Book One: Rise of the Demonborn
Chapter 8: Voices From the Ashes
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Kael stood beneath a moonless sky, his fingers stained with blood and soot. Before him, six corpses lay in a line—bandits, likely. Slain the night before. Fresh enough to work with.
But this time, he wasn't here to raise puppets.
This time, he would *awaken minds*.
The Ritual of Bonefire burned in his mind—etched there by Nyzereth herself. A process not just of summoning, but of reshaping. The soul fragments clinging to rotting bones could be *stitched back together*, momentarily, under the right spell. They could *remember*.
They could *think*.
Kael carved a circle in the dirt, using a shard of bone. At its edges, he placed small objects—coins, a rusted locket, an old boot. Possessions taken from the dead.
Memory anchors.
When the circle was complete, he stepped inside. The wind stopped. Even the trees dared not breathe.
Kael raised both hands and whispered in Nyzereth's tongue:
"Ak'tor Nethalem… e'sal draz."
Flames erupted around the corpses—*not red, not orange, but ghostly blue*. Cold, silent. They didn't burn flesh—they *peeled back death*.
One by one, the corpses *twitched*.
One sat up.
Then another.
Kael didn't blink.
The first body, a scarred woman with a shattered jaw, turned toward him. Her sockets were filled with swirling blue fire—but her lips moved. Her voice was cracked, rasping.
"Where… where am I…?"
Kael stepped forward. "Tell me your name."
"F… Fennira," she croaked. "I was… robbed. Killed. My brother—he… did he live?"
Kael said nothing.
The second corpse laughed suddenly—its voice clear, disturbingly *human*. "I remember this. I remember *dying*. A blade in the ribs. Still feel it."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "You're conscious."
"Yes," it hissed. "You did this."
"I did," Kael said.
"You played with fire," the third corpse snarled, an older man with empty sockets and torn robes. "Necromancer scum."
Kael raised his hand—and the corpse fell instantly silent, eyes extinguished.
"I don't need your opinions," Kael said flatly. "Only your *usefulness*."
The others fell quiet.
"You are the first," he continued. "I have more to raise. But not as puppets. As *operatives*."
Fennira spoke again. "What… do you want us to do?"
Kael didn't smile. He never did.
"You will walk among the living. Lie. Spy. Manipulate."
The second corpse, amused, tilted its head. "You want us to *pretend to be alive*?"
"I'll give you flesh," Kael said, "for a while. Glamour magic. Speak, walk, breathe. You will return to Therrow. As family. As merchants. As travelers. They'll never suspect."
"And when they trust us?"
"*Betray them.* From within."
A silence fell over the circle. Not fear. Not rebellion. Just… *acceptance*.
Kael had created more than undead.
He had created a weapon of infiltration.
---
The next morning, Kael stood before five fully reformed "people"—their bodies wrapped in false skin, illusions of life covering dead bones. Only he could see the faint blue shimmer in their eyes.
They looked human.
Sounded human.
But they were *his*.
"I'll remain in the forest," Kael said. "For now. I have other work."
Fennira stepped forward. "And when we complete our mission?"
"You return," Kael said. "And I'll give you… permanence."
She froze. "You mean… not fade again?"
Kael nodded.
He would bind their souls fully next time. Give them free will, eternal form.
They would no longer be undead.
They would be *reborn*.
---
As his new agents walked toward Therrow, Kael turned back into the trees.
He had work to do.
The Seraphim still hunted.
Nyzereth whispered in his mind.
"Power grows through patience, Kael. Even gods bleed.... If you learn where to cut"
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