Romulus focused on his breathing as he gripped the armrests of the throne, eyes closed under his helmet and his heartbeat pounding against his ribs. He shut out the ticking of the timer, instead directing all of his focus toward the task immediately at hand. Part of him felt guilty, given what it was he was intending to do with the power. The devastation he intended to unleash was… immense. Very likely there would be a large amount of people that would accede to the call for submission. After all, Blackstone and its surrounds was all they had ever known.
Others, he knew, would not be so willing.
His thoughts drifted to Isolde, and he felt regret.
“Snap out of it.” He muttered to himself in irritation, curling his fingers more tightly around the armrests as he worked to divest himself of the distracting thoughts. His point of focus was forcibly narrowed, and honed in on trying to sense out the connection to the power lurking on the other end of the Throne’s network. He could detect a sense of… something as he worked, a lingering possibility or feeling that tickled at his awareness.
He dove in on that feeling, probing around with senses he barely understood as he searched for some sort of click or rightness. Mortarius had been frustratingly vague on what it was he was actually supposed to do, but Romulus had already assumed it would be some sort of resonance action. It always was in the stories. He needed to connect his essence with that of the throne, and the well beyond it.
The feeling of something brushed along his consciousness, and then slipped away.
Romulus snapped his eyes open and turned to Mortarius with an aggrieved sigh.
“You need to give me a hint here. Lay some ghost wisdom on me. What exactly am I meant to be doing?”
“Attunement.” The spectre responded simply.
“Okay, yes, but how? I don’t even know how to use my mana properly!”
Mortarius blinked at that, and his ghostly eyebrows shot upward. “Seriously?”
“Fuck you, Mortarius. Help me!”
The ancient King sighed in turn. “Dark Lady give me patience…” He muttered as he moved closer. “Okay, listen carefully Romulus. All mana is a form of energy. In its pure state, this energy is not dissimilar to an electric current, and we can feel it in our bodies in the same way. For some it’s a simple matter of willing it to work, but for others it’s not so easy. I have a feeling you fall into the latter category, or else you’d have likely already unconsciously activated your sorcery.”
“I thought my mana pool vanished when I became Sanguine?” Romulus questioned.
“No it didn’t vanish, it was transmuted into your blood. Your blood is mana, to some degree. The functional difference is that you use your health, your life force, to fuel your spells now. The actual difference is that your mana veins and regular veins were merged. Mana now flows unimpeded through your body. That’s the source of your gifts as a Sanguine Revenant.” He lifted a hand, tilting it side to side in a ‘so-so’ gesture. “Well, that and the Dark Lady’s ichor.”
“Her what?”
“Ichor, Romulus. Blood of the gods.” Mortarius frowned. “Forget it. Look, the point is that you should actually find it easier to access your sorcery now. You just need to focus on that subtle tingle in your blood. The mana within you is aligned to the Dark now, more or less irrevocably. This is good and bad. It’s good because it means I can tell you exactly what to look for, and it’s bad for a plethora of reasons I’ll elucidate on later.” Mortarius glanced back toward the entrance to the throne room sharply, then returned his attention to Romulus.
“Focus up.” Mortarius said firmly. “You’re running out of time.”
“I’m aware.” Romulus bit out.
“Frustration won’t help, but anger will. I want you to latch onto that feeling of anger and channel it. I want you to really dive into it until you feel something resonate inside yourself. An echo, a… pulse of familiarity. That’s what you need to find. Once you do, grab onto it and hold. Hold tight. Once you channel for the first time, you’ll know. Trust me.”
“Okay…” Romulus said as he focused “...and then what?”
“Then you push every bit of that power into the Throne, and hope to Lilith that it works.”
“Alright.” Romulus said simply before closing his eyes again and focusing in on his emotions, namely the frustration and anger he felt at the situation. When he had stopped viewing Eternus as if it were purely a game, he had felt like his emotions had become… sharper. More real. It might have just been his own mind playing a trick on him, but Romulus could have sworn he had become more alive in Eternus Online after his Descartian revelation.
Anger, anger… He recited mentally as he worked, his hands tight against the throne. The Duke… This situation… Solarius’ stupid face... He felt his lips moving silently as he worked but ignored what he might look like, digging deeper and deeper into his well of anger and resentment as he searched for a spark. Expectations… Family… My parents…
His father’s face appeared in his mind, watching him with disappointment.
Romulus’ rage flared white-hot.
At that moment he found it. Like a match put to pitch, the Dark mana in his veins erupted into an unseen inferno, and the power lurking within him roared to life. Romulus shuddered in his throne as it did, his lips parted in pain and pleasure at the feeling of the destruction raging in his veins. It felt like a river of fire, like an avalanche of ice, like he was being caressed and stabbed all at once. He tasted copper, and he realised that one of his fangs had punctured his bottom lip.
Fangs. He had fangs.
The thought snapped Romulus back to awareness and he found himself slouched in the throne, panting for air and shaking. “I did it.” He breathed as he looked toward Motarius. “I found my mana.”
“Nice work.” Mortarius said half-heartedly. “Now find the well before the Duke gets here.”
“Huh?” Romulus asked with a lingering sense of befuddlement. “Oh. Right. The well.” His eyes blinked through his confusion, and then widened. “Holy shit, the well!”
A glance at his HUD as he scrambled to find his focus again made his heart race.
He’d lost almost his entire remaining time trying to find his mana. His window was counted in seconds, not minutes. Cursing himself wordlessly, Romulus hastily adjusted his sitting posture and drew Lightsbane, resting the blade along his knees and assuming a collected and controlled position on the throne.
He needed to appear completely in control.
After that was done, he immediately summoned his Dark mana again, finding it easily after the initial ‘awakening’ of his connection. The shiver of pain and pleasure rolled through him again, and he understood why Lilith was the way she was in that moment. If this was Her essence, he could easily see why She vacillated between sex kitten and stern teacher with ease. The energy in his veins was what he assumed crack cocaine must feel like. It left him focused and excited in equal measure, like his mind had sharpened and his emotions had been whipped into a frenzy at the same moment.
It was an initially disconcerting, paradoxical feeling.
“He’s almost here.” Mortarius warned him, the ghost’s gaze fixed on the doors to the throne room.
“Can he see you?” Romulus asked distractedly, already trying to find a way to funnel his dark mana into the throne in a viable manner.
“Only if I want him to. Normally that would require me drawing on your reserves, but because we’re in the Necropolis…”
“Not yet.” Romulus muttered. “Stay hidden for now. I may need you to be my trump card later.”
Mortarius glanced at him in surprise, before nodding slowly. “As you wish.” He said easily, though Romulus thought he detected a hint of curiosity in the wraith’s tone.
He put it out of his mind, however, when he noticed the digits of the timer.
10 seconds remained.
Romulus quickly redoubled his efforts, pushing as much power as he could into the Throne, searching for the connection, probing for the path forward, and praying with all his might to Lilith for help.
5 seconds remained.
The sound of footsteps and talking voices echoed from the entryway.
Romulus steeled himself for what was to come.
࿇ ࿇ ࿇ ࿇ ࿇
Duke Rasmus Argent strode toward the open doors at the end of the thrice-accursed corridor grimly, his dawnsteel blade held in his right hand and his polished armour upon his person. His journey to the throne room of the ancient fortress had been an exercise in frustration, and fraught with danger at every turn. From hidden traps in the form of pitfalls, wall spikes, poisoned needles, armour-piercing bolts, and a plethora of other horrific things to the walking dead themselves: Every step had been a form of irritation and torture.
Had his mages not sensed the Revenant-King’s oppressive aura vanish, he’d never have dared to follow the Traveler in as he had. Whether or not the boy or the Revenant-King were dead was irrelevant. All that mattered was that the latter’s power had been broken somehow, and Rasmus wasn’t about to miss such a golden opportunity. He had been waiting too long.
Even still, two thirds of his Wardens had been lost on the journey, leaving him with a scant seventeen and his daughter as the last remaining. Thirty-three of his best pawns, gone. Dead. Slain by traps they’d failed to circumvent or detect, or killed in battle with the creatures that haunted the dread citadel. When they’d at last discovered the route to the throne room, he had been in an argument with Isolde.
His daughter didn’t understand. He could see that his Wardens didn’t either.
His beloved wife… Her fate rested on his success. He couldn’t be stopped here. Not now. Not after he’d come so close, finally, to his goal. When he’d discovered the information on the Liber Nox, he knew he had to get his hands on it. Nothing else was of greater importance. Yet every time he’d tried, those he’d sent had never returned. Not even the supposedly invulnerable S-Ranked Adventurers from the Guild in Valencia, the Kingdom’s capital, had been up to the task.
When that immortal Traveler had walked into his city, though…
Rasmus smiled grimly beneath his beard. That fool boy had been perfect.
He’d recognised a Revenant Runeblade that moment he’d laid eyes on it, and he’d known in that moment that he had made the right decision. He’d wanted to imprison the boy at first. He could hardly have an unknown element in his city when he was trying to wrest the Liber Nox from the hands of the dead Revenant-King… but that sword. Had he not known it to be impossible, Rasmus would have simply tried to kill the boy and take it from him.
A pity the weapons only allowed one master in their lifetimes.
As the entrance to the throne room loomed, the Duke schooled himself to calm. It wouldn’t do for his underlings to see his eagerness, not in such an accursed place. He would need to give many offerings to Solarius once all the business within the Necropolis was concluded. It was only proper. He would need to appease the god of Light when he shattered the rules of nature and brought his beloved back to life.
Perhaps the Liber Nox would be payment enough to soothe the god’s wrath.
“Your Grace, please, let us go ahead of you. It’s our duty.”
Rasmus blinked at the sound of a voice and turned to the warden who’d spoken, struggling to remember the helmeted man’s name. L… L… Lamonte!
“Thank you, Warden Lamonte.” He said with a practised smile. “I am in your care.”
Only a little longer. He’d only need to pretend a little longer. Once he had her back, he could be done with the pretense. The Liber Nox could make him immortal. He would have no need of these commoners and their baggage at that point. They’d be useful sacrifices for his ascension, and nothing more. They bred like rats anyway.
There were plenty more to replace them.
Oblivious to the Duke’s disdain, Lamonte stepped forward with four of the remaining Wardens, the quintet of armoured men stepping cautiously through the ominous doorway and into an expansive throne room lit by the same blue flames as elsewhere in the Necropolis. Lichfire, Rasmus knew already. The cold beacon of the grave.
The wardens ahead signalled the all-clear and Rasmus followed along behind them, flanked by the remaining four and his darling daughter. He glanced at Isolde as they walked, scanning her exposed face. It was a matter of pride for her to show her face openly when in command; a habit of her youth, and one he had failed to break. The girl thought herself invincible.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Then again, so had her mother.
He looked away from her. Soon, she would be free from any threat to her life. She’d be able to rest easily. He wouldn’t need to worry about his baby girl anymore after he completed his task.
“There is someone here, my lord.” Lamonte said quietly as the Duke approached.
Rasmus nodded. He’d expected that.
When the group moved further into the expansive chamber, his eyes finally came to rest on the subject of his desire: An armoured figure sat upon a throne of white bone, a Dragon’s skull and massive wingbones overlooking and flanking it. A blade lay across the figure’s lap, and at his side…
Rasmus drew in a hiss of air.
The Liber Nox, chained to the man’s right hip.
“Hello there!” Rasmus said with a lifetime of pride in his voice, stepping forward confidently until he was a scarce two dozen feet from the base of the dais upon which the elevated throne rested. “I am Rasmus Argent, Duke and Ruler of the City of Blackstone. I take it by your presence here that you are prepared to discuss terms?”
Rasmus tried to Examine the man on the Throne, and blinked when he failed.
That was… unexpected.
“Terms?” The figure asked curiously, his voice faintly distorted by the full-faced obsidian greathelm he wore, its top crowned by vicious spikes, and its sides marked by elegant backward-swept batlike wings. “Are you here to offer your surrender, then?”
Rasmus snorted at the man’s words. Clearly, the Revenant-King had gone mad in his centuries of undeath. “My surrender? Sir, you are quite outnumbered. Given how far we have penetrated into your abode, I might even wager that you are rather more weak than you once were.” The Duke kept his tone schooled to careful amicability. While he was confident, given what his mages had sensed from the Necropolis, it would not do to be hasty.
His eyes went to the Liber Nox again, and he subconsciously licked his lips.
No, it would not do to be hasty at all.
“What care does Death have for the mewling of kittens who think themselves lions?” The Revenant-King asked in a tone that seemed bored. “I am the fear that gnaws at your spine, the terror that haunts your dreams. You look upon the Avatar of Darkness, mortals. You stand before the Revenant-King.” An armoured fist abruptly struck the arm-rest of the throne, and the lichfire illuminating the throne room blazed with harsh light. “Kneel before your doom, and I shall make your deaths painless.”
Rasmus froze at the ancient King’s words, licking his lips nervously. Had he miscalculated? Had he misinterpreted what he’d felt? He remembered clearly the wash of dark power that had emanated from the Necropolis, and the subsequent abdication of pressure that had emanated from the ancient fortress beneath conscious awareness. It had felt like a boot being lifted from his chest, or a blade levered away from his neck. He had felt the Revenant-King’s great power fade. He had been certain of it.
The boy had done something. He had to have done something. The pressure was gone!
The Duke’s eyes flicked to the Liber Nox, and he felt his fear erode as his desire resurfaced like an inferno. He was so close. He was so close! He couldn’t stop now. He wouldn’t. He had to bring her back!
Around him, he noticed the faint shiver of his men. Saw the way they seemed frozen in indecision, weapons half-lowered and resolve wavering. The fools. The useless, worthless lowborn cowards! Their lives were his to spend, not theirs to preserve!
“A worthy effort, wraith.” The Duke said in as strong and regal a voice as he could muster, leaning heavily into his statecraft. “But ill-conceived. My wardens and I are not so easily cowed by your empty threats. You are no longer what you once more. You are a shadow of your former self.” The Duke smiled victoriously. “Yes. I can sense it. I can feel it. You are no longer the creature you were! All that remains within that armour is rot and forgotten glory.”
The men and women around him stirred, and he saw Isolde step up to his side.
“Your reign of terror ends here and now, Revenant-King! Your eons of predation upon the good people of this world will be ended on my order!” The Duke chuckled as he spoke. “You are finished! I shall cleave your helm from your desiccated shoulders, and the world shall know it was I, Rasmus Argent, that cleansed your blight from the mortal realm! You shall be an example in the cost of dabbling in perfidity!”
Rasmus himself was different, of course. He was going to use the Liber Nox to save his wife from the grave, ensure their long lives, and then hand it over to Solarius’ church. The Revenant-King was a slave to the darkness. Rasmus would never be so easily enthralled. He was a Duke, a man of proper station and breeding. Such basic occultism could never hold sway over his mind.
“Well?” He demanded haughtily, feeling victorious glee thrumming in his body. “What say you, creature? Speak, you knave! You foul beast! Show us the truth of your cowardice, and let all behold the Revenant-King and his ignoble weakness!” Rasmus laughed mockingly. “Speak, cur! We are waiting!”
Silence followed in the wake of the echoes of his own voice within the cavernous throne room, the remnants of his denunciation fading away into nothingness. His wardens looked between him and the Revenant-King quietly, and Rasmus could almost imagine the veneration on their faces. Yes, he had withstood the creature’s terrible presence, and had exposed it for the weak ghoul it truly was.
Now all that remained was to unleash his underlings and let the foul, decrepit old—
Rasmus froze at the sight of movement from the Revenant-King, instinctively going still along with the rest of those present as the creature shifted, reaching up to grip its greathelm in its armoured hands. The Duke hissed in a breath of disbelief as the creature removed its helmet, and revealed a heartbreakingly handsome face beneath.
Pale skin that seemed to shine with the vibrancy of life lay beneath a head of long, silky hair that seemed as much silver as it was platinum blond. His eyes were a shining red, the scarlet irises ringed with silver that crept into them like veins on both sides. His pupils, meanwhile, were abyssal: Like two pinpricks of the void made manifest.
His jawline was strong in a familiar way, and the set of his sculpted cheekbones granted him a regality that bordered on the supernatural. Many had called Rasmus handsome, but when compared to the spectre before him, he felt like an unworthy wart. His throat went dry, unable to form words as a wry smile blossomed on the Revenant-King’s features.
“What’s wrong, Your Grace?” A familiar-yet-different voice asked in an amused baritone. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
“You—!” Isolde’s strangled voice beside him drew Rasmus’ attention. “The Traveler!”
The Duke felt a wave of confusion crash into him and he turned back to the Revenant-King. “That’s impossible…” He muttered as he studied the armoured man, looking from the greathelm now resting under his hand on an armrest to the exposed features of his face. Slowly the similarities started to become obvious, until he realised what it was he was seeing.
The Traveler, Romulus, but perfected. All the harsh lines and clumsy planes of his face had been swept away, replaced with a perfect symmetry that was both terrifying and beautiful. The rugged Traveler had been transformed into a beacon of supernatural health and vitality, with a presence that seemed to transcend that of a mere mortal. No matter what way Rasmus tried to rationalize it, only one thing truly made sense.
“You killed the Revenant-King?” He asked in disbelief.
“Not quite.” Romulus answered him casually. “In truth, I—”
“How are you alive?!” Isolde cut across him, stepping forward from her place at Rasmus’ side. The Duke felt a pang of worry as she did, glancing at his daughter in concern.
“Good to see you again, Isolde.” Romulus answered with a calm, casually controlled manner that immediately infuriated Rasmus. How dare that vagrant sit there, holding his Liber Nox like he was anything more than a lucky hobo!
“I asked you how you—!” She fell silent when Rasmus placed his hand on her shoulder, recognising his daughter’s tone and the argument it preceded. When she turned to him, he noticed her cheeks were flushed, and he smiled at her comfortingly. Of course she was upset. The woman probably thought that Romulus would be able to Court her, now.
“No need to worry, my dear. He won’t be alive much longer.” The Duke said with a wide smile, turning back to the Traveler. This was perfect. His task had suddenly become far, far easier. “As for you, Traveler. I admit to being fooled by your ruse. Very clever. You managed to convince us the ancient one yet lived. Brave, but ultimately futile. You have clearly made a bargain with the creature, and must now face justice.”
“Is that what you call it?” Romulus asked in that same infuriatingly calm voice. “Here I thought you wanted to steal the Liber Nox for yourself.”
The Duke’s eyes widened for a moment, but he called himself to account quickly, suppressing the surge of shock that had filtered through him. How did the blasted vagrant know?! He had told no one of his plans!
“A desperate accusation, but useless.” He lifted his right hand and motioned the Wardens forward. “You will die now, Traveler, and we will commit your tainted flesh to Solarius’ cleansing fires.”
Romulus made no move as the wardens stepped forward, remaining seated as if he hadn’t a care in the world. It was that very lack of reaction that made the Duke’s men hesitate, looking between each other with uncertainty.
“What are you waiting for?” He demanded. “Take him!”
The wardens glanced at each other again, then seemed to steel themselves. Rasmus held back a sneer at their lowborn manner. Good help was almost impossible to find, it seemed. He turned to Romulus with a look of smug superiority as the wardens stepped forward, only to shift to a frown again. The man was still smiling, as if he knew something Rasmus didn’t.
What had he missed? What did the Traveler know that he didn’t?
It had to be an act. Surely, the vagrant couldn’t be—
A collection of cries echoed across the throne room as the lichfire died, leaving the wardens momentarily panicked. Rasmus cursed as he reached into his coat for his lightstone, only to turn away abruptly at a burst of radiance.
When he looked back, he froze.
Standing in front and to the side of Romulus was a figure of nightmare: A flaming skull, ephemeral blade, and armour that seemed filled with the lichfire that once filled the throne room. The creature lifted its blade as he watched, slicing it down to the side to block the approach to the Traveler on the throne.
“If you wish to do my Master harm, first you must make your way past me.”
Its words sent blades of terror down Rasmus’ spine, his eyes locked upon the burning skull and the armour that comprised its body. This is what he’d expected to find. This was the nightmare that he had suspected lurked within the Necropolis’ heart.
The true Revenant-King. The Avatar of Darkness.
The wardens staggered backwards at the appearance of the spectre, cries of alarm rising from their throats as they beheld the creature. For once, Rasmus could hardly blame them. This was the long-haunting symbol of death for Blackstone. Every man, woman, and child in the city had seen it in their dreams at least once, a result of the power it held still within its Necropolis. They recognised it even if they did not recall it, and their bodies told them what their minds could not process: Flee, for Death had come.
“STAND FIRM!”
Isolde’s voice cut through the gloom that had settled over Rasmus’ heart, and his eyes snapped to his daughter, who stood with her blade out and held before her. The wardens froze as well, many of them halfway into turning to run as they looked at their blonde-haired captain.
“Stand firm!” She repeated again, her voice a bastion of strength in the darkness. “This creature is an evil we may yet defeat! Not for ourselves, but for the future of our home! Too long has its reign of terror gone unopposed, unanswered, and unresolved! We shall end its tyranny here, and liberate Blackstone of its curse!”
The wardens glanced at each other, before looking back to Isolde.
Rasmus dared to hope.
“With me! Stand at my side, and together we shall rid the world of this blight!”
Ah, Isolde. Beautiful, noble, naive Isolde. Rasmus smiled with sad pride at his daughter as the wardens rallied to her call, first one at a time and then all at once. They rushed to their Captain’s call, forming ranks before her and the Duke. They were useful tools, he admitted, when properly motivated.
“We go together!” Isolde declared. “Open eyes, pure hearts…!”
“...VICTORY ASSURED!” They trumpeted as one in response to her words.
Suddenly the lights within the throne room burst back to life, and Rasmus looked around in confusion. At the same moment, the spectral Avatar vanished into nothingness as if he’d never existed.
“Yes, it worked.” Romulus said into the once-again stunned silence. “I told you it would.”
Rasmus looked at the Traveler in confusion. Who was he talking to?
“Of course he was going to monologue. It’s about knowing your audience, Mortarius.”
Rasmus grew even more bewildered as Romulus continued.
“Of course it was a risk!” The Traveler said with a snort. “But it worked, didn’t it?”
“Who are you talking to?” Rasmus called out in annoyed confusion.
“My predecessor.” Romulus said as he looked back toward the Duke. “Not that it matters now. The stall tactics worked, though I’ll admit you had me worried there for a minute.” He grinned with boyish excitement as he spoke. “So now for real, Duke Argent, I have to ask you to surrender… because if you don’t, I’m going to do something I think we’ll both regret.”
This boy. This boy. The nerve, the sheer gall, the absolute lack of respect or proper decorum! No more. Rasmus would tolerate no more of this. He tightened his grip on his dawnsteel blade and stalked past the wardens, ignoring their cries of alarm and Isolde’s shouting voice. He was tired of the games. He’d been played. He could see that now clearly. The boy had used his own arrogance against him, and Rasmus had bought into it hook, line, and sinker. Well, the time for games had passed!”
The Duke stepped onto the stairs approaching the dais with a growl, his sword held steady. He was going to carve the little bastard’s face off, skin him alive, and feed him to his hounds. He would see his body hung in pieces from the front of the Necropolis! He would…
Rasmus frowned in confusion. He could no longer feel his legs under him.
The Duke looked down, and confusion gave way to terror.
Black hands lifted the duke from the ground, raising him into the air and spinning him around. Rasmus tried to scream, but no sound came from his mouth. He tried to slice with his blade, but his arms wouldn’t respond. He felt coldness seeping into his limbs, into his body, into his mind. He looked down at Isolde, saw her terrified, wide eyes staring at him. He saw his wardens stagger backwards in horror.
They had to help him! Why weren’t they helping him? Why…
Darkness consumed him, and Rasmus felt himself pulled by something, drawn like a fish on a hook. Suddenly a laughing skull appeared before him, partially obscured by void-black hood. Rasmus saw something flash, closed his eyes on instinct, and felt something within him break.
When he opened his eyes, he was…
...in his Master’s throne room. Yes, he was where he belonged.
Rasmus turned away from the crowd of unworthy supplicants, instead shifting his gaze to the Master. To his liege upon his ivory throne. He felt himself smile, felt his new and powerful body kneel in an appropriate genuflection toward the greatest being on Eternus. All emotion outside of his absolute dedication faded away, and he welcomed the relief of the cold void. He felt himself speak in a voice that was harsher than he remembered, and yet filled with so much more power than the frail, inferior vocal range he’d had as a mere mortal.
“My life is yours, my dark sovereign. Command me, and see your will done.”
Rasmus smiled happily as he spoke. At last, he could serve with purpose.
At last, he had achieved eternity under the banner of the Revenant-King.
He barely even heard the tattered remnants of his soul screaming in the distance.