The wagon crept forward, its wheels crunching over the debris-strewn path—what had once been a road, now overgrown with tall, brittle grass. The night’s cold had stiffened the tendrils, bending them like fallen soldiers to the damp earth. Their whispered cries buried beneath the steady rhythm of hooves and the groan of wooden axles.


    Dawn had begun to creep along the eastern ridge, its faint light silhouetting the ruined church ahead. The driver pulled the reins, bringing the horse to a halt.


    Reginald Blackthorn stepped down, his boots sinking into the damp earth. He held a black rose in a globed hand, its petals as dark as the charred stones of the Black Church.


    Locals spoke of the ruin in hushed tones, but the name did not reference some dark worship—the damage a consequence of wildfire. A dry summer had sent flames tearing through the low woods in ''51, blackening the stones but sparing the structure. The congregation had not been so resilient. With windows shattered and boarded, abandoned pews followed. Most parishioners defected to other churches, while the more desperate left the area to find work.


    Reginald strode through the old cemetery, passing the weathered markers of long-forgotten men and women. The rise of the land carried him toward the tree line, where a headstone leaned backwards, half-swallowed by moss and time.


    He placed the rose at its base, crouching to trace his fingers over the faded inscription.


    Alice Anne Farmer


    1799 – 1854


    A name unknown to history, belonging to a woman who had lived and died without consequence—no heirs, no legacy, no claim to the world beyond her grave. Yet in death, she would become something far more significant.


    Reginald would see to that.


    She would be his plague, his omen of suffering.


    Reanimated, she would move among the desperate, her touch carrying sickness and unrest. Through her, he would turn the poor into festering wounds upon the city—wounds that would spread outward until they reached the men who sat in high offices. The men who dictated the price of bread and the worth of human labor.


    She would be queen of the wretched. Her throne born from rot and ruin.


    With a wicked smile, he rose, turning back toward the wagon. The pine box lay silent in the bed, its occupant oblivious to the role he was yet to play.


    The driver sat motionless, head bowed—whether dozing from the long night or muttering a prayer, Reginald neither knew nor cared. This man, Wyman, had proven himself valuable and reliable. Reginald had no reason to question his loyalty; to a degree, he could trust Wyman to act independently—a rare commodity among men and servants.


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    Reginald climbed into the seat, and with a flick of the reins, the wagon trundled onward.


    The yard sloped upwards toward the grand tombs of forgotten men—politicians, merchants, barristers, all entombed in stone to mark wealth and legacy. In life, they had amassed power by standing on the backs of the helpless, but in death, they were claimed by the same earth as beggars.


    Reginald would not share their fate.


    With the Lazarus Spell and his perfected blood serum, his name would not be carved into a grave but into history itself—his dominion stretching beyond centuries, beyond kings, beyond the fleeting whims of mortal men.


    The carriage halted before the Toliver family crypt, its iron doors locked with thick chains. John Ignatius Toliver had once been a man of importance—a name in Parliament, a whisper in elite circles. Now, he was nothing but dust, sealed away with his descendants and ancestors.


    Reginald’s driver dismounted, unlocking the chain and pushing the heavy doors apart. The air inside was stagnant, thick with the scent of damp stone and decay.


    The crypt had opened, and space cleared for its new occupant''s brief stay. When night fell, the body of the boy would be moved to the Black Church, where he would perform the ritual.


    The church was also ready—a ritual circle etched into the wooden floor, with cuffs and chains affixed, designed to keep the boy from wandering too far.


    At least in his physical form.


    The circle in the church would serve as a prison—for both body and soul. When the time came, the child would become spirit. Freed from his flesh, and cast beyond the confines of the church to fulfill his purpose: a ghost sent to haunt a singular mind.


    A mind that would see him, recognize him, and follow—despite knowing it was a trap.


    Cordelia Greaves.


    Reginald’s mouth curled in a slow, knowing smile.


    He watched. He listened. He knew.


    Her father had been one of them—one of the men who hunted his family. One of the self-righteous martyrs who led the charge against his mother and father. A man who stood triumphant among the ruins of Blackthorn Manor as its last embers died.


    And yet, that night, he had died all the same.


    Reginald knew how and why.


    He also knew about Cordelia’s mother and that her death had shifted power within the council, allowing the cowards and schemers to gain control.


    The men and women who hid behind the hubris of righteousness, suppressing knowledge and magic out of fear—afraid to be surpassed, replaced. They lounged in their great rooms, clutching their glasses of sherry and congratulating themselves on keeping the world of magic in chains.


    But those chains were already breaking. He and Cordelia Greaves would see to that. And that was why she would be helpful. She would come when she saw the boy. She would follow. And when she did, she would serve his purpose, whether she willed it or not.


    Reginald and his driver lifted the box from the wagon and moved it into place within the crypt. The ritual would wait until tonight—his actual work lay in London.


    Today, he would meet with a key member of Parliament. A man he would help elevate to the pinnacle of power, only to replace him when tragedy struck. Then, Reginald Blackthorn would stand at the helm of the world''s most powerful government, and his long reign would begin.


    Reginald smiled as the chains clinked back into place, sealing the tomb again. By midday, he would be in London, orchestrating his political pawns.


    And when he returned tonight—the actual game would begin.