His mana was seemingly becoming more corrupted by the overabundance of necrotic mana, necrotic strands threading even his simplest spells. He could taste the rot in the air and name its age. The mana here recognized him—flowed toward him, clung to him like a child to a parent.Or a corpse to a grave. He had been taught to filter his mana daily to prevent this but morte felt like it wouldn't harm him even if he didnt.
Morte clenched his fist and Looked at the violet motes in wonder. He felt an unexplainable pull towards it. I guess thats the ways affinities work. He cast a quick spell Cursed touch. Violet flames erupted around his hands. They licked at his skin but never burned him. It was the first chantless spell he was able to cast. I couldn't help but look towards the sky and think wether or not my real father was out there somewhere, maybe even looking for me. Childish i know. Not like it mattered the Lich King was probably right he was probably the one who sentenced me to live this life afterall.
Would it always be this way?
Would he ever see the sky not through the haze of death-clouds? Would he ever feel sunlight without shielding his eyes or hear laughter that wasn't a banshee's wail or Huff cackling over a failed experiment?
Would he ever be… normal?
The thought struck him like a slap. Normal. As if he could even want that now.
He had power. More than most mages twice his age. He could freeze rivers solid, grind bones to dust, shatter undead binding fields with a whisper. But he couldn't stop the ache.
Not the one in his chest.
He eventually made his way back to the high spire where his quarters lay—ornate, cold, wrapped in black iron and velvet. A castle fit for a prince of death. He stepped inside, pulled the heavy door shut, and leaned against it.
Sometimes, late at night, when even Kyris's footsteps fell silent, and the lesser death knights stood like a statues outside his door, Morte would lie awake and ask the darkness the one question he feared most.
If everything around me is dead… what does that make me?
He began to practice his mana circulation and he didnt know how long had passed when he felt a presence.Not a presence like Herc's—grounded and brutal. This one was... older. More precise.
Colder.
Morte turned as a ripple of black silk swept across the stone. A figure in robes darker than night itself hovered a few inches off the ground, long fingers folded beneath sleeves lined with runes that moved of their own accord. No crown adorned his head, but the sheer weight of his gaze pressed like a nail through glass.
Nubis, brother of the king.
Brother to the Lich King. High Judge of Necrovia. Keeper of the Soul Archives.
And Morte's most silent observer.
"Your form is adequate," Nubis said without preamble. His voice was a whisper that echoed in the skull. "Though one might question the wisdom of teaching a spark to wield the storm."
Morte held his ground. "If I'm a spark, then I'm one you've all been fanning."
"A dangerous admission," Nubis replied. "And an arrogant one."
His eyes glowed not red, but deep cobalt—colder than the grave. They flicked briefly over Morte's spell sigils still faintly hovering behind him. His gaze lingered on the necrotic signature swirling faintly in Morte's shadow.
"You are growing too fast," Nubis said at last. "The Lich King says you are necessary. That time demands a new hand. But I wonder…"
He drifted forward.
Not walked—floated.
And the temperature dropped with him.
"…if you are merely the rot before collapse."
Morte felt it then. The pressure.
Not physical. Not magical. Something deeper. A force that made his blood remember it was once mortal.
He didn't step back.
Instead, he let the pressure flow through him—into him. The necrotic mana that saturated his body responded like a living thing. His shadow twitched, distorted, and for a heartbeat… grinned.
"I'm not afraid of you," Morte said quietly.
"No," Nubis murmured. "That is your most dangerous flaw."
A silence passed between them.
Then Nubis's tone shifted, just slightly. "Tell me, child. When you look upon the lesser dead—those hollow, voiceless husks we command—do you pity them?"
Morte hesitated.
"Yes," he answered. "They didn't choose this. They don't feel. It's not life. It's not even death."
Nubis was quiet for a long time. Then:
"Good."
The single word echoed like a judgment. Yet Morte couldn't tell if it was approval... or a warning.
Then Nubis turned, drifting back toward the Soul Spire. Before fading into the mists, he cast one final glance over his shoulder.
"Pity them if you must, boy. But do not forget—they are still yours to command. And one day, they may pity you. Here come with me. I have something I wish to show you." He turned and walked through the shimmering portal before Morte had the chance to decline his offer shaking his head in resignation he walked through and found himself on the bank of a river. He recognized Kyris had brought him here when he had begun to ask about his mother. The place where he was entrusted to the Lich King. What was she thinking?
"I assume you know where we are?" Nubis waved his arms to show the landscape behind him.
"Yes, it's hard to forget the place where my mother was killed." Morte spoke firmly. He wasn't going to show weakness in front of Nubis.
"Don't you ever wonder why she did what she did?"
"Gee what do you think? What are we doing here? Nubis stop with the games and come out with it." Morte spoke bravely for his age; he tried to make himself appear bigger, not an easy thing to do when you're only ten.
"Fine it's not often I get a human to tease anymore. Anyways here's a little secret: The deal your mother made with the Lich King my dear old brother. It was for your protection until you're of age. The price was paid with her soul. Something more precious than you know. You're still a baby alive no longer than the blink of an eye for us but there's a difference between a soul taken and one given. In its uses and in so many things. It's a priceless treasure, something he still keeps. I know you don't wish to be used and I don't wish to be stuck protecting you. You have five years then you're of age. I suspect he'll send you on a mission to your death. Then he gets the soul of the youngest mage in history. Not counting that you're a fair target to everyone else including the citizens of necrovia."
"Why are you telling me this you haven't spoken this much to me my entire life." Morte just couldn't understand his motives in doing so.\
'That is for me to no now come unless you wish to walk all the way back to the city."
Morte followed behind and was surprised to find himself just outside the city. He seriously couldn't have just dropped me back off in my room. Morte sighed in annoyance and began the journey back to his room.