ILuvRem

Ashes of Xerces
A Dark Fantasy WebNovel

Betrayed. Slain. Reborn in bone.

Xerces was a man with no legacy—just another soul swept aside by war and greed. But death was not his end. Awakened in a shattered crypt as a skeletal Lich, bound by forgotten magic and cursed immortality, Xerces is cast into a world ruled by monsters, kingdoms, and ancient magic.

Haunted by fragments of his past and hunted by those who sense his rising power, Xerces walks the line between man and monster. To survive, he must master forbidden sorcery, raise the dead beneath his banner, and learn to walk unseen among the living. But his resurrection came with a price—and a purpose.

The Nocturne Clan, vampiric tyrants who orchestrated his death, still rule from their obsidian spires, feasting on blood and fear. Xerces has not forgotten. He will not forgive.

From cursed forests to forgotten ruins, from phantom cities to crumbling thrones, Xerces’ journey begins in shadows—but it will end in fire.

He was a man once.
Now, he is death reborn.
And the world will kneel before his ashes.

Ashes Of Xerces

The storm had long since passed, but its scent clung to the wind—a bitter aftertaste of lightning and wet ash. The trees thinned now, the forest giving way to a cragged valley where the land dipped into fractured stone paths. They followed what was once called the Hollow Road, an ancient pilgrimage route carved by hands forgotten by time.

It was here, beneath jagged cliffs and the bones of a collapsed archway, that Xerces, Mira, and Sael finally saw it: the black spires of Varkir Hold, rising like teeth from the horizon.

Mira exhaled softly. "It's… colder here."

"The air is older," Sael murmured, eyes narrowed. "Less forgiving."

Xerces said nothing. His skeletal form remained hidden beneath the illusion of a weathered traveler—worn boots, roughspun cloak, silver-threaded gloves to hide the unnatural stillness of his hands. But his eyes—faintly glowing beneath a hood's shadow—never left the horizon.

They made camp in the ruins of a forgotten outpost, barely a ring of broken walls and a shattered watchtower. Mira sat beside a dying fire, absently tracing her finger in the dirt. Sael stood watch, as always.

"Do you ever miss… before?" Mira asked, her voice low. "Before all of this?"

Xerces looked up from his quiet carving—runes etched into the bones of a crow for a new ward. "Before I died?" he asked, dryly.

She gave a small smile. "I mean… yes. But also just… before the fighting. Before the Devourer. Before magic became a burden instead of a miracle."

His voice softened. "I wish I could remember what peace even felt like."

She looked at him then, really looked. "You carry more grief than you show."

"I carry more than grief," he replied.

Mira reached out and rested a hand over his.

Later that night, when Sael finally broke his silence, it came as a quiet confession.

"I wasn't sent to guide you," he said, his voice gravel under moonlight. "I came because I remembered."

Xerces's gaze flicked toward him. "Remembered what?"

Sael stared into the fire, his face hollow. "A life that wasn't mine. A war fought in shadows. A throne crumbling beneath the weight of its crown."

Xerces didn't respond immediately. His fingers curled slowly over the hilt of his staff.

Sael nodded once. "I served you before, in another life. I was bound to you. Not by force, but by purpose."

Mira looked between them. "So this is fate, then?"

"No," Sael said. "This is reckoning."

The next morning, they descended into the Hollow Road.

Strange whispers followed them—wind scraping through stone in voices that shouldn't exist. Shadows moved wrong, tilting sideways in defiance of the sun. And somewhere beneath their feet, a pulse began to build. A throb in the bones of the world.

As they approached Varkir Hold, the ground darkened. Trees twisted toward the fortress like dying men reaching for salvation.

A figure, cloaked in midnight robes, stood atop a ruined bridge. Pale-skinned, lips black with blood, and eyes like broken moons.

"Another Sentinel," Sael muttered, hand on blade.

"No," Xerces said, breath slow. "This one speaks."

The figure raised its hand. A chill blanketed the wind.

"Return, Lich-King," it intoned. "The land remembers your sin."

Xerces stepped forward. "And I remember yours."

They stared at one another across the broken bridge, two remnants of an age long buried.

"Come then," the Sentinel said, voice like a funeral bell. "Come beneath. Come and see what you left behind."

The Hollow Road