Revelation

Days had passed since The Vault of Echoes. Maelin, who felt that what she needed had been fulfilled, took her leave and disappeared into the forest. She didn't forget her promise to provide clues regarding the source of corruption that occurred in the Barren Death.

She gave them a map with vague description.

And the beastling, "the archivist", just disappeared to the thin air after after the vault-thing. Without words, without warns, without goodbyes like it was normal.

And there they was.

The heat of the barren wasteland pressed down on Abraham like a punishing weight. Wind swirled with grit and the scent of dry bones. Each step forward ground the soles of his boots against the parched earth, and every footfall stirred memories of the horde of beastlings he had raised just days prior.

They followed him now—silent, loyal, strange. Some walked like humans, some crawled like animals. All bore the unsettling echo of their former lives. Yet there was a strange unity among them—a rhythm to their steps, a sense of purpose beyond Abraham's will.

Tess trudged beside him, shielding her eyes against the burning sky. Her dark brown hair, tied back in a messy bun, had loosened strands that clung to her sweat-slicked face. "So where exactly are we going again?" she asked, voice dry with both heat and sarcasm.

"The map says there's an old ruin up ahead—just beyond that ridge," Abraham replied, pointing toward a cracked silhouette rising against the horizon. He squinted, trying to make out the details. "And if my gut's right, there's something… big there."

"Something big? That's your plan?" Tess squinted at him, then rolled her eyes. "You're lucky I have a weakness for idiot necromancers."

From behind them, the sound of clacking mandibles drew a chuckle from Abraham. Chop, his resurrected ant companion, loomed quietly nearby. Chop had grown significantly since its resurrection.

Jagged plates of blackened chitin ran down its body, and a faint purple shimmer danced across its carapace. The sigils etched into its form pulsed like a heartbeat.

"You think Chop's evolving?" Abraham asked, half-joking but also unnerved.

Tess narrowed her eyes. "I think Chop's going to turn into a walking apocalypse if you're not careful. Also, pretty sure it learned how to glare," she paused. "If at some point, he began to spat some nonsensical sarcasm, I wouldn't be surprise."

As if to confirm her suspicion, Chop's head tilted slightly toward her, mandibles clicking once. The beastlings behind it shifted, their movements increasingly coordinated—as if Chop's presence guided them.

They crested the ridge, and the ruin came into view—a collapsed temple, half-buried by sand and time. Stone pillars jutted at odd angles, and the remnants of ancient carvings hinted at a civilization long since vanished. Vultures circled lazily overhead, as if even death itself was watching.

Abraham's breath caught. "I know this place. From my dreams."

Tess paused. "Which one of your dreams?"

He nodded slowly. "Every time I use that necromancy pulse, I see flashes—this place, a throne of bones, a woman with golden eyes. It's like something… calling to me."

The beastlings grew restless. One of them, a feline-headed humanoid, let out a low growl. Another clutched its head, twitching.

"They feel it too," Tess murmured, unease crawling into her tone.

As they neared the ruin, Abraham began noticing the symbols carved into the stone—symbols that looked eerily similar to the ones that had appeared on Chop. His hand tingled. He looked down to see faint lines glowing under his skin.

"This place is tied to, or somehow related to necromancy," he said, almost reverently.

They entered the ruins cautiously. The temperature dropped instantly, shadows clinging to every corner. Chop stopped at the threshold, its antennae vibrating violently. Abraham stepped forward—and something clicked underfoot.

The ground gave way.

They fell.

***

When Abraham awoke, he was alone. His head throbbed, and a bitter taste coated his tongue. He sat up slowly. He was in a circular chamber, surrounded by dusty murals and bones.

So many bones—ribcages from creatures he couldn't name, skulls arranged in patterns, and a giant femur used as part of a crumbled pillar.

He stumbled to the center, where a pedestal stood. On it lay a black tome bound in sinew and iron, its pages whispering despite the still air.

"You have come," a voice whispered.

He spun around, but no one was there.

"You, who command the silence of death, shall inherit the throne if you dare take the cost."

His hands shook. "Who are you?"

A vision flooded his mind. A throne made from the ribcage of a titan. A sword forged from pure soul energy. His own reflection, older, harder, cloaked in shadows and bones. His eyes turned gold. Behind the reflection stood countless undead—towering beasts, skeletal dragons, even resurrected humanoids clad in dark armor.

He reached for the tome—

And screamed.

A searing heat flooded his veins. His limbs locked. His vision tunneled. The brand on his hand flared with blinding light. Blood ran from his nose, and the world spiraled into black.

His body convulsed. His scream turned silent, swallowed by the chamber. The sigils from the murals burned into his mind like firebrands, rearranging themselves behind his eyelids.

Fragments of memories not his own began to surface. Ancient battles, lost kings, forgotten rituals. He saw a world before his, teeming with any kind of creatures ever imagined, ruled by any kind of kings. And he saw their downfall.

***

When Tess found him hours later, he was unconscious, pale as ash, the black tome clutched to his chest. The beastlings surrounded him protectively, eyes glowing faintly, murmuring to one another in guttural whispers.

"Idiot," she whispered, brushing hair from his face. "What did you do this time?!"

Chop loomed behind her, antennae still twitching. A new sigil burned faintly on its head, the same one now branded on Abraham's hand. It let out a low, almost sorrowful chittering noise.

Tess turned, surveying the murals again. One depicted a golden-eyed woman standing atop of gigantic mantis. Another showed a man commanding a gigantic leviathan.

But the final one caught her breath. A cloaked figure in the center of a storm, holding back waves of shadow. Someone familiar.

She glanced back at Abraham, whose body remained still, his face etched with exhaustion and power.

Outside, the sky turned a shade darker.

Something had awakened.

Something old.

And Abraham had just stepped onto a path that couldn't be undone.

***

Later, when Abraham finally opened his eyes, he whispered a single word—foreign, ancient, and powerful. It echoed through the ruins and made the beastlings tremble.

Chop lowered its head.

The mark of a king had been claimed.

***