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by Amarra
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Fantasy · #2152952
He has been summoned. He has returned.
He stood, new knees wobbling a moment before they found their strength. His coat materialized in flickering flame, warming him gently as it entered the physical realm. His eyes raised from the ground and rested on his newest ‘apprentice’, and the fear and awe on his face almost made him crack a smile. Oh, to return once more… “You have done as I asked, Isaac. I am not as disappointed as I thought I would be.” Ice lingered on the edges of his words. The young man flinched at the scathing, backhanded compliment. “Tell me… who do you think stands before you?” Did the boy even realize what had been asked of him?

“You’re the Lich… Pyrovetch…” Isaac looked at the man; He hadn’t expected the Lich to be Elven… Paul brushed the platinum locks from his eyes, one still seeped in void. It would pass, perhaps. Void dripped down the old scars there, the skinwalking incomplete - But it mattered little.

“Isaac.” The younger man flinched again at his call, “Where. Is. She.” He spat. “You haven’t found her?” His protege. Isaacs' hand flew up to his head as Paul snatched his cane from the nether, the blade hidden within. He waited for an answer, calmly leaning on his cane, inching ever closer. “She was supposed to be here…”

Isaac peaked out. “Sh-she wouldn’t. She said you-... That you abandoned her.” He stuttered as Paul took a step forward. The young man instinctively scooted back as he brought his cane up to tug his shirt higher; burns.

“I sense magic in your skin.” Paul’s eyes flicked up, “Not mine. Where did she go?”

“I-I don’t- I don’t know!” The boy had to know the consequences for crossing Paul Pyrovetch, Lich of the eastern lands; The one who gives and takes away. Isaac inched back in fear, and Paul slowly followed, highly amused at toying with him. “P-...Please!!”

“You know the price of my favor, Isaac.” He let the red tendrils slip from his fingertips, “You told me you weren’t afraid… Were you…

L Y I N G T O M E?” Paul growled.

Isaac shook his head frantically, but it was no use. The blade ripped free and buried itself between his ribs. “Fear is weakness. Weakness has no use; you have no use.” Isaac sputtered and spat up blood, staining his skin. Paul lingered on the color, the scarlet beautifully contrasting the pale blue veins visible under his near translucent skin.

He freed the blade, letting the now corpse thump to the ground. Finally, he took a look around. He didn’t even have the decency to summon him in a building, for he found himself in an abandoned back alley. “Idiot.” He sneered and wandered down the way, his cane echoing alongside him.


Click… click… click… click…

                   Click… click……
                             Click……

                                                 Click……

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2152952-The-Return