The moonlight filtered through the broken arches of Veloren's cathedral, casting eerie shadows that danced across the ruined floor. Gabriel stood at the center of the vast hall, his hands raised in silent invocation. The air around him buzzed with dark energy, the weight of something ancient and powerful awakening beneath the surface of the earth. His eyes, now a shade of crimson far removed from the man he had once been, reflected the dim light of the few remaining stars.

Necromancy had become his weapon of choice—a dark and forbidden magic, feared and despised by most, but Gabriel had found it both necessary and liberating. In the weeks following his arrival in Veloren, the curse that now defined him had brought not just enhanced strength and speed, but also a connection to the forces of death. The ancient tomes he had discovered deep within the catacombs spoke of necromantic arts—magic that could raise the dead, bend them to the will of the caster, and infuse them with purpose.

Gabriel had resisted at first, knowing the weight of such power, knowing the cost. But time had worn down his reservations. He needed an army, and the ruins of Veloren offered countless dead who could serve.

Beneath his feet, the ground trembled slightly as the last incantation left his lips. The earth cracked and shifted, and from the broken stones of the cathedral floor, a hand clawed its way to the surface. A skeleton, its bones pale and dry from centuries of entombment, emerged from the ground. Its empty eye sockets flickered with the faintest hint of magical energy, a spark of life that Gabriel had granted it.

More followed—two, three, then a dozen. The skeletal figures stood before him in silent obedience, awaiting his command. Gabriel lowered his hands, satisfied with the results. He had become proficient in the art of raising the dead, his mastery of necromancy growing with each passing night. These skeletal servants were simple creations, driven by the base instincts Gabriel had instilled in them, but they were useful nonetheless.

"You will rebuild," Gabriel commanded, his voice echoing through the empty halls. "Start with the walls. Then the towers."

The skeletons turned, their movements jerky but purposeful, and began to shuffle toward the outer sections of the cathedral. Gabriel watched as they disappeared into the shadows, their task clear. They would begin the slow and arduous process of repairing Veloren, brick by brick, stone by stone. Gabriel had no illusions about the time it would take. It might be years before the city was fully restored, but he had time now—time that stretched endlessly before him.

By day, when the sun burned overhead and forced him into the dark recesses of the catacombs, the skeletons would continue their work. They would labor under the light of the sun, immune to its searing rays. At night, when Gabriel roamed the city, he would oversee their progress, directing them to strengthen the defenses, repair the gates, and fortify the towers.

But the skeletons were more than just laborers. They were his guards, his sentinels. During the day, they would patrol the city's perimeter, watching for any intruders who might stumble upon his sanctuary. Veloren was a city of the dead now, and Gabriel intended to keep it that way. Any who dared enter would be met with an army of bones, unyielding and tireless.

Gabriel wandered the city at night, observing the progress made by his skeletal workers. Though slow, their repairs were methodical and precise. Crumbling walls were beginning to rise again, the city's defenses taking shape once more. The once-abandoned streets were now patrolled by his silent guardians, their bony feet scraping against the stone as they marched in unbroken formation.

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Yet, even as the city began to take on a semblance of its former glory, Gabriel's hunger for knowledge grew. Necromancy had opened new doors for him, and he could sense that the magic he wielded was just the beginning. There were greater powers to be tapped, deeper forces that he had yet to uncover. The ancient tomes spoke of necromancers who had raised entire armies of the dead, who had bound spirits and twisted the souls of the living to their will.

Gabriel would learn it all. He had no choice. The orcs were still out there, and he knew that their defeat was far from assured. Veloren would be his stronghold, but it would not be enough on its own. He needed more power.

On one particularly dark night, when the moon was nothing more than a thin sliver in the sky, Gabriel stood atop the highest remaining tower of the cathedral. He looked out over the wild lands, his mind restless, his thoughts swirling with plans and ambitions. The curse that had once filled him with rage and despair had become his greatest asset. He no longer feared the darkness, nor did he shy away from the bloodlust that burned within him. He had embraced it.

But then, in the distance, he heard something—a faint sound carried on the wind. Voices. The sound of footsteps crunching through the underbrush. Gabriel tensed, his enhanced hearing picking up the unmistakable rhythm of approaching life. His eyes narrowed as he peered into the gloom, scanning the horizon for movement.

There, near the edge of the ruined city, he saw them—figures moving through the trees, their forms outlined against the faint starlight. A group of people, perhaps a dozen in number, cautiously making their way toward Veloren. They were armed, though lightly, and from their ragged clothes and hesitant movements, Gabriel could tell they were not soldiers.

Refugees, perhaps. Or lost travelers.

For a moment, Gabriel considered letting them pass, allowing them to stumble through the city and leave without ever realizing what they had entered. But something held him back. His instincts, sharpened by the curse, told him these people would not simply wander through and leave. They were searching for something.

He descended from the tower in silence, his footsteps soundless as he made his way toward the outer edge of the city. His skeletal sentinels were already stirring, their hollow eyes fixed on the approaching intruders. Gabriel raised a hand, signaling for them to wait.

The group entered the city cautiously, their leader—a tall man with a sword strapped to his back—motioning for the others to stay close. They moved slowly, eyes wide with fear as they took in the crumbling buildings and eerie silence that surrounded them.

Gabriel watched from the shadows, his red eyes gleaming. He could hear their whispers now, their voices filled with uncertainty.

"Is this it?" one of them asked. "The lost city?"

The leader nodded, his face grim. "It must be. Veloren, the city of the damned. We need to find shelter. The orcs won't follow us here."

Gabriel's lips curled into a dark smile. They thought this place was their sanctuary, their refuge from the orcs.

They couldn't have been more wrong.

As they ventured deeper into the city, Gabriel stepped forward, his figure emerging from the shadows. His skeletal sentinels followed at a distance, their bony hands clutching rusted weapons.

"Welcome to Veloren," Gabriel said, his voice low and cold. The group froze, their weapons raised in fear and confusion. Their eyes widened as they saw him—a figure cloaked in darkness, his pale skin and crimson eyes marking him as something far from human.

The leader stepped forward, his sword drawn. "Who are you?"

Gabriel's smile faded, his gaze hardening. "I am the one who rules this city now. And you… you've come to the wrong place."

The wind howled through the broken streets, and for a moment, the group stood frozen, their fear palpable.