A hard-fought battle.

  A predictable outcome.

  The throne room looked like a proper battlefield. It finally smelled like one, too. None of the pine remained, just smoke and sweat, guts and gore. If Amithaera could somehow bottle up this scent and spray it all over the place anytime she wanted, prepping would be so much easier.

  Scorch marks and blood decorated the polished stone pillars, chunks of rock littered the marble floors, the quiet groaning of half-slain monsters filled the air as the Necromancer looked around the carnage.

  In their defense, The Iron Talons had put up more of a fight than Amithaera had expected, though the outcome had never truly been in doubt.

  The Cleric wandered aimlessly near the far wall, his headless body bumping into pillars with the mindless persistence of the newly undead, an ironic fate for one who had spent his life turning such creatures. Too bad he couldn't cure his blight before that behemoth rent his head from his neck.

  What a glorious last stand for the Paladin. Truly one for the bards. She clapped once for the pile of ash he'd been reduced to.

  On the far end by her throne, the Rogue laid dead. Twenty-eight daggers and knives protruded from his motionless corpse. He looked like some sort of macabre pin cushion, all his prickly little tools jutting out of his body in different angles from his torso.

  And smoking like an overcooked turkey, the Wizard lay crumpled in the center, her twitching cracked smoking body still sizzling from Amithaera's perfectly cast spell-reflection. Fireballs never differentiate between friend and foe, after all.

  Her minions were slowly pulling themselves back together… quite literally, in the case of the zombies. One was attempting to reattach an arm that had been severed during the Paladin's last desperate charge. Another was searching for his lower jaw, muttering incomprehensibly as he felt around the debris, tossing useless stones in his search and accidentally killing a passing wraith in a ghastly yell of death.

  “Sh’owwy!” The creature apologized.

  Amithaera spotted Crayma extracting himself from a goblin-shaped hole in the stone wall, shaking his head groggily and spitting out bits of mortar. He grumbled out as he dusted his tattered leather armor and the magical bracers that had saved him from the shield bash, "Bloody Paladins…”

  Looking at the damage she’d sustained, Amithaera found it to be negligible. The protective wards had held admirably. She smoothed down her sleeves and adjusted her posture, slipping back into the regal bearing that befitted the terror of the Darklands.

  Veratreez appeared at her elbow, "Are you injured, m'lady?"

  "I'm perfectly fine," Amithaera replied, then paused to look down at the goblin girl. "Actually, Veratreez, I wanted to ask… how was my monologue? I've been working on the delivery all month.”

  The goblin hesitated, her fingers tapping against one another, "Well, m'lady, surely my opinion is unnecessary…"

  "Your opinion is very necessary, little dear," the Necromancer patted the goblin's head gently.

  Veratreez took a deep breath, steeling herself, "... It was a little too dramatic, if I'm being truthful. The Cleric kept rolling his eyes, which I feel was the overall mood of the adventurers during your speech…”

  Something suddenly caught the goblin's attention by a pillar.

  Amithaera's expression darkened. Perhaps she wasn't ready for criticism after all, "Dramatic? What’s the point of a monologue if I can’t be dramati-”

  "M'lady," Veratreez interrupted gently, pointing toward the far corner of the throne room, "one of the Talons still lives."

  Amithaera turned, her defense against the critique forgotten. Near the base of a shattered pillar, a figure in hard steel armor was struggling to bind a wound on her thigh.

  The Warrior. She'd been a fine champion during the battle, surviving the encounter with the behemoth. Survivors were good. A lot of potential with survivors. Perhaps this one could be ransomed back.

  Amithaera began walking toward her slowly, her footsteps echoing in the devastated chamber. Veratreez followed at a respectful distance, careful to avoid the pools of blood and scattered debris.

  "All that training," Amithaera said, her voice carrying a menacing tone. The light around her seemed shallow, drowned out as her sleeves trailed in behind. Those unblinking purple eyes shined harshly to give the appearance of a predator encroaching on its prey.

  The Iron Talon didn't stop trying to bind her wound.

  "All those hours perfecting your sword work, learning to fight with your party, building trust with them…" She gestured at the carnage around them, "And none of it mattered. None of it could prepare you for a real challenge."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The Warrior looked up through her helmet, the small exposed part of her face pale but defiant. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage on her leg, but her grip on her sword remained steady. Shakily, she tried to stand, but collapsed with a cry of pain.

  "Look around you," Amithaera continued, stopping just outside sword range. "All your friends are dead. Their faith, their magic, their righteousness… All of it was nothing against my might!”

  Once more, the Warrior tried to stand, swinging harmlessly at the Necromancer and falling again, faster this time, hard enough to knock the dented helmet off her head. It clattered uselessly on the marble below. Beneath her breath, the woman painfully murmured, “Gods, shut up…”

  She was a short-haired brunette, soft brown eyes like Nyssa, prettier than the Necromancer wanted to give her credit for.

  Amithaera tilted her head with mock sympathy, grinning madly, "You should save yourself the trouble of trying to stand back up. There would be more honor in admitting defeat in the face of true power."

  The Warrior spat at her. Droplets of spittle vaporized inches from Amithaera's face, dissolving against the shimmering barrier of her ward shield. With a hoarse voice, unwavering in the face of her fate, she growled, “I will never surrender, Witch. More will come! I swear it!”

  Her expression faltered, some grim realization landing on her face. She didn’t believe herself.

  "But of course they will." Amithaera replied with a dismissive laugh, and even the little goblin snickered along with her mistress, "The outcome will be the same… Death, death, and more death.”

  She turned to Veratreez, "Collect some of ours still on their feet and have them drag this one to the dungeons. She'll make fine practice for Crayma’s new torture whip.”

  Veratreez nodded and scurried away, calling out to the remaining minions in her harsh goblin tongue.

  Amithaera looked back at the Warrior with satisfaction, leaning forward slightly, "You shall be my new thrall. That fire in your eyes will make breaking you all the more enjoyable.”

  At that, the Warrior's face softened, a sheen of sweat and exhaustion permeating her expression. Something in her thoughts had finally come to the conclusion that this was the end.

  “If you have any last words before you're taken away, I suggest you say them now…” The Necromancer taunted once more, smugly smiling at the foolish adventurer that dared to attack her tower.

  The Warrior's hand moved toward a small pouch at her belt, fingers working at the leather ties, saying quietly, "Yes… but not for you, Witch.”

  The words sent an unexpected chill through Amithaera. There was something in the Warrior's tone, something personal and intimate that had nothing to do with bravado. Her hand was pulling something from the pouch. It was sure to be a weapon, no doubt, some final act of defiance.

  "Stop," Amithaera commanded, but the Warrior continued, grasping at an item in her pouch and lifting the object. The Necromancer observed a small pointed dagge-

  In a sudden surge of defensive instinct, Amithaera raised her hand and fired a bolt of pure darkness. The magic struck the Warrior in the chest, piercing her heart with surgical precision and flinging the woman against the pillar. A grunt escaped her lungs as she connected, the momentum continuing as the face-down woman slid a few feet across the slick floor. A trail of smeared blood followed her path.

  The woman's eyes were wide with panic, pouring down tears from the edges and blood from her mouth. Her hand slid up beside her face to look upon what she'd removed from her pouch.

  Life seeped away, fear fell to the wayside, and the Warrior took in a final shuddering breath of air.

  "Orson…" She whispered longingly through her shaky and pained voice…

  Then perished.

  A hand outstretched still, Amithaera stood frozen, staring at the corpse with wide eyes. Her eyes fell upon the Warrior's object, limp hand clutching a piece of parchment, partially unfolded to reveal lines of careful script.

  A letter. She had been reaching for a letter. She got herself killed over a letter.

  The throne room felt oppressively quiet as Amithaera lowered her arm. Her feet took her toward the body, standing over the dead woman now.

  Veratreez returned with two zombies in tow, then stopped when she saw her mistress standing motionless beside the dead adventurer. The goblin could sense something was wrong.

  "M'lady…” she ventured out the word, "Should we... Should we proceed with the dungeons?"

  Amithaera didn't respond. She was staring at the letter, at the name that still seemed to echo in the air.

  Orson.

  The Warrior's last word hadn't been a curse or a prayer or a cry for help.

  It had been a name.

  "M'lady?" Veratreez tried again.

  "No," Amithaera said quietly, a shaky breath finally hitching and filling her lungs. "No dungeon. Just... clean this up. All of it."

  She turned and walked back toward her throne, leaving the letter where it lay, but unable to stop herself from glancing back at it. The parchment seemed to call to her.

  As the Necromancer settled into her seat, she shut her eyes and thought of more pressing matters.

  The year was coming to a close soon. Between her garments and the ritual supplies, Amithaera wondered just how much she could afford to spend before she had to renew the contract on this tower. It had been a bargain, and she'd always had plenty of adventurers to kill and expensive gear to sell off.

  Orson.

  Amithaera cleared her throat, looking up at the ceiling.

  These Iron Talons were the first to come in a while. Besides the Paladin's armor, most of these fools had gear that looked too basic to make a profit off of. She had to take into account the mess they'd left behind, from the singes on the ceiling to the ruined pillars. Black marble was expensive.

  Orson.

  Amithaera looked at her hand, still trembling as if magic was flowing through it. She grabbed her own wrist and willed it to cease.

  Damn that Warrior.

  Who made their final moments in life the name of another? How dare this woman trick her into snuffing her out prematurely? Who did she think she was?

  And who could this Orson have been?