Monsters Aren't Born Chapter 6 - Heavy is the Crown (End)

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Six Years Later

Rain lashed against the expensive windows of Prince Karidgan's chamber like an army of tiny fists demanding entrance. King Joulen ignored it as he sat alone in the darkness, his aged frame hunched in a chair far too small for his bulk, his fingers tracing the ornate carvings on his dead son's sword. The room smelled of stagnant air, and the scent of his boy was finally starting to fade from the sheets and clothing. Soon, it would be entirely gone.

It had been three months. Three months since the battle that took his son. Three months of what was left of his kingdom bleeding gold to pay tributes to their conquerors. Three months of a slow death that felt more like drowning with each passing day.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the chamber, casting harsh shadows across the collection of weapons and books that had defined Karidgan's short life. Joulen's eyes burned, raw from weeks of weeping in private… none of his people should see their king broken. The storm outside matched the tempest in his chest, a howling void where his heart used to be. Westguard had taken everything from him. Everything.

Southpoint had once been prosperous, its fields yielding rich harvests, its mines producing silver and copper that filled the royal coffers. The only problem was that other, larger kingdoms coveted that wealth. Now those fields lay trampled and salted by Westguard armies. The only reason that not all of those mines had been claimed as tribute was because this way his citizens could work them for Westguard as virtual slaves. The three-year war of conquest had hollowed Southpoint out, leaving it like a corpse to be picked at by crows.

His gnarled hands clutched the sword tighter, knuckles whitening. Karidgan had been a gifted swordsman, his movements as fluid as water, as deadly as winter frost. Everyone knew that Joulen was sick. He should have been here, preparing to take the throne when Joulen's time came. Instead, he rotted in the royal crypt, his body pierced by Westguard steel, his bright future snuffed out in a battle they were doomed to lose before it began, and he was still wasting away.

The king ran a trembling finger over the blade's edge, drawing a thin line of blood that welled up black in the dim light. Pain felt appropriate. Pain felt like penance. "What would your mother say if she could see what I've done to her kingdom?" he asked the shadows.

Queen Merelise had been dead for fifteen years, taken by a fever that swept through the castle like wildfire. He'd raised their son alone, fumbling through the boy's childhood and adolescence, always feeling inadequate in the face of his wife's absence. Now he'd managed to lose both of them. Managed to lose everything.

Reports from the countryside brought nothing but more despair. Disease was spreading through villages already weakened by hunger. Bandits preying on travelers too desperate to stay home, and rumors of the dead walking in forests. Noble families who had once sworn fealty to the crown were now looking to Westguard for patronage, abandoning their king like rats from a sinking ship. The castle itself was a shadow of its former glory. Entire wings were closed off to reduce cleaning and maintenance costs. The king had been forced to dismiss half of his servants… even for the crown, there was no coin to pay them. He could barely afford to pay for the maintenance of his few remaining soldiers and their weapons and armor.

It took real effort for Joulen to stand, and his joints protested the movement, but he forced himself to walk over to his son's wardrobe. He pulled open the doors, breathing in the fading scent that clung to the fine clothing within. He reached for a simple hunting jacket… Karidgan's favorite. Pressing it to his face, the king allowed himself one more moment of weakness, a single sob escaping his throat. "Forgive me, my boy," he whispered into the fabric. "I failed you. Failed everyone."

Another flash of lightning turned the room white, followed immediately by thunder that shook the very stones of the castle. And in that brief illumination, Joulen saw something impossible—he wasn’t alone.

A figure was perched on the ledge outside his window, rain sluicing over the figure's cloaked form. That would have been strange enough… if they weren’t six floors above the courtyard below. He froze, the jacket slipping from his numb fingers. The room plunged back into near darkness, and for a moment he thought he'd imagined it. But then lightning struck again, closer this time, and the window had slid open, and the figure was stepping into the room.

At first, King Joulen wondered if Westguard had sent an assassin to kill him, and he was confused… why bother? He had nothing and represented no threat to them anymore. Then the light caught the figure more clearly… and he realized that a woman had stepped through the open window, rain pouring from her cloak. She wore some kind of light armor under her cloak, and she carried a sword on her hip. Her long blonde hair whipped around her face in the wind, blowing back from her face.

"What sorcery is this?" Joulen demanded, reaching for his son's sword. "Guards! GUARDS!"

"They won't come," the woman said. Her voice was soft, but it still cut through the howl of the storm like a blade. "You sent them all away. So they wouldn’t see you like this, your highness."

Joulen brandished the weapon, and his sickly arms trembled with the effort. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The woman smiled, and something about that expression sent ice crawling down the king's spine. It wasn't cruel, exactly. It was worse… it looked like she was wearing a mask of polite bliss over her face. "My name is Dreama," she said, stepping closer, unmindful of the sword pointed at her chest. "And I've come to offer you help."

"I have nothing left to give," Joulen replied bitterly, the sword wavering. "Westguard has taken it all!"

"Then it is well I don't want what you have," Dreama countered, her green eyes reflecting the lightning that continued to flash outside. "I want to help my king and my kingdom, your highness. This is my home… I want to do something for you."

The king lowered the sword slightly, confusion overriding his fear. If this woman was here to kill him, then she was the strangest assassin he had ever heard of. The woman was clearly a sorceress… who else would come in through a window in a tower in the middle of a storm? If she wanted to kill him, then he would already be dead. "Speak plainly, witch. What are you talking about?"

She ran her fingers through her hair, squeezing the rain out of it. "Your son. Prince Karidgan. The heir you lost." She paused, letting her words hang in the air between them. "I want to give him back to you. Bring him back home."

Joulen's heart stuttered in his chest. "Don’t lie to me, witch. That's impossible. The dead stay dead."

"For most people, yes," Dreama agreed, running her fingertips along the prince's bedframe. "But I'm not most people."

The king watched her, torn between outrage at her playing with him this way and a desperate, clawing hope he couldn't quite suppress. "What manner of creature are you?"

"I'm a necromancer," she said simply, as if commenting on the weather. "The mightiest necromancer alive, in fact."

The word sent a chill through Joulen. Necromancy. The forbidden art. The desecration of death itself. Such practitioners were hunted down and burned in every civilized kingdom… including this one. Yet here stood this woman, boldly claiming such power in the presence of a king. She wasn’t an assassin, no… she was something far more dangerous. "You lie," he said, but the conviction had drained from his voice. Something about her absolute calmness, the faint tingle of power he could sense around her, and the casual confidence with which she'd come into his presence in a raging storm made her claim all too believable.

"Your son's body lies in the royal crypt," Dreama continued, ignoring his accusation. "I’ve spent the last three years learning how to resurrect the dead. How to bring back loved ones lost to us too soon." She tilted her head, studying him. "I could restore him to you, as he was. Your son. Living. Breathing."

Kardigan's sword fell from the King’s nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor. "If this is some cruel jest—"

"I don't jest about my art," she said, and her eyes shone with supreme confidence. "I can do what I claim. The question is whether you want your son back badly enough to work with one such as me. If you will pay my price."

The king sank back into the chair, legs no longer able to support him. "What price would that be?" he asked, hating the eagerness in his voice, the weakness. "Gold? Land? I have precious little of either these days."

Dreama waved her hand. "I have no need for payment in coin, your highness. I seek a reward, instead. My price is simple. I will return Prince Karidgan to you, give you your son back whole and well." She folded her hands demurely before her waist. "And in return, you will give him to me as my husband."

Joulen recoiled as if struck. "You would have me sell my heir’s hand?" he protested. “He was promised t—”

"Right now, he is promised to no one… there is no one to marry," she corrected. "And can your promised princess bring him back to you? Can the union you hoped for bring security and dignity back to Southpoint? Add me and my power to your bloodline.” Dreama’s eyes glittered in the darkness. "Think of it—a son restored to you, and a princess whose abilities will restore Southpoint to greatness and safety. No more tributes to Westguard. No more starvation. No more humiliation."

The king stared at her, searching for the trap, the hidden barb in this offer too miraculous to be real. "And why would a... woman of your apparent talents want marriage to a prince of a broken kingdom?"

Dreama's smile was sad for a moment before she looked away. "This kingdom was my home, once. It saddens me to see what has become of it.” Then she looked up and met his eyes again. “And I am tired of living in the shadows. I will be somewhere I am respected. Somewhere I am appreciated. Somewhere that will support my work. You can be that place for me. I’m ready to come home."

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the room in stark white… and in that light, the beautiful blonde woman extended one pale hand towards him. "So tell me, Your Majesty," she asked like a reaper come to offer a bargain. "Do we have an agreement?"

What else could he do?

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Dreama stretched languidly against silk sheets, savoring the gentle caress of luxury against her naked skin. Sunlight filtered through heavy brocade curtains, casting her royal chambers in a warm golden glow that made the polished furniture gleam. Three weeks in this castle, and she still found herself momentarily disoriented each morning, expecting to wake to the damp chill of the many forest hideouts she had made over the years, or in the back of a cramped wagon. She was always confused when she woke truly comfortable instead.

"Enjoying the spoils already?" Silence's voice slithered through her mind, amused and contemptuous as always. "How quickly you adapt to comfort."

She ignored the sword, which rested in its scabbard against the bedpost within arm's reach. Never far from her, even in sleep. The weapon had grown more accommodating over the years since Morninglight and less overtly uncooperative, but it hadn’t become even the slightest bit less hostile. Dreama swung her legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet connecting with the plush carpet. Such luxury compared to the crude shelter she'd fashioned in Sunset Forest, a half-collapsed woodsman's hut reinforced with scavenged materials and warded with necromantic sigils that made normal travelers' skin crawl when they approached, driving them away without knowing why.

Three years had passed since she'd fled the academy in flames. The memory still brought a smile to her lips. It wasn’t the way parts of the archive and one of the towers had burned in the blaze that made her happy, no… it was that in that moment she had truly become free. From that moment on, with Silence in hand and bags of forbidden knowledge slung across her back, no one was going to stop her. By the time the academy organized a hunt for Master Tarrelin's killer, she was deep in the wilderness and beyond their reach.

Those first months had been challenging but necessary. Alone in the forest with only Silence and her stolen books, she'd practiced her art without interruption or moral oversight. Silence had an enormous stockpile of souls for her to use and with them she could truly dive into the work of mastering the art of reanimating the dead. From forest animals, she'd graduated to larger game—a horse found dead on a trail, then a bear killed by hunters who'd abandoned the carcass after taking only its pelt. Each success emboldened her, each failure taught her refinement.

“You were clumsy then," Silence observed, the sword's presence brushing against her thoughts. "Wasteful with your power."

"And now I'm not," she rebuked the sword aloud, moving to the ornate mirror to examine herself. "Now I'm fucking magnificent."

Her reflection showed the truth of this. The years of maturing had changed her physically in subtle but significant ways. Her skin was fair, and her green eyes had deepened in color, becoming almost luminous in dim light. Her blonde hair, once simply pretty, now seemed to capture and hold light in its strands, giving her an otherworldly radiance.

Animals were easy enough, but the stockpile of souls she had were human. Her first was a lone traveler who'd stumbled too close to her dwelling. She hadn't meant to kill him, but the man had seen too much, had watched as she commanded a pack of reanimated wolves to hunt for her.

His death had been necessary. His reanimation, though, had been educational.

"He fell apart within days," Silence reminded her.

"I got better," she said, running her hands over the curves of her body, admiring her form. "Much better."

Better indeed. Thankfully, after that first man made her more willing, bandits, vagrants, and vagabonds stumbled by with enough frequency to supply her with the bodies. The forest had become her laboratory, her hunting ground, her kingdom. The first time she'd successfully animated a soldier with enough control that it could serve and defend her, Dreama laughed until tears streamed down her face. Local villages whispered of the madwoman who lived deep in the woods, who talked to her sword and commanded the dead. They left offerings at the forest edge to appease her, sacrifices of food and trinkets of value. Those meager gifts weren't enough to fund her growing ambitions for long, though.

She'd turned to banditry, targeting merchant convoys traveling between kingdoms. Her undead servants made perfect ambushers—fearless, tireless, and completely loyal. They'd swarm from the trees without warning, surrounding startled guards and traders. Those who fled she let live. Those who fought joined her growing collection. Within two years, she'd accumulated substantial wealth and numerous components for her rituals… and when one land grew too hostile to her, she moved to another place further from those who would start hunting her.

Dreama moved to the window, looking out over the castle grounds toward the royal cemetery in the distance. It was good to be home. She’d never been to the royal city, but she had grown up in the Kingdom of Southpoint. Her village was still there… but nothing was the same. The throne had settled the abandoned village with new people after everyone had disappeared, but it was still a wasteland… everyone considered it haunted and cursed, and didn’t want to get anywhere near it. She had visited herself, once… but only once. Being there was too painful. The moment she had seen another house on the farmland that she had grown up working she had needed to resist the urge to scream… instead, she’d just left.

Dreama watched servants scurry across the courtyard below. The sword might have insulted her for her sentimentality in returning here, but it was a sound strategy. Southpoint was broken, desperate, and conveniently equipped with a recently deceased prince. Just the sort of place she needed.

"Time to check on my husband-to-be," she announced.

Silence's presence in her mind grew more attentive. "Are you nearly ready for the prince's reanimation?"

"Sooner than expected." Dreama slipped into her enchanted armor, feeling it conform to her body like a second skin. "He's going to be my finest work yet. Not just a mindless shell like the others."

She'd spent the past three weeks in the royal crypt, working her magic on Karidgan's preserved corpse. Reanimating dead flesh was simply enough, but for the last year she had been working on something more, and much more complex: Bringing back something with a mind and at least some fragments of its original soul, binding it to their body with intricate spellwork she'd learned from the tomes and Silence’s knowledge of the Atlan Empire. She’d never managed to fully reanimate anyone but she was getting closer. She’d pull it off.

Maybe this would be the time.

As she left her chambers, servants saw her coming and moved out of the way, flattening themselves against the walls to avoid coming too close to her. Their fear around her was palpable. Word had spread quickly among the castle staff: Whispers of midnight visits to the crypt, of strange amounts of material being brought down to the sealed royal tomb, of the king's inexplicable trust in this foreign sorceress.

Let them whisper. Soon they would bow to her as their queen.

The iron key turned with a satisfying click in the crypt’s lock, the sound echoing in the empty stairwell as Dreama pushed open the heavy door to the royal crypt. Cold air rushed up to greet her, carrying the scent of death held at bay by expensive preservative herbs and her own necromantic workings. She descended the worn stone steps, her enchanted boots making no sound against the centuries-old stone. Necromantic energy pulsed within the chamber below, responding to her presence like a loyal dog greeting its master.

"Your pet awaits," Silence whispered in her mind. Despite the weapon’s sullen attitude, its eagerness was unmistakable. It hungered for the necromantic energies that saturated the air down here.

The royal crypt stretched out before her, one of the set of chambers carved from the bedrock beneath Southpoint Castle. Stone sarcophagi lined the walls, generations of royalty sealed away in their final resting places. Brass plaques detailed their names, deeds, and dates. All of that was useless information to Dreama, save for the newest addition: Prince Karidgan, fallen hero of the doomed campaign. His tomb had been sealed but it stood open now, the heavy lid pushed aside. Around it, Dreama had transformed the crypt into a workroom that would have horrified the castle's pious inhabitants. Blood-drawn sigils covered the floor in concentric circles, their patterns precise and meticulous. Candles burned with unnatural blue flames at key points in the design, their wax mixed with powdered bones. The air itself seemed thicker here, resistant to movement, as if the barrier between the living and dead had grown thick with the energy from repeated layering of spells.

"Hello, my Lord Prince," she murmured, approaching the open sarcophagus where her creation lay.

Unlike most of her undead servants, Prince Karidgan appeared remarkably lifelike by now. His skin retained its color, a healthy tan rather than the waxy gray of typical corpses. His handsome features remained as they had in life—strong jaw, aquiline nose, the soft curve of lips that might have been merely sleeping. She had been repairing him… Only his eyes betrayed that he was a corpse. They were still the same deep brown they'd been in life, but they lacked the spark of true consciousness, instead reflecting an empty, patient awareness. Animating a body was quick and easy at this point… but bringing back a mind took much longer.

Dreama knelt before the sarcophagus, her knees pressing painfully against the cold stone floor. She positioned herself at the center of the largest sigil, directly across from Prince Karidgan's lifeless form. The time had come. Three weeks of preparation, of careful spellwork and subtle manipulations of the corpse's condition, had led to this moment. Tonight, she would attempt something far beyond simple reanimation.

"You're ready," she whispered to the empty shell that would soon be her husband. "And so am I."

She drew Silence from its scabbard, the blade's familiar weight a comfort in her hands. The runes etched along its length glowed with eager blue fire as she laid it across her lap. The bloodcrystal embedded in its hilt pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, warm against her fingertips.

"You aren’t ready," Silence hissed in her mind. "You need more power. More time. Instead—"

Dreama closed her eyes, centering herself. “Live up your name for once, and be silent,” she whispered. The ritual would take hours, demanding absolute concentration and precision. One mistake could ruin weeks of work—or worse, create an abomination. She did not need to be distracted right now.

Her fingers traced the first sigil etched on the floor before her. "From dust to flesh, from void to form," she whispered, channeling energy through her fingertips. The sigil ignited with cold blue fire that cast eerie shadows across the crypt. One by one, she activated the concentric circles of runes, each one drawing more power that she’d stored in that bloodcrystal over the years. Her sorcery filled the chamber, lapping at the walls like an ocean's weight.

Hours passed like that… keeping her focus, holding the spell together until she was sweating and her hair was soaked with it. "Karidgan of Southpoint," she intoned, her voice dropping to a resonant pitch that seemed to vibrate the very stones around her. "Prince of the realm, son of Joulen, heir to the throne. I call to your soul."

The air above the prince's body began to shimmer, distorting like heat waves rising from summer-baked stone. Dreama's muscles tensed as she sensed the first response—not from the corpse, but from somewhere beyond, from the realm where souls dwelled after death. She'd tried this before, touched the other side of that boundary before… but this was going to be the time she succeeded.

The resistance was strong. Returning a soul to a body was like trying to force water up the side of a mountain. Dreama gritted her teeth, sweat dripping from her brow onto the stone floor where it sizzled against the activated sigils. Her arms trembled with the strain of channeling so much power for so long.

"You're failing," Silence taunted in her mind. "As you always do."

"Shut up," she hissed, blood trickling from her nose as she redoubled her efforts.

The air above Karidgan's body began to swirl, coalescing into a faint funnel of blue-white energy. Dreama's heart leapt. This was further than she'd ever gotten before. She was close—so close she could taste it, metallic and sharp on her tongue.

With a sudden, violent motion, Dreama plunged Silence into the stone floor, driving its point deep into the central sigil. The runes flared blindingly bright, and the sword's presence screamed in her mind with outrage and pain as she forced it to yield its power. The bloodcrystal in its hilt blazed like a crimson star, and the vortex above Karidgan's body intensified, spinning faster, drawing in the ambient energy that filled the crypt. It pulled at Dreama's hair, at her clothing, at the very breath in her lungs as it hungrily consumed the power she was channeling. The sound was deafening… a roaring like the ocean in a storm, punctuated by cracks of energy that made her ears ring.

Then, with a thunderous concussion that knocked her backward, the vortex collapsed inward. Energy slammed down into Karidgan's body with such force that the sarcophagus cracked along its length. For one terrible moment, Dreama feared she'd destroyed the corpse—reduced it to ash with the sheer magnitude of power she'd channeled.

Silence fell over the crypt, broken only by her ragged breathing and the soft patter of blood dripping from her face onto the stone floor. Her limbs felt like lead, her mind foggy from exertion. Had it worked? Or had she failed again?

"Stand," she commanded the waiting corpse.

Her prince rose in a fluid motion, stepping out of his sarcophagus with easy grace. She'd dressed him in simple black trousers, leaving his chest bare to better observe her workings. The fatal wound that had pierced his heart and had been sewn shut by the priests was now merely a silvery scar, sealed by an infusion of necromantic energy. Dreama circled him slowly, admiring her handiwork from every angle. Unlike the shambling monstrosities of lesser necromancers, her prince moved with almost the same athletic precision he'd possessed in life. Almost, but not quite. There was still a slight delay between thought and action, a fractional hesitation that revealed his unnatural state to the trained eye.

"Speak your name," she instructed.

"Karidgan Joulin, Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Southpoint," he replied, his voice utterly normal save for the lack of inflection.

She let out a sigh, and tried to be happy. This was the true triumph of her work. He knew who he was. She had captured a fragment of his soul, binding it back to his body. The fragment provided a template of who he had been, allowing him to access memories and skills from his former life. He would be able to speak more or less like Karidgan would have. He would be able to fight like he could have. He would fit the part, but…

But it wasn't truly him. Not completely. The spark that made a person unique, the emotion, the passion—all the true essences of life—remained elusive. She traded words with him… just to make sure, but further exploration only proved that her initial finding had been right. She had failed… It was still beyond her current abilities to really restore a man to life. What she'd accomplished with Karidgan was remarkable, unprecedented in modern necromancy, but it fell far short of true resurrection. He was a hollow echo of the man he'd been, moving through remembered patterns without true understanding or agency.

This wouldn’t do for her parents.

But it would be enough to satisfy a grieving, doddering old father.

"You can’t do it," Silence whispered.

"I can! I will!" she hissed aloud, her fingers digging into Karidgan's chest. The prince didn't flinch, didn't react to the sudden pain. "I'll get there. In time."

She stepped back, composing herself. This was still progress—remarkable progress. When she presented the prince to his father tomorrow, the old king would see what he desperately wanted to see: his son returned. That he wasn’t fully back… grief and hope would blind him to these flaws.

It just wasn’t good enough for her.

Yet.

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The throne room of Southpoint Castle had seen better days. Faded tapestries hung limply from walls once adorned with vibrant artworks, sold off to pay war tributes. Tarnished candelabras cast insufficient light over the gathering nobles, their faces drawn with hunger and fear. Dreama had ordered minimal decorations for the wedding—a few white flowers, a length of blue silk draped over the central dais. No sense wasting resources on pageantry when the kingdom was broke. Besides, the threadbare grandeur suited her purposes better than any lavish display. Let them see what their precious war had reduced them to. Let them understand who was coming to save them.

"They hate you," Silence observed with amusement. "Every single one of them. Almost as much as I do."

"I don’t care," Dreama replied silently. "I require obedience. Not love."

She stood before a tall mirror in the antechamber, examining her wedding attire. She'd chosen a gown of deepest black rather than traditional white, its design severe and elegant, clinging to her curves before flaring at her knees. Several lesser bloodcrystals adorned her throat and wrists, their crimson glow reminiscent of freshly spilled vitality. She looked powerful. Otherworldly. A queen already in all but name.

"It's time," announced an elderly handmaiden, her voice trembling slightly. The woman kept her eyes downcast, refusing to meet Dreama's gaze directly. She was still helping, though. She knew her place.

The great doors swung open, and Dreama stepped into the throne room with measured grace. The assembled court rose as one. Conversations died instantly, leaving only the sound of her heels clicking against the stone floor as she processed toward the dais where King Joulen waited with her groom.

The king looked terrible. In just one week since she'd presented him with his "resurrected" son, Joulen had deteriorated dramatically. His face had hollowed, skin hanging loosely from once-proud cheekbones. Dark circles ringed eyes that seemed to have sunk deeper into their sockets. The crown sat awkwardly on his thinning hair. Despite that, he looked happy, an enormous smile on his face. Beside him stood Prince Karidgan, handsome and vacant in formal military dress, the medals and decorations from his campaigns gleaming on his chest.

Dreama suppressed a flash of annoyance. The king was dying… clearly. He had been dying for years, was still dying. Dreama wasn’t causing it… but it didn’t stop people from whispering that she was. It didn’t help that while King Joulen was enamored with his returned son, the court couldn’t help but notice that there was something wrong with him… that he wasn’t truly the man he had been. They whispered that dark magic had violated the natural order, that their king had made a devil's bargain with the mysterious sorceress.

Some had been bold enough to voice these concerns directly. Chancellor Meriden had approached the king privately, urging him to reconsider the wedding, suggesting that something unnatural had occurred. Meriden tried to have the guards arrest Dreama that night. The next morning, servants found the chancellor dead in his bed… his heart gave out, it seemed. No one spoke about the strange sigil that had been burned into his chamber door. Lord Evendel had been more direct, confronting Dreama herself in a corridor, accusing her of ensorcelling the king and perverting the prince's remains. Two days later, he fell from the castle's highest tower. Witnesses reported seeing him climb the stairs of his own accord, though his expression had been oddly blank. His widow fled the capital that same night.

After these incidents, resistance had withered quickly, and the castle staff became models of obedient efficiency. Those who couldn't adapt fled, and Dreama let them go… she had no need of slaves.

Living ones, anyway.

Dreama reached the dais and turned to face the assembled court, her emerald eyes sweeping over them with cold assessment. In the back of the room, four figures drew nervous glances from the nobles. Unlike Karidgan's remarkably lifelike appearance, these four warriors made no pretense of humanity. Their skin bore the grayish pallor of death, their eyes glowed with unnatural blue light, and their movements carried the fluid precision of predators. Each wore armor that had been enchanted, modified and enhanced with sorcery to be powerful. They were her honor guard… the greatest of the warriors she had raised and empowered.

The ceremony began. King Joulen's voice recited the traditional words with enthusiasm as he stared into his son's handsome, empty face and Dreama's satisfied smile. The prince responded to his cues perfectly, speaking his vows in a clear, emotionless tone. When Dreama spoke her part, promising to honor and cherish her husband, he was genuinely happy. "I now pronounce you husband and wife," Joulen concluded, though his voice was weak and each word seemed to age him further. "Crown Prince and Princess of Southpoint."

Dreama turned to her new husband, lifting her face for the traditional kiss. Karidgan bent obediently, pressing his lips to hers with perfect technical execution but no passion whatsoever. The court applauded with the enthusiasm of prisoners at an execution.

"Smile, my love," she whispered against the prince's ear. "Your father is watching."

Karidgan's lips curved upward in a reasonable facsimile of joy, though his eyes remained dead as stones. The king didn’t notice.

The wedding feast that followed was a grim affair. Food remained scarce in the kingdom, so the offerings were meager despite being the royal wedding banquet. Dreama cared nothing for this, eating sparingly as she observed the court's discomfort. The prince sat beside her, not eating at all. That annoyed her… it was just one more detail she'd need to address in her ongoing refinements to her technique.

When the time was right, Dreama rose and extended her hand to her husband. "Shall we retire, my prince?"

The court watched in uncomfortable silence as the newlyweds departed, the prince moving with fluid grace beside his new bride. Behind them, two of Dreama's undead honor guard fell into step, following at a respectful distance.

The royal bedchamber had been prepared according to tradition—fresh linens, scattered flower petals, candles providing romantic illumination. "Undress," she commanded, and Karidgan began removing his formal attire with passionless efficiency. Dreama shed her wedding gown more slowly, savoring the moment's power.

Everything was proceeding as she planned.

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Over the following two weeks, King Joulen's health deteriorated rapidly. Court physicians tried their best to help him, and so did Dreama… she entered his room every night, placing her hands on his chest and infusing new vitality into him. She wasn’t a master of healing magic, however… living alone in the forest had given her no opportunity to practice. His decline was rapid—it was like now that he had his son back, he was finally content and no longer had the will to fight.

When Joulen finally died, slumping forward during a council meeting and never rising again, no one in the court seemed surprised. Everyone blamed Dreama. No one dared say it out loud. The official mourning period was abbreviated due to the kingdom's precarious situation. Within days, preparations were made for a new coronation.

Dreama stood before the throne that had been her target all along, her black wedding gown replaced with formal regalia in Southpoint's traditional green. Prince Karidgan stood beside her, handsome and vacant as ever, a crown matching her own resting on his dark hair. As the ancient crown of Southpoint's queens was lowered onto her head, she felt a surge of triumph so intense it bordered on sexual.

"All hail Queen Dreama and King Karidgan," proclaimed the royal herald, his voice echoing through the throne room. "Long may they reign."

The court bowed low, fear and resignation evident in every line of their bodies. None met her gaze directly as she surveyed her new subjects. Her four undead honor guards had been joined by a dozen more, their presence around the throne room a silent reminder of what would happen to those who opposed her.

"My dear subjects," Dreama began, her voice carrying effortlessly through the hushed chamber. "Today begins a new era for Southpoint. An era of strength rather than submission. Of power rather than poverty." She smiled, showing too many teeth. "Your tribute days to Westguard are over."

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

The war room of Southpoint Castle bore little resemblance to what it had been two months earlier. Gone were the faded maps and tarnished ornaments of a kingdom in decline. In their place hung fresh charts marked with necromantic sigils… showing the location of her forces. Six skulls served as candle holders, their eye sockets glowing with blue flame that cast the chamber in ghastly light, and they shimmered with power when Dreama's fingers brushed across them.

Dreama sat at the head of the table, Silence resting before her like a centerpiece. The reanimated King Karidgan Joulen occupied the chair to her right, motionless as a statue, his dead eyes fixed on nothing. She'd styled her husband's hair differently today, slicking it back to better display the circlet of bone and silver she'd crafted to replace his traditional crown. The contrast between his handsome, youthful face and the macabre adornment pleased her aesthetic sense.

"Report," she commanded, her gaze fixing on the master of coin, who visibly flinched under her attention.

"Y-Your Majesty," the elderly man stammered, sweat beading on his balding pate despite the chamber's chill. "The treasury remains severely depleted. The tribute payment to Westguard is due in three weeks, and we simply cannot meet the obligation without—"

"We will not be making that payment," Dreama interrupted, her voice flat. "Or any future payments."

A horrified silence fell over the council. Seven men, each representing a different aspect of the kingdom's governance, exchanged nervous glances. None dared voice the obvious concern: Westguard would view non-payment as an act of war, and their armies had already demolished Southpoint once.

The military commander, a grizzled veteran named Lord Harrick, cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, while I admire your... conviction, our forces are a fraction of what they were before the war. We have perhaps two hundred trained men, poorly equipped and with little combat experience."

Dreama's lips curved into a cold smile. "Numbers that can be augmented significantly." She gestured toward a rolled parchment at the center of the table. The nearest advisor unrolled it with trembling hands, revealing a detailed map of Southpoint's territories marked with dozens of red X's.

"These," Dreama explained, "are mass graves from the war. Three years of conflict left approximately ten thousand soldiers of both kingdoms buried in these locations." Her finger traced a path between several markers. "I've already begun harvesting the first burial sites near the capital."

Lord Harrick's weathered face drained of color. "Harvesting? You can’t mean…"

"The dead don't need their bodies," Dreama said matter-of-factly. "We do. Each grave yields soldiers who need no food, feel no pain, and follow orders without question. They retain all fighting skills they possessed in life, with the added advantages of tirelessness and fearlessness." The council stared at her in mute horror. The master of justice, a prim man with a pointed beard, seemed on the verge of fainting. "By my calculations," Dreama continued, unmoved by their revulsion, "I can raise approximately five hundred undead warriors per week with my current power levels. Within a month, we'll have an army of two thousand fresh troops to complement our living forces. Within four months, our military strength will match Westguard's numbers, and overtake them in every other way."

"This is... this is an abomination," whispered the court chaplain, fingers clutching the religious symbol hanging from his neck. "Those men deserve eternal rest, not—"

"Those men died for Southpoint," Dreama cut in, her voice hardening. "Now they'll have the opportunity to bring it victory instead of defeat. I'd think they’d appreciate their sacrifice being meaningful, Chaplain."

The old priest fell silent, though his lips continued moving in silent prayer. Dreama noticed with amusement how the other councilors had subtly shifted their chairs away from her end of the table.

"My queen," ventured the master of trade hesitantly, "what of the... ethical considerations? The other kingdoms will surely view this as—"

"The other kingdoms will view this as terrifying," Dreama finished for him, leaning forward. "Which is precisely the point. Westguard humiliated Southpoint through conventional warfare. We will break free of their yoke through less conventional means… and woe to any who see us as weak." The temperature in the room seemed to drop as she spoke, the blue flames in the skull candleholders flaring higher.

"I trust I've made my position clear," Dreama said, surveying the shaken men before her. "Westguard's tribute ends now. If they accept this, then so be it. If not, we prepare for war."

The council nodded in unison, none daring to contradict her. Their fear was a palpable thing, filling the chamber like smoke.

"Dismissed," she said, waving a hand imperiously.

The men practically trampled each other in their haste to exit the war room. When the door closed behind the last of them, Dreama allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. She turned to her husband, who had remained motionless throughout the entire display.

"What do you think, my king? Shall we bring Westguard to its knees?"

Karidgan's empty eyes turned toward her. "As you command, my queen," he responded mechanically.

Dreama rose, moving to the large map of the contested territories that hung on the wall. Her fingers traced the border between Southpoint and Westguard, lingering on the fortified towns and strategic crossings. Westguard had spent three years destroying Southpoint's armies, never imagining that every soldier they killed would eventually rise again under her command.

"We march in three weeks," she decided, speaking to Silence as much as to herself. "The first payment deadline we miss will bring their diplomats. The second will bring their soldiers. And then..."

"And then we feast," Silence finished.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

Unnatural mist rolled across the plains at the border between Southpoint and Westguard, thick tendrils of gray-green fog that clung to the ground and twisted like living things. Dawn struggled to penetrate the magical murk, the rising sun nothing more than a diffuse glow that painted the battlefield in sickly hues. Dreama stood atop a small rise, Silence humming with anticipation in her grip, the sword's blue glow cutting through the fog around her. Before her stretched her masterpiece: Ten thousand undead soldiers arrayed in perfect formation, their armor gleaming dully in the half-light, weapons held at the ready with inhuman stillness.

"They're beautiful," she whispered, genuine emotion coloring her voice.

Beyond the mist, the forces of Westguard were scrambling to form defensive lines. Their scouts had reported movement at the border, but nothing had prepared them for the scale of Dreama's army or its unnatural composition. She could taste their fear on the wind, a delicious spice that made her skin tingle with anticipation.

"Forward," she whispered. There was no chance that her voice could carry across the battlefield, but the undead army responded anyway. They advanced as one, moving with precision and discipline that no living force could match. Former enemies now marched shoulder to shoulder, soldiers who had killed each other during the war were now united in death under her command. Their boots fell in perfect rhythm on the soft earth as they cut through the mist. No battle cries, no nervous chatter, no rattling of armor or jangling of equipment: There was just the silent, inexorable advance of thousands of dead men who could not be reasoned with or deterred.

Through the thinning mist, Westguard's forces became visible—nearly fifteen thousand soldiers arranged in defensive formations, their armor glinting in the strengthening daylight, their banners snapping in the wind. They had the advantage of numbers and position, but Dreama could sense the uncertainty in their ranks as they beheld her approaching horde. "Tighter formation!" shouted a Westguard commander, his voice carrying across the field. "Steady, men! They bleed like any other!"

Dreama smiled at that. He was wrong… Her soldiers didn't bleed at all.

As the distance closed to three hundred yards, a line of robed figures emerged from behind Westguard's front ranks—their sorcerers, at least thirty strong. The battle-sorcerers began to chant in unison, their hands weaving complex patterns in the air. Brilliant white light erupted from their fingertips, coalescing into a shimmering wall of protective magic that stretched across the battlefield. The first wave of undead smashed against this barrier like water against stone, temporarily halted in their advance by the powerful defensive enchantment. Bodies pressed forward, unable to penetrate the wall of light but unstoppable in their mindless advance.

The wall of light did what it was meant to do. The first ranks of Dreama’s undead crashed into it and halted, unable to push even a single bony finger through the blinding curtain. The next ten ranks slammed into them, piling up like driftwood at the estuary. Living soldiers would have collapsed, trampled each other, panicked as the press behind turned from orderly to lethal—but the dead didn’t panic, didn’t scream, didn’t even shift with discomfort. They simply pressed on in silence, shoulder to shoulder, foot to foot, until the wall of dead flesh stood so tightly packed that not even a sparrow could have flown through the gaps.

That was when the sky began to darken. Not with clouds but with the arcing shadows of arrows. They blotted out the sun in ragged waves. Dreama, at her vantage on the rise, watched them come with cold detachment: Perhaps as many as a thousand arrows per volley, each shaft meant to pierce a throat, eye, armpit, or groin, wherever old armor had thinned with rust. She did the arithmetic. By the time their quivers were empty, Westguard's archers would have loosed nearly thirty or forty arrows for every single soldier she had on the battlefield.

Within seconds, the first volley struck the front ranks with a sound Dreama privately thought of as the thunder of rain: a million tiny impacts, each barely a pinprick, but together enough force to shred canvas, pulp soft dirt, and rattle the nerves of anything that still had them. This was the driver of Westguard’s success, their horde of trained archers that had decimated Southpoint’s armies over and over again before the battle had ever begun, their opening salvos leaving whole centuries slumped and twitching in the grass. But Dreama’s army didn’t fall. The arrows punched through faces, found eye sockets, stuck quivering from the holes where hearts used to be. The old Southpoint banners, resurrected from the crypts, looked like monstrous hedgehogs before the second volley even landed. Still, not one corpse broke formation.

Westguard’s tactics were sound. Pin her troops against the barrier, then pick them apart with archers while they couldn’t advance and their own lines would hinder retreat. Westguard's battle-mages had always been defensive-minded, but their generals were not complete fools. Unfortunately for them, their preferred tactics were obsolete. Arrows made little difference to a corpse. As long as the ligaments stayed attached and the muscles could take a step or swing a blade, her servants didn’t care about the gruesome damage inflicted by the enemy archers. The first two rows of her undead were already more pincushion than man, but they didn’t even stagger. If they noticed the arrows, it was only as a mild annoyance.

Dreama’s lips curled in satisfaction.

"Clever," Dreama whispered. "But futile." She turned to her undead warhorse, a magnificent black stallion that had once belonged to a Westguard general. Its coat gleamed with unnatural luster, its eyes glowed with the same blue fire as her soldiers', and unlike living horses, it showed no fear of the undead or the battle ahead. Dreama mounted in one fluid motion, adjusting her armor. Southpoint didn’t have many sorcerers remaining after the first war, and quite a few of those who did remain had fled after a necromancer came to power. They were outnumbered, and wouldn’t be able to bring down the barrier.

"Time to introduce myself," she told Silence.

She spurred her mount forward, galloping through the ranks of her undead soldiers, who parted silently to allow her passage. As she approached the front lines, she raised Silence high above her head. The sword's glow intensified, pulsing in time with her heartbeat, blue light streaming from its blade like liquid fire.

The white barrier wavered as Westguard's sorcerers faltered, their concentration broken by the sight of her. Dreama knew what they saw: A terrifying vision of beauty and horror combined. Her blonde hair streamed behind her like pale fire and her pale skin glowed with an unearthly luminescence as it reflected the sorcerous light. She was death given form, necromancy incarnate, their worst nightmares come to life.

With a downward slash of Silence, Dreama sent a wave of necromantic energy crashing against the light barrier like a spear made of entropy itself. Blue-black power collided with white radiance, the two forces sizzling where they met. The barrier held, but several sorcerers staggered backward, blood trickling from their noses from the strain of maintaining their defense.

"Again," Silence urged, its bloodlust infecting Dreama's thoughts. "Break them."

Of course the sword wanted her to use more and more of its power. It wanted an opportunity to break free. It wasn’t wrong, though, so she channeled more power through the sword and drew on the thousands of souls bound to her service. The second wave of energy struck the barrier like a physical blow, creating a visible crack in its shimmering surface. A third strike shattered it completely, the protective magic dissolving into motes of light that scattered in the wind.

With the barrier down, her undead surged forward, shambling corpses and skilled warriors flowing around her like water around a stone. The front lines of Westguard's army met them with steel and courage, but while most of her soldiers were weaker and less skilled than a living soldier, conventional weapons were of limited use against enemies who felt no pain, knew no fear, and continued fighting despite injuries that would fell living men.

Dreama spurred her mount directly toward the line of sorcerers, who were already weaving new spells of protection and counterattack. Balls of fire and lances of lightning shot toward her, but she countered the first several that got off, and her enchanted armor helped shield her from the rest of the energy, the runes flaring briefly before returning to their steady pulse. The battlefield devolved into chaos around her as the disciplined formations of Westguard broke apart under the relentless pressure of the undead advance. Screams and the clash of weapons replaced the eerie silence that had marked the initial approach. Through it all, Dreama rode straight for her primary targets: the sorcerers who posed the only real threat to her army.

The first mage fell beneath Silence's edge, the blade sliding through his protective shields as if they were gossamer. As he died, Dreama felt his life force flow into the bloodcrystal at the same time that his soul fed the sword, joining the thousands already trapped within its enchanted metal. The second and third followed quickly, their spells faltering as they witnessed the effortless way she dispatched their colleague.

Behind Dreama, horns sounded—a long, wavering note that rippled over the battlefield and carried even above the hellish cacophony of dying men and clashing steel. Dreama didn’t need to turn to know what it meant, but she indulged herself with a glance anyway. Westguard had marshaled its famed heavy cavalry, having formed them up behind the distant ridges before bursting out into the open in a lance-tipped wedge aimed at her army’s right flank. The cavalry of Westguard were legendary: their horses bred for size and savagery, the riders trained from birth to kill and trample and butcher anything that stood in their path. Their charge poured for her forces, banners streaming, sunlight glinting off the sharp edges of their armor and the cruel lines of their lances.

She watched as the wedge slammed into the outermost ranks of her undead, the horses screaming as much as the men. Spears broke. Shields crumpled. The first few rows of corpses simply ceased to exist under the hooves and steel and raw momentum of the charge, pulverized into a mulch of flesh, bone, and tattered armor. The horsemen surged forward, exploiting the brief gap—just as doctrine said they should.

That was when it all fell apart. There was no line of soldiers panicking and pressing against their fellows… no panic, no break, no collapse. The ranks behind simply closed over the breach, a tide of dead flesh swallowing the charge whole. The cavalry had been trained all their lives to hunt men, to break lines, to ride down the desperate and fleeing. But Dreama’s army did not flee, did not despair, did not even register the charge as more than a change in topography. As the horses slowed, clogged in a morass of bodies, skeletal hands reached up and yanked their riders from the saddles and dragged them down into the roiling mass. Some knights managed to hack and stab, trampling backward over their own men in panic, but it made no difference. The wave that should have shattered her army simply broke itself on the rocks, and then was gone. Dozens of fine white stallions now scrambled riderless with wild eyes until one of the undead cut them down, leaving their bodies for later use.

Dreama let herself laugh—a cold, short, humorless sound that cut even through the sword’s relentless muttering in her mind. She could practically taste the panic now, seeping from Westguard’s high command as they watched their most storied weapon become a cautionary fable for generations to come. Then she returned her attention to the battle against the sorcerers with a smile on her face.

A more powerful sorcerer with silver streaking her dark hair and a determined expression managed to deflect Dreama's initial strike, her own staff glowing with protective magic. "Abomination!" the woman spat, her free hand weaving a complex counterspell.

Dreama laughed, the sound carrying unnaturally across the battlefield. She dismounted in one fluid motion, preferring to face this opponent on equal footing. Their magic clashed in visible waves of energy, the sorceress's fire flaring against Dreama's pulsing necromantic power that kept smothering it. For several moments they seemed evenly matched, their spells cancelling each other in spectacular bursts of magical backwash.

"You fight for a dead kingdom," the sorceress panted, sweat streaming down her face as she maintained her defensive posture. "Westguard will never submit to your perversion of magic!"

"Then Westguard will join the dead," Dreama replied calmly, not even breathing hard despite the magical duel's intensity.

She feinted with Silence, then dropped suddenly to a crouch, sweeping the sorceress's legs from under her with a low kick. The woman fell hard, her concentration breaking. Before she could recover, Dreama was on her, pinning her to the ground with inhuman strength and Silence's edge pressed against her throat. "Your power will serve me better than it serves you," Dreama murmured. Then she drew Silence across her throat in one smooth motion. Blood fountained from the wound, but instead of flowing onto the ground, it rose into the air, forming a crimson sphere that pulsed with life energy. The sorceress's eyes widened in her final moments, watching her own essence being extracted from her dying body.

Silence caught the woman's departing soul before it could escape, binding it within the blade. Not content to let the battle end, Dreama captured the woman’s life energy before it could even flee the body. The sorceress's corpse jerked once, then rose to its feet, eyes now glowing with the same blue fire that marked all of Dreama's undead servants. The wound in its throat sealed, leaving only a thin silver line as evidence of its violent death.

"Kill as many of your colleagues as you can," Dreama commanded her new servant. The undead sorceress bowed and moved away, its movements already taking on the fluid precision characteristic of Dreama's elite servants.

One by one, the remaining Westguard sorcerers fell or fled. Within the hour, the battle's outcome was no longer in question. Westguard's forces had broken, fleeing in disarray before the relentless advance of the undead. Those who stood their ground were cut down, and their bodies would soon rise to join the ranks of their killers. Only those too damaged to be of use were left to lie on the ground. She surveyed the battlefield from atop her warhorse, satisfaction warming her despite the chill wind that had risen. Silence glowed contentedly at her side, gorged on the souls of fallen sorcerers.

"Pursue the retreating forces," she instructed her army. "Do not allow them to regroup. Take the border fortresses by nightfall."

As they departed to carry out her commands, Dreama dismounted and walked slowly across the blood-soaked field. Everywhere she stepped, necromantic energy flowed from the ground into her body, the deaths of so many warriors in one place creating a wellspring of power she could tap. She breathed deeply, drawing in the essence of slaughter, feeling it strengthen her connection to death itself.

This victory, decisive as it was, represented only the beginning. With Westguard's border defenses broken and their sorcerer corps decimated, the path into the heart of their kingdom lay open. She had no need to capture Westguard… its mines and its border fortresses would be enough. Within weeks, everything she wanted from them would be hers, their resources hers to command. If they continued to fight, it would only give her a vast new pool of potential soldiers.

Within a few more battles like this, she would be free to resume work toward her ultimate goal.

Dreama knelt suddenly, placing her palm flat against the bloody earth. She closed her eyes, focusing on the distant memory of her parents' faces, growing clearer rather than dimmer with each passing year.

"Everything I've done," she whispered to them across the void of death, "everything I will do—it's all for you. And soon, we'll be together again." Dreama smiled, rising to her feet as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. Behind her, thousands of undead stood in perfect formation, awaiting her command. Before her lay Westguard's heartland, ripe for conquest. And beyond that, limitless possibilities.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

Dreama’s story will continue in Beyond Life and Death: Death is Only the Beginning.

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