Page 3 of Reaper's Ruin
“That’s Death,” I heard one whisper to a newly arrived reaper. “Eight centuries here and he’s never moved on. They say he’ll even reap us if we cross him. Just stay out of his way.”
I didn’t acknowledge them. I never did. Their fear meant nothing to me, and neither did their existence. The only satisfaction I found in this half-life was taking fae souls, watching them dissolve into nothingness instead of moving on to their coveted afterlife.
It was a small revenge for what they had done.
“Reaper,” Sevrin’s voice called, deep and sharp.
The only one in the Shadowveil who didn’t call me Death, his little attempt at trying to hold some power over me.
It didn’t work.
I turned to see him approaching, his face set in its permanent sneer. As one of the four Enforcers of the Veil Lords, he caused almost as much fear in the other Reapers as me.
Almost.
“What?” I didn’t bother hiding my contempt.
He stood in front of me, his imposing height one of the few in the Shadowveil equal to mine, bringing us eye-to-eye. Though he showed no fear of me, I could still sense it just beneath his surface. But he hid it well with his stiff posture, chin lifted, massive shoulders squared, silver eyes leveled on mine. “The Veil Lords have summoned you to the Soul Sanctum.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“They don’t explain themselves to me,” he said, bristling. “Or to you. Just report there. Immediately.”
“I’ll go there soon.”
“Now.” He swelled his chest as if it would intimidate me.
I tipped my head slightly. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to tell them their little messenger did his due diligence. But some of us don’t come running when the Masters call.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Remember your place. You’re just a Reaper. Not Death incarnate as everyone seems to think. Just another soul working off its sins.”
I smiled, cold and sharp. “And yet, here I still am. Eight centuries later. Seven more than you. And you know, they’ve offered me the position of Enforcer multiple times. But I’m not interested in licking their boots.” My eyes raked him up and down. “Unlike some.” His lip twitched as if he wanted to say more, but he thought better of it. Even an Enforcer knew better than to challenge me. I might not have their official rank, didn’t want it, but eight centuries of reaping had made me something else entirely.
“Just go,” he muttered. “They’re waiting.”
Though I had no reason not to head there immediately, I took the long route through the Umbral Keep’s winding corridors. A small show of power that I knew would irritate Sevrin further. Little pleasures in this never-ending existence.
Sevrin hated me because I stood where he thought he belonged... the most feared Reaper in existence. In life, he’d died trying to steal a throne from his brother. Even then, he couldn’t stand being second. So in death, he followed every rule, clawed his way into the ranks, bowed to the Veil Lords, took the scraps of power they offered and wore them like crowns.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
Because I was the one they feared. The one they whispered about. The one the Veil Lords offered Enforcer to—again and again. Proof that all his obedience, his precision, his groveling for favor still left him second best. And worse? That I didn’t even want the power he craved.
To him, I wasn’t just Death. I was everything he couldn’t control. A shadow he could never step out of. Proof that true power doesn’t shout or beg. It waits. Unmoving. Until everything else breaks around it. He was the wave thrashing against the shore, loud and wild. I was the stone it broke on.
I passed through the swarm of Reapers gathered in the Keep, each waiting for their next soul assignment. They parted at my approach like shadows fleeing the sun, dark cloaks shielding their faces as their eyes fixed on the floor, too afraid to meet mine.
We all looked the way we had in life—our last breaths immortalized in the shape we wore. Their forms were solid, deceptively human in the flickering light of the Shadowveil. To any mortal eye, we’d seem like flesh and bone. But our bodies weren’t forged of muscle and marrow.
We were intricate manifestations of pure essence—condensed shadow given shape.
Our bones still broke as if they were real. Our bodies still felt pain as if they were whole. But every bone was black as pressed shadow. Every inch of our skin, every muscle, was sculpted from the very essence of the Shadowveil. A perfect illusion of life, shaped by death.
And when we bled, it wasn’t blood that poured out but shadow. Inky, endless... our very essence seeping away, draining what remained inside these echoes of our former selves.
When I reached the towering black doors of the Soul Sanctum, I drew a slow breath—not out of nerves like any other Reaper summoned here would, but out of sheer irritation. Though we didn’t need to breathe anymore, instinct was a stubborn ghost, and the habit lingered—an echo of the life we’d left behind.
Reapers didn’t get called before the Veil Lords unless they’d broken Reaper Law.
