Deus Necros

Celest snapped her fingers, and an old servant came over. A woman clearly in the age of retirement, but seemed to have more to her than meets the eye.

She arrived without hurry, but not with the slow shuffle of the harmless. Her steps were measured, quiet against the veranda stone, and the way she held her spine said she had served in rooms more dangerous than this one without ever needing to raise her voice.

The palace lantern light caught the lines in her face and made them look earned rather than aged. Ludwig watched her the way he watched a weapon being placed on a table: not afraid, just attentive.

The maid’s gaze touched Ludwig once and moved on, not lingering on his face like the younger servants did, not showing curiosity or awe. It was an appraisal, professional and fast, like she was confirming that the man the Princess had brought here was real and not another court rumor. Ludwig found that oddly reassuring. It meant she wasn’t the type to be distracted by stories.

“Yes, your highness,” the maid said.

“Inform Andre that Ludwig will be meeting him at his workshop soon. And that he is to delay any works he has right now unless specifically ordered by my father.” The princess said.

Celest’s tone stayed light, as if she were requesting tea, but the order underneath it was imperial steel.

Ludwig caught the small economy of her wording. Delay any works unless specifically ordered by my father. That was protection for Andre as much as it was priority for Ludwig. It made the command lawful. It gave Andre cover to upset nobles who believed their coins could buy time.

The maid didn’t bow deeply. She simply acknowledged the way someone acknowledged a task that would be completed.

“That is very helpful,” Ludwig said as he realized how packed a royal blacksmith’s schedule can get.

He didn’t say it like flattery. He said it like a man who understood queues, contracts, and the way craftsmen in royal service got buried under demands from every direction. Andre wasn’t some village smith. He was a resource the Empire rationed, and people fought over rations.

“It is the least I can do for a story or two. Where will you be heading after you’re done with Andre?” The princess asked.

Celest didn’t pretend she was asking out of idle interest.

“The place they call the Tower of Trials,” Ludwig replied.

“It’s a dangerous place. This time, only two have cleared it so far; many had yet to return.”

Celest’s voice lowered slightly as she said it, not fearful, but serious. The Tower had a reputation strong enough to make even nobles stop smiling for a moment. Ludwig could imagine the whispers, the missing names, the empty chairs at family dinners that never got filled again.

“I should be able to manage,” Ludwig said.

He didn’t promise success. He promised capability. It was the kind of confidence that didn’t need to be loud.

“And you think this will help you defeat the Prideful Death? This training, I mean?” she asked.

“It’s where he is,” Ludwig said.

Celest frowned, “I’m sure that is not the case. Though no one remembers what happens inside the Tower, everyone who comes out comes out stronger. If they were to meet this Pride, they’d probably die, if it was close to the power level of the guardian, I mean, the Wrathful Death.”

She said it carefully, like she was trying to be logical, trying to reconcile myth with what Ludwig had casually implied. The Tower erased memory. That part mattered. People came out stronger but blind to what strengthened them. If Pride was truly inside, then the Tower would be a slaughterhouse, not a training ground.

“That’s because they never met him, I’ll assure you, no soul would be able to come out of there if that was the case,” Ludwig said.

He kept his voice steady, but there was a sharp certainty in the line. He wasn’t boasting. He was stating a limit. Pride wasn’t a rumor to him. Pride was an inevitable collision, and Ludwig could already feel the weight of it like a storm in the distance.

“And you can find it? Or meet it?” she asked.

Ludwig thought for a second about the cube in his possession. This was the key needed to open the path to Pride. A dimensional Key that will unlock the eleventh floor.

His fingers brushed his ring without looking, the habit of confirming that the tool was still there. The Dimensional Cube wasn’t heavy, but its presence was. It was an answer that solved one problem and created five more.

“Yes, I have my ways.”

“Be careful,”

“I’ll come back with stories.”

“Even if you don’t remember them?” she asked.

“I’ll remember. I never forget,” Ludwig said.

The words came out clean, almost too clean. Celest studied him for a heartbeat, and Ludwig knew what she was seeing. A man who spoke with certainty was a habit, not a performance.

She looked slightly rueful, perhaps thinking that Ludwig was only saying that to not worry her.

“Then you’d better remember,” she said as she stood up, “I’ll need to return to the ball; you can leave. If anyone asks for you, I’ll tell them you went to complete your mission.”

The offer wasn’t just kindness. It was cover. A palace needed explanations more than it needed truth. If Ludwig vanished again without an excuse, someone would invent a worse one.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Ludwig also stood up.

“By the way,” she stopped, “Do you really not have a thing with Celine?” she asked.

The question came like a small blade, casual and sudden, aimed to cut him open without looking like it. Ludwig’s posture didn’t change, but his attention tightened immediately. Celest’s timing was perfect. She asked it right as she was leaving, when a man’s guard naturally lowered.

Ludwig was once again caught off guard. “No, we’re friends.”

“So I still have a shot,” she said as she turned and left, not letting Ludwig have the last word.

She exited with the confidence of someone used to ending conversations on her terms. Ludwig watched her go, then let the quiet of the veranda settle back in around him.

“Sigh,” Ludwig could only shake his head.

The maid from before was standing next to the veranda’s exit. Once the princess left, she urged Ludwig to follow her.

There was no smile this time, no court softness. The maid’s gesture was small and efficient, and Ludwig followed without protest. He didn’t like being guided through palace corridors, but he liked being delayed in palace corridors even less.

Both hands were placed above each other and put in front of her belly as she walked, leading the way.

The posture looked polite, almost humble, but Ludwig noticed how her elbows were positioned to move quickly if needed, how she kept her pace steady, and her head angled just enough to monitor the hall behind them through reflections and peripheral sight. This woman had lived too long in a palace not to learn where danger came from.

Ludwig followed the maid through the many halls of the palace until they reached an exit that seemed to be known to few, and mostly maids and help.

The route avoided the main corridors and avoided the places where noble eyes prowled for gossip. The walls here were simpler, the decorations less dramatic, and the air smelled less like perfume and more like wax and cleaning oils. It felt like stepping behind a stage, where the palace stopped pretending and became a machine.

“Go out from here, you’ll find yourself in the garden. A carriage outside will take you to Andre’s shop; he already left before you returned.”

“Thanks,” Ludwig said, and was about to walk out when he heard.

“Don’t hurt the princess’s feelings, Sir Ludwig. She doesn’t have a lot of time left in this world. Don’t make her remaining life that of self-pity and regret,” he heard.

The sentence hit Ludwig harder than it should have. Not because he cared about romance, but because it sounded like information that didn’t belong in casual conversation.

Not a warning about a scandal. Not a warning about politics. A warning about time..

“Wait, what?” Ludwig turned to the maid.

But the door closed in his face. Denying him any form or sort of explanation.