The Necrovia Kingdom was typically a quiet place—its inhabitants were either undead or deeply absorbed in the study of necromancy. But today, the King's castle echoed with laughter and chaos, thanks to the energy of a now five-year-old boy named Morte.
He was a small and slender child, with skin as pale as moonlight and short white hair streaked with vibrant purple. His vivid amethyst eyes darted about, brimming with curiosity. He ran wildly across the courtyard, pursued by three skeletons he had summoned on instinct alone.
"Ahhh!" Morte screamed, half in fear, half in joy, as he ducked under a statue and rolled behind a pillar, skeletons clattering noisily after him.
From a stone bench encircled by dead-yet-blooming flowers, the Skeleton King watched in silence. His brother Nubis sat beside him, looking amused.
"It's extraordinary that he summoned not one but three skeletons at his age," said Nubis, adjusting his long coat. "If he's merely a prodigy, then I'm only half a mage."
The King nodded. "Impressive, yes. But they're wild. He didn't bind them."
"You're underestimating him," Nubis replied, his tone turning serious. "He's five. He summoned undead with no incantation. No glyphs. Just willpower. And he sees all types of mana—even the blasted Divine. That's more than prodigy. That's unprecedented. If he hadn't fallen under our protection, I imagine we'd be scrambling to prepare for his eventual rise as a threat."
Across the courtyard, Morte grabbed a skeleton's leg and used it to bludgeon the others playfully. His laughter echoed for hours until eventually dismissed the spell. The skeletons collapsed into bones with a clatter and slowly began to dissipate back into necrotic mana. Morte rubbed his eyes and toddled over.
"Papa, I'm tired. Can we go inside and eat?"
The King rose, brushing dust from his robe. "Yes, we can. I'll have Kyris fetch some food. But first, ask Sam to draw your bath. You're filthy."
Morte nodded and scampered off, bare feet pattering against the cold stone.
A shadow slipped free from the King's robe, slithering across the courtyard after the boy.
"Kass, stay with him."
"As you command," the shadow hissed, merging with Morte's own shadow without a ripple.
Nubis leaned back, arms crossed behind his head. "You should find him tutors. I hear this age is a critical learning point for the living. I'm not volunteering either, dear King. I'm much too busy to lower myself to teaching."
"Huff," the King said without turning. "She's the best theorist we have."
"Yet still only fifth tier," Nubis replied. "Her soul isn't strong enough for higher magic, but her understanding rivals mine. A shame she's so... prickly."
"She'll do. Arrange it. You know she won't speak to me."
"You did destroy her old body," Nubis muttered.
"She refused to submit. I should have just killed her but Undead mages are too rare." the King replied with a shrug. "I made an example of her. I did build her a new one."
"Women hold grudges, brother. Forever," Nubis said as he rose and walked away. "I've sent the summons. Expect her shortly. Now, I've left a homunculus simmering—I really should go check on that."
Huff's arrival was anything but subtle.. The throne room grew colder as she strode in—part woman, part construct, entirely irritated. Muttering to herself the entire walk up to the throne. About random magic theories.
Her body, a fusion of bone, soulsteel, and enchanted brass, moved with fluid precision. Green-glowing eyes narrowed beneath a crystalline brow.
"You summoned me?" she said, her voice neutral but edged in contempt.
The Skeleton King gestured lazily. "Huff. You've improved the body I gave you."
"I improve everything," she replied, arms folded. "Even mistakes."
"I want you to tutor my heir."
"The human child?" she asked, voice rising slightly. "The one who can see all mana?"
"Yes."
She stepped forward, her metal boots clinking on the obsidian floor. "You want me to babysit?"
"I want you to unlock his potential."
Huff's silence stretched long. Then: "Fine. But I'll do it my way. No interference. And I don't care if he cries."
"Agreed."
She turned sharply. "Send him to me tomorrow."
Meanwhile, Morte was in the bath, pestering Sam, his undead caretaker.
"Why do you look like that?" he asked.
"I didn't eat my vegetables and became a draugr," Sam replied with a grin. "Used to have beautiful blonde hair."
"What's blonde?"
"A color. Like yellow."
"Hahaha! Why would your hair be yellow?"
"Humans have all sorts of hair: blonde, brunette, red, black... Your hair is strange. White with purple streaks. I've never seen the like."
"What's a human?"
"You are. Now quiet. Let's go eat."
Morte, now mostly dry and dressed yet still wrapped in a too-big towel, ran ahead—straight into the back of a towering figure clad in black armor.
He bounced off and fell flat on his bottom
"Ow!" he cried.
Sam rushed over, concerned.
"I had heard the King had taken in a pet," the armored man said. "I figured it was just a rumor."
"The King says he is to be his heir someday, Sir Death Knight," Sam replied carefully.
"Interesting," the knight muttered. "Where is he?"
"In the dining hall. May I ask your name, sir?"
"You may call me Herc."
They walked in silence through the tall, torch-lit corridors, the blue flames casting flickering shadows on the high-vaulted ceiling. Herc's steps echoed with a metallic weight.
At last, they reached the dining hall. Sam opened the heavy door, and Herc entered.
Inside, the Skeleton King sat at the head of a long, bone-crafted table. Beside him sat Morte, legs swinging, gleefully eating a steaming bowl of stew.
Herc stopped just inside the doorway, and knelt down removing his helmet as he did so. His undead face now revealed. His skin taught and mummified yet his eyes looked that of a normal man other than the faint purple glow that seemed to come from behind his eyes A draugr.
"My liege."
The King looked up. "Ah, Herc. I see you've returned."
"The rogue necromancer on the border has been dealt with," Herc reported. "Sixth tier. Took longer than expected. But no souls lost."
"Good," the King said. "Now, I suspect you have questions."
"I do. If i may be frank sir. Why is there a human child here, of all places? And why name him your heir? Have you grown tired of immortality?"
The air grew cold.
The King chuckled, hollow and dry. "A woman came to me, desperate. She was pursued by Magus, who believed her child to be the one from prophecy. She overexerted her mana to protect him. I took him in before she passed. Her soul bought his safety."
Herc's gauntlet clenched. "This is foolish."
The necrotic energy in the room flared.
Five skeletons burst from the shadows, standing between Herc and the King. Morte leapt to his feet, trembling with fury.
"Leave Papa alone!"
The skeletons lunged—but Herc drew his greatsword and, with a single sweeping arc, reduced them to shards.
He stood still, sword lowered.
"Ah," Herc said slowly. "Now I see."
He turned and knelt before the boy. "Apologies, young man. I spoke out of turn."
Morte glared. "You're mean!"
"I'll bring you a toy next time."
Morte crossed his arms. "Sword."
Herc laughed. "You're a bold one. This sword's not for you—but I'll bring you a weapon of your own."
The King watched, amused. "When he's older, I want you to train him."
Herc rose and nodded. "It would be an honor."
Morte grinned, cheeks flushed, and returned to his stew—content, for now.