Chapter 7: Burn in My light

Eliza gritted her teeth, tears streaming down her face as she tried to steady her trembling hands. She had wanted to be strong, to rise to the occasion, but this—this was chaos and horror beyond her understanding. The smell was the first thing to overwhelm her: the sickening stench of decay, blood, and smoke filled the air, clawing at her throat and making her gag. Everywhere she looked, bodies littered the streets, their lifeless forms twisted and mangled, some half-eaten by the swarming undead.

The villagers, terrified and desperate, began clustering together near the southern gate. It was their only chance for survival, but the crowd quickly turned hostile, shoving and shouting as they scrambled for safety. Eliza pushed forward, clutching her bow tightly, but when she reached the entrance, the heavy wooden doors slammed shut in her face.

“No! Please, let us in!” she screamed, pounding on the door. Beside her stood a young woman, a strange yet beautiful creature with shimmering blue scales marred by dirt and blood. She had a fish-like tail that ended in legs, her form both ethereal and alien. The woman clutched her screaming child, begging for mercy.

“Open the door! My daughter is out here! Please!” the woman cried, but the villagers on the other side refused.

“You’ll let the undead in! We can’t risk it!” came the panicked reply.

The door latch clicked into place, and the mother’s cries turned to wails of despair. Eliza turned to her, her heart breaking as the woman held her child close, tears streaming down her face. The safety did not last though sadly.

The undead had broken in from above, through the rooftops and weakened walls.

“No,” Eliza whispered, her voice trembling. Her knees felt weak as the sound of desperate cries turned to guttural screams of agony. The mother’s face went pale, her child sobbing into her chest. It was only now Eliza noticed the mother was bleeding this entire time, badly wounded. Her last act was trying to get her child to safety.

Eliza grabbed the woman’s arm. “We have to run!” she shouted, pulling her away from the door just as the first undead broke through the barricade. They stumbled down a narrow street, weaving through debris and scattered bodies.

The child screamed for her mother, but Eliza pulled her away, clutching her tightly as the strange woman was overwhelmed by undead in the chaos. “No! Mom!” the child wailed, her small fists pounding against Eliza’s chest.

“I’m sorry!” Eliza cried, her voice breaking as she ran, the child’s sobs echoing in her ears. Her legs burned, her lungs ached, and her mind was a whirlwind of fear and despair. She turned a corner and came face-to-face with a dead end.

She spun around, her heart sinking as she saw the undead shambling toward her. One of them was different—bulky, its rotting flesh pulsating with dark energy. Its face… its face reminded her of her ex. She froze, bile rising in her throat as the memories flooded back.

“G… g… get behind me,” she stammered, her voice trembling. She raised her bow, but her hands felt weak, her resolve crumbling. The weapon felt impossibly heavy, as if her own fear was weighing her down.

The undead advanced, their soulless eyes fixed on her. Eliza’s breath came in short gasps, her body shaking. She felt helpless, trapped.

Tenebrae on the other hand had other was having fun even if not much.

Tenebrae moved forward with deliberate calm, the dark aura surrounding him crackling faintly with restrained power. His glowing green eyes fixed on the necromancer, Master Urg, who stood at the center of his cultists like a conductor orchestrating the chaos. The undead swarmed the battlefield, their lifeless forms stumbling and lurching as they sought out any remaining survivors. At a center point the center of the undead horde he simply stops moving and remains there as they swarm him from all sides.

“Pathetic,” Urg sneered, watching as undead soldiers swarmed the armored knight. “I expected more from you. It’s strange how the undead ignored you at first—your armor must be blessed, or perhaps enchanted. For a moment, I thought you were one of us… but no matter. You’ll make a fine addition to my army.”

Tenebrae remained silent, his glowing green eyes fixed on the necromancer. The undead pressed against him, their claws scraping against his armor, but he didn’t falter. He was over taken and consumed a pile of coprses on top of him.

Turning to his fellow cultist in a victorious shout.

“Soon, we will march on Newbark, then Ember, then Dawk City,” Urg declared, his voice rising triumphantly. “We will regroup with the northern sect before we take the capital. Long live Queen Lilith!”

The name echoed in Tenebrae’s mind like a thunderclap. His eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his sword as a wave of rage coursed through him. “Lilith!” he roared, his voice shaking the battlefield.

The necromancers and cultists froze, turning their attention to the pile of undead that surrounded him. The horde began to shift and writhe, unnatural sounds emanating from the center.

“So that’s why you seem stronger than the others,” Tenebrae said, his voice cold and sharp. He pushed the undead off him with a pulse of dark energy, standing tall as they recoiled. “It’s obvious now—you’re not some low-tier necromancer. You’ve spent decades—no, centuries—on this path of cheating death, haven’t you?”

Urg hesitated, his confidence faltering for the first time. “I have practiced necromancy for over a century and a quarter,” he replied, his voice tinged with pride.

Tenebrae’s lip curled into a sneer. “You shouldn’t waste your voice monologuing your boring accomplishments to me. You’d do better to use it begging your queen to join this battle. Better yet, don’t beg. I want you to scream for her.”

The necromancer’s eyes widened in shock as Tenebrae’s armor began to fall away, piece by piece, revealing the glowing green aura that pulsed from his body.

“You’re… a necromancer,” Urg stammered. “I knew it. I knew there was something—”

“I told you to be silent!” Tenebrae bellowed, waving his skeletal hand. Runes glowed in the air, forming a sigil that shimmered with power. “Your mouth is loud, like a flute. So now, I seal you—render you mute!”

Urg gasped as his voice vanished, his mouth moving soundlessly. His cultists recoiled in terror, their confidence crumbling.

Tenebrae’s voice grew louder, his tone commanding. “I don’t need your story—I already know it. You were humans who forsook your gods, seeking immortality. You dreamed of becoming liches, gods of death. But to be a god, you must force kings to submit to you. To be a king, you must force your kingdom to acknowledge you. And your so-called queen…” He gestured toward the glowing glyphs forming above them. “She has abandoned you.”

The sigils in the sky pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, their glow intensifying until they burned like emerald suns against the blackened night. The ground trembled violently, cracks snaking through the cobblestones as if the earth itself were trying to flee. A deafening roar of energy filled the air, a sound so primal it clawed at the edges of sanity. Then it came—a thing born from nightmares, dragged screaming into existence.

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The creature tore its way into reality with a grotesque, slithering motion. It was a mountainous amalgamation of corpses, an abomination pieced together from the remains of the dead. Limbs jutted out at impossible angles, fingers clawing blindly, and torsos twisted grotesquely as they merged into the writhing mass. Its skin, if it could be called that, was a patchwork of decayed flesh, bone, and sinew, pulsing as if alive. Faces—hundreds of them—were embedded in its surface, their mouths frozen in eternal screams, their hollow eyes leaking black putrid blood.

The necromancers screamed, their bravado shattering like glass as the beast turned its eyeless gaze upon them. It moved with unnatural fluidity for something so massive, its tendrils of flesh lashing out to snatch the nearest cultist. The man barely had time to cry out before he was pulled into the writhing maw at its center—a gaping hole lined with jagged shards of bone and teeth made from shattered skulls. The crunch of his body being consumed echoed through the night, each sound more horrifying than the last.

Another cultist tried to run, but the abomination was relentless. Its tendrils extended with a speed that defied logic, wrapping around her waist and dragging her screaming into its mass. As it fed, the creature grew, its pulsating flesh swelling grotesquely, absorbing the corpses scattered across the battlefield. Each body it consumed added to its twisted form, its shape becoming more monstrous, more horrifying with every passing second.

Eliza clutched her bow tightly, her breathing ragged as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing. Her legs felt weak, her heart pounding so hard it drowned out the screams. And then it hit her—a surge of energy, like a jolt of lightning through her veins.

She gasped, her vision momentarily swimming as the world around her seemed to sharpen. Her muscles no longer felt heavy, her exhaustion melting away as strength flooded her limbs. She could feel it, an aura wrapping around her like a protective shroud. It was cold yet invigorating, like standing in the eye of a storm. She didn’t need to question it; she knew it was him.

The aura was dark, pulsing with a sickly green light that spread across the battlefield like a living shadow. It carried a presence that was both suffocating and empowering, like standing before an ancient god. It bolstered her in ways she couldn’t explain—her reflexes felt sharper, her bow lighter, her aim steadier. Even her fear seemed dulled, replaced by a strange, almost alien calm.

Her mind raced as she realized what was happening. “It’s him,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “This… this is coming from him.”

The aura wasn’t just power—it was dominance, a force that bent the world around it to his will. The abomination writhed in sync with the pulsating light, as if it were an extension of him. The ground itself seemed to bow beneath the weight of his presence.

For a moment, Eliza felt invincible. Her senses were heightened, her fear forgotten. She drew an arrow, her hands no longer trembling, and felt a confidence she hadn’t known before. But as the aura coursed through her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than just power—it was him, his rage, his vengeance, his unyielding will.

And it terrified her.

“The difference between a necromancer and a lich,” he began, his glowing eyes fixed on the terrified Master Urg, “is as vast as the difference between a king and a god.”

His aura flared, warping the air around him. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the battlefield, twisting and writhing as if alive. The abomination he had summoned roared, its horrifying form acting as the punctuation to his statement.

“A necromancer is a manipulator,” Tenebrae continued, his tone cold and unyielding. “They gather the dead, force them to march, and call themselves powerful because they can move corpses like puppets on strings.” He took a step forward, and the ground beneath his feet cracked, the sheer weight of his presence pressing down on the earth.

“But a lich…” He paused, letting the silence hang heavy, his aura growing darker, more oppressive. “A lich commands death itself. A necromancer bends the knee to power, hoping to cheat death, but a lich bends death to its will. We are not mere kings ruling over corpses—we are gods who create life, even if that life is twisted and broken.”

The abomination swelled as if responding to his words, its grotesque form consuming the last of the cultists with terrifying efficiency. Limbs, torsos, and faces writhed in its flesh, their screams fading into the void as the creature fed on their bodies and souls alike.

Tenebrae’s gaze locked onto Urg, his green eyes glowing brighter, more menacing. “You sought to imitate us, to tread the path toward divinity. But you are nothing more than a child playing in the shadow of gods.”

“And like a child, you will be corrected for your ignorance and arrogance.”

When the dust settled and the first rays of daylight broke through the tattered sky, the remaining survivors could only whisper prayers of gratitude. Their village was a graveyard, their losses immeasurable, but they were alive—a fragile hope amidst the carnage. However, the ones who had saved them, the armored knight and the archer, were gone. They had not waited for thanks or rewards. Long before dawn, they had vanished, retreating to a kingdom where the sun never rose—a land forever shrouded in twilight.

Back in the Kingdom of Goodnight, the remnants of Tenebrae’s power from the summoned corpse monster were sparse. The creature’s insatiable hunger had devoured much of the magic it consumed, leaving little for Tenebrae to reclaim. What he could salvage, he channeled carefully, his skeletal hand glowing faintly as he directed the energy into repairing sections of the castle.

The stone walls groaned and shifted, slowly piecing themselves back together. Around Eliza’s chambers, the decay receded, the jagged cracks in the stone smoothing over until the space felt less like a ruin and more like a sanctuary. The library, too, received attention, its ancient shelves restored to their former grandeur. The repairs were slow and methodical, a patchwork of effort meant to make their home livable once more. But it was far from enough—the castle still bore the scars of centuries of neglect.

Eliza slept deeply, her body and mind worn down by the horrors she had endured. Exhaustion clung to her like a second skin, and she barely stirred, even when the Undine child nestled beside her whimpered in her sleep. The child had lost everything—her mother, her home, her world—and now clung to Eliza as her only anchor.

Zanac, ever loyal, had retrieved the Undine woman’s body from the battlefield. He now carried it with solemn reverence, his tin frame creaking as he brought the corpse into Tenebrae’s study. The dim light of the Forever Moon cast eerie shadows across the room as Zanac carefully laid the body on a stone table.

“My Prince,” Zanac said, his voice trembling with an uncharacteristic hesitation, “will you create an Undine undead? She was a mother, and her child…” He trailed off, his glowing eyes glancing toward the direction of Eliza’s chambers.

Tenebrae stood silent for a long moment, his glowing green eyes fixed on the lifeless body before him. His clawed hand flexed absently at his side, the bone creaking faintly. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and laced with an uncharacteristic uncertainty. “No,” he said, the single word heavy with decision. “But I am possibly… about to make a grave mistake.”

Zanac tilted his head, his mechanical joints clicking softly as he watched his master. “My Prince?”

Tenebrae stepped forward, his skeletal hand hovering over the Undine’s forehead. His glowing eyes flickered as he hesitated, the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him. “Untrue Resurrection,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Dark green light dripped from his clawed fingertips, pooling like liquid fire before sinking into the Undine’s forehead. The magic coursed through her body, tendrils of energy weaving through her veins and filling her lifeless form. For several long seconds, nothing happened. The room was deathly silent, save for the faint hum of magic dissipating into the air.

Then, her eyes snapped open, glowing with a brilliant green light that filled the study with an ethereal radiance. The glow pulsed, vibrant and alive, as if the very essence of her being had been reignited. Her chest rose with a sudden, sharp gasp, and the light from her eyes dimmed slightly as they refocused, her gaze darting around the room in confusion.

Tenebrae stepped back, his hand falling to his side as he observed his work. His expression was unreadable, his green eyes flickering faintly as he watched the Undine stir. “It is done,” he said softly, his voice carrying a weight that spoke of the risks he had just taken.

The Undine woman sat up slowly, her movements hesitant as if testing her own body. Her shimmering blue scales caught the moonlight, sparkling faintly despite the dirt and blood that marred her form. She blinked, her gaze settling on Tenebrae. “What… where am I?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“You are in the Kingdom of Goodnight,” Tenebrae replied, his tone even. “You were dead. Now you are not.”

The woman’s hand flew to her chest, her fingers trembling as they pressed against her skin. Her breath hitched, and tears welled in her eyes. “My daughter,” she choked out. “Where is my daughter?”

“She is safe,” Tenebrae assured her, his voice softer now. “She is with the woman who brought her here. Rest for now.”