I stood—no, we stood.
Even the beast relented from its vile feasting to bear silent witness. The air had gone utterly still, as if the world itself dared not inhale. It was stale, vaguely putrid, like the breath of a room sealed away for centuries. I strained my eyes through the slit of my helmet, trying to pierce the shifting heat and haze.
The air quivered like hot oil on stone, a thick distortion that clung above the arena. There, a shimmering veil—murky, almost opaque—hung in the sky, cast by some lingering sorcery from the devil-bound. The only sound was the faint clinking of my armor as I adjusted my footing. Even the crowd did not murmur. Not a soul dared to stir. The silence felt brittle, as if one word might shatter it all.
Then, after several taut heartbeats, came the change.
The great gate at the far end of the arena groaned. I turned to face it directly, my body frozen but alert. Brass fittings wrapped heavy iron, bolted into slabs of some foreign, blackened wood—likely cut from a tree that had never known sunlight. The door was forged to withstand siege engines and usually required a half-dozen men to open. But now it creaked open slowly, reverently, on its own.
No hands turned it.
It moved as if by the will of something ancient and proud.
The sound was not loud, but it resonated—felt—like the murmuring of a Demi-god. With a slow, aching creak, it unveiled the dark maw beyond. And from within flowed a tide of cold air.
It poured from the chamber like water drawn from an abyss, stealing the heat from the arena in long, deliberate waves. My breath turned white, a mist curling before me. I could no longer feel the sweat on my skin—it had turned to chill. With each push of the cold, the heat retreated, replaced by the scent of ancient metal and something darker… something almost like mourning.
I peered deeper into the doorway. The interior was black as pitch. I couldn't see the source of the sound, but I could hear it... a soft, distant clink of metal against stone.
Then, through the dark, a flicker.
A glint of gold.
It caught the light and scattered it in blinding shards. So much gold it offended the eye. I had once thought Lord Thorne's taste garish and excessive, but now… compared to this, Thorne was modest. In that moment, I felt as a beggar might feel standing before a king.
It stepped forward.
A skeleton.
Its bones were draped in gold—pure gold— and inlaid with gems of every cut and color. Its jaw hung open in a silent scream, eternally frozen in fury. It looked nothing like my so-called elder brother, and yet… it felt close to him. Or perhaps something that once knew of him. But even that seemed too generous. This thing was not his equal—it was less. A faded shadow of power.
Still, my body screamed to flee.
My instincts, primal and deep-rooted, shrieked in terror. My hands twitched at my sides. Muscles coiled. I wanted to run. Every part of me wanted to run.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
Not yet.
I didn't even notice the lights at first. Little motes of energy drifting like ash on the cold wind. Only when one floated near the golden skeleton, and it reached out to cradle it in one bony hand, did I understand.
It brought the mote to its mouth.
And devoured it.
The jaw clamped shut—clean and precise.
That was when one of the corpses twitched.
It was subtle, that twitch. A brief shiver, like a breath after drowning. Then it settled again—still, silent. But its eyes were open now. I was certain they had been closed before.
The other warriors—those who had joined me—were already moving. They seemed to have a strategy of their own. It annoyed me. But to be fair, I wasn't an ally to them, merely a neutral presence for now. They treated me the same way they treated the goblin. Not a friend, not yet a threat.
At least, not this moment.
The goblin, meanwhile, ran away from the skeleton as it moved to the corpse of a woman—one of the fallen—and began stripping flesh from her with boney, twitching hands. It tore at her face and neck, harvesting chunks of meat to repair its own hollowed frame. Already, the woman had suffered wounds from the goblin; now, this newcomer desecrated her further.
That proved too much for some of the condemned.
I saw their faces twist. Heard the moans deepen into howls. They surged forward in anguish, attacking—not just the goblin now, but the newcomer. That woman must have been dear to them. Their sorrow turned to rage. I heard weeping, saw tears amidst snarls.
Even then, I couldn't help but notice: the golden skeleton ignored my kills.
It raised the bodies felled by the kobold. The goblin. Anyone but me.
Curious.
The first of the condemned reached the golden skeleton. A stout man, thick in the chest and arms, perhaps standing to my sternum in height. He looked strong enough that, unarmed, I'd be cautious in facing him. He raised his fist and rushed the golden monster.
But then… he stopped.
His arm froze mid-swing. Not out of hesitation. Not because he was blocked.
He stopped himself.
His expression collapsed into one of raw horror. His lips trembled, and he whispered something—a name.
I followed his gaze.
The woman.
She moved.
Barely held together, her body swung upright like a marionette. Her motions were too smooth, too sure, for something so broken. Her flesh drooped like melting wax. Her head turned toward the man, and from her cracked, bloodied lips came a voice. It was hoarse, rasping, half-dead already—but hers.
I couldn't understand the language, but the sound of it cut through to me as it was devoid of any life and personality.
It broke him. I saw the man's composure crack like rotted wood. Tears streamed down his face. His lips mouthed her name again.
And then she fell apart.
Not metaphorically. Her flesh slid from her bones, falling in chunks. All that remained was a skeleton, painted in red, clothed in tatters.
Then she moved.
Fast.
Inhumanly fast.
Her skeletal fingers darted forward, claws slicing through the man's face, gouging his eyes before he could react. He screamed, dropping to his knees. The scream was cut off with a sickening crack as her bony fist slammed into his throat.
He gurgled.
Then he died.
The golden monster moved again. No concern, no flinch. It stepped forward, gently cupping the man's departing soul. The flame was drawn in, swallowed whole. His corpse, still warm, twitched—and rose.
By then, the other condemned had begun to understand. They changed their approach, choosing to stay close, to form defensive circles. They huddled around one another, understanding at last that isolation was death.
I did not join them.
Not yet.
I continued to observe.
I could feel the puzzle forming in my mind. Pieces clicked and rearranged, but I had no finished plan. Not yet.
More importantly—I needed to know why it avoided the bodies I had slain.
And that pulsing in my mind—it had grown sharper. Each time a soul was taken, I felt something in me wince. Grieve. It was like a rope tied to my skull was yanked, drawing sorrow through every nerve.
I forced it aside. Pushed it deep.
Instead, I studied.
I watched the gold skeleton, its movements. It walked with the calm poise of a human… and yet it betrayed no mortal limit. I saw it again through its minions—through how they fought.
Three men tried to bring one down.
One approached from the front, two slipped around its sides, circling in. At the last second, when they reached striking distance, it moved.
Its arms lashed out like twin whips, snapping into the throats of both flankers at once. The third man dove forward, tackling it, driving it to the ground.
But he couldn't kill it.
Not even then.
I stepped in.
With the golden master still in my peripheral vision, I marched over and brought my hammer down upon the skeleton's skull. The blow landed. Bone splintered. It collapsed.
The man I'd helped rose, gasping, and pointed at the golden master.
"Lich," he said, over and over. "Lich!"
The name felt right. It fit better than the announcer's blasphemous claim of Deva. This thing was no god. No angel. It was a parasite in a bone and gold mask.
"Lich," I echoed.
The man looked relieved—if only briefly.
The lich had begun raising another corpse. The man muttered something else, hurried and urgent. I turned back—
And met its gaze.
Its sockets—empty yet filled with pressure—were locked on mine. The rest of its body had not yet turned, but its skull had rotated fully, an unnatural motion that ignored all human limitation. Its arms remained at work, carefully raising another of the dead.
Then, slowly, its torso followed.
It turned in full.
And it walked toward me.
The silence returned, thick and heavy.
Only the gentle clinking of gold echoed in its steps. The soft rustling of ancient robes. The crunch of bone grinding into dirt.
All other undead halted.
The living saw their chance. They regrouped, drawing closer, forming lines. Even the monsters joined them. For now, they had a common enemy. An unnatural enemy.
The lich's jaw opened again.
A voice spilled forth—not guttural or monstrous, but feminine. Delicate. Human.
I didn't recognize it, but the man behind me did. He cried out her name, despair tightening his throat.
I turned my eyes back to the lich. A chill slithered across my spine.
Was it… speaking through her?
Was it still her inside?
Had that soul—the one devoured—been absorbed, not just extinguished? Did it wear her voice like a veil?
If so, how many voices now lived in that gilded husk?
The woman's voice faded. Another took its place—a familiar one.
A cultist.
One of Mark's.
I couldn't place the name, but the sound of it made my stomach tighten. I hadn't thought of them in some time. They were supposed to have been executed. I'd assumed the royals justice had run its course.
Unless… they had come here instead.
Unless the creature had always been here.
Feeding.
Growing stronger.
How many souls had I and others sent its way?
Every criminal executed. Every monster slain. Every battle fought in the name of entertainment and punishment. Had I been feeding this creature all along?
A cold nausea bloomed in my chest.
Was I responsible?
Had I helped this lich gorge itself on souls?
I shuddered.
The realization hit like an avalanche—crushing and absolute. My hands trembled. My jaw clenched. I thought of the cycle of rebirth, the wheel of souls spinning beyond mortal reach. Was that too broken now? Had I disrupted the balance?
And worse—why hadn't I seen?
Even sealed, I should have sensed something. The souls of the dead often brushed against my awareness. It had been instinct—unquestioned, unavoidable.
But here? Nothing.
Nothing until now.
Perhaps the seal dulled it. Or perhaps this… thing had eaten so many souls that there were no echoes left.
I didn't know.
And I didn't have time to ponder.
The gold would be a problem. Too numerous for a blunt strike, making it resistant to damage. I'd need more than power—I'd need reach. Precision.
I sheathed my hammer and drew my executioner's blade, lifting it high into a ready stance. The lich didn't flinch. It didn't even seem to acknowledge the threat.
It approached with calm stride.
Its bones were not simply covered in gold—they were also crafted. Carved like holy relics. Smooth as marble, covered in ancient pictograms and symbols I could not read. Every inch of it had been touched by ceremony. By intention. By dark, unholy art.
I could only pray this ritual had occurred after death.
If not—if this thing had once been a willing man or woman— Then it had made a terrible bargain.
The others, even now, were forming a defensive wedge behind me. I didn't turn. My eyes remained fixed on the Lich walking toward me with a hollow elegance.
No voice came from its jaw now.
No threat.
No demand.
Only intent.
And hunger.