Chapter 7: Chapter 7: The Beastlord’s Heir

The skeleton’s jaw clattered as it spoke, not in sound, but in sensation, a voice that echoed in Abraham’s chest like a second heartbeat. He could feel it more than hear it, a deep thrum that resonated in his ribcage, bypassing his ears entirely.

“Welcome, heir. The throne sleeps, but not forever.”

Tess backed away, sword drawn, her breathing sharp. The light from the braziers reflected off her blade, along with a blaze of fire she casted, casting jittery patterns on the stone walls. “That skeleton just talked. Not okay. Very not okay.”

Abraham didn’t move. He couldn’t. His feet felt bolted to the black marble floor. The energy from the staff surged up his arm like icy fire, numbing and electric all at once.

The First Beastlord, if that’s who this skeletal figure truly was, sat motionless in its sarcophagus, its sockets lit with dim green fire.

Its armor was an ornate fusion of beast bones and ancient metal, draped in rotting but still regal furs. Jagged tusks protruded from its pauldrons, and the remains of a once-grand crown of horns curled around its skull like a predator’s embrace.

The sarcophagus itself was elevated on a platform of woven rib bones, inscribed with runes that glowed faintly under the necrotic light. Surrounding the central tomb were six smaller, sealed coffins, each shaped like they were meant for beasts rather than men.

The staff in Abraham’s hand vibrated again, harmonizing with the Vault’s vibration, like a tuning fork attuned to the afterlife.

“Who… who were you?” Abraham whispered, his voice breaking the stillness.

The voice returned, deeper this time. “I was the first. I tamed the Barren. I raised beasts not from birth, but from trust and obedience. The Crown chose me, and now it chooses you.”

Tess had stopped moving. She stood frozen now, just a few paces behind Abraham, her sword still up, though her eyes had shifted from the skeleton to him.

“Why me?” Abraham asked, swallowing against the dryness in his throat.

The flames in the braziers flickered, casting a mosaic of light and shadow across the chamber. As if reacting to the skeleton’s presence, the walls began to change, etchings that were once dormant lit up with glowing text in a language he could suddenly read.

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“Because you touched death without flinching. Because you raised what others would bury. Because you are not ruled by fear—but you understand it. This Barren land needed you more than they knew.”

Abraham laughed bitterly. “I'm not your 'the chosen one'. I don’t understand anything. I was supposed to study literature and fail backward through bureaucratic mediocrity. I just want to survive. That's it.”

A low, rattling chuckle echoed from the sarcophagus. The skeleton’s jaw moved without sound, but the intent was clear.

“You are no longer ‘just’ anything. Whatever you thought, you are the chosen. The Barrens stir. The unknown force eating everything, both alive nor the death. The balance is tipping, and the Beastlord must rise again.”

As if summoned by the proclamation, the six surrounding sarcophagi began to glow, slow and rhythmic, like ancient hearts starting to beat once more. The carved symbols flared to life with green-blue light, and the ground beneath them trembled subtly.

Abraham stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. He gripped the staff tightly, its warmth now blazing. “No! I didn’t sign up for any of this!”

“You were never meant to sign. You were meant to rise. To rule. To protect.”

The moment the words landed, a surge of necrotic energy exploded outward from the central tomb. Tess flung herself against the wall, shielding her face.

The braziers’ flames erupted upward, forming pillars of sickly green fire. Runes on the walls spiraled into motion like clockwork gears reactivating after centuries.

When the light dimmed, the skeleton sat motionless again, its light extinguished. Only the staff in Abraham’s hand continued to glow. The Vault went silent once more, as if holding its breath.

Abraham turned slowly, every muscle in his body aching with fatigue. Sweat slicked his forehead, but he didn’t dare wipe it away. His eyes roamed the chamber, from the deactivated sarcophagi to the still-burning runes. The place had imprinted something on him.

Tess stepped forward, lowering her sword slightly. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Abraham said truthfully. “But I think I have a job now.”

The walk out of the Vault was silent. The heavy stone doors closed behind them with a grinding groan that echoed through the jungle clearing. Outside, the day was dim, overcast clouds smothering the sun.

Chop stirred at their return, raising its chitinous head. Its large, multifaceted eyes turned toward Abraham and then tilted downward in what almost looked like deference. It lowered its front legs, offering him a platform.

Abraham climbed onto its back, gripping the staff across his lap. He felt different. Taller. Heavier. The burden of the Vault’s blessing, or curse, hung from his shoulders like a second cloak.

He looked at the staff. A crown of jagged bone curled around the top, holding the flickering ember in place. Tiny runes danced in and out of view along the shaft, glowing brighter whenever his thoughts darkened.

He raised it—and the land responded.

From the trees, they came. Skeletal birds with scrap-woven wings. A deer, its antlers charred and asymmetrical. Squirrels, foxes, even a bear, half-decayed, half-reassembled, crawling forward. They formed a circle around the clearing and bowed their heads.

Tess watched in horrified awe. “You’re like the Snow White of corpses.”

“Oh, you had Snow White too in this world? Wow, I'm more than terrified by now," he paused. "Anyway, I don’t like that label.”

“We’re using it anyway.”

He didn’t argue. The creatures didn’t seem aggressive. They merely waited. He could feel their hunger for command, their innate understanding of hierarchy.

A distant rumble rolled through the earth. The trees shivered, leaves falling in spirals.

Chop’s body stiffened. The ant’s antennae lifted, twitching rapidly.

Abraham’s gaze lifted toward the horizon.

Something was coming. Something big. And it wasn’t undead.

Tess mounted behind him. Her hand went to her blade. “We’re not done, are we?”

“No,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “The Vault didn’t just wake me up. It rang a bell.”

“For who?”

“For everyone else who wants the throne. Logically speaking, it must be something like that, right?”

He raised the staff once more. The undead beasts rallied behind Chop, forming a ragtag procession of bones and memory. Together, they marched deeper into the Barren.

An unknown war had begun. And Abraham Ludacris, a newly became the Beastlord’s heir (without his consent of course), had nowhere to escape.

***