Chapter Text
If there was one thing to be said about necromancy, perhaps the best way to describe it was “stupidly complex”. The very number of intricacies that came with spells of black magic were too many to count on both hands and far too entangled for even the most studious of mages to study thoroughly. Only those dedicated solely to the mastery of the dead could be noted among textbooks to have comprehended it in full and be proficient in it.
Specter Knight was not a necromancer. He was not even a magician of any kind. To expect him to understand how magic itself worked beyond the arsenal of Curios he had owned in the past was a fool’s task – and that was the problem, really. Because, for someone who was technically dead, this was a fairly integral part of his existence.
Ever since the Enchantress had been painstakingly expelled from the Valley, whatever sort of sorcery she had used to raise him from his untimely demise had begun to diminish. The peeling away of his flesh was a testament to this, literally and figuratively; fingertips exposed to reveal the bone underneath much like the magic being stripped away from him. Before, he had been able to exist as an undead with his body being preserved. Without her, he was on the path of returning to the grave as a rotting skeleton.
He couldn’t afford that. Not while he still had a promise to keep.
Of course, without the Enchantress, he was also free from the shackles of servitude to do whatever he pleased. Normally, this would be delegated to roaming the expanse of the Lich Yard as he always did, but now he found himself with an actual objective after so many months of being aimless. The only problem is that he wasn’t quite sure where to start.
To say that his relationship with the (former) Order of No Quarter was rocky would be quite the understatement; either he was openly hostile with them or begrudgingly neutral, with little room for in between. Plague Knight might have been capable of concocting some sort of accursed brew to keep him alive, but he didn’t trust the birdish fiend to do so with efficiency and without blowing something up in the process. If he might have thought to seek counsel from pirates who had traversed the world such as Treasure Knight or Propeller Knight, it was quickly dismissed with the realization that he really did not want his hand to be forced towards interacting with those two if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. The rest likely wouldn’t carry any sort of information that would be useful to him.
That left him with little options. Either bite the tongue of his pride and fraternize with the pirates or expand his horizons with the...normal people of the Valley.
He chose the latter. He valued his pride more than his sense of self-preservation. Surely the denizens of Landurr wouldn’t raise their pitchforks at the mere sight of him now that the Enchantress was no longer among them.
...that’s what he had hoped at the moment, and so far it had rung true during his travels. So long as he kept to himself, most people did the same. Sometimes a few curious eyes would be cast on him, both from those who had never seen him before and from those who had been unfortunate enough to witness him at work, but that was as far as interactions went with others.
Sleep, as an unnecessary task, was avoided for the sake of making the well-trodden path shorter than it needed to be. Only a few days went by from the Lich Yard to the remnants of the Tower of Fate, and now he was left under the moon that loomed over the horizon. Silver rays were cast upon the scattered cobbles of the old spire that once served as a hesitant home to him, and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret in coming to this place. Too many open wounds, bleeding scars, faces he wanted to forget that had come from the accursed steeple that haunted his waking walk.
But he was here for a reason.
It didn’t take him very long to find what he was searching for. A fellow knight clad in pitch armor, standing guard over the derelict scene with a mere shovel strapped to his back. Specter couldn’t muster much thought into hazarding a guess as to why Black Knight would even deign to wander these wastelands so thoroughly, but it made the task of finding help easier.
Weightless, the caped undead landed upon the precipice that his old friend stood over the edge of. An overlook across the desecrated tower and the ruins it made.
“I know not why you’ve come all the way out here,” the spade-wielding knight offered after a moment of silence. “There’s not much left of this place.”
Hands itched for something. To wield his weapon. But Specter fought the urge. “I could say the same of you. What could you possibly hope to find out here? The amulet has been destroyed – the Enchantress is no more.”
Black shook his head, stubborn as ever. “So we assume. But I think otherwise. Evil doesn’t dissipate so easily.”
Specter clicked his tongue. “Far be it from me to keep you from that, then,” he sighed, moving to sit next to the other knight’s feet. Best to get to the point. “I need your help.”
A terribly characteristic snort escaped from the confines of Black’s helmet. “You? Need my help? How ominous. Must be something extravagant, indeed.”
“Don’t make this any more embarrassing for me than it already is,” the phantasm hissed with shielded teeth. “Never in my afterlife would I seek parley with anyone if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”
The tension in the air suddenly thickened. “Parley!” Black repeated in disbelief, throwing up his hands into the air with the indignation of someone who had truly been wounded. “I recall you attempting to force me into submission for the Enchantress – not once, but twice – and nearly caving my skull in for the effort! Damn you and your parley-”
“Stop. God. You’re giving me a headache,” Specter interrupted, twisting around to gaze up at the fellow knight with impudence. “I’m going to pass away for good, Black Knight, and either you can be a name to carve into the memoir of those who let it be so, or you can listen to my dying request.”
The abrupt declaration made itself useful in stopping his old friend’s temper tantrum, the hesitancy in his joints as clear as day. “...oh. I didn’t realize how dire this was.” Arms crossed, he sat down alongside Specter in contemplation, gaze tilted down to observe the hillside below. “Tell me what you need from me, then.”
The faintest of winds snagged the ends of the ghost’s tattered cloak as he followed in the movement of looking down. Even now, the remains of the Tower of Fate’s guts were as haunting as ever. It was painful to see. “There has to be something out there,” he began carefully, “that could serve to keep me alive. Someone, even. A powerful necromancer, an enchanted artifact, anything. I just need a direction to be pointed in. I thought you might be able to provide.”
“Ahh,” the obsidian knight hummed. “I’m sure your looming departure has to do with this mess.” He gestured towards the rubble, flippant.
“Yes. The Enchantress’ magic is the only thing that kept me from departing from this plane of existence for good...”
Silence, again. Specter could only assume that it was because Black was in thought. From the cover of his sleeves, he peered over at the hands he laid flat against the earth; the ivory of his skeleton sparkled past rotting meat that just barely sat underneath his first knuckles. His hand would be consumed in due time to the decay, although he did not know exactly how long it would take for that to happen.
Eventually, the Black Knight spoke again. “There is...something that I know of,” he admitted, folding his hands together. “While I was still studying under the code of Shovelry, there was a ghost story the knaves would often tell each other by the campfire. It detailed a forsaken shrine surrounded by a vast forest and haunted by lingering spirits, home to a powerful relic said to grant the wielder a single wish of any kind. Countless have sought it, either to return empty-handed or never at all.”
“Tsk. Of course it has to be ghosts.” Specter was loath to concede his time into warding off shades with the stick of his scythe like a broomstick, but if he must, then so be it. “Tell me where this supposed shrine is.”
“Go far south from this place,” Black replied. “Until the trees come together so closely that the sun and moon are snuffed out from the canopy, and only darkness remains. In the heart of those woods will you find it sequestered away, still standing against time itself. That’s how the saying goes, at least. I’ve never seen it for myself. It might not even exist.”
The mantled apparition stood, tearing away from the open skyline – and from his old friend. “I’ll see to it that I find out whether this relic is real or not. And when I return to tell you of its validity, should it exist…” Another wistful gaze towards his gaunt limbs. “Hopefully I won’t look so dreadful.”
“If anyone could find it, it would certainly be you, Donovan.”
As it happened, Black Knight’s tale had not been so farfetched.
At first, Specter was doubtful regarding the validity of the account that had been passed down; days dragged on to seemingly no end, barren fields and rolling knolls being the only thing the landscape offered him. There were no other travelers, no roaming wildlife to greet him. Simply nothing.
Eventually, though, trees began to dot flattened lands. Even from far across wayside, he could see the formation of a sprawling holt under the setting sun. This had to be where the shrine was located. Why else would there be such untamed wilds so far from the Valley, untouched by mortal men? Ironic that simple directions like “go south” and “look for a big forest” would actually prove to be stalwart.
Unwilling to exploit the unbroken solitude that he had been fortunate enough to journey with thus far, the scarlet phantom summoned his scythe and gripped it tightly as he made brisk work of traversing through the depths of the forest (being able to float had its perks, even if he missed the old days of traveling entirely by foot).
Stillness no longer met his ears as the local fauna made themselves well known. With the advent of dusk came birds and fairies that fluttered by, sage enough to keep their distance from him. Mossy spinwulves, perhaps distantly related to those he had seen among the snow, darted between trunks as they watched his daunting path with scrutiny. He was no longer alone, which was admittedly more of a relief. Pesky critters that were occasionally too curious were better than obnoxious people – or ghosts. That would be unlucky, too.
Finally, he reached what could be assumed to consist of the wood’s navel. Conifers that were nearly intertwined choked out the light of the dying sun above, exactly like Black Knight had described. Only a single pathway existed to be passed through, curling branches that parted overhead to form a small alcove barely wide enough to fit a single person. Inviting, if not ominously alluring.
He approached it with his feet on the ground and with his weapon first, the scarlet steel breaching the overhang before he ducked underneath. Unlike the rest of the forest, there were no beasts to be seen. Not surprising. There was a formidable chill in the air, prickling goosebumps along his dead skin with otherworldly apprehension.
Something existed here. Something beyond the mortal coil.
He half-expected Invisishades to suddenly bombard him and prevent his progression, but it never happened, even by the time he was able to discover the supposedly haunted shrine itself. It was a lot smaller than he had imagined, roughly the size of an average house if its rooms were aligned symmetrically. Stone chiseled with ancient markings were overrun with vines like tapering snakes, ashen swallowed up by the green. There was a sort of melancholy that hung over the structure, different from that of the Tower of Fate; while the violet obelisk that he knew mostly as a second home had been destroyed, there was a sort of finality to that truth. It was gone for good. This place, though, had stood the test of time and had suffered for it. Whatever glory that it might have bolstered in the past (because it was very clear that the labor of dedication had been put into its creation) had withered away through the years, leaving behind nothing more than a shell of its former self.
He shouldn’t be reminiscing. He shoved away everything other than his scorching instinct to live and pushed on, nearing the raised steps that led to the entrance.
Steel double doors blocked his path, a massive lock hung over heavy chains over their surface. With doubt did he twist his scythe around in his hands to aim the end of its pole towards the hatch, thrusting it forward with all the strength he could muster in a single moment. He really and truly had not expected that stunt to work – and it did, silver splintering against the initial strike and crumbling to the ground. Either nobody had ever been able to set foot into the actual interior of the sanctum, or someone had boarded up the doors afterwards with a really shitty lock.
Nudging the shackles aside, he shoved open the doors with his shoulder. A cloud of dust and grime rose from the disturbance and filled the lungs he hadn’t used in ages, to which he could only cough feebly against the uncomfortable assault. One arm raised over his immediate line of sight, he placed a single foot within the parameter of the temple.
Nothing happened.
“For a haunted shrine, this place sure is dull...” he murmured entirely to himself. He was beginning to regret hoping that this place wouldn’t be the home of ghosts, because at least he would have found some sort of entertainment or challenge out of keeping them at bay.
Instead, vacancy is what greeted him. The sanctuary’s insides contained nothing but pedestals, with various things placed underneath glass cases on top of their flattened heads; a dagger here, an anchor there, and, most interestingly, a lantern closest to the very back.
He moved closer towards the very last item out of intrigue, glossing over it with a tilted head. He failed to understand the significance of it, or any of the other trinkets. Were they relics? Not likely. He couldn’t sense any type of magic out of them, so they were only everyday things. Not to mention that it would be pretty lame for relics to just be lying around an unguarded area, even if the rigidity of the atmosphere remained taut.
Leaving the containers behind, he found himself drawn to the end of the shrine. Tiny cracks in the ceiling and walls made way for slivers of light that was only somewhat brighter than inside to peer through, all pulled towards the centermost column in the room and its prize: a locket that was, without a doubt, enchanted.
Specter Knight gnawed at the inside of his cheek. This had to be a joke.
With narrowed eyes and a wary gait did he shuffle towards it, stopping a far few feet away with a sudden spike of disquiet. It wasn’t his.
Disappointment flooded his already heavy chest as he stood upright. It was a circular one with a silver moon engraved over a neon green backdrop, a thread looping it complete instead of more secure fetters. It didn’t even appear as though it could open, a significantly less complex design compared to the one he’d been searching for. He shouldn’t have raised his hopes, really – whatever cruel spirit had stolen the one that had belonged to him likely wouldn’t have brought it all the way out here just to discard in an abandoned temple, but he was still frustrated all the same.
Steps that weren’t his reached the back of the sanctuary.
Remorseful memories disappeared within an instant as he spun around to face the doorway he had (recklessly) left open, and his legs dropped into a crouching position as he scurried behind one of the pedestals closer to the entrance. The outside’s abyss made it impossible to make out whoever had decided to follow his path, so all he could do was to strain his ears in vigilant silence as the figure came inside.
But as they drew nearer, the outline became more recognizable. As a particularly vigorous draft blew in from the forest and curled around the room, a long scar flapped along its path loudly. A chance strike of light illuminated the two curved, yet pointed hunting weapons made of crystal in the smaller silhouette’s hands. Boomerangs.
Specter had to fight every innate urge to move, which unfortunately embedded itself across multiple parts of his body. He fought the urge to run, to drop his scythe, and to utter some sort of expletive all at once. Reize Seatlan, the absolute last person he would ever want to see, romped around the hallowed hall with excited “ooh”s and “aah”s as he nearly followed the undead’s path of examination across the different pillars.
What in God’s name was he doing here? There was no way he had preemptively known that Specter was going to be hunting down this relic, even if the kid had known of the relic itself prior. He shouldn’t be here.
Does he even remember me? But he dared not linger on that question for too long.
If he was here for the relic, there was no way out of fighting for it. Which was bad, not because he actually thought he might lose, but because it had been so long since he’d seen his technical godson that he wouldn’t know of any of the young adventurer’s improvements. He didn’t have the time to waste learning what he had missed during his time as the Enchantress’ enforcer, he needed to get the relic and leave.
He had the element of surprise in that regard.
Specter might not have really grasped how magic worked, but he still possessed the capability of using it. Maybe a departing gift from the Enchantress. Either way, his lack of knowledge did nothing to prevent him from telekinetically slamming the doors shut behind Reize with a discreet flick of his wrist.
A gasp filled the air, and the phantom reveled in his successful distraction only for a brief moment. He pushed himself to stand as inky blackness submerged the temple’s only chamber, then brought luminosity to it once more through the coalesced sphere of chartreuse fire that he willed to life in the palm of his free hand.
He swallowed before speaking. “You made a mistake coming here tonight, child.”
Reize’s head snapped to face him, astonishment and trepidation filled wide in his eyes. Much to Specter’s chagrin, though, it was quickly replaced by that of foolhardy bravado. “Aha! You must be the ghost that’s haunting this place!”
“...what.”
“The villagers told me all about you!” the boy continued, ducking into a fighting stance as he waved one boomerang towards the knight. “I’m here to exercise you!” A pause. “...wait, that’s not the right word. Um...”
Earth reclaim me. “It’s exorcise,” Specter corrected, somewhat dumbstruck by the display but relieved that his question had been answered; Reize most likely did not recognize him. He considered asking about the village until he realized that it wasn’t relevant, and he was venturing off track. “Leave this place before I lose my patience. I won’t offer grace a second time.”
“No deal!” His godson darted forward with impressive speed, the kind that Specter hadn’t anticipated initially. As he approached, he swung one of his boomerangs to cut down the undead through short range.
Specter waited until he was close enough before sliding out of the way, watching the novice go plummeting towards the wall as he failed to consider the maneuver. Which was fine. Now the knight was free to remove the magic-infused locket from its pedestal while Reize struggled to recover.
One of his feet hit a tile that sunk down against his weight as he closed in on the pedestal. Panicking, he swiftly drew it back in recognition of a trap he had most certainly just set off. He watched as a red halo formed around the area, encompassing most of the pedestals and the two people among them. Sparks of fire flew up from the newly-defined incarceration spell, brighter than the orb that Specter extinguished now that something else was lighting up the room. Well. This was not ideal.
“W-what’s going on?” Reize asked, unarmed now with his weapons hung over his back, as he approached the edge of the circle and reached out his hand to touch the invisible barrier it formed.
“Don’t touch that!” Specter snapped before he could, rushing forward without thinking to pull him away from the ring’s border. “It’s an incarceration spell, meant to trap people within its circumference. It will burn your hand to the bone.”
The boy’s hand jerked back as soon as the explanation had been heard, nearly stumbling against one of the pedestals. “Did you make that?!”
“Of course not. Otherwise I wouldn’t be in it.” The presence of magic was steadily increasing – the incarceration spell wasn’t going to be the last of it. Acting quickly, the knight spun around and threw the side of his fist against the glass case on the enchanted amulet’s plinth. Shattering, then nothing as the pieces littered around the column. He snatched the artifact, grasped it tightly, raised it to his eyes.
Green winked back at him mischievously.
His attention shifted to the sound of Reize yelping. “The circle is closing in!” he said, pointing at the loop’s definition as, sure enough, it shrunk ever so slowly towards them.
Oh, this wasn’t just not ideal, this was bad. Assuming the worst led Specter to believe that the circle was probably going to try and turn them both to mere piles of ash in its wake. Punishment for thieving hands, which was something he knew all too well.
Reize was going to die. Only Reize, not just because Specter Knight was already dead, but because there was nothing that the undead could do in a significant amount of time to save him. After all, he could just pass through the floor if he wished for it hard enough. Mortals had no such favor extended to them.
Reize was going to die.
Maybe he understood that. There was fear in his gaze as he looked around wildly, the kind that one’s irises only reflected before the face of death. Even against all odds, he was still looking for a way out.
Now you’ve done it, stupid boy, Specter thought grimly before tucking the locket away within the confines of his cloak. Once again, he was going to risk his life for this scatterbrained Seatlan on behalf of the promise he’d made to his father so long ago.
Inside of the circlet rested the lantern he had seen before. It was nothing more than a Hail Mary, but he wrestled it free from its coffin and brushed the dust off of the lamp itself. Dispelling his scythe, he grabbed Reize’s arm and pulled him close. “Don’t move,” was all he offered as a warning before attempting to manifest his latent ability for dark magic to pour into the lantern.
It worked. Flames tinted amethyst burst to life as the beacon recognized his spell, several wisps forming a circle around the two of them in a shoddy, but efficient recreation of the Barrier Lantern he had once acquired from the Tower of Fate. The two spells would inevitably touch and cancel out.
So long as nothing happened. Ill-fated, then, that a large crack sounded underneath them.
“...I think the floor just fractured,” Reize whispered.
“Fuck.”
The incarceration spell disintegrated into smoke and soot as the stone flooring they stood upon gave out without so much as a second warning, breaking apart like tiny pieces of chalk and leaving them to plummet into the chasm below. Everything above seemed to warp and twist in place like melting piles of sludge, a sight that was equal parts disorienting and nauseating. The shrine, the forest, even the recently ascended crescent moon in the sky all swirled together to form a dizzying dull.
Specter reached out blindly for Reize as they continued to sink, gravity weighing upon them hard enough to make their tumble almost impossible to watch in real time. He was able to grab on to something, presumably the adventurer’s scarf, and the knight reeled him in closer to pin down against his chest.
Then he flipped over onto his back. If this was how things ended, fine. At the very least, he could try spare his godson the misery of an undignified demise like falling to death.
Darkness closed in, the only companion he could ever count on to remain loyal.