On the very top of the note was a warning, one that Pell made sure was visible, before any of the inner contents of the note were. Enya unfolded the note and parsed through the awful, squiggly handwriting.
----------------------------------------
Brat, if you find this note, and I am still alive—don’t you dare make some kind of joke—then I want you to forget you ever saw this note and leave it folded up inside your pillow. ONLY OPEN THIS UP IF I AM DEAD, YOU HEAR READ ME? If you open this up while I am still alive and kicking, I swear to every single holy god out there, I will personally burn every single novel and book I own and you will be banned from ever reading anything but those necromancy books again. I. Am. Serious. Enya. Don’t. You. Open. Dare. Open. This. Up. If. I. Am. Still. Alive.
…
…
…
Alright, you opened the damn note. This is your last warning. If you opened it up by accident or it unfolded itself, close it right now. Once again, I am serious.
----------------------------------------
To the Brat,
If you’re reading this, that means I bit the dust for real this time. I’m either dead, gone, or whatever counts as not coming back for a stubborn sack of bones like me. I told you before, don’t read this unless I’m really, truly done for, because if I catch you peeking early, well... let’s just say you wouldn’t hear the end of it.
Alright, now that you’re actually reading it, here’s the deal.
First off, I know I’ve been hard on you, brat. I’ve yelled at you, called you names, and probably made you think I hated your guts half the time. Well, most of the time.
I didn’t sugarcoat things, and I didn’t exactly treat you like you’re special, even though you are. You’re a noble, for crying out loud, one of those high-and-mighty types that I usually can’t stand. And? You were such a whiny, stubborn little thing when I met you. But... you didn’t deserve how I treated you. Honestly, even as I’m writing this, I’m still insulting you, so, that’s my bad, but deal with it. Ah, whatever. Deal with it.
So, I’m sorry. Yeah, you heard that right. I’m apologizing. Don’t get used to it, alright? You’ll only read this once—literally. Because I can’t write you another note. But I need you to know that all the yelling and name-calling wasn’t because I hated you. It’s because I had a plan. And, well, because I’m a bit of a bastard sometimes. But mostly, it was the plan.
I needed you to become a necromancer. Not just for your sake, but for mine. You might’ve thought that all those dusty books I shoved in your hands, all those lessons about raising skeletons and controlling the dead were for your survival in this hellhole of a dungeon. And yeah, in a way, they were. But mostly, it was for me. I needed you to get strong, to fight the monsters, and to go deeper into the dungeon. My endgame? The dungeon core. If we could’ve fought our way to it, I figured we could’ve taken control, maybe found a way out.
But you already knew that. Just fight the monsters, go down the floors, beat more monsters, take down the boss, and maybe secure our freedom. If you got stronger, we’d both make it out alive—it’d be a win-win. I show you the ropes and anything you’re unfamiliar with, and you master all the magical garbage to get me out of the dungeon.
But here’s the thing I didn’t tell you: you didn’t need to do any of that. You, brat, you could’ve walked out of this dungeon any damn time you wanted. I knew know the way out. I could’ve told you to head upstairs, past the monsters, past the traps, and you’d have been free. Sure, it wouldn’t have been easy—the monsters up there would still want to kill you, and getting through all that without getting eaten isn’t exactly a cakewalk—but it was possible. Hell, I even drew up an entire map of how to get out. I recorded all the passages that me and my party took during the first month after I died down here, in hopes I could somehow make it back out.
But I never told you. I kept you here, turned you into something you probably never wanted to be, because I needed you to stay. Although, maybe you like necromancy? You seemed to be quite interested in it after all— but that is besides the point.
You see, I’m bound to this dungeon, stuck here by the damn core, and I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. You know this. But you? You weren’t bound by anything. You could’ve escaped, brat.
I guess this is the part where I admit I was manipulating you. I didn’t care if you had some fancy noble class waiting for you. Hell, I knew you did. You’re a High Noble, after all. Your family probably had grand plans for you, waiting for you to ascend to some rare, powerful class. Maybe something that’d make you a hero, a mage of legend, or whatever fancy title nobles like to give themselves.
But I didn’t let that happen. I still don’t even know how old you are, but considering what age you might be, then you were obviously going for a powerful class. I ain’t no scholar, just a damn merchant. I’m clueless about sorcery and whatever you magic people call it. The only classes I knew of weren’t compatible with you—unless you wanted to become a brawler by repeatedly punching zombies in a brawl.
This dungeon—this sanctum, or whatever—it had books on necromancy, a class that I barely knew anything about. But I knew one thing. They could fight in battle. Summon the undead to do your bidding, or use curses and all of that other dark evil crap. With your skills in handling mana and magic, this was my perfect solution for getting me out of this prison. So I pushed you toward necromancy—the one thing that could keep you here with me, fighting through this dungeon.
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
Necromancy, the dark art, the thing nobody looks kindly on, especially not nobles like your lot. I knew what I was doing. I was ruining your future, making sure you’d never get that high-noble class you probably had waiting for you. All so I could have a shot at freedom. I’m not proud of it, but it was the only option I saw, and so I took it. I don't blame myself to choosing this path, either.
See, I’ve got a reason for wanting to get out of here. It’s not just about me. There’s someone I owe a debt to. Not gold, but something more important. Back in the first layer of the realms, there was someone who meant a lot to me. They took care of me when I was a wreck, helped me out when nobody else would. They’re gone now, but their daughter, Elara, she’s still there. She’s running an orphanage in a place called Eiyuria.
She’s in trouble, brat. A noble’s got her trapped in a debt she can’t pay off, and has been aiming for her for years. I know from my title that she’s still alive—still running the same orphanage. I was supposed to help her, but then I got stuck in this damn dungeon. I wanted to get out of here, make enough money to free her from that noble’s grip, and give her a life she deserved, then fuck off somewhere until I died. I’m not exactly worth a single copper to keep alive. But I failed. If you’re reading this, that means I didn’t make it. And now, I’m asking you for a favor I’ve got no right to ask.
If you ever get out of this dungeon, if you ever make it to the first layer, go find Elara. Help her. She doesn’t deserve to suffer because I failed. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I know I don’t deserve it. I’m sure I’m rotting in hell as you read this, unless I did something to absolve my sins right before my demise—which is unlikely.
But if you can, if there’s any part of you that still cares about what I’ve been trying to do... help her. Get her out of that debt. Tell her... tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t do it myself. You’re a good kid, brat. Even if you don’t care about me—at least consider it repayment, for all the trouble I went through to teach you how to read.
You try teaching a person who doesn’t know how to speak, read, or write without going bald. I’m lucky I’m already dead and a skeleton with no hair left to lose.
I guess that’s it. I never wanted to write this. Hell, I don’t even like thinking about all this mushy crap, but you deserve to know the truth, I guess. I screwed up, but I ain't doing it for me.
I lied to you, manipulated you, and dragged you into this mess for my own selfish reasons. But I guess I'm partially proud of you, brat, even if it soully-pains me to say that. You’ve got guts. It may be because you basically grew up in the past month or so in a dungeon filled with danger, but that honestly doesn’t matter.
If you’re ready to call it quits, head back to my shop, and look in the back closet, underneath one of the crates. There will be a map that I made. Use it to get out. Just—don’t you dare die if you decide to leave that way. If you haven’t become a necromancer yet, just give up on it, as that’ll basically cement any sins I have left over, and I don’t want to burn harder than I probably already am. Just pack up a few potions, and sneak out. Find a magic association tower or something and look for some help.
So, if you do make it out... just live your life. And if you can help Elara, that’s all I really care about.
Pell.
P.S. Don’t think I’ve gone soft or anything. You’re still a brat. I basically just copied an apology from The Seven Squires of The Swords, that extremely dense novel you probably already read. So the way this is worded is probably familiar to you. I ain’t good with my words, alright? I ain’t gonna craft my own prose either for your entertainment, so don't go thinking I'm some sappy skeleton.
P.S.S You snore so damn loud when you sleep.
P.S.S.S If you’re someone else who found this note, please check up on a person named Elara in the first realm, in Eiyuria. Maybe check up on the brat named Enya Empyria too, I guess. I suppose she deserves a break.
----------------------------------------
Enya gripped the pieces of the paper tightly in her hand. She let out a low chuckle as she could almost feel Pell's personality oozing from the paper. Even as he wrote, he couldn't help but throw in some sly remarks about her in there. That's basically who Pell was in a walnutshell.
Enya sat silently, the crumpled note still in her hands, its words swirling around in her mind like the flickering torches that lined the dungeon walls. Her heart felt heavy, but it wasn’t anger that settled within her chest. It was something else—something more tangled and complicated than she could easily name. She read the words over and over, hearing Pell’s voice in her head, his familiar gruff tone even in his written words. It was strange, hearing him sound so vulnerable. The writing considerably worsened and became more scribbly as the note approached the part about his manipulation of her. But it was especially hard to read when he mentioned this person named Elara.
Her fingers tightened around the note as she reread the part about him trying to force her into necromancy. That should have stung more, shouldn’t it? The thought that he was steering her toward a path that might have ruined her future should have made her furious, but all she felt was a light sting.
It was just like Pell, always acting for himself, but in the end, it didn’t really matter to her. She’d made her own choices, hadn’t she? She had followed him not just because of his words or anything like that, but because she’d trusted him in her own way.
A sigh escaped her lips as she sank down onto the cold stone floor. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him, even now. Pell had been a good guy, even if he never showed it. She was still here, wasn’t she? Alive, fighting, surviving because of him. There were no tears to shed, no immense wave of sadness to be had. Instead, it was more like relief, more of a bitter happiness that she got to know a little bit more about Pell, and who he was.
Enya folded the note back up and placed it beside her on the cool stone floor.
She contemplated the portion about leaving the dungeon, about traveling up the floors by herself and escaping. How long, exactly, would it even take? How vast were the other floors, and how dangerous were they?
She hugged her pillow tightly, feeling its soft, familiar comfort, before placing it on the ground to rest her head. Her eyes traced the dim lines of the ceiling, debating her options.
If she decided to just up and leave, then perhaps the dungeon would simply collapse. If she left, then that probably meant she wouldn’t ever come back. She would leave Pell, and Mr. Bones behind. The idea gnawed at her. She didn’t want to leave them behind. She couldn’t. They would permanently be dead, possibly forever abandoned.
Necromancy… it promised much, didn’t it? Maybe if she could master it—really master it—there’d be a way to bring them both back. A way for them all to leave this place, together.
Enya drifted into sleep, not into the lavish dreams that had once filled her nights, but into something deeper, something darker. It was a quiet sleep, filled with a vast and endless emptiness. It was dark, and it was lonely. But it was peaceful, in a way that made her wonder if being alone might not be so terrible after all.
Time passed in this gentle darkness, as she sunk deeper into its embrace. But even in sleep, her eyebrows furrowed, the serenity tinged with a strange tension—an unease she couldn't describe.
Only later would Enya begin to understand the dream’s meaning, and how it had nothing to do with her thoughts. At least, not now.