Deus Necros

Throughout the Empire of Lufondal, rumors and reports traveled like wildfire, whispered in taverns, shouted in marketplaces, carried through the channels of the Adventurer’s Guild, and quietly penned into sealed letters that reached only the highest chambers of power. Word had spread, the Wrathful Death of the Solanian Peaks had fallen.

The announcement had not come from scholars or sages, nor from the imperial court itself, but from the summoned Hero, whose voice carried weight whether men liked it or not. His declaration rippled through the lands in a single night. Despite the Sacrosanctum being adamant on keeping things a secret, the Hero had other thoughts, fame and glory had blinded him, though he has never been one to see in the first place.

In noble halls, where courtiers sipped wine beneath gilded chandeliers, voices broke into sharp debates, questions mounting with each retelling. In the barracks, soldiers tightened grips on their weapons, unease seeping into their marrow, for even those who had never seen the guardian of the northern border understood the magnitude of what such a claim meant.

Even commoners, farmers in distant valleys who had never heard the word “Solania’s Guardian” spoken aloud before, found themselves muttering of the news at wells and hearths. Mothers hushed children with tales of a great iron behemoth that had stood sentinel for centuries, holding back beasts that prowled the edge of the known world. And now, if it was truly gone, what could stop those horrors from pouring across? Fresh chapters posted on novel⦿fire.net

No one possessed the truth. Some argued it was a fabrication to justify a new war. Others swore that the Kingdom of the Sands must have been involved, their war with the Empire escalating into unspeakable blasphemy. A few whispered that perhaps the guardian had not fallen at all, but retreated, unwilling to protect an Empire rotted from within. And in the void of certainty, every rumor grew fangs.

***

At the heart of the Empire, in Lufondal’s beating capital, the towers of magic loomed. Though further apart from each other than the mere eye could see, they were still the five bastions of power of Lufondal, each claimed by a master, each watching the other with veiled suspicion. Atop the Black Tower, its once-broken crown now restored and fortified with new enchantments etched into every stone, Van Dijk sat in his private chamber.

The room was quiet but for the scratching of quill against parchment. Piles of reports lay scattered across the desk, each bearing seals from scouts, imperial scribes, and spies alike. The vampire’s dark eyes scanned line after line, his face unreadable. The weight of centuries seemed to press into his shoulders, yet there was something restrained, a patience cultivated from long survival.

The door slammed open with a force that made the lantern flames gutter. He looked up sharply. Celine stood in the threshold, her silver hair wild from haste, her eyes bright with fury and urgency.

“Let’s go,” she demanded, voice edged like a drawn blade.

Van Dijk’s quill stilled. He leaned back in his chair with infuriating calm, folding the paper over. “Calm down.” His tone was measured, dismissive, as though she were asking for something as trivial as a stroll through the gardens.

Her lips parted, incredulous. “Calm down? Are you serious? This,” She stepped inside, fists trembling. “This is a sign that Ludwig is alive. You know it. Or are you planning to abandon him again?”

His sigh was long, weary. “Eldest sister,” he said, the title laced with old respect though the words felt heavy. “Have I not told you already? He never died. I would know. We are bound, and I have felt that bond, constant, unbroken, these past five years.”

“Five years,” she snapped. “And still you never went to him. Still you stayed here.” Her voice faltered, grief seeping into the cracks of her anger.

Van Dijk’s expression hardened. “You know why. The five tower masters watch my every move, including you. Even if I desired to leave, I am tethered. Do not pretend you do not feel the same chains. And then there is the Emperor, who would happily snuff us out if he suspected what Ludwig truly is.”

Celine’s nostrils flared. “That’s not what I expected to hear from my brother. You stood against the Emperor himself once. Do you remember? Or are you cowering now?”

A flicker of rueful amusement passed across Van Dijk’s face. “And what did that gain us? The Black Academy, under constant scrutiny. Myself, shackled to the role of a mere “Tower Master”, tolerated but distrusted.” His smile soured. “Defiance has a cost, sister. Sometimes the lesson is to know when to play the dutiful hound, if only to keep one’s head.”

Her reply was sharp, cruel in its honesty. “You had more courage when you faced Father.”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Van Dijk’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “Indeed. But Father… Father held love for me. That gave me leverage to be reckless, to play the insolent son the Lout of the Bastos family. The Emperor does not love. He consumes. Do not mistake one for the other.”

Her arms fell to her sides, frustration unspent. “So what then? You’ll sit here and read papers while Ludwig, while he, fights alone?”

Van Dijk tilted his head, studying her. “Why are you here, sister? Truly.”

She turned her gaze aside. “The March is in ruins. No one will go there. It is infested, corrupted. Monsters roam unchecked. No one wants to live in such a place. And… we are broke.”

“Not entirely,” Van Dijk countered, his voice quiet but firm. “Father’s fortune remains. Hidden. Untouched.”

Her eyes widened. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because if we used it without leverage, it would be stolen. Gold is only strength if one can defend it. Otherwise, it is bait for thieves. Father could wield his wealth as a weapon, hold emperors hostage with it. We cannot. Not yet. We need achievements, undeniable ones, to shield what we reclaim.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her gaze softened, if only slightly. “Then at least let me go to him. To Ludwig. He saved me, when you would not.”

His stare sharpened, suspicion threading into it. “Don’t tell me… you’ve grown fond of him?”

“What?” she blurted, too fast. “No! He’s… he’s my savior. That’s all. I owe him, and that debt must be honored.” Her voice wavered. “That’s all.”

“Hmmm.” Van Dijk’s gaze lingered. “Then remember what he is. An undead. Do not fool yourself into dreaming otherwise. Even if you were,”

The rest of his words were silenced as a book flew across the chamber. He tilted his head lazily, letting it pass.

“I told you,” Celine hissed, cheeks coloring, “it isn’t like that. Besides, if anything, I am old enough to be his,” She caught herself, biting down hard. “Forget it.”

Van Dijk’s amusement returned. “Technically, you are younger than me now. After the Dawn Islands, after the trap that held you, you did not age a day. Physically, you are still the girl you were when you were taken. The torment was… different.” His voice darkened. “Still. How fares your eye?”

She lifted her chin. “I have it under control. The Wrath Core was absorbed fully. Occasionally, there are moments, flickers of rage. But nothing like before.” She folded her arms. “So tell me, younger brother… does that make you the elder now?”

He chuckled, the sound hollow. “Hardly. You are still my eldest sister. Titles are not stolen so easily.” He rose from his chair, robes shifting with the movement. “But heed this: Ludwig’s trials are not over. Even with the Wrathful Death slain, eyes will turn to him. Eyes we cannot afford. That is why I will send others, trusted ones, to bring him back. Quietly. Without drawing suspicion.”

Celine’s brows lifted. “Who?”

Van Dijk did not answer her directly. He turned his head. “Kassandra. You’ve been listening long enough. Come in.”

The door opened, and a woman stepped through. She carried herself with practiced grace, glasses perched on her nose, a tome clutched to her chest. Her brown hair framed a face once plain, but now striking, beauty sharpened by years and the honing of confidence. The nervous girl of years past was gone.

“Yes, Tower Master,” she said, bowing her head.

“Inform Joana of the situation. Depart for Solania. Retrieve Ludwig. Protect his secret.”

Her brow creased slightly. “Does Professor Joana know?”

“She was one of the first to learn. Funds will be made available to you through Silva. Do not delay.”

Celine stepped forward. “I have to go with them.”

Van Dijk’s voice turned iron. “No. If you move, the Emperor will smell blood. He already circles. You will hand him the excuse he hungers for.”

“So I must sit here and wait while he is hunted?” she snapped.

Van Dijk softened, if only a fraction. He produced two small objects, setting them carefully on the desk between them: a crystal that shimmered faintly with internal light, and a pair of earrings carved with runes.

“Take these,” he said. “The crystal will allow you to listen, to watch. The earrings, one for you, one for Joana. You may use them to cross to her side instantly… but only once. If you use it too soon, the Imperials will sense it. And they will come.”

Her hand closed around them, fingers trembling slightly. She swallowed hard, then managed, “Thank you.”

For the first time since entering, a small smile tugged at her lips. It was fragile, but real. The thought that soon, perhaps very soon, she would see Ludwig again warmed her, even through the weight of dread that never truly left her heart.