Authority Over the Undead

Pale bones become the scepter in my hand, and the flesh and blood of the dead forge an immortal staircase. I made a pact with the devil, trading for a chance to survive. The dead rise from the ground and become my servants; flowers and grass wither in my hands, then bloom once more.

All things must die. One day, even souls will turn to dust in the universe. Not even the ancient gods and dragons are exceptions.

But I will live forever.

(Reader group: 374513786)