Deus Necros

A few seconds of stillness lingered on the deck, broken only by the soft crackle of dying fire and the hiss of the waves slapping against the hull. The smell of scorched salt and singed sea-flesh hung faintly in the air. Above them, the clouds shifted slowly, revealing the fragile silver of a half-moon. But it was dim, and thin, as if reluctant to bear witness to what had just occurred.

A third figure stepped onto the deck.

This one carried himself more like an officer than a scout. His cloak was fastened by a metal brooch shaped like a burning thorn, and his sword—longer than the others, curved and singed with recent use—still dripped with a thin trail of blue ichor. He gave the battlefield only a cursory glance before speaking.

“He sent a mage,” he said, voice flat, like someone taking inventory.

The Vampire Hunter who had performed with the Sais grunted as he pulled his weapon free from the last corpse. The wet slide of steel from cartilage was not a pleasant sound, but he made no effort to muffle it.

“I didn’t think the Baron would be that generous,” he admitted, flicking blood from the blades.

Ludwig didn’t respond. He was already returning to his position at the railing, resting one elbow on the beam, his weapon loose in his other hand. He stared out at the sea again, posture relaxed but unreadable. One might have thought him timid, had they not seen the pile of corpses behind him.

One of the Vampire Hunters hovered for a moment, hesitating.

Finally, as though wrestling down some hidden pride, he stepped closer. “Mr… what was your name again?” His tone was less combative now, though still cautious. Like a dog sniffing a larger predator to gauge if it would bite.

“Davon,” Ludwig replied, not turning to look. “It’s Davon.”

“Right. Sir Davon. You should come below. There’s a room that you can rest in, warm and clean.” The offer came stiffly, like a favor he didn’t really want to give but felt obligated to extend.

Ludwig’s eyes didn’t move from the waves.

“I appreciate it,” he said, voice neutral. “But since this ship’s being steered by magic and not by real sailors, and since no one seems to be standing guard, it’ll be awkward if we’re attacked again and no one’s watching.”

There was no venom in his words. But neither was there kindness. It was simply observation—plain, practical, and damning.

The Vampire Hunter’s expression soured.

He had offered something. And it had been refused, not cruelly, but with indifference. And indifference stung worse than insult.

“Fine,” the man muttered under his breath. “Do what you feel like.” He turned sharply and stomped below deck without another word, boots echoing against the planks.

The third hunter lingered only a moment longer before barking at the nearby sailors—fishermen and porters more than crewmen, clearly not trained for combat. He shouted orders about the deck needing to be cleaned, the bodies burned or dumped, the sails checked, the hull inspected.

His voice echoed in the night, but Ludwig heard none of it.

He had returned to silence.

His thoughts drifted far beyond the ship, the sea, or the retreating monsters. His fingers absently twisted the chain of Durandal’s shard, the rhythmic clink of steel against steel oddly soothing.

In the far distance, the waves whispered something he couldn’t quite understand.

***

Somewhere else, deep in the shadowed catacombs of the Sacrosanctum of the Holy Order, another scene unfolded.

Van Dijk sat at the center of a cold, stone-walled chamber. The air smelled of damp parchment and old incense. A thick iron collar, more ornamental than practical, hung loose around his neck. Chains trailed from it like decorations. He could have slipped them at any time, and everyone in the room knew it.

Yet he remained.

At the table before him sat a meal—a large, bloodied steak still steaming with heat, marbled red and glistening. Next to it lay a plate of vegetables, arranged neatly, though clearly untouched.

Van Dijk carved at the meat with perfect poise. His hands moved with grace, not haste, each motion refined to an absurd degree. Knife in, slide, fork turn, lift. Every bite was surgical, as if he were dissecting the meal rather than consuming it.

Two guards watched from the far end of the room, helmets half-raised, eyes narrowed.

“You ever seen someone eat like that?” one of them murmured.

The other shrugged but didn’t take his gaze off Van Dijk. “Looks… off. Like it should be barbaric, but it isn’t.”

“It feels noble, almost.”

Van Dijk didn’t pause.

“I am a True Vampire, you know,” he said, not raising his voice, but somehow still heard.

Both guards stiffened.

“I can hear your hearts beating. Can tell which of you lied last. I can even smell what you had for supper. Cabbage, by the way. It lingers. So no need to speak in huched tone here, I hear all”

The first guard bristled, but the second said nothing. He knew better.

Van Dijk smiled, almost wistful. “This technique, though—this particular way of eating—comes from my disciple. I admit I was once… messier. But he has a grace about him. Urbaf nobles once praised his table etiquette for hours. So I learned it. Out of respect.”

A long silence passed.

“If only your disciple would hand himself over to justice,” the first guard said, though his tone had lost its earlier edge. “It’d save everyone a lot of trouble.”

“Justice, is that what you call it?” Van Dijk asked softly. He laid his utensils down, folded his hands. “You flay, torture, imprison based on whispers and fear. That’s not justice. That’s control.”

“We found evidence—dark magic, in your old tower—”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Van Dijk interrupted, voice rising just a fraction, “that the person who sent that letter might have been the one using such magic? That perhaps I was framed?”

The guards didn’t answer. Because they couldn’t.

The door opened behind them.

Cardinal Clement entered, his robes trailing across the stone floor like a bleeding tapestry. His face was drawn, as though he hadn’t slept. His breath steamed faintly in the cold air.

“You’re in a good mood today,” he muttered.

Van Dijk raised his glass of crimson wine.

“I’m fed. I’m warm. And I’m reminded that I’m still far more civilized than those who put me here. Would you like a bite?” he asked, lifting a slice of steak between two fingers.

The cardinal grimaced. “I only eat what God has made pure. Vegetables. Fruit. Grains. Animals have souls.”

“Pity,” Van Dijk said, and popped the steak into his mouth. “You’re missing out.”

The guards shifted uncomfortably again.

The cardinal took a slow breath. “There’s been an update.”

Van Dijk looked up.

“We’ve yet to locate your disciple, unfortunately. But this is about your former estate.”

“I told you. I gave up that cursed land centuries ago. Seven hundred years, to be precise.”

“No one claimed it after you. No one dares. Even the Emperor won’t set foot near it. But it’s stirring. Something tried to descend.”

Van Dijk stopped chewing.

“Descend? Like before?”

“Worse. Not just Bastos. The Dawn Isles too. And the Sand Kingdom.”

Van Dijk leaned back.

“Moon shifting?”

“Yes. Blood signs. Madness. Desolation. Something’s waking. We have scouts moving on the Dawn Isles now. The Kingdom of Sand is outside our reach. But the Isles—we must take control. We’re asking for your help.”

Van Dijk raised an eyebrow.

“Help, or conscription?”

“Call it good will,” Clement said, gesturing at the meal.

Van Dijk laughed, slow and hollow. “You have an odd sense of charity.”

“Will you come?” Clement pressed.

Van Dijk smiled.

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