The oppressive silence of the cursed tomb pressed against Elior’s ears as he led his party deeper into the dark, labyrinthine halls. His emerald eyes scanned the jagged walls, their surfaces slick with an unknown ichor that reflected the eerie glow of his summoned wisp. The faint green light danced across the party’s tense faces, revealing a spectrum of unease.
Elior’s left cheek throbbed faintly as the glow of his necromantic magic pulsed within him, its arcane energy barely restrained. The scars there—etched deep into his flesh from years of practice and condemnation—glimmered faintly. He placed a steadying hand on the blackened hilt of his dagger, a ritualistic token of his craft.
“Stop,” he said, raising a hand. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of authority borne from necessity. “The floor ahead is trapped. There’s a glyph embedded within the stone.”
The rest of the group—four adventurers he’d thought allies—halted. Their leader, a bulky warrior named Garrek, shot Elior a skeptical glare.
“Another one of your guesses, necromancer?” Garrek’s tone was thick with derision, his steel-clad arms crossed over his chest.
“It’s not a guess,” Elior replied evenly. He gestured toward the faint glow only his attuned eyes could detect. “A rune lies ahead. Step on it, and we’re all dead.”
The party’s cleric, a slender woman named Lys, adjusted her pristine robes. She looked between Elior and the warrior. “Perhaps we should heed his warning, Garrek. The traps he’s detected so far have proven real.”
“Fine,” Garrek grumbled. “Clear the way, then.”
Elior knelt, whispering an incantation. A ghostly hand emerged from the ground, spectral fingers tracing the edges of the rune. With a sudden flicker of light, the glyph dissolved, leaving behind harmless stone.
“There,” Elior said, standing. “Safe now.”
Despite his efforts, the air remained thick with tension. He could feel their unease, the unspoken disdain for his magic. It was always like this—his abilities were a tool they used when needed, but they never trusted him, not truly.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Hours passed as they pressed deeper into the tomb. Elior summoned spirits to scout ahead and dispel lingering curses. At every turn, his magic safeguarded the party. Yet, each victory was met with begrudging gratitude at best and silent judgment at worst.
They finally reached the central chamber, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. At its heart stood an ornate sarcophagus, its surface etched with runes older than memory. Garrek’s eyes gleamed with greed as he approached.
“This is it,” he said. “The treasure we’ve been searching for.”
Lys hesitated. “We should be careful. Such artifacts are rarely unguarded.”
“No thanks to you, necromancer,” Garrek sneered. “You’re the one stirring up the dead with your unnatural magic. If anyone’s to blame for the danger, it’s you.”
Elior’s jaw tightened. “The undead were drawn to this place long before we arrived.”
“Enough!” Garrek bellowed, drawing his sword. “This ends here, Elior. Your cursed magic has jeopardized us one too many times.”
Elior froze as realization dawned. He glanced at the others. Lys looked away, guilt shadowing her features. The rogue, a wiry man named Cevan, fingered his daggers but didn’t meet Elior’s gaze. Even the ranger, Dania, nocked an arrow but refused to look at him directly.
“You’re abandoning me?” Elior’s voice cracked with disbelief.
“You’re a liability,” Garrek said coldly. “We’ll have a better chance without you drawing every abomination in this cursed place.”
“I saved you,” Elior whispered. “Time and time again, I saved you.”
“And now you’ll save us one last time,” Garrek growled. With a quick motion, he knocked Elior to the ground. Before Elior could rise, the party retreated, sealing the chamber behind them.
The sounds of shuffling feet and low growls filled the air. From the shadows, countless undead emerged, their hollow eyes locked onto Elior.
The battle was short and brutal. Elior’s magic flared with desperation, spectral blades cutting through the tide of decay. But for every enemy he felled, two more took their place. Soon, he was overwhelmed.
As he lay broken against the cold stone, blood pooling beneath him, he felt the weight of his failure. His chest heaved, and his vision blurred.
“Why?” he rasped, staring at the sealed door. “Why must I always be the outcast? Even in death, my magic—my gift—is despised.”
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, turning into a cough. He clawed at the ground, his voice rising into a ragged cry. “If this world hates me so much, then let it face the same rejection I have! Let the dead rise and reclaim it all!”
His emerald eyes glowed one final time, his magic surging uncontrollably as his curse left his lips. The tomb trembled, the air itself seeming to mourn his passing.
And then, there was silence.