Chapter 3 — The Gravekeeper's Visit
The torches arrived before the men did. Their light bled through the catacomb tunnels like veins of fire crawling through ice.
Erevan crouched behind a fallen pillar, fingers tracing the edge of his half-mended neck. The seam there pulsed faintly, as if his own death still breathed. The sound of boots on stone came closer — deliberate, too steady for common guards.
"Gravekeepers," the voice inside him murmured.
> They tend the resting kings. Killers wearing prayers.
Erevan's lips curved. "Wonderful," he whispered. "Religious janitors."
The first figure stepped into view — tall, robed, the silver mask of an old order hiding his face. In one hand he held a censer that leaked black smoke; in the other, a staff capped with a small bell. Each ring of that bell made the air heavier, the way guilt sits in a chest.
The Gravekeeper stopped beside the open coffin Erevan had clawed his way out of.
He knelt, touched the linen, and whispered a blessing that sounded like an apology.
> "Seventh Son of Veyra," the man murmured. "May your sins be—"
"Unforgiven?" Erevan finished from the shadows.
The man froze. The censer fell, spilling sparks that danced between them like startled fireflies.
The staff swung up, but Erevan's hand was faster. He caught it mid-air, the impact ringing through the tomb like a bell struck wrong.
For a moment, they just stared — one alive, one pretending not to be.
The Gravekeeper's voice was hoarse. "You should not breathe."
Erevan tilted his head. "I've been told that before. Usually right before they start running."
> Take him, the voice inside whispered. Feed.
"No," Erevan said aloud. The whisper hissed in his skull. He's seen you.
"I said no," he muttered again, fingers tightening. "I've had enough of being a rumor in someone else's sermon."
But the Crown hungered. He could feel it — a cold sweetness pooling in his mouth, the scent of the man's memories blooming like blood in water.
The Gravekeeper swung again; Erevan twisted the staff aside. The bell shattered, a tiny silver scream. Light burst from the Gravekeeper's palm — divine sigil, pure and blinding.
It hit Erevan full in the chest. For an instant the catacombs filled with the smell of burning parchment. Then the light dimmed. Erevan stood unmoved, a faint smile cutting through the smoke.
"Good try," he said softly, "but I've already been judged."
He touched the man's wrist. The world rippled. Threads of light peeled out of the Gravekeeper's body — strands of memory, shimmering and terrified. They drifted toward Erevan like moths.
He almost took them. Almost.
Instead, he stepped back and let the threads fall. "Tell them you saw me," he said. "Tell them I'm coming to pay the debt."
The man collapsed to his knees, eyes wide with something beyond fear. "What are you?" he rasped.
Erevan's laugh was low and tired. "An audit."
He turned away as the Crown whispered again: Mercy is a currency. Spend it once, and you'll learn the rate.
He ignored it. For now.
Behind him, the Gravekeeper whispered a broken prayer. Above, the bells of the Citadel began to ring again — but only twelve this time.
The Thirteenth bell stayed silent.
Erevan smiled into the dark. "Not for long."
---