Deborah Witherbloom sat atop her throne. It was a lovely throne, carved of obsidian and ancient bone. The polished black stone felt cool beneath her fingertips, while the bone felt frigid—a welcome contrast to the scorching rays of the dying desert sun that filtered through the arches of her chamber.

  Deborah knew she looked fantastic, highlighted by the sun, with her fiery strands of crimson hair and the contrasting emerald brilliance of her eyes. She did not need to look into a mirror to know she looked weary; the trials since her arrival in Akherta had been unending. Yet the view from her throne showcased the city of tombs she had taken for her own, and even better than the view? The whispered echoes that all rolled towards the obsidian throne, a sea of murmurs that constantly brought her something new.

  Ancient kings whispered their regrets, warriors relived the agony of defeat, and priests mourned the betrayal of their gods. The dark truths of death fed Deborah's power and nourished her strength, but they also carried an undeniable burden. Akhetra had shaped Deborah and tempered her, but the desert was a harsh teacher even for those who learned well.

  A presence stirred beside her, a being of ethereal sorrow and phantasmal grace. Vaelarys Evermourne knelt gracefully, her spectral armor shimmering even in the dark apex of Akhetra. Silver eyes streamed unending tears down the Gloamknight’s ghostly cheeks, but a veil hid everything beneath Vaelarys’ eyes—leaving one to imagine the effect that centuries of crying might have caused her cheeks.

  “Mistress,” Vaelarys spoke. Her voice was soft, gentle, and melodic, granting everything she said an almost lullaby quality—if not for the eternal grief that saturated every word she spoke. “Visitors approach. Champions of Horus. The outer wards have fallen.”

  Deborah’s emerald eyes brightened with amusement. “Such thoughtful guests,” she said with a bitter laugh.

  Vaelarys’ spectral blade, a long, slightly curved blade made of twilight and rainbows split the air almost silently when the Gloamknight drew it.

  “Shall I remove them?”

  Silence hung for a second or two.

  Deborah shook her head no, her long crimson hair catching even more of the dying sun’s light with the motion.

  “No. Let them come to me. I will attend to them… personally,” Deborah said. Her smile promised damnation and anguish.

  The whispers of the grave grew thicker, like gossip rapidly spreading through a village market. In moments, every spirit in Akhetra rushed towards the he Hollow Sepulcher and their beloved Deborah.

  Three heavily armored inquisitors entered the hall. They wore immaculate plate armor, adorned in gold and black, with the holy symbol of Horus emblazoned upon their breastplates. Behind them were three more inquisitors in robes. The flaming eye of Horus dominated the vestments of the priests.

  The lead paladin spoke before Deborah could even welcome them into her territory. A brash, arrogant voice emerged through the visor that hid his face. This was a man used to being listened to when he spoke.

  “Necromancer! Surrender to judgment, or suffer the eternal flame!”

  Deborah’s green eyes narrowed. More of the same. This one didn’t even have an original demand, despite his posturing.

  “Judgment?” Deborah’s voice echoed softly through the chamber, haunting the six men with a fairy’s amused disbelief. “Is that what you believe yourselves to be?”

  The inquisitors hesitated. Something was wrong. The room was unnaturally still. Shadows rippled, stretching into humanoid forms—spectral warriors, silent but unmistakably authentic. The spirits had gathered, summoned by the irresistible gossip—and the implacable call of a Gravewhisperer. Each ghastly spectre wore an expression of anguish, loss, or betrayal.

  The crimson fairy stepped from her throne, bare feet barely touching the Hollowed Sepulcher's sand-strewn stone tiles. Embiggen was such a fantastic spell to remind the riff-raff of their relative mediocrity. It put Deborah’s crimson and yellow wings on broad display, let the humans get a real taste of her facial features, and the legendary beauty of the daughters of Nyxaria that could dry a man’s throat faster than any desert.

  “Let me introduce you to those you’ve judged before,” Deborah offered, as if she presented them with water or tea, instead of pain and death.

  The spirits flickered into the room in waves, and the priests pleaded with Horus to protect them. Yet the whispers rose, and Deborah wasn’t the only one who could hear them this time. With a snap of her middle finger and thumb, Horus’s fearless inquisitors listened to the chorus of voices—wether they wanted to or not.

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  Painful truths of sins committed, innocents condemned, lives taken in the name of righteousness. The dead proclaimed the sins of the living. Murder. Bribery. All, of course, are lesser sins in Horus's eyes than the grand sin of being Fey.

  One of the paladins dropped his mace to the stones below and hurled off his helmet.

  The lead paladin scowled at him. “Stop, Eshaq! You fall for her trap!”

  The lead Paladin advanced on Deborah and swung his blade of cold iron—but a blade of rainbows and twilight blocked it. The weeping Gloamknight casually parried the blow, and her counter blow sent the paladin stumbling dozens of feet backwards.

  Deborah smiled, but ignored the show to focus on the man in crisis.

  “No….” the paladin stammered. “We.. we served Horus!” He dropped to his knees, sobbing.

  “Indeed,” Deborah replied gently, her voice a soothing whisper. “Yet your victims speak clearly.”

  When one of her long-fingered hands cupped the crying man’s chin, she tilted his face to look up at her.

  “You believe your power comes from judgment, but judgment belongs to the grave. And here, I speak for the dead.” Deborah’s words slithered through the human's mind as her touch carried finality.

  “Forgive me!” The human begged.

  The paladin’s eyes widened briefly before his mind shattered underneath the weight of unbearable truth. Blood poured from his nostrils, his ears, his eyes, as the harsh judgment of the dead dominated his mind. He convulsed, then fell over dead.

  “Much like the dead, I’m not very big on forgiveness,” Deborah uttered with a wicked smile, her gaze swiveling to the three priests who plead to Horus for salvation, the lead Paladin vainly tried to fight Vaelarys, and the last paladin was held in the thrall of the spirits of three children he seemed to have killed.

  The fairy watched with interest, not even acknowledging the priests. They lacked conviction, their pleas for intervention fell upon deaf ears, it seemed. The tides of the dead dragged each of the three robed acolytes of Horus to the ground, reducing them to piles of bones in seconds.

  The lead Paladin, battered relentlessly by Vaelarys, his golden armor cracked, his weapon broken, face twisted with defeat and despair, faired no better. The Gloamknight dispatched him with a quick blow. A rainbow hung over the corpse for a moment before it turned dark and vanished.

  Only one human remained alive in the Hollowed Sepulcher, the paladin, sobbing on his hands and knees before the spirits of his victims. A faint shimmer gathered around him, shielded him from the full force of spiritual torment. Horus protected him. Why?

  With a rueful smile, Deborah approached the paladin. He stared at her defiantly through tears, and the muted glow of divinity, his yellow eyes alit with imbued power. He retained conviction, refused to break, and almost inaudibly prayed to Horus.

  “Your god still believes in you, it seems,” Deborah noted dryly, hiding her surprise.

  “Horus will not forsake me,” the paladin said, lifting his gaze to meet the horrendous beauty of the Fey head on.

  “Not today, at least…” Deborah said with her eyes sparkling. A rain of green and gold fairy glitter tried to coat the man, but it could not penetrate the divine aura around him.

  “Release him. Let this one carry a message.” Deborah commanded.

  “Mistress?” Vaelarys hesitated, her eyes narrowed. The Gloamknight looked at her curved blade of rainbows and twilight, at the other paladins, and it was clear she wanted him to share their fate.

  “Horus thinks himself beyond judgment. Let this paladin bear witness that even his most faithful can bleed. Let him carry back my words. Are you capable of carrying a message, human?”

  “I can,” the paladin growled at her.

  “Tell your god this: Nantes does not belong to Horus. Judgment belongs to the dead—and the dead belong to me.”

  “Blasphemey!” The paladin growled at the fairy as he struggled to his feet.

  Deborah nodded her head to Vaelarys. They allowed the paladin to regain his feet and turn to march towards the exit—only for Vaelarys to strike him down from behind. Her blade cut through the divine aura of protection, revealing it to be a useless gesture—theatrics.

  “W…w..h..y?” the paladin asked. His life blood stained the stone tiles of the Speulcher, and the three spirits who had tormented him drank deeply of his essence.

  “You said you’d carry a message for me to your god. Get to it, now,” Deborah smiled.

  Vaelarys knelt next to the paladin. Her bare, ghostly blade hummed a mournful melody that kept time with the tears falling from her shimmering silver eyes.

  “The gods promise mercy, yet deliver only pain,” Vaelarys whispered gently, almost lovingly, into the dying man’s ear. “Faith built upon the bones of the innocent is hollow.”

  The man shuddered, then stared at Vaelarys with confusion and despair before his breath ceased, and his spirit fled to carry Deborah’s message into the afterlife.

  The holy symbols of Horus burst into flames. Deborah turned and eyed them in interest. Reverberations hung in the air as if someone had plucked a lyre with so much force that all its strings had snapped.

  “What happened, Mistress?” Vaelarys asked.

  “Someone stole divine power from Horus in a distant land,” Deborah answered. Her voice was a mix of envy and awe.

  “Who?”

  “My sister. Dahlia always did overreach.” Deborah answered.

  The embiggened fairy returned to her throne. The cool obsidian and colder bones were the only respite from the harsh desert heat. Her green eyes kept returning to the scorched symbols of Horus.

  Vaelarys quietly approached and knelt beside the throne. The knight’s voice was soft, filled with endless sorrow. “Your sister grows strong, Mistress. Will we move against her?”

  “Not yet. Let Dahlia revel in stolen power. Let her bask in triumph and Horus’s inevitable counterstrike. Let the gods nip at her heels and focus their attention upon her while we build our power.” Deborah leaned forward, her voice a deadly whisper. But, as always, Deborah spoke while she listened. The Gravewhisperer held the great burden, the stark responsibility, to listen—if they were to be listened to in turn, at least.

  “When she falls—and she will fall—I’ll be there, ready to take everything she built and broke.”

  Vaelarys did not respond, but her blade continued its mournful dirge, eternal accompaniment to her tears.

  Deborah smiled at the sound of tears and grief, and the gossip the spirits spoke to her.

  “Soon, sister, you’ll learn that the dead speak loudest of all.”