The skeleton before him was crude, fragile—its movements sluggish, its frame barely held together by the mist weaving through its bones. But it was his.
A creation of his magic.
That meant it could be improved.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the thin strand of power connecting him to the summoned corpse. It was like a faint whisper at the edge of his awareness—present but fragile, ready to unravel with the smallest mistake.
His first minion. His first extension of will.
But one was not enough.
The tomb was filled with bones.
He moved to another skeleton, this one missing half its ribs and a chunk of its skull. It was broken—useless in its current state.
But magic was not limited by the natural order.
He placed a hand on the fractured remains and called upon his mist. The power answered, swirling downward, filling the empty spaces, binding shattered pieces together.
The bones shifted.
The magic held them, fusing cracks, reforming missing pieces from stray fragments. Restoring.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't whole. But it was enough.
The second skeleton rose.
Unsteady. Weak. But standing.
A thrill ran through him.
His magic could do more than animate the dead—it could repair them.
That meant his army would never truly be destroyed.
He spent hours—or maybe days—experimenting. Time was meaningless in the tomb, but progress was not.
He raised another skeleton. Then another.
Some crumbled before they could even stand. Others twitched violently before the mist lost its grip on them. But he kept going, refining the process, adjusting the way his magic wove itself into their bones.
The connection grew stronger.
The strain lessened.
What had once drained him after a single attempt now felt natural.
By the time he stopped, five skeletons stood before him.
Not warriors. Not yet. But his.
His first legion.
He stared at them, his mind already turning.
A sword was useful. A barrier was vital.
But an army?
An army was power.
And power was survival.
His empty sockets turned toward the abyss.
Harbinger had always been an inevitability. The thing that ended him.
But now, he was not alone.
For the first time, he had something to send back.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the mist swirl in response.
Harbinger had been the predator.
Now, it was time to see if it could bleed.
———-
He stood before his skeletal minions, the five figures swaying slightly as the mist tethering them to existence flickered in the dim tomb.
They were weak. Fragile. Barely more than animated husks.
But they were his.
And they would fight.
He turned toward the abyss. Toward Harbinger.
The silent void where it lurked had always been his grave. The moment he stepped forward, it would awaken. It would kill him.
Again. And again. And again.
But this time, he was not alone.
This time, his army would die first.
He raised a skeletal hand, and his minions shifted, responding to his will. It was a strange feeling—like flexing muscles he did not have, pulling invisible strings that tethered them to his thoughts.
He took a step forward.
The five skeletons followed.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the abyss moved.
A ripple in the void. A shift in the air.
Then—Harbinger struck.
It was faster than his eyes could follow.
A claw of pure darkness, a force that had ended him countless times, lashed out from the abyss. It carved through the first skeleton instantly, shattering it into dust.
But the others kept moving.
His will kept them moving.
He pushed them forward, forcing them to lunge, to attack. Their bony fingers were bare, their bodies lacking weapons—but they did not hesitate.
They grabbed at the void. Clawed at the limb that had destroyed them.
For the first time, Harbinger's attack did not pass through unchallenged.
The moment his minions touched the darkness, the mist within them reacted.
A crackling energy surged through the connection.
Harbinger twitched.
It was faint—barely noticeable—but he felt it. For the first time, it did not move without consequence.
And that meant he was right.
It could be harmed.
It could be killed.
A second strike came—swift, ruthless.
Three more skeletons shattered.
The last one tried to lunge, bones scraping against the void—before it too was erased.
Only he remained.
Harbinger's presence loomed before him, shifting, adjusting, learning.
He had no more minions. No more shields.
But they had bought him time.
He raised his sword.
The mist-forged blade solidified, stronger than before, sharper than ever. His magic surged, fueled by everything he had learned, everything he had lost.
Harbinger struck.
He swung.
For an instant—their forces met.
A shudder ran through the abyss. A flicker of resistance.
Then—pain.
His body was torn apart. His vision shattered. His form unraveled.
Death claimed him once more.
Awakening.
The tomb. The throne. The silence.
But inside him, something remained.
He had pushed back.
He had left a mark.
And Harbinger had been forced to adapt.
For the first time, it had not simply erased him without effort.
And that meant he was getting closer.
He flexed his fingers, mist already curling in response.
This battle was far from over.
————
Chapter 20: The Cycle of Death
Awakening.
The tomb, the throne, the silence. His skeletal form reassembled itself, bones knitting back together as the mist swirled within him.
The weight of death no longer felt like an ending.
It was a lesson. A step forward.
And this time, the lesson was clear:
Harbinger could be fought.
He flexed his fingers, mist curling between them. His connection to magic felt different now—stronger, more refined. Death had stripped away weakness and replaced it with understanding.
He could summon faster. He could shape better.
The cycle of death and rebirth had become his forge.
He turned toward the bones scattered across the tomb. The remnants of his last minions lay in brittle pieces, shattered by Harbinger's assault.
But broken things could be rebuilt.
He reached out, willing the mist to gather.
The bones stirred.
This time, the process was easier. He no longer struggled to shape his magic, no longer fought against the instinctive resistance of the dead. His will flowed smoothly, reclaiming what had been lost.
One by one, his skeletons stood again.
The same five. But not the same.
The mist lingered within them now, thicker, denser—stronger.
Before, they had been hollow. Now, they remembered.
Each death had carved something into them, just as it had carved something into him.
And this time, they would last longer.
He raised his sword, watching the mist swirl around its edges. He had felt it before—the moment of impact, the brief resistance, the crack in the abyss.
It had been small. Almost nothing. But it had been real.
If he could make that crack wider…
His sockets turned to his minions.
Weapons were not enough. He needed something more.
A proper army did not fight barehanded.
He reached into the mist, into the depths of his magic, and willed it to change.
It resisted—his power was still young, still fragile—but he forced it to bend.
Shapes flickered into existence—crude, incomplete, but forming.
The skeletons at his command each reached out—whether by instinct or by his will, he did not know—and grasped their weapons.
Not solid steel, not forged iron, but mist-forged blades.
They would not last forever. But neither would he.
And that was fine.
The next fight was already waiting.
He stepped into the abyss.
The five skeletons followed, their spectral weapons shimmering in the dark.
The void stirred.
Harbinger came.
This time, he did not wait.
"Attack."
The command rippled through the mist, through the magic, through the fragile bodies of his creations.
And they obeyed.
Harbinger's claw lashed out—faster than before, as if it had grown used to slaughtering them.
But this time, his minions met the strike.
Their blades clashed against the darkness, and for the first time, the void howled.
A soundless scream. A tremor in the abyss.
The mist-infused weapons did not simply vanish. They cut.
It wasn't deep. It wasn't enough.
But it was more than before.
Harbinger lashed out again. Two skeletons were erased instantly.
But three still fought.
And this time, they were not just stalling.
They were hurting it.
The cycle would continue. He would die again.
But so would Harbinger.
It was only a matter of time.