Richmond sat in silence, his fingers curled into his palm as he stared at the ceiling. The weight of necromantic energy inside him was suffocating.
He could feel it twisting through his veins, whispering to him in a voice that wasn't entirely his own. It was a curse, a gift, and a burden all at once.
He had always been strong. Always been in control. But now? Now he was a puppet to the very darkness he once fought against.
He could still feel the remnants of Zephyrion's grip on his soul, the chains of death wrapped tightly around his existence.
The power of necromancy wasn't just about raising the dead, it was about becoming part of death itself.
He had tasted that abyss, and now it was within him, poisoning every breath he took. And yet, he was alive.
That alone should have been a miracle, but it only made his heart heavier. He had seen what necromancers became.
Hollowed beings, mere shadows of what they once were, until there was nothing left of their former selves.
