Deus Necros

Reality changed.

It was not a shift of sight but of presence, like waking up mid-step in a dream and realizing you had already crossed a threshold you hadn’t seen. The forest vanished. The wolves vanished. Even the pressure of the sword in his hand was gone.

Holding in her hand was a porcelain tea kettle.

“Tea?” the woman offered, her voice unhurried.

Ludwig blinked. He was sitting now. Seated at a low wooden table carved with intricate runes, in a space enclosed by timber walls, every plank aged and darkened with time. A kettle hissed gently on the hearth, the fire beneath it quiet and constant, and the smell of ginger and dried herbs clung warmly to the air.

He didn’t remember sitting down. But he was on a chair, looking at the woman in front of him who was far too casual with all this weird stuff going on.

The walls themselves had bookshelf crammed with scrolls and lacquered tomes. And atop the shelves were jars full of… unexpectedly not slimy grim There were no windows. No doors. Just the woman. And the tea.

“Still not an illusion, guys?” Ludwig muttered, his tone dry but his muscles ready.

“No, it is not,” the woman answered for them, folding her hands beneath the silk of her sleeves. Her presence radiated composure. Controlled, deliberate. “This is no illusion. It is real.”

She gestured toward the cup. Steam rose from its surface in lazy spirals.

Ludwig didn’t move.

“You think I’d poison you?” she asked lightly, her voice tilting into a smile. “You wound me.”

“Can’t exactly not think that,” Ludwig said, narrowing his eyes, though his tone remained conversational.

She laughed. “An undead does not need to fear poison, does he? What vines do you have left for it to cross? What warmth in your blood remains for it to stir?”

His gaze sharpened. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

She tilted her veiled head. “An undead? You mean?”

“Yes,” Ludwig said, voice low. “That.”

“That is something you can convince others of, not me,” she replied, lifting her own cup without drinking. Her fingers moved with grace, but there was an unmistakable force in every gesture, like stone masquerading as silk.

“Why’s that?” he asked, slowly straightening in his chair.

“Because you’re cut off,” she said. “From the world, from those who know you, from those who you know. Once you stepped here. You’re all alone. Even from Necros.”

His eyes narrowed further. “What?”

“Even your lantern isn’t working,” she added, and sipped calmly from her tea. And with her free hand pointed at Ludwig’s belt.

Ludwig pushed back from the table, the wooden chair creaking beneath him before tipping and falling with a loud clatter onto the wooden floor. His hand shot out instinctively, already halfway to summoning Durandal.

But the blade was gone. Vanished from reach. So was Oathcarver.

Both weapons now leaned peacefully against the opposite wall, far from grasp. As if they had always belonged to her house, and Ludwig was merely borrowing them.

“Child,” she said, not unkindly, “you should know when you’re in far over your head.”

He took a breath, steadying himself, the lines around his eyes drawn tight with caution. “You should probably listen,” the Knight King said, materializing near the fireplace. “If she wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Likely a dozen times over.”

“Indeed,” the woman replied smoothly, her head turning slightly to acknowledge the ghost. “And greetings to you, former Emperor of Tibari.”

Ludwig stiffened.

The Knight King gave a slight bow in turn. “This is… unexpected. Not many remember this old body. Not many who should still be breathing.”

“I’ve lived my share of life, and seen many things, old soul, even before you took the throne and turned that wretched wasteland to an empire and then turned the empire back to the march it is today… Fate is a mischievous thing is it no?” the woman said, setting her cup aside with a soft clink. Her attention returned to Ludwig. “You had questions.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice sharp again. “Let’s begin with how you recognized what I am. Then you can tell me where my companions are.”

She nodded, unfazed. “The first answer is simple. Look at your hand.”

He frowned, uncertain. His hand was gloved, sure, but nothing seemed amiss. Then he lifted it slightly, just enough that the edge of his sleeve slipped back. Beneath the fabric, the skin was not flesh but decay. A long line of blackened rot marked the meat of his palm, and the bones below pulsed faintly with a dull green sheen.

“This… wasn’t showing before,” he murmured.

“If you think your illusion has failed you, it has not,” the woman said. “That artifact of yours is still functioning properly. Its magic is intact.”

“Then… why?” he asked slowly.

“Because this place,” she said, “is not part of that world. It is cut. From space. From time. Here, even Necros has no reach. And so, nothing veils you. Not even god-forged glamours.”

He lowered his hand. Quietly. His mind spun through possibilities, recalculating risks, comparing her presence against every encounter he’d had so far. And the conclusions he reached weren’t reassuring.

“So,” he said after a moment, “are you saying you’re a god?”

“Oh, no,” she said, amusement coloring her tone. “I’m not that boring.”

She leaned back with ease, lifting the teacup once more and blowing gently across its surface. “But I never said I wasn’t as strong.”

There was silence between them now. The kind of silence that follows truth too large to process in a single breath.

Ludwig’s expression didn’t shift. Not visibly. But inside, he felt the tremor of realization settle like a second heartbeat.

“So what does an omnipotent witch want from dear ol’ undead me?” he asked, folding his arms.

The woman smiled again, this time not kindly, but not cruelly either. Simply… knowingly.

“Me, from you?” she said. “Nothing.”

She lowered her cup.

“It is the other way around, Ludwig Heart.”