The voice coiled through the flames.
You have been chosen by Death and Destruction… or perhaps you are the one who chose the Ruins.
The fire around me shifted. It stopped burning — it bowed. The heat drained away, leaving only a hollow cold that sank into my bones. I felt it spread, slow and certain, a second heartbeat crawling beneath my burned skin.
I lifted my hands almost without thinking.
My eyes widened. I was alive. My flesh — burned, blackened moments ago — was now almost whole, smooth and unbroken. The wounds seemed to have never existed. The heat of the fire had vanished, replaced by a cold that cut deeper than pain.
But it wasn't just cold.
Something pulsed in my hands. Palpable, heavy, almost alive. I flexed my fingers, and it quivered like liquid steel beneath my skin. A strange energy, foreign and powerful, whispered in my veins. It was both frightening and intoxicating.
The power wasn't just in my hands — it was everywhere.
In the ash, the smoke, the air itself.
I tried to command it, to shape it the way I'd imagined magic should bend. Nothing happened. Only silence.
Then came a scream.
I looked up. The impostors — those bastards — were staring at me, faces pale and eyes wide.
One guard stammered, "H–how are you alive? We saw you burn!"
Another gritted his teeth, trying to hide the shake in his hands. "It doesn't matter," he spat, drawing his sword. "I'll kill you again myself!"
He lunged, desperate to convince himself he wasn't afraid.
The one who burned me before stayed back, watching — cautious. He could feel it too. Something was wrong.
Then he barked an order.
"Kill him!"
They rushed me with blades raised… and that's when I heard it.
A scraping sound. Crawling. The soft drag of limbs over soot.
The dead villagers — my people — were moving.
Their charred hands clawed the dirt, their hollow eyes fixed on the intruders. They surrounded the impostors in silence.
The nearest guard swung wildly, his sword catching in a corpse's skull. He tried to pull it free — and froze as the dead man bit into his throat. Nails tore at his face, ripping flesh and voice apart.
That was the spark.
The others broke, running — but there was nowhere to go. The dead closed in, tearing, clawing, pulling them into the ruin. Screams turned to gurgles. And then — a shockwave.
It rippled through the air, slamming into all of us, throwing dust and bone skyward.
That bastards who could use magic stood in the distance, his eyes burning with something between terror and rage. The dust hung thick in the air. The dead froze mid-motion, held as if by invisible strings.
The impostor envoy stepped forward, boots cracking the scorched earth. His expression twisted between curiosity and contempt.
"Necromancy," he said, almost amused. "But how could you use it? Even seasoned mages wouldn't dare touch that forbidden art. So tell me, why does someone like you—" his lips curled "—a peasant—wield a power this great? No, better question…" His voice hardened. "Why didn't you use it from the beginning?"
Before I could speak, he thrust his palm toward me. The air howled — a focused blast slammed into my chest, driving me deep into the ground.
Pain exploded through my ribs. I gasped, trying to stand, when another blast formed in his hand — tighter, sharper.
I didn't think. I shouted. "Now! Attack him!"
The dead villagers lurched forward, charging in uneven steps. I only needed a moment — a breath — to plan.
But his laughter cut through the air.
"Pathetic."
A wave of pressure burst outward, hurling every corpse into the air. They fell like broken puppets, scattering across the ruined village.
Before I could move, another blast struck me square in the chest, forcing the breath from my lungs. The ground cracked beneath me.
He was fast — but not endless. I'd seen it before: each attack took time to form. The less time he used, the weaker the strike. That was my opening. If I could just get close.
But the dead couldn't reach him — his wind tore them apart before they even stepped near.
Then I saw it. The first guard he'd sent against me — his corpse lay twisted behind the mage. And nearby, half buried in the dirt, his sword still gleamed faintly in the firelight.
A plan began to form.
I straightened, coughing smoke. "You want answers?" I said. The impostor hesitated, brows furrowing. He hadn't expected me to speak.
"You asked how a nobody like me gained this power…" I smiled faintly, the kind that carried no warmth. "…I was cursed by the Ruins — just before I died."
His confusion deepened — and then froze.
The sound came first. A soft crunch. Then the wet scrape of metal sliding through flesh.
Blood bubbled from his mouth as he looked down — a sword jutted through his chest, crimson running down the blade. Behind him stood the guard's corpse, eyes clouded, hand gripping the hilt with unholy steadiness.
The mage turned his head toward me, disbelief and horror written plain across his face.
I stepped closer, my voice low and cold.
"Even death listens to me now."
He tried to speak, but only blood came out. The light faded from his eyes as his body slumped forward, sliding off the blade.
The guard's corpse dropped to its knees beside him, motionless once more.
The air went still again.
Only the crackle of cooling embers answered me.
Around us, the dead no longer moved. Their bodies rested where they'd fallen, like they'd been granted a second death.
I looked down at my hands. The cold inside them hadn't faded. It pulsed steady, patient — waiting.
Somewhere beyond the smoke, another voice laughed.
Low. Familiar.
And when I turned, I saw *him.*
Fake Sir John, stepping out of the haze, smiling like the world hadn't just ended.