It was suffocating. It was dreadful. It was terrifying. And above all—it was cold.
A soul-chilling cold. That was what he felt when the beast killed him. Death had wrapped its claws around him once before. Not Ethan's two-decade coma. Not Trevor's brush with annihilation. He had felt true death—raw, merciless, unrelenting. And yet, death was not his fate. Not then. Not ever.
Dragged back from the abyss, he did not return as a shambling corpse or a mindless husk. No, he rose as something greater—something terrible. He became a Ghoul King—a sovereign of the undead, master of necromancy, a will that commanded the grave itself.
But that was only the beginning. For as if fate mocked the natural order, Ethan—whose very existence was a mystery even to himself—bestowed upon him a title no other could claim. An ancestral title.
Ancestor of Death.
