Deus Necros

“I guess I can understand,” Ludwig replied to the voice that reverberated faintly from his shoulder, his tone thoughtful yet somewhat distant, like a man reaching for a concept half-formed, still elusive in his mind. His eyes remained on the hazy horizon beyond the bow of the ship, the sea opening ahead like a rippling sheet of grey, layered with the dull shimmer of morning light. Salt hung in the air, mingling with the faint traces of pitch from the ship’s tarred ropes and the ever-present reek of damp wood. The deck creaked beneath him with the tide’s gentle rhythm, a subtle percussion that accompanied the low hum of his thoughts.

“Well, I don’t,” Thomas’s voice rang out suddenly, a flutter of pale light forming as his small spectral body bobbed into view just before Ludwig’s face. He hovered there, barely more than an echo made visible, arms crossed in his usual performative exasperation. “I mean, how can he even obtain Aura, he’s an undead. His ‘Heart’ is dead. There’s no life left in that shell of his to form the kind of spiritual wellspring you need.”

The Knight King’s voice answered from Ludwig’s other shoulder, slower and more weighted with memory than frustration, as if stirred from a reverie. “A heart is not physical young spirit. And also, he has no other option right now to improve other than that,” the knight said, the tone measured but calm, with the steady cadence of someone who had watched centuries pass like drifting leaves. “True, it takes a long time. For me, who was once but a humble man… I rose to become the ruler of an empire. A king. An Elf who lived centuries upon centuries. Obtaining Aura wasn’t simple. It required more than strength or time. It was a mentality I needed to reshape, a heart I had to forge anew.”

He paused, letting the words breathe in the salt-heavy air.

“From poor to rich, from broken to ruler. One must walk every rung of the ladder and look down at the man they once were before they grasp their true self. Only then is the ‘Heart’ born. That long awakening, that personal crucible that is Aura’s real price. And mine,” he added with a distant, almost wistful note, “is far more solid than any other I have encountered.”

“By that logic,” Ludwig said, his voice quieter now, less sure, “eventually even I can obtain it.”

“You can,” the Knight King answered without hesitation. “You could even trap yourself under a mountain for a thousand years and do nothing but train. And when you finally emerge, you’d come forth reborn, bearing the fruit of discipline, the awareness etched into every moment endured.”

Ludwig gave a dismissive shrug, arms wide, the motion somehow exaggerated. “A thousand years would have passed…”

“Would it matter for you?” Thomas retorted, a hint of sarcasm sharpening his voice. “Or your quests? You’re undead. You’ve got time by the throat.”

He gestured at Ludwig with a flick of his translucent hand, then made a slow slicing motion across his throat with his thumb. “Also, worst case scenario, can’t you just… you know, die? End yourself? Come back? You’d keep the knowledge of how to use Aura. Basically a cheat code no one else can use. You get to practice it in one life and reap the reward in the next.”

“I…” Ludwig opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again. His brows furrowed slightly, the thought clearly unsettling. Not because it was flawed, but because it made too much sense. “I don’t know if that’s even doable,” he admitted at last, “but… it does sound like an option. I’ll keep thinking about it.”

His voice trailed off as his gaze returned to the docks fast approaching. The familiar skyline of Mira loomed ahead, its stone towers touched with the coppery blush of dawn, its port bristling with masts like thorns in a crown. A salty breeze lifted the fringe of his hair, colder now, sharper as it funneled through the narrowing passage into the harbor.

There, docked with an almost unnatural stillness, sat a ship emblazoned with the gilded insignia of the Holy Order. A formidable vessel, broad, braced with iron across its keel, and swarming with activity. Paladins and squires were loading crates, rearming the hold, and preparing for something that smelled of urgency. Their armor clinked softly as they moved, and the high-pitched whistle of a boatswain echoed across the water.

Ludwig clicked his tongue, a faint, irritated sound that carried just enough weight to betray his unease. The presence of the Order here, of all places, at this precise time… was more than inconvenient. If they decided on a random inspection, if they recognized anyone aboard or caught the faintest scent of Celine’s current predicament, it could unravel everything.

His eyes slid toward the cloaked figure beside him. Celine had remained motionless for most of the voyage. She had spoken no words. She had not asked any questions. And yet, Ludwig could sense the tension in her posture, how she hugged her arms beneath the thick fabric, how her head remained bowed low. There was an awareness in her stillness, a wary silence that unsettled him more than any outburst would have.

She was quiet, yes. But it was not peace. It was containment.

He turned away, just in time to see two sets of carriages drawing close to the docks, sleek, polished, pulled by horses so clean they might’ve been scrubbed with prayerwater. Two different banners flapped in the breeze. The first bore a dagger and crossbow, stitched in dark thread against a weathered brown field, the unmistakable sigil of the Vampire Hunter guild. The second shimmered in blue and gold: a rampant boar, tusks gleaming, the emblem of House Baltimore.

“Lord Baltimore has sent us carriages to intercept! And the Vampire Hunter guild is also here, good,” said the Knight Captain, who had silently appeared beside Ludwig. His armor was still streaked with salt and ash, his voice faintly hoarse, yet calm now that land was near.

Ludwig gave a short nod, but his eyes remained fixed on the Holy Order vessel. Its crew did not look like they intended to make trouble, yet he didn’t like the sudden increase in m²otion, the clatter of crates, the lifting of war banners… something was being prepared.

The rest of the crew, perhaps sensing that same coiled tension, finally began to relax. They moved more freely now, chatting in low tones, stretching stiff limbs. Boots scuffed against wet boards, and ropes were drawn in as the ship bumped gently against the dock.

Ludwig stepped off the ship first, his boots landing with a dull thud on the damp wood of the gangway. The chill of the sea air hit stronger now that he was on land, and for a moment he let it wash over him, shaking off the clinging weight of the voyage. Celine followed silently, her steps light and unhurried, the edges of her hood tugged low enough to cast her features in full shadow.

A man was waiting for them, tall, rigid, dressed in the black and silver livery of House Baltimore. His face was carved of stern lines, his expression unreadable, like someone molded entirely out of etiquette and old discipline. It was the same butler Ludwig remembered from their earlier encounter.

The man’s eyes swept over the survivors as if tallying grain, nodding once, precisely. “A good number returned. You’ve done a great job, Lord Davon,” he said.

Ludwig dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “This makes us even, I suppose.”

“Not quite,” the butler replied, then turned with a grace too practiced to be anything but deliberate. He gestured toward one of the carriages, its door already open. “Lord Baltimore urgently requests that you take this carriage. A few of your friends await inside. Please make haste.” His gaze drifted toward the Holy Order vessel behind them. The movement of the paladins had grown erratic, hurried. Armor was being strapped on in haste. Crossbows were being checked and rechecked. “There is… unrest,” he added, his voice lower now.

Ludwig didn’t ask for elaboration. Whatever it was, he had no desire to be caught in it. He gave the man a short nod and made for the carriage.

The day was just breaking, and it already felt like it promised a lot of problems.