Deus Necros

“Leave? Well, it’s not like we didn’t think of that,” the Hunter said, rising with a hiss through his teeth, his arm cradled awkwardly against his chest. “But in case you forgot, this island’s a damned prison. There’s no way off. No route, no path. That monster is still out there. And even this so-called safe place? It was breached.” He looked around the ruined chamber, the lingering aura of scorched curses still curling faintly in the air like smoke clinging to old stone. “If this place isn’t safe, nowhere is.”

Ludwig shifted his hold on the woman, making sure her head rested against the crook of his arm. “That’s one more reason to leave,” he said. “And the Holy Order is probably already here. We don’t need to wait around and confirm it. We need to vanish before they start sweeping the entire island.”

The Knight stiffened slightly at that. “How would you know? Wasn’t it supposed to be weeks before they got here?”

Ludwig didn’t look back at him. He took a slow step toward the exit, eyes scanning the deeper passage ahead. “That’s what I thought too. But while you two were fighting those Perturbants, you didn’t notice the tremors. You didn’t feel the island shift.”

“Tremors?” the Knight echoed. “Wait. Perturbants? Is that what those thorny bastards were?”

“Yes,” Ludwig said, walking now, the sound of his boots echoing softly in the corridor. “They’re not random creatures. They’re guardians. Protectors. Like surrogate mothers to something older, something hidden. They seek out bodies, hosts, call them children. The Queen needs children. That’s what we are to them. We don’t get killed. We get turned.”

The words hung in the air like ash. The Knight’s mouth opened slightly, the color draining from his face.

“I saw it happen,” Ludwig added. “Back in Tibari. My companions, one by one. It starts with thorns under the skin. Then the voices come. Then the mind bends.”

“I saw it too,” the Hunter said, quieter now, his voice weighed down by memory. “My colleagues. One morning, they were drinking water, sharing old stories. By nightfall, they were crawling with roots and speaking in riddles. One of them begged me to kill him before he changed. I didn’t get the chance.”

“Then let’s not end up like them,” Ludwig said. “If we move quickly, we might slip past the Holy Order while they’re still focused on the Queen.”

The Knight gave a slow nod, then turned to the Hunter. “Can you walk?”

The hunter rolled his shoulder with a grimace, then pushed to his feet. His legs wobbled at first, but he stood tall. “Barely. But I’m not staying behind.”

“Then let’s go,” Ludwig said, and with that, they disappeared into the tunnel’s gloom.

*****

Some time earlier, on the shores of the Dawn Islands, the sea churned in silence. The full armada of the Holy Order had landed under the shroud of a rising mist, their white and gold banners catching the weak moonlight. Gulls or what looked like them circled overhead, drawn by the scent of foreign wood and metal.

Only a few remained behind to guard the ships. The rest moved forward in formation, clad in gleaming armor that shimmered with protective sigils, their weapons already drawn. Tension hung in the air like the scent of distant lightning.

“Impressive performance, Saint Mot,” murmured a paladin, his helm under one arm.

“I didn’t do much,” replied Mot quietly, his voice almost childlike, his pale robes fluttering in the breeze. “It was Azathoth, really. He doesn’t like things that refuse to dream. Those creatures? They insisted on staying awake.”

There was something unnerving in the way he spoke, the way his head tilted slightly to one side as if he were listening to something no one else could hear. His gaze never lingered, always drifting off toward the horizon.

“This whole island feels wrong,” he added, soft and thoughtful. “Like it’s stuck between a breath in and a breath out. Not alive. Not dead. We should tread carefully.”

“As you wish, Saint Mot,” the paladin said, bowing his head.

Moments later, the cardinal arrived. His robes were heavy with embroidered chains of silver, and his expression was etched with reverent command. Salutes and murmured blessings greeted him as he passed. He approached Mot directly, boots sinking slightly into the damp sand.

“Mot. Do you know where the creature is?”

Mot didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the forest line, then raised one finger and pointed toward the center of the island. “There. The heart of it. It’s walking distance. But that’s not the problem.”

“Can your deity destroy it?”

“He can,” Mot said. The statement was simple. Factual. Not proud. Just truth.

“Then that’s good news,” the cardinal said. “Shouldn’t you ask him for that favor?”

Mot shook his head. “Not that simple. If he acts, he’ll destroy the entire island. All of us too. He’s made it clear, he’ll only interfere if I’m in danger. The rest of you have to earn your salvation.”

There was a pause. The cardinal’s face remained unreadable, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed dissatisfaction.

“Then so be it,” he said at last. His voice hardened. “Paladins, move forward. Clear the path. Clerics, stay close. Let the Holy Order reclaim this land from the vile Red Moon.”

The command echoed across the shore. Armored boots struck the soil in unison. Shields raised. Weapons at the ready.

They entered the forest, prayers on their lips and determination in their eyes.

***

Present time.

Ludwig pushed through the underbrush, cradling the unconscious woman against his chest. The path before them was more suggestion than trail, woven with low-hanging vines and enormous ferns that swayed slightly despite the still air. The soil was soft underfoot, and it smelled of damp moss and old decay. Small insects darted between leaves, the only movement in the eerie stillness.

Behind him, the Knight followed slowly, his breathing labored but steady. The Hunter brought up the rear, alert despite his injuries. They didn’t speak. The silence wasn’t hostile. It was caution.

A sudden rustle snapped the quiet like a twig underfoot.

Ludwig stopped instantly. His eyes narrowed. One finger tapped against the cuff on his left wrist.

Mana flowed.

The Soul Shackles uncoiled in silence, slithering out in ghostly threads, and wrapped themselves gently around the woman’s form, securing her to his chest like a warden’s cradle. With his right hand, Ludwig reached into the ether and called forth Oathcarver. The blade slid from his storage ring with a whisper, its edge gleaming with a promise of violence.

Then the foliage parted.

Two figures emerged from the brush.

The first was tall, his armor pristine, a mix of white-gold and silver that shone even in the muted light. A knight of the Holy Order. His tabard fluttered with each step. But blood marred him, old, darkened patches of it across his greaves, his gauntlets. His mace hung heavy in his hand, still wet, strands of hair and sinew clinging to the ridges of the head.

Behind him, a younger woman stepped forward. She wore clerical robes, ivory and soft blue, stained at the hems with dirt and dried blood. Her hands were folded at her waist. Her expression unreadable.

Ludwig’s grip on Oathcarver tightened.

He kept his face still.

Inside, he cursed. Quietly. With conviction.

The Holy Order had found them.