Rostam gripped the hilt of his runeblade tightly, the obscene durability of the soulsteel the only thing saving the weapon from the death knight’s insane strength.
“HE WILL NOT BE PLEASED, HIDALGO,” the death knight’s otherworldly voice reverberated throughout the room.
“It is not my duty to please Him, First One. Only to keep Him informed,” the lich replied.
“ALL THE SAME, I MUST BE THE ONE TO DELIVER THIS NEWS, AND NO OTHER,” the towering warrior pinched the bone of his septum, an ancient gesture that held to this day.
“I do not envy you, First One. May your final rest never find you,” the lich nodded.
Then the Master of Chronicles turned back to the massive tome in front of him, the left page completely covered in immaculately lettered text.
Rostam looked up, toward the Throne, far above, where he could feel his King sat in repose, then down into the massive Chamber of Whispers.
The Chamber was buried two hundred stride below the surface of Necropolis, where it held one of the most precious commodities possessed by the kingdom.
Rostam stared at that terrible creature, locked in bonds of soulsteel and ice, conquered and brought low by he and his Master nearly two centuries ago.
“HOW YOUNG I WAS, THEN,” the death knight whispered, the immense power of his voice carrying to every corner of the room.
The lich looked up from his writing, but had the decorum not to intrude on the First Risen’s reflection.
He studied the imprisoned creature, looking for some sign of life in its form. The massive polyhedral body, covered in burning eyes that stared sightlessly at nothing in particular, bound by a cage of soulsteel so cold it would flash freeze a mortal hand that laid the barest touch on its surface. The six massive wings, crucified to the great ring of soulsteel that hung chained at thirteen points to the ceiling, walls, and floor.
His King had shattered the creature’s ethereal halo in the midst of its capture, and the remnants of that quasi-physical crown of solar flame were now bound to the crossguard of his own runeblade, granting it the power to strike with holy light or withering shadow at his whim.
The most notable feature of the Chamber of Whispers, other than its angelic resident, was the Crown of Thorns. The Crown was a massive eldritch machine, an edifice of soulsteel and other magical materials built to feed the barest trick of mana to the avatar of Day within its chains and in return, extract the visions his Master desired.
For the undead, as creatures of the Night, could not learn the hybrid magic of Providence, formed from the elements of Day and Tide. There were, naturally, methods of bypassing this restriction, but the ruler of Necropolis had long ago decided not to waste his time and valuable Abilities.
Instead, the Dread King and his familiar, who now stared down at the very creature, hunted and captured Amaziel, the River of Foresight, chief among Heylel’s iryin, the watchers. His King’s solution to the lack of seers among his people had been to bind an angel of the eighth tier, drill into its ethereal body, and suck the future right out of its mind.
“HOW LONG SINCE THE LAST TIME IT STIRRED?” he turned back to the lich.
“Before the prophecy this morning? The Festival of Night,” the Chronicler replied.
“NOTHING ELSE?” he pressed.
“No, First One,” the lich shook his skeletal head and gave the death knight an unreadable bony grin.
The warrior’s own skull, wreathed in spectral flame, somehow managed an expression of exasperation and disapproval, despite the lack of flesh.
“VERY WELL. I SHALL CARRY THE NEWS TO HIM NOW,” Rostam sighed.
“By your leave, First One,” the lich turned back to the tome.
Rostam ascended the flights of stairs that led to the Throne of Souls. The only path to the Chamber of Whispers was through a small room directly behind the Throne itself, meaning anyone who wished to make their way to the angel must confront himself and the Dread King together.
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Few had tried.
None had succeeded.
Rostam pondered as he climbed the steps.
His King knew the Festival of Night had passed recently. He knew what that meant.
As the death knight thought in circles, he reached the top of the stairs and walked into the throne room.
The Throne of Souls was a titanic soulsteel chair, enchanted to bind the souls of Necropolis’ citizens to the physical realm. It was the Dread King’s wish that not a single soul of Geisinvold would pass into the cycle against their own wish.
And so, when a living being was failed by their flesh, or when an undead creature’s body was destroyed beyond repair, their soul fled to the Throne.
The giant edifice was centered in a room of black basalt stone, pervaded by the emerald aura of the Dread King’s power.
That emerald power, suffused with strands of black Night mana, swirled and filled the throne room, drawing the souls of Geisinvold to their King, the Anchor of Immortality that granted both the living and the undead within their kingdom a semblance of eternity.
Here, the Dread King held audience with the wraiths, vampires, and liches that served as his advisors. Mostly, though, the Dread King heard the wishes of his subjects.
In a ritual circle of soulsteel and obsidian laid into the floor directly in front of the Throne, a soul slowly coalesced from a hazy ghostly light into the glowing form of a young woman.
“What is your wish, Sofia of Cadiz?” the King’s soft voice echoed against the black basalt of the throne room’s walls.
“I am weary, my King. I wish to find peace,” the young woman smiled wistfully at the hooded form seated on the Throne.
“As you wish, my child. I release you into the cycle,” the King waved his hand, and a wash of dark mana poured across the space, unraveling the woman’s connection to the Throne.
She sighed in relief and faded away with a smile.
“And you, Adan of Meridia?” he asked.
A spectral light flitted into the ritual circle, and the form of a distinguished middle-aged man materialized within.
“I am ready to be of further service, my King,” he stated confidently.
“As you wish, Adan. I am pleased you are not yet ready to rest,” the Dread King turned to a lich standing near the Throne. “Ensure Adan receives a vessel suited to his skills, and spare no expense in its crafting. Understood?”
The lich bowed and gestured to the soul within the Ring of Manifestation, who stepped out of the circle and immediately transformed back into a ghostly will-o-wisp that followed the lich away from the Throne.
“Rostam. I can feel you back there, my friend,” the lips curved into a smile under the black hood.
“MY KING. I BEAR NEWS FROM THE CHAMBER OF WHISPERS,” the death knight replied.
The rest of the advisors and the waiting souls immediately began to file out of the room, save a single wraith.
“And?” he responded.
“THE END OF HEROES HAS RISEN,” the warrior stated.
“And?” the King replied, his voice amused.
“I REMEMBER YOU BEING MORE CONCERNED LAST TIME,” the death knight sighed.
“A century is a long time to plan, my friend. Let the white bitch come. I will bury her in ten million undead and ten thousand war machines, and if she is foolish enough to fight her way here through all of that, we will strike her down in this very room,” he stood from the Throne.
The wraith genuflected, her spectral knee coming to rest on the enchanted floor of the Throne room as though she were as solid as the stone there.
The death knight did not bow.
“MY KING-” he started.
“Rostam, it is only we two and Iliza here. Why must I keep telling you to call me Diego, my old friend?” the King came to stand before the death knight, and pulled back his hood.
He turned his brightly glowing green eyes up to the knight’s skull, wreathed in emerald flame, the colors exactly identical.
“My brother, we have prepared for her for centuries. She will not come here for the same reason she will not seek out the Last Brother. She is a coward, afraid of even the merest possibility she could be ended.”
“She will hunt the new ones, if there even is a new crop. She will do as she did to us, and to the Brothers, and to the Pirates. She will harry them, encouraging them to grow and become stronger, until she can use them to increase her own power.”
“Then, as they become a threat, she will whittle them down, one by one, until the final one does as we did, and as the Last Brother and the Pirate King did. They will hide, and they will build, until she cannot be sure of her victory.”
“Then another great power will rise on this festering shit pile of a world. And when that happens, we will send them a nice fruit basket and welcome them to the fold, my old friend.”