Ancestral Lineage - Chapter 411

Chapter 411: Rhask, the Hollowborn. Meeting a God

The ritual deepened.

The pulse of necrotic energy running through the chamber began to synchronize with Lamair’s breathing, slow, deliberate, steady. The sigil beneath them brightened in intervals, like the slow, rhythmic heartbeat of some great being awakening from its slumber.

The sound was no longer silent. Whispering voices now filled the room, low, unearthly murmurs that wove around the air like smoke. They came from nowhere, yet everywhere at once: layered voices of men and women long dead, children laughing faintly, cries and songs from forgotten times. The necrotic hum of the circle resonated in Lamair’s bones, a vibration that seemed to bridge the realms of the living and the departed.

Lamair raised both hands, and the mists responded like trained beasts. Tendrils of green and black vapor spiraled upward, swirling around him and Rhask’s body in a storm of deathlight. He moved his hands apart, drawing invisible threads, manipulating the very essence of decay and rebirth.

“Let the marrow of mortality bow before its twin,” Lamair intoned, his voice deep and echoing, carried by unseen winds. “Let the boundary thin, and from the grave’s silence, let form be born anew.”

The runes beneath them shifted, rearranging themselves like living veins. Lines of energy extended from the circle’s center, connecting to Rhask’s chest, head, and limbs. Every pulse of light drew a faint shudder from his body, as if it were being rewired from within.

Rhask’s mouth opened slightly, breathless, though he no longer needed air. The black mist seeped into him, through his mouth, his eyes, his skin, until his body was entirely engulfed. For a moment, nothing could be seen but the silhouette of his form suspended in the heart of a dark storm.

Then, the changes began.

The first movement came from his hair. His long dreadlocks lifted and swayed as though underwater, twisting gently before spreading out, lengthening strand by strand. The once-dark grey locks gradually drained of color, fading through shades of gray until they gleamed a stark, ghostly white, like bleached bone under moonlight. Faint streaks of shadow clung to the tips, remnants of his old self resisting transformation.

Lamair’s eyes followed every detail with a calculating calm. “Yes… You’re taking to it well. The marrow accepts the void.”

The light intensified again, shifting from green to crimson. Rhask’s back arched. His fingers clenched tightly, nails darkening into sharp, claw-like talons. Across his arms, faint veins of black appeared, not beneath the skin, but within it, glowing faintly like rivers of corruption that pulsed in time with his unnatural heart.

Then came the skin itself.

The ashen pallor of the ghoul deepened, but not into lifeless gray, rather into a dark, opaline shade with a subtle sheen, like onyx dusted with frost. It looked both living and dead, fragile and indestructible all at once. When the light hit it, it reflected faintly, as if the skin had absorbed the ritual’s power and was now exhaling it slowly, in tiny shimmering breaths.

A sound escaped Rhask, not pain, but something between a gasp and a growl. His body convulsed again, the runes on his chest burning brighter. His eyes snapped open.

For a second, they were blank. Then, the white haze faded, replaced by a deep, violent red that glowed like molten glass. From their centers emerged black slit pupils, predatory, focused, alive with hunger and awareness. The moment those eyes opened, the whispers in the room stopped. As though every soul, every fragment of consciousness caught in the ritual recognized something, something ancient.

Lamair’s lips parted slightly, his voice now little more than a whisper.

“Magnificent…”

He gestured once more, and the last stage began.

A sharp crack echoed through the chamber, not of bone breaking, but of something forming. At the center of Rhask’s forehead, the skin began to part. Slowly, a dark protrusion emerged, glistening with a slick sheen as it pushed outward: a single horn, sharp, smooth, and spiraled faintly like obsidian sculpted by lightning. Its surface pulsed with red energy that matched the glow of his eyes.

The storm of necrotic mist around them reached its climax, rising in a violent cyclone that licked the chamber’s ceiling. The runes screamed with light, each line pulsing like a living artery. Lamair’s clothes whipped around him, his purple hair glowing faintly under the power he controlled.

“By the right of dominion,” he declared, voice reverberating through the stone. “By the breath of decay and the will of rebirth, I bind your flesh to your soul, your death to my word.”

The cyclone collapsed.

Everything went still.

When the mist cleared, Rhask was no longer just a ghoul.

He hovered in the air, body perfectly still, his white dreadlocks drifting softly as though in unseen wind. His skin bore the faint shimmer of polished stone. The red of his eyes burned with awareness, alive, sharp, intelligent. The horn on his forehead gleamed with residual light, humming faintly with restrained energy.

Lamair approached slowly, looking at him with a faint smile. His shadow stretched long across the floor.

“Welcome back, Rhask,” he said, his tone calm but laced with pride. “You’ve crossed the boundary, not living, not dead. Something greater.”

Rhask’s eyes turned toward him.

“Master…” his voice came out low, resonant, layered with faint distortion, as though two voices spoke at once: one living, one spectral.

Lamair nodded, satisfied. “Yes. You are ready.”

Then, under his breath, almost reverently, he whispered:

“The first of the Hollowborn.”

…

The ritual chamber had fallen silent, yet the silence wasn’t peace.It was the kind that hummed under the skin, that vibrated through the marrow like something ancient refusing to sleep. Wisps of dark smoke still coiled lazily around the circle, faintly alive, drawn to the runes that pulsed on the floor.

Lamair stood in the center, his broad frame outlined by the dull green glow of the sealing sigils. The heavy scent of iron and incense clung to the air. His breath came slow and deliberate as he checked the stabilization readings hovering above his left palm, spectral runes shifting in a soft spiral of necrotic light.

Rhask’s body floated gently before him, suspended by the remnants of the ritual’s energy.His transformation was almost complete.

The necrotic energy within him had stabilized. Lamair could feel it, a resonance that matched his own but branched differently, as though something foreign now shared space with his own magic.

“Mutation complete,” he murmured to himself. His voice echoed faintly, deep and resonant in the empty chamber. “You’ll be fine soon, Rhask… better than fine.”

He stepped back, pulling his gloved hand across the floating glyphs. They responded instantly, lines of power retracting, fading into smoke. The candles guttered. The tension in the air eased.

And then, it came back.

Not with force, but with presence.

The flames of the candles bent sideways, flickering toward the same corner of the room. The shadows deepened unnaturally, stretching across the floor like a slow tide. Lamair froze mid-step. The temperature plummeted, a frost forming on the edge of the ritual circle.

“…This aura…” he muttered. His green eyes narrowed sharply. “Impossible.”

From the far side of the chamber, where the light dared not reach, a voice spoke.Not a whisper. Not thunder.Something in between, a tone carried on the stillness, like the sigh of a dying god.

“So… the child of ash and bone dares to mimic the work of the divine.”

Lamair’s jaw tightened. “Show yourself.”

The shadow quivered, and from it, a shape formed.Tall. Cloaked in darkness that seemed made of unraveling souls. Its face was obscured, its body skeletal and yet not shifting constantly between forms, like a man caught between death and rebirth. When it stepped forward, its feet left no sound, but the floor cracked beneath the weight of its existence.

Lamair recognized the power immediately; it was older than his kingdom, older than even the age of the Spirit Wars. The mark of one who ruled a different underworld.

“You’ve disturbed the balance,” the being said. Its voice carried a thousand echoes. “The Rite you performed was not yours to invoke. You reached into a current that runs beneath my dominion.”

Lamair’s expression darkened, though he did not bow. “This is Anbord, not your graveyard. Your dominion ends where my King’s begins.”

A low, amused hum rippled through the air. “Your King? Voryn Aetherforge, the new Lord of Mortality… yes, I’ve heard the whispers of his ascent. He treads where gods once ruled. Tell him—”

The being leaned closer, its form solidifying briefly into that of a tall man with a deathly pale face and eyes like smoldering ash. His words cut through the air like ice.

“Tell him I am watching. Tell him the old gods remember what he’s stolen.”

The candles dimmed further until only Rhask’s faint glow lit the chamber. Lamair stood his ground, every instinct screaming to strike, but he knew better. This was not a foe that could be fought here. It was never a foe he could even fight. It was taking all his might to even stand his ground, and this was most likely an avatar of the god.

“What is your name, god of carrion?” Lamair demanded, voice low.

The being tilted its head, amused by his defiance. “Names? You mortals cling to them like lifelines. Very well…”

A gust of cold swept through the chamber. The runes on the floor flared briefly, showing a sigil shaped like a coiling serpent devouring its own ribcage.

“They called me Voriel, the Gravebinder. The Keeper of the Hollow Moons. Remember it, child of decay, for I will walk your lands soon enough.”

The shadow began to recede, melting back into the cracks of the floor. As it vanished, the room brightened, the air warmed, and sound returned. Only the sigil remained, faintly etched into the stone, pulsing once before fading completely.

Lamair exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling with restrained fury while his legs shook.

“Voriel…” he murmured, his hand curling into a fist. “You overstep, god. This is not your domain anymore.”

Behind him, Rhask stirred faintly, eyes half-open, pupils glowing red. His voice, though weak, carried a resonance that wasn’t entirely his own.

“He’s… watching, Master.”

Lamair looked at him, the first flicker of unease crossing his stern expression. Then his features hardened again, calm and regal.

“I know, Rhask. Let him watch. The dead do not frighten me.”

He turned toward the exit, cloak sweeping behind him.

“But soon,” Lamair said under his breath, “he’ll learn that neither do the living.”

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