Chapter 6 — A Crude Plan and Doubts About the Spell
Torchlight flickered along the corridor. Two figures — one broad, one slight — sat at the round table where the guards had been, eyes flicking toward the stairwell up to the upper floor as they whispered.
"If I'm right," the older man said quietly, "this dungeon has four levels. We're on the third. The floor above holds noble prisoners; those doors are locked tight. The top level and the 'traitor corridor' above the dungeon will have patrols. To get out we have to secure both places."
"The floor above really has no guards?" Charles asked.
"No guards on that tier, but the topmost isn't a hall — it's a tower. We call it the Traitor Corridor. The tower holds prisoners both above and below ground: nobles with status but minor offenses up top; ordinary criminals and serious offenders below. And some who need interrogation." The man — Ned — glanced at Charles. "Very few escape from here. The Traitor Corridor sits inside the castle; patrols are constant and reinforcements can arrive at a moment's notice. Even with the skeleton at your back, the place has defensive resources we can't face head-on."
Charles glanced unconvinced at the white-boned soldier standing quietly behind him. Apart from dried streaks of blood clinging to rib and joint, the skeleton looked like any human frame — save for the faint, green gleam in its empty eye sockets. The light was subtle enough that in daylight it might disappear, but in these dark corridors it was obvious. Black magic, Ned muttered inwardly. Long-vanished necromancy.
He swallowed his unease and focused on the plan. "We could cause a distraction," Ned suggested in a low voice, uncomfortable with the idea. "Free some prisoners — they won't get far beyond the Red Keep, so it's not 'real' treason. Create chaos, and slip out in the confusion." His tone implied he wasn't used to thinking like this.
Charles wanted to say "run now," laws or no laws. But Ned's mind was sharp; Charles kept his mouth shut and listened.
"There's one last obstacle," Ned continued. "The Red Keep is the royal residence. Thick walls, heavy garrison. You don't just walk out. Without many soldiers, there's no chance."
He paused and looked to Charles for a reaction.
"If you already considered that, you wouldn't be reckless enough to drag me into an escape on impulse," Charles said. "So what's your plan?"
Ned hesitated. "I'm still deciding whether it's worth the risk." He said, quietly, "My daughter once told me there's a secret passage from under the Keep that leads out to King's Landing. I don't know the exact spot, but we can try to find it."
"Where roughly?" Charles asked.
"Around the Maiden's Quarter," Ned answered.
Charles nodded. He knew nothing of the tower's layout, so he had no choice but to trust someone who'd once moved in court circles. If Ed thought this was a lead, Charles would follow.
The plan was simple, crude even: first scout the topmost dungeon level. If guards were few, strike quickly. If they were many, get a key and free the prisoners on the second level. Let the freed prisoners swell their numbers, smash through the defenses, and bolt for the secret way. It was far from elegant, and the odds were thin — but staying in this cell until morning's trial was worse.
Because Ned's leg was weak, the old man would stay behind to coordinate what he could. Charles had to climb and scout; if possible, he would return with keys and a route. He didn't take the skeleton with him — first he needed eyes on the upper floors; the bones would only draw attention.
Ned watched him go until Charles's silhouette vanished up the stairs. Then, quietly, he urged the old gods for luck.
Charles climbed, breath measured. He did not believe much in miracles. This tower was enemy territory; even with a fearsome skeleton at his side, real escape seemed impossible. But pride, the sting of injustice, and a sliver of hope born of this unknown magic kept him from waiting to be judged.
That judgment would come tomorrow — a public trial at the Great Sept. Someone high in the household had whispered the details to Ned: if Ned publicly confessed and acknowledged King Joffrey's rule, his daughter might be freed and he could be granted a black robe. Ned knew it was political theater — he insisted he wasn't guilty — but his daughter's safety tugged at him. That was another reason he wanted out.
After a long climb, Charles returned.
"So soon?" Ned asked.
"I scouted it out," Charles said.
"Well?"
"As you thought. The topmost level has at most five guards. One guard has the keys on his belt — easy to spot. But he's sleeping now. The others are gambling; they won't stop for a while."
"We can wait," Ed said.
"Wait until morning? What if they don't sleep? We have to strike when they're lax," Charles replied. "If there's no opening… then we've truly run out of options. Maybe we can use a lure."
Ned considered that. The corridor's guards were lax, as Charles had seen. If they could draw them away or distract them long enough to snatch a key — or make it noisy enough that reinforcements were slow to respond — they might get a window.
They agreed the immediate objective was reconnaissance and key acquisition. Charles would attempt to relieve the sleeping guard and snag the keys. If he failed, the fallback was to create a disturbance that would pull guards off their posts and release prisoners en masse. It was crude, desperate, and dangerous — but it was all they had.
Ned watched Charles mount the stairs. "Old gods watch over you," he murmured.
Charles didn't expect to succeed, but he could not resign himself to waiting for a show trial. Tomorrow, the queen and the new king would preside over him in front of the people. Retaining even a shred of dignity mattered.
He crept up, careful, every step measured. The plan needed nimbleness and a smidgeon of luck.
Charles hadn't told Ned everything.
In just a few hours, the strange countdown that hovered at the edge of his vision would reach zero — and when it did, he suspected he'd be able to leave this cursed place altogether. Maybe even return to where he came from.
But still… what if he couldn't?
What if, the next time that door opened for him, it dumped him right back into this dungeon?
It would be foolish not to prepare. Better to take this chance, burn his luck all at once, and break free while he still could.
He sat in silence for a while, thoughts flickering like the torchlight on the damp stone walls. Then Ned spoke, his gaze landing uneasily on the unmoving skeleton standing beside Charles.
"You can only summon that one?"
Charles hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "I… think so."
The truth was, he wasn't sure.
The knowledge he'd inherited about the spell Bone Resurrection was fragmentary — just a few scattered memories from whoever his body's "original owner" had been. There was nothing about summoning more than one skeleton.
And the notebook that might have held the rest of the details… had been taken when he was captured. Lost somewhere in the castle, out of reach.
Still, logic suggested a beginner should only be able to summon one skeleton… right?
As he thought about it, something clicked. Wait. Who said there had to be a limit?
Maybe he could try again.
If he could summon several skeletons, he wouldn't need to risk a reckless ambush. The top floor had five guards — too many for a straightforward fight. But an undead army, even a small one… that would change everything.
He turned to Ned. "This might get a little messy. Stay here."
Leaving the crippled noble behind, Charles made his way down the corridor to one of the cells where he'd seen a corpse earlier — one of the many prisoners who'd never survived their "interrogations."
He unclasped the black skull pendant hanging around his neck and took a deep breath, replaying the ritual steps in his mind.
This time, he didn't need to press it against his eye. With both the pendant and the corpse in his line of sight, that was enough to trigger the magic.
The air was damp and cold in the stone cell. He could hear water dripping somewhere in the dark.
Charles tightened his grip on the pendant and began the incantation.
"By the guardians of the dead,
In the name of Charles Cranston —
I call upon you for aid.
Born of this spell, and to this spell's end,
O nameless one who died in agony —
Rise, and serve!"
For a moment, nothing happened.
A message flashed before his eyes:
[You attempt to use Bone Resurrection on a prisoner's corpse. The spell fails.]
The body lay still. No stirring, no twitch, no flicker of energy.
Charles exhaled. Not discouraged — his first success had taken a dozen tries. This was fine.
He tried again.
And again.
And again.
On the fourth chant, something changed.
The words leaving his mouth grew heavy and distorted, warping into low, echoing murmurs that weren't entirely his own. Whisper upon whisper layered over each other, a chorus of voices too faint to be human — like ghosts murmuring behind a veil.
Then the air shifted.
A thin mist, gray and rotten, began to leak from the cracks of the dungeon stone, converging on the corpse. It slithered like cobweb strands, seeping into the body's ears, nose, and mouth.
A moment later—
A wet gasp cut through the silence.
Charles flinched, stumbling back a step as the corpse's eyelids snapped open. Its eyes bulged, veins dark against the skin, pupils clouded white. Its mouth gaped wide in a soundless scream, staring at the ceiling as if seeing something the living could not.
"This… looks different from the first one," Charles muttered, uneasy.
He took a cautious step closer.
Then the corpse's chest caved in — not with an explosion, but with a sickening deflation, like a balloon losing air. A faint trail of ashen vapor leaked from its mouth and vanished into the cold air.
The gray mist dissipated.
The body fell still once more.
[You attempt to use Bone Resurrection on a prisoner's corpse. The spell fails.]
Charles sighed, brushing a streak of sweat from his temple.
"So, it's not that easy after all…"
Still, even a failure had taught him something — the flow of that gray energy, the way the corpse responded, how his own words had changed at the point of success.
He was learning.
And if he could do it once… he could do it again.
He grinned faintly, the kind of grin that never quite reached his eyes. "Guess I just need more practice."
Tomorrow, this castle would hold a trial.
But tonight — it might just witness resurrection.