Death and the Deep
(Mc's pov)
I remember dying.
One moment, I was stepping off the curb in downtown London, too absorbed in my phone to look up. I was halfway through a wiki article—Morathi's backstory, if you must know, complete with one of those ridiculous fan edits that emphasized her curves more than her chaos. She was my favorite: deadly, divine, desirable.
The next moment, there were headlights. A horn. Screeching tires.
And then… nothing.
No pain. No impact.
Just silence.
And then I was drowning.
---
The sea was cold and endless. My lungs filled with brine, not air. I couldn't move. Couldn't scream. My body didn't respond—not out of injury, but because it wasn't mine anymore. It was smaller, softer.
A baby.
I was a baby.
Somewhere, I felt hands pull me from the sea. I heard chanting in a language I somehow understood—Drukh-Eltharin. Ancient, cruel, elegant. I smelled blood and fire and salt.
Then came the voice.
> "He lives. The sea has returned him. The flesh of Lokhir Fellheart."
Lokhir?
The name struck me like a thunderclap.
In my old life, I had painted his miniature. Memorized his rules. I knew the armor, the mask, the crimson kraken motif.
But that wasn't a game piece above me now. That was the real thing. The tyrant of the Blessed Dread, reeking of sea salt and slaughter.
And I—gods help me—I was his son.
---
They named me Vaelkir Fellheart, and from the moment I could focus my infant eyes, I understood exactly what I was.
A pawn.
A curiosity.
A thing sired during a drunken raid, or perhaps the result of some blasphemous ritual Lokhir didn't even remember. He wasn't a father. He was a force of destruction in crimson plate.
But I was something else.
I was me. I remembered.
I remembered London, my job, the metal taste of vending machine coffee.
I remembered Warhammer Fantasy.
Every battle report. Every lore entry. Every game I ever played.
And now, I was in it.
---
They didn't raise me. They trained me.
Even as a baby, I was handled like a sacred blade—sharpened, oiled, and locked away when not needed.
My cradle was coral and obsidian, draped in black silk. My wet nurses wore veils. They weren't allowed to speak to me unless spoken to. I never saw the same one twice. Affection was forbidden.
Once, when I was barely a year old, Lokhir came to see me. I still remember it: he stood tall in his armor, helm under one arm, eyes glowing faintly with unnatural light.
He stared at me.
"You live," he said flatly.
Then he turned and left.
I didn't cry. I just stared back.
I'd cried for less in my old life. But not here.
Here, every tear was a weakness.
---
I learned to walk by candlelight.
I spoke early—not just in Drukh-Eltharin, but with elegance that unsettled my tutors. My voice was melodic, my words precise.
At first, they thought I was gifted.
Then they began to whisper I was cursed.
Because I didn't act like a child.
I acted like a prince. A predator.
I listened to everything. Absorbed everything. From the cult rituals to the merchant dealings, from temple sermons to slave gossip, I watched.
The Dark Elves were vicious, but arrogant. They didn't notice how much a beautiful child could learn.
And I was beautiful.
Painfully so.
---
It started with the eyes. Violet. Deep, unnatural.
Then the hair—soft lavender, silver when wet. It shimmered like silk under torchlight. My skin was pale, unblemished. Ethereal.
By the time I was four, priestesses of Khaine came to "test" me.
They pricked my skin with daggers. They whispered incantations. One even bathed me in goat blood to see if I'd flinch.
I didn't.
They flinched.
"Blessed by Slaanesh," one muttered.
"Or cursed by fate," said another.
Either way, they let me live.
That was enough.
---
By the time I was six, the training truly began.
Steel. Poison. Fire.
They tested my endurance, fed me corrupted wine, and made me fight other children—sometimes to the death.
But I had an edge.
I remembered.
Not just Warhammer lore—though that alone gave me an advantage. No. I remembered how to think like an adult. How to strategize. How to pretend.
I acted weaker than I was when it suited me. I let them believe I feared the pain, even as I welcomed it.
They couldn't break what had already died once.
---
I had goals.
Morathi. Crone Hellebron. Power. Pleasure. Artifacts.
Not just lust—but conquest. Ownership. I wanted them all.
The Widowmaker whispered to me in my dreams.
As did the Amulet of Fire, the Chalice of Dark Rain, and the secrets of Nagash.
I wanted to carve my name into this world like a sigil across its throat.
---
By ten, I was fluent in the language of lies.
I attended minor courts under supervision. Noble daughters blushed when I looked their way. Noble sons glared when I returned their glares with a smile.
I was elegant. Poised. Cold.
But inside? I was burning.
I needed more.
Magic. Secrets. Forbidden things.
So I went to the Convent of Sorcery.
---
The High Sorceress who tested me was old—though still beautiful in the way only Dark Elves can be. Her name was Velryss. Her eyes were sharp, her hands cruel.
She saw me for what I was.
"You don't belong in this age," she said, after the third trial.
I smiled. "That's because I remember the last one."
She didn't laugh.
She knelt.
Then she took me in.
---
The tower was carved from obsidian, perched on a cliff of black glass overlooking the sea.
There, I saw real power.
The Winds of Magic weren't stories anymore. I felt them. Shadows dancing along my skin. Spirits clawing at my dreams. Dhar—dark magic—coiled in the corners of the room, whispering temptations.
Velryss made me channel pain. I drew power from suffering, from ecstasy, from death.
I fed the tower slaves and pleasure-courtesans, burning their souls for knowledge.
And every night, I dreamed of her.
Morathi.
Naked, crowned, lips bloodied from a lover's kiss or a victim's death—I could never tell.
She whispered my name.
And I whispered hers back.
---
At twelve, I returned to Karond Kar.
My face had matured—sharp cheekbones, eyes like wine, lips that curved with amused cruelty. I walked like a serpent. Spoke like a noble. Moved like a killer.
The slaves didn't meet my eyes anymore.
Even the guards bowed.
Lokhir saw me again, for the first time in years.
"You live," he said.
I smiled. "Stronger than ever."
He stared. Then he nodded.
Pride? Approval? Who could tell with him?
But I knew something had shifted.
I was no longer a child.
I was a Fellheart.
---
They gave me my first ship at fourteen.
A test.
The Voidreaver, a sleek black raiding vessel crewed by cutthroats and spies. Half of them were loyal to Lokhir. The other half were waiting for me to fail.
I didn't.
We struck the Bretonnian coast like a hammer. Burned three villages. Took slaves and treasures and enough blood to fill a cauldron.
I killed the first mate myself when he hesitated to obey.
The crew fell in line.
When I returned, I had gold, flesh, and a reputation.
More importantly, I had eyes on me.
---
The priestesses of Khaine whispered.
The Convent sent gifts.
Even Hellebron's name was spoken in reference to me.
But then came the scroll.
Black parchment. Sealed with a serpent's kiss.
One word, scrawled in violet ink:
> Athel Tamarha. Come.
No signature.
But I knew who it was.
Morathi.
---
I held the scroll under moonlight on my private balcony, the wind tugging at my hair.
She knew about me.
She wanted to see me.
Was it curiosity?
Threat?
Desire?
I didn't care.
Because I would go.
And when I did?
She would see that I wasn't some nameless upstart.
I was Vaelkir Fellheart.
I was reborn for this.
To take everything this world had to offer—its queens, its blades, its power.
And make it mine.
---
End of Chapter I – Death and the Deep