell them. His memory provided images of symbols that made up the words, but they were ones no one recognized or understood—even in his vast storage of memories. To Ocrovos, they were merely sounds.

But to Necromancy, it was a command.

Ocrovos felt a phantom touch against his own Essence. His memory twitched. A shiver ran through the core of who he was, through his soul. But there was no sensation around the concept of Aurene—his anchor. Mordane’s memory and soul remained in the Veil, but not his anchor. It made sense; Mordane had no reason to remain clinging to life so his anchor had decayed into the unreachable Beyond.

Ocrovos realized the terms Veil and Beyond felt as if they should have been foreign to him, but the knowledge of what they were was in his memories regardless.

And then he knew there were six types of undead he could raise, but the lack of an anchor limited Mordane’s raising to just three: a Phantom, an Echo, and a Vestige.

“This is so complex,” Ocrovos whispered aloud, the words directed at the secondary presence in his mind.

“The others will notice if we hesitate,” Plague said in response. “An Echo would best suit your needs.”

An Echo. It was an undead raised using only the Memory of the deceased’s Essence. This would bring Mordane back as an undead made of pure memory. He would have no reason to exist, and no soul with which to be who he was before. It would only be a walking corpse that could answer questions about its previous life. That would be sufficient to get the corpse back to Duke Veylan.

But calling back Mordane’s memory to place in the empty body would cost a touch of Ocrovos’s own memory in return.

“Could I lose something valuable you’ve given me?” Ocrovos asked Plague.

“No,” she said. “You’re the one raising him, not me. You will only lose a memory you’ve made before you invited me in.”

It felt like a small price to pay. But still . . . he had to make sure. “Will it be of Aurene?”

“You cannot choose,” Plague said. “But it will be just one memory. Not one person or one year. You won’t even miss it.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Ocrovos asked.

“Because you won’t remember losing it.”

Ocrovos smiled. Of course. It made sense. And for all this knowledge he had received in return? It would be worth it.

So he got to work.

#

Merchant’s Rest

Zeke’s gut told him something was off, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The beautiful vistas and sense of adventure on their journey back to Merchant’s Rest had been washed away by a tide of doubt and suspicion. And at first, none of it was directed at Monty. At first, it was just something about Mordane.

The Black Vulture hadn’t been particularly alive to begin with, but now he was even less of a person. Monty had stopped talking to him, and then Mordane had almost completely stopped talking. When asked questions about anything other than his past, he just stared back with blank eyes like there was absolutely nothing behind them. He could answer questions about who he was and what he had done, but he acted deaf when asked about the last few days or how he had survived in the Umbral Tunnels for so long.

Monty claimed to feed him and watch him at night, but Zeke couldn’t ever remember seeing it firsthand. He never saw Mordane sleep, eat, drink, ask for bathroom breaks, or even respond to being poked or pushed or handled in any way.

By the time they reached Merchant’s Rest, Zeke was adamant that Mordane was dead. Or, rather, undead. He at least looked dead enough that they had to hide his identity with a hood and cloak, and conceal his wings in a hollowed-out travel pack slung over his back. That was when a part of Zeke suspected Monty of doing something. But the idea felt foolish.

Monty knew the law: if Lior and Zeke could prove he had used Necromancy they could make a month’s wages off of his head. And the bounty would be in coins—not scrip that could only be spent in Ironcliff Keep.

And there were the words of the Duke to go by. Duke Veylan had claimed that something brought Mordane back, so perhaps a necromancer had gotten to the Black Vulture before their little party had ever reached the Umbral Tunnels. Or perhaps there was something more sinister happening. Zeke nearly gagged at the memory of the slug inside the bear’s head trying to climb into his mouth. Was something like that wriggling around inside Mordane’s head?

While Zeke watched Mordane in their room at the Twin Lanterns, he had decided to test the theory. He had drawn his sword, casually beheaded Mordane, and when nothing came crawling out, he had slit his own throat. The moment Zeke died, time rewound and Mordane was no longer headless. Knowing the answer only disturbed him more.

And there was the guilt that came from using his gift in this way. They had spent days travelling, and the journey had settled a fog over his memories of the first moments following their transformation into Crownwardens, but hadn’t he promised Lior he wouldn’t use his gift like that again? And here he was, breaking that oath so soon after making it. Shame and regret snaked their way into his heart. He tried his best to push it down and bury it under a new vow: That was the last time; now I won’t do it again.

Someone knocked at the door to their room. Zeke opened the door and Lior brushed him aside to enter the room. Monty was right behind him.

“Monty’s leaving,” Lior said.

Zeke had known this was coming—Monty had even said as much—but he was still disappointed to hear it. “When might we meet again?”

Monty gave Zeke a sad smile. “I don’t believe we will.”

“Why not?”

“I’m going to search for the Arcane Drift,” Monty said. “Their most recent relocation is rumored to be near here, and I’d like to talk to the scholars there.” Lior huffed and crossed his arms. “So you leave to join the outlaws?”

Monty’s sad smile stayed. He seemed fondly amused that Lior’s demeanor was already so predictable. “They do not all illegally practice magic. Some are there only to observe. I go to do the same.”

“Then why not return to the Stellan Lyceum?” Lior asked.

“There are many things I kept from you,” Monty said. “None of them seemed relevant to our task. But among those details is my expulsion.”

Lior shook his head. “I should have known. We’ve been travelling with a criminal.”

“Not true,” Monty said. “I was expelled after the passing of my wife, Aurene. My studies suffered, as did my work. So I was . . . excused from my duties.”

“But why tell us now?” Zeke asked. “You’re about to leave; just take your secrets with you.”

“You asked,” Monty said as he met Zeke’s gaze. “You wanted to know why you wouldn’t see me again, and you’ve been kind to me since we met. I owed you an explanation, at the very least.”

“Seeing as some of the very first things you said to us were apparently lies,” Lior said, “I doubt you would have given me the same courtesy.”

“Because you’re an ass,” Monty said with a genuine, full smile. “Try to remind yourself once in a while that you’re not that far above the rest of us. You weren’t a Captain when we met; you were just an Ironguard. And receiving the gift of a Crownwarden likewise doesn’t make you a Duke. You’re still just an Ironguard. Albeit, a particularly strong and talented one.”

Lior returned Monty’s smile without malice or bitterness. “Those may be the first honest words I’ve heard from you since we met.”

“Consider them my parting gift to you,” Monty said as he turned to leave the room. “Zeke has a good heart. I’d hate to see you lose so much sight of yourself that you end up losing him, too. For now, I think Ezekian Sim is the best part of Lior Drevan.”

Then Zeke and Lior watched Ocrovos Gravemont leave. He shut the door and they heard his footsteps fade as he descended the stairs. Mordane sat on the floor, face blank and mind seemingly empty. Lior nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other while Zeke tried to figure out if Monty’s last words were an insult to Lior or a compliment to himself.

“I’m sorry,” Lior finally said.

“For what?” Zeke asked. “Did his words strike a chord with you?”

“Perhaps. I think it’s worth talking about.”

Zeke’s heart sped up. He wasn’t prepared for this talk yet. “Right now?”

“No, no,” Lior said, waving at Zeke. “I’m sorry, my friend, I meant later. We can discuss it after we’ve returned with Mordane and figured out what to tell the Duke about . . . well, about what happened to us in the Umbral Tunnels.”

“And for today?”

Lior shrugged. “Rest, I suppose. Switch the horses out for camels again. Make it to Titan’s Tusks in a timely manner tomorrow. Maybe Captain Mighell will have some words of wisdom for us.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea to tell anyone besides the Duke?” Zeke asked. “About Mordane or the King’s Well?”

“We have to tell someone something,” Lior said. “I don’t know who or when or what, but we’re blessed. We retrieved a war criminal thought dead. And we found the King’s Well. None of these are secrets that I believe belong only to the Duke of Ironcliff.” Zeke suddenly felt exhausted, and Lior must have seen it overcome him. “Don’t worry about it for now, Zeke. Tonight, let’s just get some rest. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll think of something.”

“I hope so,” Zeke said.

But he couldn’t shake the sense that everything was getting ready to fall apart.

#

Titan’s Tusks

The last time Lior was here, he felt like he was visiting an old friend’s house after leaving home. Now the feeling was of attending a tribunal before being marched to garrison cells. They hadn’t done anything wrong, not really, but he still bore the weight of a man walking into judgment. It made him fear that the trek to Ironcliff Keep would feel like walking into danger.

Captain Mighell met them at the gate again as he had last week. Had it really been that long? It didn’t matter. What mattered now was finishing what they started.

“Lior! Zeke! And . . .”

Lior slid from his camel so he could get close enough to Mighell for a whisper. “Mordane, the Black Vulture.”

Mighell’s eyes went wide. “This is what the Duke sent you after? I thought he was long dead.”

“He may be,” Lior said. “He’s been acting strange. I have my suspicions. But for now, I think it’s best we keep his identity a secret.”

“I agree,” Mighell said. “Come in, rest. I have a cell I can place him in, then we can talk.”

As Mighell took Mordane away, Zeke slipped off of the camel and stepped closer to Lior to ask, “Are we going to tell him?”

“No,” Lior said. “Not about the Well. That information belongs only to the other Crownwardens.”

Within the hour, Mighell had discreetly locked Mordane away and invited Lior and Zeke to his own personal chambers to talk. He had food waiting there, but it was nothing like the last time Lior had passed through. This time they had bowls of a simple soup made from boiling wild onions with salt-and-peppered legumes—mostly chickpeas and lentils—with a hearty stack of dense flatbread to soak up the broth.

They had eaten in silence for a time before Mighell finally said, “I suspect Necromancy.”

“As do I,” Lior said.

“Is there a way to check?” Zeke asked.

Lior shook his head. “Besides, why bother? We were ordered to bring Mordane to the Duke. If I recall, he even told us to expect some kind of foul play.”

“‘Bring him to me,’” Zeke said, repeating the Duke’s words, “‘or whatever now wears his body.’”

“Veylan will not tolerate this,” Mighell said. “I know he has given you orders, but if you bring an undead into Ironcliff Keep . . . Lior, he could have you executed.”

“For fulfilling my duty?” Lior asked.

“To avoid having to Bestow us,” Zeke said.

Lior felt a flash of anger cross his heart, but it was less intense this time. He wondered if it was because he suspected Zeke was right. Still, it was his duty to defend the honor of his Duke, so he softened his tone and said, “We can’t talk about the Duke like that.”

“The boy has a point,” Mighell said. Lior looked at him in surprise, but even the captain was visibly displeased with his own admission. “The Duke hasn’t bestowed anyone since the Trade War, and after what happened with Mordane, I don’t think he ever will again.”

“Not you as well,” Lior groaned. “Veylan is a Crownwarden, you think he would squander such a gift?”

Zeke answered, but his voice was low and quiet as he tested the waters for Lior’s reaction. “I think he fears it, now.”

“It would make sense,” Mighell agreed. “They were given the power to anoint more Crownwardens and never did. Perhaps the reasons why are the same for Veylan refusing to Bestow anyone with a lesser gift.”

“Alright, then what?” Lior asked, pushing his half-finished soup away and leaning back in his chair. “We run? Do you advise us to flee Ironcliff?”

“You’ll both have to make your own decisions,” Mighell said. “I won’t advise you one way or the other. I’m merely telling you things you can expect to happen.”

Lior stood from the table. “We need to rest up if we’re to be presentable to the Duke tomorrow.”

Mighell sighed and nodded. “I understand. But send word when you reach Ironcliff. Don’t leave me to wonder about your fate.” Then, to Zeke: “What are you going to do?”

“Stay with Lior,” Zeke said. “He’s closer to me than a brother. I won’t abandon him. Not for anything.”

Despite the growing apprehension, the tense worry, and the nagging feeling that everything Lior’s life had amounted to was going to end soon, Lior felt a spring of hope open inside him. No matter what happened, at least he wouldn’t be alone.

Lior reached out and placed a hand on Zeke’s shoulder. “Thank you for being so patient with me. I admit I haven’t been the best friend I could be. Not for a few months now. But there is no one else I’d rather do this with.”

Zeke smiled. Lior wanted to tell him that Monty was right, that Zeke was the best part of him, but something inside his chest refused to loosen. He didn’t know if it was pride or shame or something else, but if he would hesitate to say the words then now wasn’t the right time.

He hoped there would be a chance for a better time after their return.

#

Ironcliff Keep

Zeke had seen Ironcliff Keep one hundred times over, the memories stretching as far back as he could remember, but it never felt quite as imposing as it did now. The maroon masonry against the tan, dusty mountainside made the keep look like an angry rash. It seemed to grow outward from the mountainside, its harsh angles jutting from the uneven surfaces of cliffsides and rises. Duke Veylan’s throne room was in the highest tower, the one that rose above even the mountain’s own peak and overlooked the sandy dunes beyond.

Only now, when Zeke was approaching with an uncertain fate, did he realize how deliberately Ironcliff Keep had been designed to intimidate. It loomed over them, angry and impatient. Even the sky was dark with brooding clouds spewed from Widow’s Peak. The only way their approach would have been more menacing was if the dormant volcano were making an ashen snowfall—something it had done only twice as far as Zeke could remember.

“Last chance to turn back,” Lior said.

Zeke only shook his head.

The entrance was flanked by two Ironguard sentries, their shining, copper half-plate bearing the sigil of the Iron Hawk—a black desert raptor with its wings spread across a red shield. The guard on the left pointed, and the one on the right shielded his eyes against the setting sun to see.

“Lior Drevan and Ezekian Sim return!” one of them shouted as they moved to open the gates.

One of the sentries, a man Zeke didn’t recognize, ran out to greet them. “It’s good to see you again,” he said before he noticed their passenger. His smile fell. “Who’s the cloaked one?”

“The prisoner Duke Veylan sent us to fetch,” Lior said.

The sentry nodded and moved to grab Mordane.

“No,” Zeke said, dismounting the camel and reaching Mordane first. “We’ll take him.”

“The Duke swore you to secrecy?” the sentry asked.

“He did not,” Lior said. “But neither did his target seem like someone he would want to announce to everyone in the keep.”

The sentry only saluted and moved out of the way.

Lior dismounted and grabbed Mordane’s right arm while Zeke grabbed his left. They marched the Black Vulture through the large gate and began the long climb to the throne room.

“I don’t like this,” Zeke said.

Lior looked anxious, too, but only said, “Well, at least it’s almost over.”

When they reached the top, the throne room guards were already opening the wooden doors. They were inlaid with copper filigree in elegant patterns reminiscent of wings and feathers, shining as if recently polished, and even the hinges made no noise as they moved. The silence of such large, ornate doors felt like a bad omen. Zeke’s heartbeat quickened even more.

They stepped into the throne room, tugging Mordane along in his shuffling, limping gait. The azure carpet trailing from the entrance to the marmoreal throne seemed longer than before—the whole room did. The stained glass was darker than the last time Zeke had seen it, even if only because of the setting sun. Duke Veylan Drex sat on the throne underneath it. The marble was carved into three distinct, rising points, and the Duke’s extended wings were resting in the shallow grooves of the throne’s trident-like outer prongs.

“And so you have returned,” the Duke said. “Show me the Black Vulture.”

Lior stepped forward and unceremoniously yanked the cloak free from Mordane. The Duke stood, tucked his wings in, and sauntered down to his greatest mistake. He grabbed Mordane by the jaw, tilted the prisoner’s head left and right, and looked over the Black Vulture’s shoulder at the disgraced Bestowed’s miserable excuses for wings.

“What’s your name?” Veylan asked.

“Mordane,” the prisoner rasped.

“How did you die?” Veylan asked.

Mordane did not answer.

In one smooth motion, Veylan withdrew a dagger from a sheath on his hip and plunged it into Mordane’s throat. Mordane didn’t react.

“Undead,” Veylan said. “I expected as much.” He took a half-step backwards, and leaned into the gift that made him a Crownwarden. A layer of shining, mirror-polished iron bloomed underneath his tunic, crawling across his arms, up his neck, and down his wings. In the blink of an eye, his whole body was covered in it. He looked like a living statue. Then, with an elegant twirl, the Duke spun and decapitated Mordane with the razor-sharp feathers of his iron wings. The body fell into a limp, bloodless pile on the floor, the head rolling across the carpet.

“What I did not expect,” the Duke said, turning his attention to Lior and Zeke, “was for the two of you to raise him.” He took a step toward them, his wings flexing. “Where did you learn such vile arts?”

“We did no such thing, my Duke,” Lior said, kneeling before Veylan to show his submission.

Lior made a small gesture at Zeke to do the same, but Zeke was frozen in place with fear. One simple little spin, like a dancer, was all it took to behead Mordane. Lior looked behind himself at Zeke, pleading through his eyes. If Duke Veylan wanted them dead, they would die here.

Except . . . what about his new gift?

Zeke felt an alien wash of calm flow through his body. He couldn’t die. He set his jaw and kneeled with grace, steady and prepared.

“I felt his connection to me sever, then reignite. I sent you to fetch him. Not six days later, it was severed again; this time it never returned. Yet you arrive with him, walking and knowing his name but nothing else? The only explanation was that you had to kill him, then you raised him to bring him back seemingly alive.” The Duke took another step forward. “I have given you everything. I don’t understand why you decided to betray me.”

“We did no such thing, my Duke,” Lior said. “We met a traveler, Ocrovos Gravemont, who was to show us the way through the Umbral Tunnels. He must have raised Mordane without our knowledge.”

The Duke took one final step forward and stopped within range to strike Lior the same way he had Mordane. “You had no idea that a thing who didn’t eat or sleep or shite was an undead?”

Zeke kept his mouth shut about his earlier experiment in Merchant’s Rest. The way things were going, it would make things worse if the Duke discovered they were Crownwardens.

“N-no,” Lior said. “I figured it out after Ocrovos departed, but we knew we couldn’t return empty-handed.”

“And you didn’t think to rid him of the foul magic first?” the Duke asked, still calm as ever as he knelt to be face-to-face with Lior.

“We did as you commanded,” Zeke said. Veylan’s head snapped up, his silvery, solid eyes staring into Zeke’s own. “You said to bring him back, or whatever wore his body. And so we did.”

The Duke stood and motioned for Lior to do the same. Zeke could see the shaking in his friend’s limbs as Lior obeyed.

The Duke reached a shining arm forward and rested his iron hand against Lior’s shoulder. “Prove your loyalty,” the Duke said as his fingers tightened on Lior’s shoulder. Zeke could hear his friend bite back a whimper. Veylan yanked, spinning Lior in a half-circle to face Zeke. “That one speaks out of turn, again. Cut out his tongue and all will be forgiven. Then I will Bestow you as promised.”

Zeke looked to Lior. His best friend’s face was resolute, his gaze hardened with determination. Zeke remembered all the times Lior had spouted his duty to the Duke like it was the only thing that mattered. He remembered the pathetic motto Callum had taught him about loyalty being stronger than love. He remembered how Lior had told him to shackle his tongue whenever he spoke in defense of the Lior who had saved his life years ago.

And yet, there was no hesitation in Lior’s voice, no hint of its earlier unsteady edge, as he said, “I will not silence the best part of myself.”

Zeke felt something in his heart break in the way a mishealed bone needs to be rebroken. His face grew warm, his eyes burned, and he blinked away the tears welling in them. Lior smiled at Zeke with one of his old smiles, the casual ones that he always gave when things were at their worst.

The Duke sighed.

“It was a mistake to think the one person Callum believed was worthy of Bestowal would not also betray me. Never again will I give away such power. And never again will I trust mongrels I pulled in from the streets—ones I clothed, fed, and even named—not to bite the hand that fed them.”

Lior closed his eyes and stood firm, waiting for the killing blow to come.

“But I’ve come to learn that people like you don’t fear death,” the Duke said to Lior. “Mordane didn’t, and neither have you. You would be proud to die here, having done the thing you thought was ‘right.’ The only thing men like you have ever feared was disgrace. Humiliation.” The Duke stepped back. “Guards,” he called. The two Ironguard outside the door rushed in, spears at the ready. “Toss these two into the dunes. They are to be stripped of everything I have ever given them: their ranks, their possessions, and even their names. Then send out a new decree to all my Ironguard: by the sun's first light tomorrow these two are to be killed on sight, along with anyone seen giving them aid.”

“Yes, my Duke,” the two Ironguard said in unison. Without hesitation, they marched up to Zeke and Lior to grab them.

“They will leave here with nothing I gave them,” the Duke said, “not even the clothes they wear. Strip them of everything.” He locked eyes with Lior as the Ironguard began to strip them of the only protection they would have against the elements: their cloaks, their leathers, their lining garments, and even their boots. “Scurry away, mice,” Veylan said. “Die in the dunes or flee until your feet bleed; I care not.” The Duke’s ironskin faded away, retreating underneath his tunic once more as he walked back toward his throne. “And burn the corpse,” he said over his shoulder, gesturing at Mordane. “But wait until those two are long gone. I wouldn’t want them finding shelter in the flames.”

And with that, the lives of Lior Drevan and Ezekian Sim ended. In the cruel cold of the desert night, two nameless men were tossed outside the gates of Ironcliff Keep. The younger one wrapped his arms around his exposed body, trying to hold in any warmth he could, as they stumbled into the sandy horizon.

Chapter 4: The Shadow & The Prophet

When Lior opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Duke Veylan Drex in a black void. Standing beside him were the other two rulers of Leseron: Duke Rhys Volanar and Duchess Isolde Mariwyn. All three were wearing their heraldic badges of the Crownwardens. They were smiling at him, and Duke Veylan was beaming with pride.

“What is this place?” Lior asked. “What happened?”

There was a figure behind the Crownwardens. They parted to make way for him and he stepped into the light. Lior had never seen the man before, but he knew from history lessons and drawings and the crown exactly who this was: King Wendell. The sight of the King was all it took for Lior to realize wherever he was, whatever he was seeing, it wasn’t real.

“What do you want from me?” Lior asked instead.

“I am here to offer you my power,” King Wendell said. “Not just to become Crownwarden, but to take my own place as King.” Lior opened his mouth to ask why, but the King didn’t wait. “I have seen you, Lior. You are worthy. Perhaps the only one. Someone needs to lead and I have chosen you. I know you will do right by our people.”

“I would,” Lior said, pride filling his chest. “Given the chance, my King, I would.”

“And so you shall have that chance,” the King said as he knelt. He took the crown from his head and bowed to Lior. “Taking this power will erase me, but I am willing to be forgotten. It is time for someone with a stronger heart and a more noble disposition to take my place.”

Lior’s pride began to disappear. “I don’t want to be King, nor do I want to replace you.”

“You must,” Veylan said as he took a step forward. “Leseron needs strength now, and a strong ruler must take power when a weaker man surrenders it.”

“No,” Lior said as he stepped away from the four legends before him. “That isn’t what I want. I want the power to serve, not the power to rule.”

“Would you step into the shadows and serve me, then?” King Wendell asked. “Would you help me lead from the darkness, with no power to change anything at all, and be forgotten after sacrificing everything?”

Is that really what Lior wanted? Did he want obscurity? Was he content with the idea of being erased and forgotten? Of fading into the shadows forever? He had only ended up here because he was after power in the first place, the power of one of Duke Veylan’s Bestowed.

But he wanted power so he could change the kingdom for the better. If he could do that without power, would he still?

“Yes,” he finally said. “I will serve my King however he sees fit. Even if weak and lowly, even if only from the shadows.”

King Wendell replaced his crown and stood. The other Crownwardens faded away into smoke behind him. “Then the shadows shall call you one of their own,” the King said.

Then there was nothing.

Lior was in the dark void alone, floating and confused. The darkness around him grew thicker, like a bog. He struggled against it, trying to swim or reorient himself. But soon the air was so thick he couldn’t even breathe it. The shadows forced their way into his mouth, down his throat, and he became one with them.

He gasped, finally able to breathe again, and despite his eyes already being open, he felt himself open them again. This time, he was falling through a cerulean glow. No, not falling. He was being lifted by it.

The Well spit him out and he hit the stone floor of the Umbral Tunnels hard enough to knock the wind from him. He coughed, rolled onto his stomach, and scrambled to get back to his feet. He looked around the cavern in a panic, remembering that only moments ago he and Zeke had been pursued here by some monstrous creature. But the creature was nowhere to be seen.

The Well began to hum and buzz. He turned to look, and its light flashed once with a brilliant glow. Zeke came tumbling out of the Well, landing on his side and rolling a few feet. Lior rushed to Zeke and pulled him up.

“Stand, brother,” Lior said. “The beast may still be nearby.”

Zeke squinted and reached a gloved hand up to push against his eyes. “My head hurts,” he groaned. “I haven’t had rest in days.”

“No,” Lior said. “Wherever we went, it was for only a few minutes.”

Zeke looked up at Lior, brows furrowed in confusion. “Lior, I was in there for days. Duke Veylan wanted to have you executed. I died trying to stop him and save you. Many times. Every time I died, I was sent back to try again and I tried for days.”

Something in the darkness made a wet, slithering sound.

“Later, Zeke,” Lior said. “We’ll discuss this when we’re safe.”

“We have no idea where we are,” Zeke said. “Do we run? Look for an exit? Stay put?”

Lior felt the shadows calling to him, beckoning him to take shelter within their embrace. “Hide first,” Lior whispered as he moved from the light of the Well and into a dark corner of the cavern. He pulled Zeke with him, and just as they stepped into the darkness, the monster arrived.

The creature was a massive, mucus-colored slug that barely fit through the tunnels it moved through. It was a near-perfect fit, as if the creature had bored all the tunnels itself. Pseudopod tendrils, like the growth of slime mold, were spreading from its mass to connect to the stone with thick strands of muscle. It pulled itself forward with the tendrils before retracting them and repeating the process. This made the creature appear to have hundreds of membranous, chaotically shaped arms growing from every inch of its body. 

Its head emerged from the darkness into the light cast by the Well. It flinched back for a moment, as if in pain, but only for a second before it pressed forward again. As its ropey tendrils grew from its body to pull it closer to them, the creature’s head opened. Flaps of layered skin, like the petals of a flower, peeled themselves back to reveal layers and layers of thin, sharp teeth. The teeth extended down the creature’s gullet, deep inside its mass, where Lior could see other things moving.

They were more slugs like the one that had been controlling the bear. They were writhing along the inside of the creature, squirming in and out of the pitted interior of the creature’s mouth and throat. The grotesque abomination didn’t growl or scream. It gave no warning before it suddenly lashed forward to swallow Lior.

Move! Lior thought, as he threw himself sideways. He knew it wasn’t fast enough. He knew he was going to die.

But then he vanished.

The shadows of the cavern swallowed him whole. He didn’t understand what had happened, but for a sickening heartbeat he was nowhere. It felt like the void he had occupied before the Well had spit him out. He barely had time to have the thought before he was back again . . . but somewhere else. Lior slammed into a cavern wall with a grunt, skidding down the damp rock. His stomach lurched with a sickening wave of vertigo. He looked up to see that somehow, in the blink of an eye, he had moved all the way to the opposite side of the cave’s chamber.

But Zeke hadn’t.

The creature turned and its tendrils fired in all directions, leaving Zeke with almost nowhere to go that wasn’t waiting to grab hold of him.

Then Zeke moved like Lior had never seen him move before.

Zeke was a sight to behold, a master of acrobatics as he jumped and spun out of the way of every tendril the beast fired at him. He resembled a dancer, landing amid the tendrils scattered across the floor without ever touching one. Every move ended with him on the tiptoes of one foot before he launched himself to another position, always just a hair away from being grabbed. It was like watching someone carefully navigate a field of broken glass, but he was repositioning from one place to another faster than Lior had ever seen him move. The creature was growing visibly frustrated as it tried and failed over and over to grab the catlike boy.

Lior’s lower half, from the stomach down, tingled. He looked to see he was standing in shadows, his top half barely illuminated by the glow coming from the Well. He took a step backwards, the tingling sensation spreading to all parts of him that were covered in darkness. When it covered his whole body, he could feel a connection to the darkness. Not just the darkness he was in, but all the darkness in the cavern. He looked at the far end of the cavern where another patch of darkness was. He could feel it calling to him, asking him if he wanted it. He felt himself answer.

Yes.

Then, in an instant, he was there in that patch of darkness, across the entire cavern again in the blink of an eye. He drew his sword, not knowing what this was but determined to use it to save Zeke’s life. He looked for a patch of shadow near the massive, disgusting fiend. He willed himself there and jumped to the shadow, moving the whole length of the cavern without taking a single step. He plunged his sword into the beast’s slimy skin when he appeared, and called to the shadow at the far end of the cavern. The beast howled and struck out where Lior was just a second ago. He would have been caught, but he was back where he began.

The realization finally struck Lior: I can move between shadows.

Lior watched as Zeke used the opening Lior had created to strike against the creature with his own sword. He struck the side of its head and ochre-colored blood poured from the wound. The creature struck out at Zeke as quickly as a viper, but Zeke casually stepped out of the way as if he had practiced fighting this thing his whole life. He plunged his sword into the beast’s head once more. It tried in vain to slam him against the cavern wall, but Zeke moved like the fight was choreographed, like he had memorized the exact moves enough to do them with his eyes closed. He struck the beast once more with his sword.

This time, the creature pulled back. It hesitated, its damaged head moving to look between Zeke and Lior. And then it fled.

The tendrils pulled the creature’s bulk backwards down the tunnel it had been emerging from and it disappeared into the depths once more. It moved quickly, flailing and throwing around its weight with the blind terror of a creature knowing that it had lost. Its bulk slammed into the walls of the tunnel as it retreated and the cavern began to rumble.

Zeke slowly and calmly grabbed Lior’s arm and pulled him a few feet to the side. A few chunks of stone fell from the ceiling and smashed into the ground where they had been standing only a moment earlier. The tunnel the creature had slid back into collapsed, and all that was left of the monster was a glistening trail of its blood disappearing underneath the newly formed rubble. If the creature had made these tunnels, it would not be trapped for long. But at least this gave them time to stop, rest, and think.

“What was that?” Lior asked, his heart still beating hard and strong with adrenaline.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Zeke said.

Lior jogged to Zeke to check him for injuries. “No, I mean what was . . . whatever you did? What was that? I’ve never seen you move like that.”

Zeke pushed himself away from Lior with a huge smile on his face. “Lior, I was blessed! I can’t be harmed. Try to hit me. Right now. Punch me.”

Lior frowned. “I’m not doing that.”

“Come on!” Zeke stepped closer, grinning. “One punch. Right in the face. I just—”

Lior mentally shrugged and swung. The iron backing of his gloved knuckles met Zeke’s nose with a sharp crack. Zeke stumbled backward, hands flying to his face. “Ow!” He doubled over, blood trickling between his fingers. “Wh—ow! Damn it, Lior!”

Lior didn’t know whether to feel guilty or angry. “I only did what you told me to do! What happened to ‘I can’t be hurt?’ Are—are you alright?”

Zeke sniffled and spat a glob of blood onto the cave floor. His voice was thick and muffled and he spoke as if his nose were clogged. “I dink b‘abye I just cain’t die?” He wiped his nose, sniffling and spitting once more. He took a deep, clear breath through his nose. “Lior, I was killed. Like in my vision in the Well, I died over and over. But every time it happened, I just . . . got to try again. I remember the pain, the fear, and then time just reset. I got to keep trying until I got it right. I must have died over a hundred times to that thing. It took so long.”

“To me you appeared to try only once,” Lior said. “It just looked like you could . . . I don’t know, see the future?”

“In a way, trying again after I die is the same thing,” Zeke said. “Lior, I’m unkillable!”

Lior crossed his arms. “I just punched you in the face.”

“That’s different.”

“What next, you want me to run you through with my sword?”

Zeke’s smile returned, wider this time. “How is it so hard for you to believe?” He gestured wildly at Lior. “I saw you move like a phantom! Do it again. Just vanish—go somewhere, right now. There!”

Lior hesitated only for a moment before he sighed and looked at the spot Zeke pointed at. But it was a place touched by the light of the cavern and he couldn’t go there. The closest spot that called to him was in darkness. So Lior willed himself to move there instead, and it happened. He was in one shadow, then he was across the cavern, then he was back to where he began again, all before Zeke could so much as blink.

Lior’s voice dropped to a whisper as he said, “It only works in darkness . . .”

“You can move between shadows?” Zeke asked.

“That was my vision,” Lior said. “In the Well. King Wendell was there, and he offered me his power, if only I would take it and lead the kingdom in his place. I refused, and he asked if I would serve him from the shadows. That offer was one I accepted and then . . .”

“It makes sense,” Zeke said. “It’s like . . . it was like a trial. Mine was saving you over and over. Each time I tried I was struck down by Veylan. No matter what I learned or how many times I tried, he always knew exactly how to defeat me.”

“Did your trial end when you saved me?” Lior asked.

“No,” Zeke said. “It ended when . . .” He took a deep breath. “Don’t be angry with me, Lior, but it ended when I finally gave up on you and let you die.”

“I’m not angry,” Lior said. “It was only a vision.”

“Still . . .” Zeke looked up with a renewed vigor in his eyes. “But Lior, I think that’s the King’s Well. I think Monty had it right. I think we’re Crownwardens, now.”

“Hush,” Lior snapped, glancing around as if someone could hear them. “We cannot say such things until we know for sure.”

Zeke laughed through a grin. “You’re still doubting this? Lior, you are a living shadow and I can defy death itself. What more proof do you need?”

“It’s not doubt that has me worried,” Lior said as an uneasy realization settled in his gut. “It’s how we got them. The Crownwardens were granted their gifts by King Wendell. We just took ours. What will the other Crownwardens think?”

Zeke’s grin didn’t waver. “You think the Unceasing wouldn’t have stopped us if they didn’t want us to have these gifts? Think of the trials. They even tested us first to make sure we were worthy.”

“We don’t know that,” Lior said. “We don’t know anything.”

“Now we have all the time in the world to figure it out,” Zeke said. “You finally have the power the Duke refused to give you. You don’t have to have his ear as his most trusted general. You’re his equal, now.”

“We, know, nothing,” Lior said as he leaned into his words. “We don’t even know how our powers work or what their limits are. We don’t know what consequences or burdens come with them. We don’t even know if we’ll find our way out of these tunnels.”

“We have all the time in the world to discover the exit,” Zeke said. “I can rewind time.”

“No, you can’t,” Lior said. “You could have stopped me from hitting you otherwise.”

“I can now that I think about it,” Zeke said. “There’s a way. Watch me. Strike me again.”

Lior could hear the confidence in Zeke’s words. He knew the boy would argue, so Lior did as instructed. This time, however, he punched at Zeke’s gut.

And Zeke deftly dodged the blow.

“Try again, as many times as you’d like,” Zeke said, smiling.

Lior punched again. Another miss. This time he threw a punch at Zeke’s face. Missed again. Lior, driven by curiosity, heightened his assault. He threw blow after blow, trying his damndest to land a single blow on Zeke. But it was impossible. Zeke knew every single movement that Lior would make. The boy even began to taunt Lior by covering his eyes with one hand and dodging the blows without looking.

Lior finally stopped and leaned over to catch his breath from the exertion. “Alright, impressive,” he admitted. “How are you doing that? Do you always see the future, or do you have to rewind time from the present you experience?”

“Nope,” Zeke said, pulling his dagger from his hip sheath and flipping it around in his hands. “I only go back when I die, so I cut my throat each time you hit me. It let me try again and again until I got it right.”

Zeke said the words with a smile, and Lior suddenly felt very, very ill. “You killed yourself over and over just to glimpse where my blows would land?” Lior could hear his own voice trembling, hushed and horrified. “There is a reverence we were meant to have for death, Zeke, and you just spit in its face.”

Zeke chuckled. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Lior grabbed his wrist. “It is! You play with suicide like it’s a game!”

“It’s not suicide if I don’t stay dead,” Zeke said as he tried to tug his wrist free.

Lior’s grip tightened. “You don’t know that. You don’t know if there’s a limit to this. What if there’s a death you can’t come back from? What if there is some limit you’re unaware of and time just doesn’t rewind?” This time Zeke hesitated, so Lior pressed forward. “Listen to me: the Well changed us. I understand your belief that it is a blessing. But you don’t see what’s happening to you. What if something went wrong and I had to wonder why my best friend cut his throat and bled out in front of me for seemingly no reason?”

Zeke’s smile faltered. “I—”

“The Crownwardens are not invincible, nor are they truly immortal. They may not age, but everything can die. You are not invincible. You are not immortal. You are Ezekian. But if you keep thinking like this . . . I don’t know if you’ll be him for much longer. Because the Zeke I know wouldn’t play with death in such a casual, callous manner.”

Zeke didn’t respond. The air between them was heavy. He looked down at the dagger in his hands and his fingers trembled, his breath uneven. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling slowly. Then, finally, Lior let go and Zeke sheathed the dagger.

“I’m sorry,” Zeke murmured. He rubbed his face, as if trying to wipe away the exhilaration. “You’re right. It’s just . . . so much. I don’t know how to process it. I hadn’t given a single serious thought to the things Monty had been saying. I wasn’t prepared for this.”

“I know,” Lior said. He rested his hand on Zeke’s shoulder. “And we will figure it out, brother. But not like this. Not by killing yourself just to glimpse the future. Promise me.”

“Alright,” Zeke said. “I promise.”

“But we can still put these gifts to good use,” Lior said. “We’ll use them to keep ourselves safe as we search for Gravemont. At the very least, we can try to bring his corpse back up to the surface.”

Zeke nodded and took a steadying breath. “Understood. Lead the way, Shadow.”

Lior’s expression darkened. “Do not call me that unless you want me calling you a prophet.”

Zeke smirked. “Tempting. Prophet suits me just fine. The titles have a nice ring to them, ones befitting Crownwardens. Lior Drevan, The Shadow. Ezekian Sim, The Prophet.”

Lior sighed. He still didn’t like it, but at least for now he had pulled Zeke back from the edge. But the fear still sat in his gut. Because what if next time he couldn’t? Would Zeke change into someone he didn’t know? For that matter, would Lior himself change into someone he didn’t know? And what about the other Crownwardens? How were they to break this news to them?

But Lior shook the thoughts from his head. None of it would matter if they never found their way out of the Umbral Tunnels.

Magic is illegal. The Lycea (Like the Stellan Lyceum) are allowed to study certain types of magic exclusively for bettering Leseron, but they’re the ONLY sanctioned sorcerers. Illegal magic gets you jail time. Depending on the severity, it could be a life sentence.

The only “magic” that is entirely legal is whatever power you are blessed with should you become Crownwarden (this world's version of a "superhero," each power is unique to the Crownwarden that wields it and, as of the start of the story, there are only four).

Necromany, however, is expressly forbidden. Illegal Necromancy gets you executed. If someone kills a suspected Necromancer without proof, there will be a trial. If there is sufficient immediate proof of Necromancy that can be presented to a court without the presence of the Necromancer, anyone is legally protected against the act of immediately killing that Necromancer and then bringing proof to a court. Not only will they be deemed innocent, they will also be handsomely rewarded.

This has been set in place because so little is known after the afterlife, and it is a great risk to tamper with such things. Additionally, in the Age of Myth (before King Wendell became the first Crownwarden) feral undead roamed the land. King Wendell single-handedly wiped them out using his Crownwarden powers, bringing undead into extinction and ushering in the Age of Wendell’s Watch. He then forbade the practice of Necromancy to keep such a thing from ever happening again.

The King had some Lycea scholars study Necromancy in secret so that the knowledge would be there should they ever have to defend the kingdom from rogue Necromancers, but all official records deny that this ever happened.

The following are the things learned and theorized by the Lycea Scholars about Necromancy when pondering the largest five questions of death and the afterlife.

What exactly survives when someone dies?

The Essence survives. It is a combination of three fundamental pieces: The Soul, The Memory, and The Anchor.

The Soul is the continuation of what a person is. It acts of its own free will in accordance to what it wishes. New experiences can alter who it fundamentally is.

The Memory is the continuation of what the person was. It acts only in accordance to the most important memories constructed during life, and new memories it makes cannot alter its personality. It can learn new rules, but it cannot become a different person. It cannot experience triumph so complete that its personality changes, or grief so thorough that it loses part of who it was.

The Anchor is why the person is and was. The Anchor is either a thing or place or person or action that drove the person toward life. If they died fulfilled or having ultimately given up on everything, there is no Anchor and the Soul (but not the memory) may resist being brought back.

Therefore, Necromancy is placing one or more parts of an Essence into a corpse. None of them can be placed in a living being. However, a whole Essence can be placed inside of a living being. This is called Possession.

At least one fundamental piece of an Essence is required for Necromancy. Without any of these, the vessel is just an empty body and cannot be animated. In any known way.

Incomplete Necromancies create the following:

The Soul

A Phantom. This is a being that is the essence of the person being resurrected, but they have no memories of who they are and no reason to return.

The Memory

An Echo. This is a being of pure memory with no essence of the person being resurrected and no reason for them to return.

The Anchor

A Revenant. This is a being with no memories, no personality, and no essence. It is only a goal that must be completed being channeled through a corpse.

The Soul + The Memory

A Vestige. This is a being with the essence of who the person was and the memory of how they became who they are, but no reason for them to return.

The Soul + The Anchor

A Hollow. This is a being with the essence of a person and their reason for being, but without memory or recollection of who they are.

The Memory + The Anchor

A Shade. This is a being with the memories and reason for being of the person resurrected, but without the essence of who they are and thus no ability to meaningfully change. It can learn new rules, but it cannot become a different person. It cannot experience triumph so complete that its personality changes, or grief so thorough that it loses part of who it was.

The Soul + The Memory + The Anchor

There is no word for this as it has never been done and is assumed to be impossible. This is a true resurrection.

Ghostcasting is the act of manipulating one or more parts of an Essence, but without the presence of a corpse.

Despite its oxymoronic ideation (since Necromancy is “Manipulating a Corpse with one or more parts of an Essence”) Ghostcasting is often considered by scholars to be “performing Necromancy without a corpse.”

It is only theorized to exist due to the known quantities of Necromancy, but there has been no meaningful proof that it exists.

What happens immediately after death?

Death is the act of the body ceasing and its Essence being separated from the corpse.

Severance is the act of the Essence moving to a temporary kind of afterlife called The Veil.

The Veil is where the Essence resides until it decomposes, like a corpse, into the three fundamental pieces, The Soul, The Memory, and The Anchor. Then these three pieces decompose, often at random and wildly different rates. When all three fundamental parts have fully decomposed, an Essence and its parts are beyond the touch of Necromancy.

It is theorized that “beyond the touch of Necromancy” is another location, often just called The Beyond.

This is considered the one true afterlife by those that treat the theory as fact.

Does a person retain any autonomy after death?

An Essence has full autonomy in the Veil. As long as it has freshly died and has not yet decomposed into its 3 fundamental pieces.

When an Essence decomposes, The Memory and The Anchor have no autonomy. The Soul can still resist if the Anchor has fully decayed, but it cannot outright deny.

What does Necromany cost?

Necromancy costs parts of the caster’s Essence.

Manipulating a complete Essence is theorized to require all three of its fundamental parts from the caster, which is why true resurrection hasn’t been done. It’s assumed that, when completed, the caster dies (as the caster’s full Essence is gone). The theory has never been tested through sanctioned research because no scholar has volunteered to die for it. Additionally, no credible record of a successful attempt exists.

The Necromancer sacrifices a part of his Soul, Memory, and/or Anchor to manipulate the corresponding fundamental piece of an Essence.

Manipulating the Soul can erode who the person is. If they do it too much, they lose their Soul and turn into a Shade.

Manipulating the Memory can erode the caster’s memory. When it is fully erased, they become a Hollow.

Manipulating the Anchor can erode the reason someone has for existing. When it is fully eroded, they become a Vestige.

This is quite rare, as erosion of the Anchor often ends in suicide before the Anchor has fully eroded.

This is the true dangerous cost of Necromancy: what happens to an eroded Essence?

Do those pieces move to The Veil?

If a fundamental piece of an Essence, or the Essence as a whole, was sacrificed, where does it go?

Does a Necromancer swap theirs for the one they are manipulating, or is their being erased?

Does a Necromancer go to The Beyond if they die from Necromancy? Or do they just cease to exist and get no participation in any form of Afterlife? Is there even a difference?

How does becoming Crownwarden affect an Essence?

It is not known what happens to a Crownwarden when they are killed, because it has never been done.

The current theory is that becoming Crownwarden permanently fortifies a person’s Essence so that it cannot erode.

Upon Death, it is theorized that the Essence skips Severance and The Veil entirely, and goes immediately into The Beyond.

Chapter 5: What the Body Remembers

The Umbral Tunnels

Ocrovos Gravemont awoke on a stone shore of darkness, bruised and sore but alive. He dragged in a deep breath and nearly choked it back out. The air was thick with a scent so saccharine that it was nearly putrid.

He pulled his legs from the flowing water and dragged himself up the slick, rocky floor. Something about the wetness of the stone was amiss, but he couldn’t see.

“Hello?” he called out into the darkness. “Lior? Ezekian?”

There was no reply.

He felt around himself and through the rushing flow of water for either pack—his or Lior’s. His hands brushed the soggy, bloated jute of a bag. He grabbed and pulled. The bag felt much heavier than it had before he fell.

Ocrovos felt around inside the bag and felt the smooth, spiked metal of the pitons, but no rope or hammer. He also found the one thing he was looking for: a wrought-iron tinderbox. He pulled it free and undid the latch, thankful for how securely it had been done. Still unable to see, he brushed the tips of his fingers across its dry contents to find the small, rectangular bar of flintstone and the short loop of firesteel. He withdrew them, latched the box shut, and slid it into his pocket.

Ocrovos struck the flint and steel together to create a brief spark. In the absolute darkness of the cave it was like watching an explosion. He blinked in surprise and squeezed his eyes shut, but even that short flare was enough to imprint an image in the darkness his mind was trying to make sense of.

The cave wasn’t slick from the water. It had been colonized by some kind of slime. The walls and floors were a sickly green, less like moss and more like mucus. He turned and struck the flint again. This time he saw the cavern narrow into a tunnel that stretched so far it seemed endless. Every inch of the tunnel was covered in so many layered strands of the slimy growth that no stone was visible underneath.

He held the steel out toward the shore of the subterranean river and struck it with the flint several more times. He focused all of his attention on locating his lantern in the brief moments of light. After a half-dozen attempts, he finally found it. But it was shattered and broken. He shuffled toward it anyway, stopping every few inches to strike the flint again. When he reached its remains, he felt over them to assess the damage.

The lantern’s glass was shattered, but the frame, reservoir, and wick remained intact. He moved farther from the water, opened his tinderbox, and found the waxed packet inside. Using its tinder and spare wick, he managed to make the lantern functional again. He lit it and the low flame came to life. He held the skeletal frame of the lantern out to search the cave shore, but there was nothing else besides the soaked jute bag with its pitons. He took a deep, steadying breath before he left them behind and turned to the only direction left to go: the tunnel.

Ocrovos walked for what felt like a while, but he had no way to tell the passage of time. He only knew that he was beginning to consider resting when a brief gust blew down the tunnel and snuffed out the lantern light.

He cursed and knelt to relight the lantern. When the fire came back to life, he was mere inches from a corpse. He flinched, wondering how he had missed it earlier. He held the lantern out to find the corpse had become one with the organic growth of the tunnel walls. The body was emaciated, its limbs frail and fingers skeletal. Its eye sockets gaped, empty and dry. Its skin, though mummified, seemed untouched by violence. Whoever it had once been sat here, willingly, and became part of the tunnel. Ocrovos stood and spun in a slow circle, checking the tunnel walls more closely.

There were dozens of corpses lined against the walls, each one part of the tunnel now.

Bodies were seated in careful, silent rows, stretching into the darkness. Some slumped forward, some sat upright, their hands resting in their laps as if in willing meditation. None bore wounds or marks of struggle. They had walked here, sat down, and let the stringy, dripping matter make them part of the tunnel itself.

His breath quickened and he felt adrenaline spike his nerves. How long had they been sitting here? A decade? A century? Whatever the answer, Ocrovos decided this was not the place to rest. He kept moving, his pace a little quicker than before.

But the further he went, the more he saw. There weren’t dozens of bodies, there were hundreds. He felt as if they were watching him, though they had no eyes with which to see.

The tunnel opened into a wider chamber and Ocrovos came to a stop. Panic tried to settle in as he waved the lantern around to see a cavern filled with even more corpses. But these corpses were fresher, still clearly dead but only by a few years or so. They also weren’t part of the walls or floor. They were seated haphazardly around the cavern, all cross-legged with hands folded in meditative patience.

Something large slithered through a tunnel above Ocrovos. He looked up, but the ceiling had no holes in it. When he looked forward again, his heart skipped a beat.

Had their heads always been turned toward him, or had that just happened? He hadn’t heard any movement, but every corpse in the room appeared to be staring at him, now.

Then he did hear them. The sound of bones creaking and slime shifting behind him. He spun to look and every corpse in the tunnel behind him was staring at him, too. A breathy wheeze came from his left. He turned to see the corpse closest to him angle its head up to look at him.

It was the freshest corpse he had seen; it could have been mistaken for someone alive and severely malnourished. Its crusted eyelids popped open one at a time to reveal milky white eyes beneath. And then it opened its mouth and spoke.

“Mother hurts,” it said through a weak whisper. “Mother needs . . . food.”

The corpses that looked most recently deceased began to stir. All around the cavern they began moving, reorienting themselves to stand.

“Stop!” Ocrovos commanded, his voice echoing down the cavern. “Stop, demons! In the name of the Unceasing and King Wendell himself, I command you.”

“The Lost King will never return,” one of the corpses breathed in a raspy voice.

“The Unceasing abandoned this world long ago,” another whispered.

A low rumble began to echo down the tunnel and through the cavern. The corpses finished pulling themselves to their feet and turned to face deeper into the tunnel.

One of them pointed a bony finger into the darkness. “Mother is here.”

Fear putrefied in Ocrovos’s gut and he took an unwilling, faltering step backwards. A sound filled the cavern like an uncooked sausage being squeezed from its casing. Then, from the darkness beyond, the bulk of a monstrous slug pulled itself into view. Its head was damaged and oozing blood that looked and smelled like liquid sulfur.

“Food,” a corpse murmured. “I am wounded. I am hungry.”

Ocrovos did not move. He had no illusions about winning a fight against or outrunning this thing—not in its own lair. But the corpses were speaking, and speech meant a semblance of reason. So he tried.

“Eating me will not heal your flesh, creature,” Ocrovos said. “If you are wounded then you need rest, not food.”

One of the corpses stepped in front of the massive monster and spoke. “We will not heal. Not from this wound.”

“You’re not just hurt, then?” Ocrovos asked. “You’re dying?”

The slug’s massive, glistening form shifted and its folds writhed like a mass of eels as the corpse spoke. “We are passing our life on to the new one. But the new life needs a new home. You will give yourself willingly.”

“I will do no such thing,” Ocrovos said. It took all of his willpower to keep a tremble from his voice and to stop himself from turning to flee.

“This is the will of your King,” the corpse said. “He buried us here to guard the Well for a century. But two have passed and he has not returned. So you will free us in his stead.”

“That’s too damned bad!” Ocrovos nearly shouted. “If I’m to die here, then we will both suffer.”

“What would make you willing?” the corpse asked.

“Nothing,” Ocrovos said. “All I desire is safe passage to the surface.”

“And you entered the depths of the earth to find the surface?” The corpse cocked its head. “You came here seeking something else. What is it?”

Ocrovos hesitated, but the scholar in him refused to stay silenced. This thing, whatever it was, could speak. It could bargain. “Power,” he admitted.

“With which to rule?”

“No. To find what was lost.”

The slug’s head rotated in one direction, then the other. It made a noise like it sniffed the air. The corpse took a step closer to Ocrovos. “Not a thing. A who.”

Ocrovos gritted his teeth. This thing was smarter than he was giving it credit for.

The slug’s head opened and it made a sound like tearing cartilage. Dozens of smaller, finger-sized slugs fell from its mouth and began writhing on the floor. Several of them climbed the corpse and slithered into its mouth before it spoke again. “Give yourself to me and I will give who you lost to you.”

That must have been how it was controlling the bodies here. Not as magic, but as a parasite.

“Not like that,” Ocrovos said, “not as a puppet. I want her as she was.”

“No,” the corpse whispered, “not like that at all. I offer you the power you seek. The power to raise her by your own hand. You may leave my children here to starve and to rot. I ask only that you be a home for the Once-And-Future-Queen.”

Ocrovos let out a single, bitter laugh. “I see you control the bodies of the dead. I know you would control the living just the same.”

There was a short moment of silence before the corpse spoke again. “And a bargain can be made in favor of she who is patient—the Once-And-Future-Queen. Be not a home, be a protector. Bring her current home to the surface and she will teach you what you wish to know.”

From the darkness beyond the lantern came another corpse, or at least someone dead enough to be mistaken for one. This body, however, was one Ocrovos recognized. It was a man burdened with broken wings and patches of iron where skin should be. It was the butcher of the Trade War: Mordane, the Black Vulture.

“This one is she,” Mordane said. His voice was weak and creaking, like an elderly man. “This one will die without her. Allow this one to lead you to the surface. She will teach you what you wish to know and find a new home. One that is not you.”

“Why not just go?” Ocrovos asked.

“This one is too frail to defend itself, and this one is the strongest she has.” The gargantuan slug moved itself closer to Mordane, close enough to defend him. “The Once-And-Future-Queen is within this one. Should she perish, so too will the rest of us.”

“But you must have hundreds of moving corpses here, not to mention your large friend there.”

“Look at them,” Mordane said. Ocrovos looked at the corpses. The ones that were standing were waving back and forth, struggling to keep their balance. Their thin legs looked like they would snap under the meager weight of simple leather armor. “They would fall to any man brave enough to brandish a mere stick against us. And the Spawn-Bearer cannot tolerate the light of day. Besides, your friends have mortally wounded it. It will no longer last.”

“And you would trust me so willingly? That is reason enough for me not to trust in you.”

“No,” Mordane said. “She does not trust you. Yours is a people whose very name evokes lies and betrayal. Even the two who brought you here betrayed you. Did you know they found what you seek?”

Ocrovos felt his fingers twitch. “They found the King’s Well?”

“And now they are Crownwardens,” Mordane said.

“Take me to the Well,” Ocrovos said. “Then I will make sure no harm comes to you before you reach the surface.”

“With your power in hand you will surely slay her,” Mordane said.

No, he couldn’t leave without what he came here for. Even if it meant his death, Ocrovos refused to come this close to a source of power that could let him see her again, even if only one more time, and simply walk away from it.

“Then we both die here,” Ocrovos said.

Mordane slowly shook his head. “Only you. You will struggle against her until you starve. When you are weak, when your body is empty, she will leave here within it. She is offering you a better way.”

“What better way?” Ocrovos asked. “Slavery under the control of your . . . your plague?”

“The Well chooses your gift,” Mordane said. “This plague can teach you exactly what you wish to know.”

“How?”

Mordane motioned to all the corpses in the room. “She holds the knowledge of all homes, from all time. She holds secrets from the Age of Myth. She knows forbidden magic.”

The realization dawned on Ocrovos. When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet. “You know the secrets of Necromancy.”

“Yes,” Mordane said. “Protect this one until it reaches the surface. She will teach you what you wish to know, then she will flee under cover of night. Accept this offer, or stay here and die.”

Ocrovos looked over Mordane’s shoulder to the dying creature behind him. Ocrovos had no weapons, no idea where the Well was, and no path back to the surface. Refusing would not preserve his dignity. It would only ensure he died here while the parasite took what it wanted from his corpse afterward. At least this bargain offered knowledge, escape, and a chance to confront Lior and Ezekian for taking the power he had spent years searching for.

Perhaps it was a lie. Perhaps this plague would lead him deeper into the tunnels and feed him to something worse. But there was no safer choice waiting to be discovered.

Ocrovos sighed. “Then let us speak of terms before we strike a deal.”

#

Lior had been guiding Zeke through the tunnels for a long time when he heard the sound of stone grinding against stone. He spun toward the sound, holding out their one pathetically small lantern. He expected to see the giant slug again, but what emerged from the darkness was the malformed silhouette of a person. It was too wide and too tall. But it was shuffling toward them, so Lior drew his sword. Color and features bled across the silhouette as it stepped into the feeble light of the lantern.

It was Mordane, the Black Vulture. And two steps behind him—

“Monty!” Zeke said. “Thank the Unceasing, you’re alive!”

Zeke took two steps forward, but Lior reached out to hold him back. He pointed at Mordane and asked Monty, “Is he a threat?”

Mordane’s flesh, once said to be made of iron, had softened in large patches. His bones had been broken at some point, and had since healed incorrectly. One wing was extended, caked in grime and at an angle that suggested its breaking had never mended at all. The other was dragging behind him, a featherless framework of leathery skin dotted with tears and rips. His skin was ashen and stretched thin over sharp bones. One eye was a blind, milky void; the other held the dying embers of a hatred that had once sustained him.

“Does he look like a threat?” Monty asked.

Lior didn’t answer, but he kept his sword at the ready.

“We thought you died,” Zeke said. “How did you survive?”

“An excellent question,” Monty said. “One I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to. I also thought I had perished, but I awoke next to a tunnel and found Mordane wandering inside.”

“How convenient,” Lior said.

Monty’s face darkened and his voice grew an edge. “Are you suggesting that my near death was somehow engineered, that I conspired to find Mordane down here, and that we came looking for you all because I had some scheme planned? What could I possibly gain from that? All I wanted was the Well. How does any of this satisfy that end?”

Zeke took a step forward and opened his mouth. Lior reached out to stop him, but he wasn’t fast enough and the words left Zeke’s mouth. “We found it!”

Lior closed his eyes and stifled a sigh.

“Oh?” Monty said. “Did you, now? Then where is it? Take me there so you can fulfill your part of the bargain.”

Mordane moved and Lior tightened his stance in preparation for a fight. But Mordane had only turned to Monty to give him a disapproving look. Monty held up a hand to Mordane in a signal for him to wait.

“We never claimed we would take you there,” Lior said. “We offered to protect you. Yes, the Well is real, but we cannot simply allow anyone to go and take its power. That is a gift which is only ever supposed to be granted by King Wendell or the Crownwardens.”

“So you took no power of your own?” Monty asked.

For a brief moment, Lior considered lying to Monty. But he could see something in the man’s intelligent, scholarly eyes. Monty already knew the answer and there was no reason to keep it from him. “Not by choice.”

The mockery and darkness in Monty’s tone was barely constrained as he said, “How convenient.”

“You think these gifts come without consequence?” Lior asked. “I haven’t the first idea of how Duke Veylan will act when he learns of this.”

Zeke’s voice was small, quiet, and very afraid when he spoke. “We’re telling him?”

“What else are we supposed to do?” Lior asked Zeke. “If we hide it from him, whatever consequences there may be will only get worse.”

“The boy is right to be afraid,” Monty said. “If I were one of only three Crownwardens, I might consider a new one to be a threat.”

“Quiet!” Lior demanded. “Do not even think to put such ideas in his head.” He turned to Zeke and said, “What do you fear? That he would execute us? You already believe yourself incapable of death.”

“I haven’t known him as long as you have,” Zeke said. “And I don’t know him as well as you do. But I know the Iron Hawk well enough that I’m not expecting him to be pleased about this.” Zeke reached out a hand and laid it on Lior’s arm, the one still brandishing his sword at Mordane. “Lior, I trust you because I’ve known you to have a good heart. But sometimes that can be a curse. I know you want to believe that the Duke will do right by us. But you’re the only one here who still holds that hope.”

“We can worry about this later,” Lior snapped. Disappointment spread across Zeke’s face, but he withdrew his hand from Lior’s arm and nodded. “For now, we need to find a way to the surface and figure out how Mordane still lives.” He pointed to the Black Vulture, who looked more dead than alive. “Tell us, how is it that Duke Veylan sensed your death, then rebirth? What is it that keeps you upright?”

“I know not,” Mordane said. His voice creaked and wheezed as he spoke. He sounded like he was still dead and only speaking by some unholy means. Lior might have even guessed Necromancy, if it weren’t for the lack of living people in these caves. Except, of course, the mysterious Lycea scholar who had disappeared for a time . . .

“Mordane knows the way,” Monty said. “Why don’t you lead us to the Well first? Then we can all leave.”

Frustration was boiling in Lior’s gut, but he tried to hold it back while they were still stuck in these damned caves with no way out. “You will not see the Well on this day,” Lior said to Monty. “I will not tell you again.”

Mordane shuffled next to Monty and whispered something to him that Lior couldn’t hear.

“Fine,” Monty said. “I abandon the Well. We make for Ironcliff and part ways at Merchant’s Rest.”

That didn’t feel right.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Lior asked.

Monty shrugged and said, “He merely suggested none of this would matter if we didn’t make it to the surface.”

Lior knew the scholar was scheming. But what was he supposed to do in response? Change his mind, fetch the Well, and give the King’s gift to yet another person who hadn’t earned it? Lior still wasn’t even comfortable knowing he and Zeke had them.

“Fair enough,” Lior said, the words slow and cautious. “I’m not comfortable staying this close to the Umbral Tunnels. When we reach the surface, we’ll pack up and head north. We can spend the night at Unceasing’s Oath, where sleep should come more easily—away from these accursed tunnels.”