Deus Necros

The road rolled beneath them like a quiet heartbeat. The carriage rattled not with urgency but purpose, weighted, deliberate. Runic glyphs etched into the floor pulsed in slow intervals, glowing amber with the rhythm of mana-fed suspension, keeping the ride smooth over the cobblestone track that wound through the broken highlands between Dawn’s Edge and the western forests.

Outside, twilight had begun to stain the horizon in hues of rust and wine. A low fog curled through the tall grass, and the trees ahead loomed like tired sentinels.

Inside the carriage, the mood had shifted.

The conversation remained casual. Melisande leans back against the padded corner of the carriage bench, rubbing her ankles. Timur lounges across from her, legs crossed, his shoulder brushing Gorak’s massive knee. Robin says little, as usual, sharpening something, probably not out of necessity. Celine sits close to Ludwig, hood pulled low, her presence quiet but not tense.

Soon, Celine fell asleep, or so it seemed. Her body leaned gently against Ludwig’s shoulder, not out of safety or security, but probably this was the first time in centuries wehre she could finally rest.

Ludwig had no mind to bother her and let her use his shoulder for now.

Her breath was shallow but even, her expression unreadable under the hood still pulled low over her eyes. The grime of the cocoon was all wiped away by Ludwig’s Cleanse, but what looked like intangible remnants clung to her skin like regret. Even asleep, her body looked… wrong. Not visibly monstrous. But off. Like something barely caught between two selves.

Ludwig hadn’t spoken since the last exchange. His eyes weren’t on her, nor his companions, but on the empty air in front of him, where the notification window still flickered faintly.

[A Part of Necros]

Quest Progress: 0%

Status: Unstable

Soul Interference Detected…

His jaw tightened.

Thomas finally broke the silence, his spectral glow a muted silver now, barely registering in the corner of Ludwig’s vision. “She’s not fully gone, even if she hasn’t spoken a word since she got out of that prison, so don’t worry about that…” he said, his voice lowered to something almost reverent. “But whatever the Queen tried to seed into her… it didn’t die with the Queen.”

“I know,” Ludwig muttered. “She didn’t scream in the cocoon. Not once. You noticed?”

Thomas nodded slowly. “She embraced it.”

“No. She endured it,” The Knight King corrected. “There’s a difference. One’s submission. The other is survival. And this Vampire is truly of noble demure.”

Celine stirred faintly, fingers twitching.

Gorak’s heavy boots scraped against the floor as he shifted. “We stopping before nightfall?”

“Not unless something tries to kill us,” Timur said from the front, arms folded, watching the road through the slit of the front window.

Ludwig glanced toward him. “You think something will?”

“I always do.”

Melisande snorted faintly. “Good policy. For adventurers, being always alert is at worst a bad night sleep if nothing happens.”

Ludwig continued peering through the window as the sun began falling spread its long shadows all over the place. Their path was along the coastal line of Lamar and heading toward Tulmud.

The air is warmer now, touched by salt and the distant screech of gulls that have begun to scatter as their carriage wheels roll deeper inland and away from the shore as the royal road took them that way.

The road is wide, pressed gravel bordered by tufts of spring grass. Trees close in loosely along the flanks, the beginnings of the imperial forest curling toward the horizon. They are not in a rush. The sun is sloping down further, casting darkness instead of shadows now through the leaves. It’s a calm moment one of the few Ludwig had in days.

Ludwig stares out through the side window, eyes drifting as the familiar smell of damp wood and distant smoke settles in. The clatter of wheels over stray stones gives rhythm to their silence.

“Still not going to tell us your house name?” Melisande’s voice breaks the quiet, not accusatory, just amused.

Ludwig doesn’t turn to look. “It’s not important,” he replies.

“You keep saying that,” Timur mutters, arms folded. “Makes me wonder if you’re secretly the prince of some ruined kingdom, cast away to live among the commoners.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ludwig says. He sounds bored, but there’s a half-smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I don’t like ruins.”

Robin looks up. “You do like secrets, though.”

Melisande chuckles. “Let him be. Lord Davon, mysterious foreign noble, killer of monsters and hearts.”

“Only the former,” Ludwig corrects.

“Disputable,” she hums, as she smiled staring at the comfortably dozed off Celine.

“You haven’t told us about the lady,” Melisande asked.

Ludwig took a glance at her and said, “A relative to someone close to me. She had some rough time and I’m merely taking her with me over to Tulmud.

“Relative to vampires? Quite the acquaintances you have,” Timur said.

Ludwig was surprised. And it showed on his face.

“We all knew it the moment we saw her,” Melisande explained. “We’re B rank adventurers so don’t worry about it.”

“I’m still worried,” Robin said.

“Why so?” Gorak asked.

“Because a True Vampire isn’t as simple as a normal one…”

“And how did you know that…” Ludwig asked.

“The skin, it’s too fair for a normal vampire, it’s too hale and healthy, too pale, but what threw me off at first were the rougher than normal palms of hers…those aren’t the palms of a sheltered young woman, more like that of a veteran of war and the sword.”

“You hit the nail on the head there, but it’s all irrelevant, she’s safe…”

“Well, let’s hop so,” Timur said, as he stared outside.

As the road gently bends through a thicket of cedar trees, the sky takes on a richer tone, purple now, with streaks of orange bleeding above the tree line. The carriage slows without warning. A knock comes from the front, and the coachman’s muffled voice reaches them.

“Something on the road, my lords.”

Ludwig stands immediately, parting the curtain and stepping down without a word. The others follow, senses sharpening.

They are still in the deeper parts of the imperial road, dangerous territory even under patrol. The cause for the stop becomes clear a moment later.

A ruined stretch of trail lies ahead, pocked with fresh ruts and blood-slicked gravel. Burnt grass. A wheel shattered and discarded near a bent helm bearing the insignia of the Crown’s Guard. And bodies.

But not fresh.

Ludwig steps forward. A low wind carries the unmistakable scent of dried blood and ash, mingled with the faintly sweet rot of flesh healing too slowly. Something stirs, groaning.

Behind a felled tree, slumped and broken like a discarded puppet, lies a familiar figure. Crimson hair tangled across his face. One arm twisted unnaturally beneath him. His chest rising, barely.

“Redd…” Ludwig mutters.

Melisande stares, wide-eyed. “That’s him?”

“Looks like he’s been through hell,” Timur mutters.

Gorak says nothing, already kneeling beside the boy. He turns Redd onto his side, and they all see it, great, torn wounds along his back and shoulder, bites that look like they came from beasts, not blades. The healing is grotesque, not clean, flesh knitting over itself too fast, too thick. Not human healing.

From behind him, a presence stirs. Like fog peeling away from a corpse.

A woman, if she can be called that, half-formed and translucent, clings to him. Her form shifts like ink in water, face unnaturally smooth, eyes too wide and too bright. She looks at Ludwig, her gaze dark with memory. And warning.

“He already has a foot in the grave, but looks like… he isn’t dying.”

Melisande bites her lip. “That’s… impressive. That wound on his side should have cut through his lung.”

“It did,” Gorak replies flatly. “Still is.”

The skinwalker coils tighter around Redd, her mouth brushing his temple as if to soothe him. Her hands phase in and out of his ribs, a whisper of motion that somehow pulses with magic. The air is heavy with her effort.

“She’s keeping him alive,” the Knight King whispers from Ludwig’s shoulder, voice hushed with something akin to awe. “Barely.”

Ludwig crouches low, meeting the Skinwalker’s gaze. “Why?”

She doesn’t speak with words. But Ludwig feels it.

She chose him.

And now, whether they like it or not, he belongs to them.