"Everything is ready, Master," the apprentice began softly, standing in the doorway of the Elder's workshop with his head bowed in reverence.
"Then let us proceed," the mystic replied, joining his pupil. His long gray robe was now rolled up at the sleeves, revealing the runes etched onto his skin, mirroring those marked upon the followers who trailed behind him. The rest of the group awaited outside the workshop. They had lost two along the way, leaving five of the original seven. In deference and with fire in their eyes, they gazed upon their leader. He gently touched each of them on the head or shoulder, as though offering a blessing.
“We shall remain in this city forever, as will the Last Tribe with us. This is the punishment for turning away from tradition and the will of our ancestors that we inflict on nonbelievers. We shall remain an eternal reminder of their sin of pride—a city that never surrendered, a tribe that never laid down its arms. If not in this generation, then in those to come, they will see our resolve and the path that all Gray Nomads should follow!” he declared solemnly.
“It is an honor to stand with you on eternal watch, Master,” they responded almost in unison, as if reciting a prayer.
They stepped out into the city, each apprentice heading to a prepared location. Together, these points formed the five vertices of a vast ritual framework spanning the entire city. At the center of this construct stood the Elder. He regretted that there had been no time to train replacements for the two lost apprentices. A seven-pointed figure would have been even more powerful, according to his calculations. There had been no opportunity, however, to test this version—or any version, for that matter.
He was confident that no one before him had ever combined the visionary rituals with ancient necromantic runes, and he doubted anyone would ever achieve it again. The townspeople were weak from rationed food, but they did not blame him; they bowed low as he passed on his way to the ritual’s central position. Only the apprentices knew what was truly about to happen. He had no illusions: if he had been honest with all members of the cult, there would have been far more deserters. He was ready for them all to make the ultimate sacrifice with him, though he had no doubt the others might have felt differently had they known.
A few minutes remained before the bells tolled, signaling him and his apprentices to begin. There was no greater catalyst for a ritual than the sacrifice of one's own life. His offering, along with that of his closest disciples, would activate the chain of runic spells that would comprise the ritual, transforming the city and its inhabitants for centuries to come—or perhaps forever. It would change him, his followers, and everyone sheltered behind these walls into eternal guardians of the Last Tribe's memory. Only faithful cultists would be able to enter the city thereafter. Any who, inspired by his writings, found their way here would find sanctuary, while those who rejected the teachings would remain enemies.
He lamented not achieving his goal in life but was certain that their service in death would ultimately bring it to fruition. As the bells tolled, like a command, he and his apprentices slit their own throats, fulfilling their destiny. Ritual began.
The entire city erupted in a sickly green glow, and its defenders, before they could grasp what was happening, began transforming into undead monstrosities. The living underwent a violent transformation, that killed them in the process but gave them an undead existence. Those who were already dead, whether from starvation or their wounds, gave rise to numerous wraiths that quickly began to drift through the streets. Inhuman howls and wails echoed far beyond the walls.
The phenomenon did not go unnoticed by the coalition forces, and especially by Moira, who quickly recognized the spell as something on a scale that confirmed her worst fears and anxieties. Together with her unit, she rushed to the walls, sternly warning everyone else to stay back until she could examine the situation more closely. The command did not object.
Ashan, with his ability to perceive the flow of magical winds, was terrified. He repeatedly described the entire city as being flooded with waves of magic that had neither beginning nor end. His face was pale, his voice shaken, displaying a level of fear Moira had never seen in him before.
As they approached the city gates, Moira called out to the rest of the unit, instructing them to wait where they were—a suggestion they eagerly accepted. Only Ashan stayed by her side, though it cost him more than he was willing to admit, even to himself. The others, sensing with every fiber of their being that they should not go any closer, urged them to be careful and to avoid doing anything reckless.
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Moira dismounted, as her horse refused to go any further. Ashan had to grab the mare's reins tightly to prevent her from bolting outright.
"Stay with the horses," Moira instructed Ashan, her voice firm. Alone, she approached the gate, weaving the strongest variation of a dominance field she could muster around herself. The spell came at the cost of its range, but it allowed her to walk up to the gate itself.
On the walls above, she saw shades and grotesque undead forms pulling back slightly where her field extended. She could feel, almost physically, the immense pressure of a far greater and more powerful command: the compulsion to defend the city against any enemy of the Last Tribe. Her field created a small breach in that command, allowing her to advance, but she was acutely aware of its limits.
Moira realized she might be able to move through the city with difficulty, but she could not be sure. There was a chance that deeper inside, the oppressive command would grow stronger, forcing her to fight every undead creature she encountered, their wills impervious to her influence.
Moira returned to Ashan, her face set with grim determination, and together they made their way back to the rest of the squad. Without wasting any time, she ordered a retreat. Along the way, she shared her findings, emphasizing the dire reality: the city was cursed and irretrievably lost. At this point, she couldn’t think of anything that could possibly be done to change the situation.
“Perhaps some mages from the Empire, experts in ancient rituals, might have an idea,” she added, her tone a mixture of desperation and pragmatism. “For now, we need to warn everyone to stay as far from those walls as possible!”
When they delivered their report, the entire squad was visibly pale and clammy with cold sweat, with the notable exception of Moira. She maintained her composure as she explained the situation to the coalition's leadership with stark clarity. She spared them any "I told you so" remarks; they were painfully aware of her prior warnings about a threat of this magnitude.
Moira provided the names of a few legendary mages—individuals whose reputations were almost mythical that perhaps could come up with countermeasure. However, she also pointed out that summoning their expertise would likely come with astronomical costs.
In conclusion, she strongly advised against any attempt at a military assault on the city. “I am almost certain,” she said firmly, “that anyone who dies near that city will join the ghastly horde on the walls as one of its defenders.”
In the weeks that followed, the coalition forces shifted their focus to constructing an observation tower near the site of their former encampment, tasked with monitoring the cursed city. The one fortunate aspect of the situation was that whatever remained within the city's walls showed no interest in venturing far beyond them. Occasionally, specters would stray a few paces outside in pursuit of a passing coalition patrol, only to retreat back behind the walls shortly afterward.
If there was any silver lining to the situation, it was that any public expressions of sympathy for the Last Tribe had entirely vanished. Even the northernmost nomadic settlements, which had once championed a return to ancestral traditions, now publicly denounced the cult. However, it remained unclear whether this change stemmed from genuine reflection or simple pragmatism in light of recent events.
Occasionally, unsettling rumors emerged about people seen entering and leaving the city via mountain paths without difficulty, though such accounts remained unconfirmed. Coalition forces in the region had thinned considerably as cities refocused on rebuilding trade and restoring their economies.
For her promised reward, Moira chose the ruins of a watchtower surrounded by lush meadows and forests—the site where she had first helped the ancestors of the nomads find peace, breaking the Elder’s spell. She planned to rebuild the outpost over time but was currently in the initial stages of drafting letters to architects. In the meantime, she and Ashan rented a modest home in the bustling center of Kardum. Despite settling into civilian life, Moira maintained contact with her old squad, particularly Tex, and continued to offer her expertise to the council, which valued her input.
The most significant change in Moira's life was her newfound willingness to openly embrace her identity. No longer hiding behind the guise of a mere herbalist, she was now recognized and celebrated as a necromancer. In Kardum and beyond, her reputation had grown as an ally to the gray nomads and the decisive vanquisher of the Last Tribe's cult. A month after the retreat from Forgdom, Moira found herself flooded with requests: facilitating conversations with the departed, ensuring the peace of burials, or dispelling lingering curses.
The flurry of work was unlike anything she had experienced before, but rather than being overwhelmed, Moira felt her passion for her craft rekindled. She embraced this surge in demand, seeing it as an opportunity to further refine her magical skills and help those who truly needed her expertise. For the first time in years, Moira looked to the future as a necromancer with a sense of purpose and optimism, ready to being a new chapter in her life and legacy.