Chapter 10

The cave

Runner, Hoat, Teric, and Gauge stood at the massive cave entrance, the eerie silence broken only by the occasional fluttering of bats or the distant groan of wind through the caverns. They had gathered at the site after a scout from Razlond trailed a group of undead to this place. The scout claimed that greater and lesser undead had been seen entering and leaving the cave, indicating it might be a base of operations. With no signs of life in the vicinity, the cave felt like it held more than mystery and danger.

The group was waiting for Zavet, who was noticeably late. Everyone else had arrived on time, but they grew more restless as the minutes dragged on. Runner had his arms crossed, leaning against a jagged rock, while Teric absentmindedly sharpened the edge of his sword. Hoat, never the most patient, began pacing.

Finally, Zavet appeared, sprinting down the path, his face flushed from getting there as quickly as possible. He came to a halt, panting, before he saw the look of annoyance etched on Hoat’s face.

“We said we'd meet here by noon. It’s an hour past!” Hoat scolded, his voice sharp with frustration.

Zavet winced under Hoat’s reprimand. “I know, I’m sorry. My lessons ran long because I… well, I fell asleep in class,” he admitted sheepishly.

Teric, who had been quietly observing, raised an eyebrow. “Lessons? We didn’t know you were being tutored. That's something usually reserved for high-born children.” There was a hint of curiosity in his tone as though he were sizing Zavet up in a new light.

Runner chimed in, grinning as he slapped Zavet on the back. “I knew he was in class. That’s why I suggested meeting at noon. I figured he’d be done by then.”

Hoat just shrugged, his earlier frustration fading. “Well, he’s here now. Guess we’ll just have to wait until an hour past noon from now on,” he muttered, giving Zavet a half-hearted grin. Before anyone could comment further, two figures approached from Solond's direction.

Vlad and Krunk trudged their way up the path, the yellow and black tabards of Solond knights unmistakable in the gloom. As soon as Gauge spotted them, his expression turned sour. “Ah, shit. Here comes Solond,” he muttered under his breath, the disappointment in his tone clear.

Unbothered by Gauge’s reaction, Vlad nodded toward Zavet and the group in greeting. His expression was grim, his usual easy-going demeanor replaced by something urgent. “You lot heading in as well?” he asked, his gaze scanning the cave's dark maw. “Merlot sent Edmond and the others in earlier. They’ve been in there since morning. I came to see if everything’s all right.”

Hoat's eyes narrowed, his hands instinctively resting on the hilt of his weapon. “They haven’t come out this way. We’ve been here for over an hour, and there’s been no sign of anyone.”

Vlad’s shoulders slumped, his concern deepening. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly uneasy. “Damn. My barony’s getting restless. If Edmond and the others don’t return soon, things might get complicated,” he muttered.

Hoat gave him a nod, understanding the weight of Vlad’s words. “You’ve got to keep an eye on your people. Solond’s a tough barony, but they’re quick to rebel if left to their own devices.”

Vlad sighed heavily, clearly burdened by the responsibility. “Exactly. If something’s happened to Edmond inside that cave... I need to know. Fast.”

The group exchanged uneasy glances, a shared apprehension settling over them as the yawning cave entrance loomed, vast and foreboding. The air was thick with moisture, and dripping water echoed faintly in the distance. Shadows danced across the jagged rock walls as they entered the cold, dark expanse.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, Teric conjured a flame that flickered to life in his palm. It gave off no heat nor released smoke, just a steady, pale light that illuminated the immediate area. The flame cast long, twisting shadows along the cave walls, emphasizing the labyrinthine nature of the cave. Its vast passages stretched in all directions, with narrow corridors opening into sprawling chambers, some filled with stalagmites and stalactites that gave the impression of jagged, gaping maws.

Teric used his magic to begin mapping the cave as they ventured deeper. With each twist and turn, a glowing outline of the walls etched itself onto a floating piece of parchment before him. "This place is bigger than I expected," he muttered, noting the complexity of the tunnels.

Ahead of the group, Zavet and Runner moved silently, their eyes sharp as they scouted the path. They stayed about twenty feet ahead of the main party, slipping through the gloom like shadows. The oppressive atmosphere weighed on them all, but the two scouts pressed forward, their steps silent, their breaths measured.

As they pressed deeper into the cave, they began to notice the sheer scale of the caverns. The tunnel walls widened at points, stretching into expansive chambers filled with uneven floors and towering rock formations. Pockets of darkness loomed at the edges, and the distant sound of creatures shuffling echoed through the rock, though the source was always out of sight. The cave system seemed to go on endlessly, its twisting passages and side chambers creating a confusing web.

After nearly two miles of winding tunnels and cavernous chambers, Zavet and Runner halted at the entrance to a vast cavern. The sound of low voices and the scrape of movement drifted toward them from within, although no light emanated from the cavern. Zavet held up his hand, signaling for the others to stop. Slowly, they approached the entrance.

As they crept closer, Teric’s magical flame illuminated the scene. It was like stepping into an underground city, a cluster of stone buildings constructed within the cavern. The structures, though ancient and crumbling, looked like they had once been carefully built. Now, they were overrun with the undead. Greater and lesser undead shuffled about, carrying out unknown tasks as they moved between the buildings.

Without a word, the group prepared for battle. Zavet melted into the shadows, his form disappearing into the gloom as he scouted ahead while the rest of the crew gripped their weapons tightly. They spread out, circling the undead encampment, positioning themselves for the coming strike.

The silence was broken as the crew sprang into action. Zavet, cloaked in shadow, reappeared behind one of the greater undead, his dagger flashing in the dim light as it sliced through the creature's spine with lethal precision. Before the lesser undead could react, he vanished again, blinking from shadow to shadow, leaving nothing but a pile of corpses in his wake.

The others moved in unison, their attacks swift and coordinated. Hoat and Runner quickly took down the undead sentinels, their blades moving in deadly arcs, cutting down the shambling figures before they could raise an alarm. Teric summoned bursts of arcane energy, using precision magic to obliterate groups of lesser undead with a single stroke.

Vlad, who had once relied heavily on his enchanted weapons, fought with a newfound intensity. His swordsmanship had improved noticeably, and he now wielded his blade with grace and power. Hoat couldn't help but notice the change in him, and he gave a nod of approval as Vlad and Krunk, now a well-synced pair, moved together through the ranks of the undead like a well-oiled machine. Krunk's brute strength complemented Vlad's finesse perfectly, and together, they ruthlessly dismantled their foes.

As the battle raged on, Zavet's prowess became more evident. His dagger gleamed in the darkness as he flitted from one undead to the next, never staying in one place long enough to be detected. He targeted the greater undead with surgical precision, knowing they controlled the lesser minions. With each greater undead he took down, the lesser ones faltered, becoming easy prey for the others. By the time the battle was over, Zavet had slain twice as many enemies as anyone else, his movements so quick and fluid that he seemed almost like a specter.

Once the last of the undead fell, the crew began searching the area. The stone buildings were filled with the remnants of past battles; discarded weapons, rotting armor, and scattered bones littered the floors. Among the debris, they found a considerable amount of coin, likely looted by the undead from fallen adventurers who had come before them. The spoils were divided, but the wealth didn’t catch Vlad’s attention.

In one of the buildings, partially buried beneath rubble, lay a shield emblazoned with the symbol of Solond. It was a familiar design. One of the Solond-made shields on which the barony prided itself. Vlad knelt, brushing the dust and dirt off the shield before inspecting it closely. His expression darkened.

“This was one of Edmond’s troops,” Vlad said, his voice low and tense. He glanced around at the ruins and the fallen undead, unease settling in his chest. “He brought a small unit in here. Maybe fifteen men, all fresh recruits. I don’t understand why he brought weaker members into a place like this.”

The others paused, listening as Vlad’s words hung in the air. The realization struck them all at once. This was no ordinary base for the undead. Something far more dangerous lurked in these caverns. Vlad stood up, gripping the shield as his eyes scanned the cavern uneasily.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he muttered, his voice filled with dread beginning to infect the rest of the group.

The cave was no longer just a maze of stone and shadows; it had become something more sinister. As the group pressed on, leaving the small undead-infested village behind, they descended deeper into the earth. The air grew colder and heavier, and the rock formations became more jagged and ominous as if the very stone was trying to warn them away. The darkness here was almost palpable, clinging to their skin and making every step feel like it led further into an abyss.

It wasn’t long before they encountered creatures far more dangerous than the mindless undead they had faced earlier. Hook horrors, towering beasts with razor-sharp, hooked claws and thick, chitinous exoskeletons, stalked the caverns. Their glowing eyes shimmered in the dim light, their movements erratic and terrifyingly fast. These creatures were hunters, far more intelligent and lethal than the undead sentinels. The group slowed down, moving with extreme caution as they navigated through the lairs of these beasts.

Even worse were the Umber Hulks. Massive, burrowing monstrosities with armored bodies and hypnotic, swirling eyes that could confuse even the most disciplined minds. Their sheer size made them difficult to avoid, and their claws tore through rock with terrifying ease. Each step forward became a strategy battle, with Zavet and Runner scouting ahead to identify weak points in the beasts’ patterns while the others remained on high alert, weapons drawn and ready.

But the creatures that gave them the most trouble were the venomous ones, serpentine monsters with fangs that dripped toxic ichor and insect-like beasts with venomous stingers that struck without warning. The air began to reek of poison and decay, and every step was fraught with danger. Teric was grazed by one of the creatures, and the venom immediately took hold, weakening him. Gauge had to use one of his last healing spells to keep him on his feet.

To everyone's surprise, Vlad remained unscathed by the poison. No matter how many venomous creatures attacked him, the toxins had no effect. "I think I might be immune to poison," Vlad said, almost bemused, as he wrenched his sword free from a venomous serpent.

"Hoat, already drenched in sweat and venom, glanced over at Vlad as he dispatched another venomous insect with a well-placed blow. “That’s… surprisingly useful,” Hoat muttered, shaking his head. “Or you’re undead, which we already suspected since you’ve been avoiding Gauge’s healing spells.”

Vlad wiped the blood from his sword with a swift motion and frowned. He hadn’t thought about it until now. He’d been fighting without fatigue, immune to poison, and resisting damage in unnatural ways. But hearing it said aloud made it all the more real. Krunk, beside him, cracked his knuckles and tightened his grip on his weapon, ready for whatever came next, but the group paid them no mind, continuing their steady march deeper into the cave.

Zavet, walking past Vlad, gave him a reassuring smile and patted him on the shoulder as he moved by. Runner, ever the mischievous one, giggled softly, giving Zavet a knowing wink. Vlad’s brow furrowed in confusion, suspicion growing in his mind. “Wait... last night?” Vlad started, looking between the two of them. “It was you guys? But why give me such a gift? I tried to kill you both at one point. I don’t understand.”

Runner’s smirk faded, his tone becoming serious. “It wasn’t intentional, Vlad. You were in the wrong place and caught up in something much bigger than we anticipated. But... here we are.” He shrugged casually, though there was a tension in his voice. “It was a fluke, honestly. And now, like it or not, you’re something new. If you die out here, we lose something valuable. You’ve become... necessary.”

Vlad’s hand tightened around his sword. “Necessary?” he echoed, his voice low and uncertain. “What am I to you, then? Some kind of tool?”

Runner shook his head, his expression softening. “Not a tool, but someone who has a role to play now, whether you like it or not. If you die, we lose what you are now. And, trust me, that’s something we can’t afford.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper, “So don’t get yourself killed, alright?” Vlad felt a chill run down his spine. His mind raced with questions, but there was no time to dwell on them.

As they descended, the air grew colder, and the tunnel walls began to narrow before opening into another massive chamber. The undead they encountered here were no longer the mindless shamblers they had fought earlier. These were stronger, more powerful sentries, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light. They were heavily armored, some wielding cursed weapons that gave off an eerie, malevolent energy. Their presence told the group one thing: they were on the right path.

The battles grew more intense as the group cut their way through waves of undead. Zavet, still flitting from shadow to shadow, targeted the sentries first, knowing that the lesser undead would crumble without their leaders. Vlad and Krunk fought back to back, and their teamwork was flawless as they took down the more powerful undead with brute force and precision.

But with each fight, their strength waned. Gauge, panting heavily, finally called out, “I’m out of healing spells. We’ve pushed too far. I think we should turn back.”

Hoat, Runner, and Teric immediately agreed, each feeling the strain of the long journey and the constant fighting. Teric was still recovering from the venom, and Hoat had taken several hard hits from the more powerful undead. They were reaching their limits.

But Zavet, Vlad, and Krunk were far from ready to retreat. Zavet’s eyes gleamed with determination, and Krunk’s bloodlust hadn’t diminished. Vlad seemed more committed than ever, bolstered by his immunity to the poison. "We're close," Vlad said, his voice firm. "I can feel it."

Zavet nodded. "If we turn back now, we might lose our chance to find out what’s happening here."

With a shared look, the group split. Hoat, Runner, Teric, and Gauge began the slow trek back to the surface while Zavet, Vlad, and Krunk pressed deeper into the cave.

The three continued through miles of twisting tunnels and eerie caverns, the atmosphere growing more oppressive with each step. It felt as if the very walls were watching them, the weight of something ancient and powerful pressing down on their souls. Finally, after hours of walking, they entered a vast cavern. In the middle of the chamber, something impossible stood before them.

A castle.

It was out of place, standing in stark contrast to the cave's rough, natural stone. The structure was made of redwood and cedar, its towering spires and walls adorned in red, white, and black. The wood seemed almost alive, as if it pulsed with some dark magic, and the air around it cracked with energy.

As they approached the castle, a heavy presence pressed down on them like an invisible wall of force. Vlad and Krunk came to an abrupt halt, their bodies freezing in place as though some unseen power had bound them to the ground. They exchanged bewildered looks, but no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t move.

Zavet, however, felt no such restraint. He took a cautious step forward, then another. Whatever magic held Vlad and Krunk in place did not affect him. He turned to his companions, a concerned look crossing his face, but Vlad gestured for him to continue.

"Go on," Vlad said through gritted teeth. "Find out what’s inside."

Zavet hesitated for only a moment before he moved forward, walking up to the massive front gates of the castle. The wood was smooth and cold under his touch as he pushed the gates open with surprising ease. Beyond the gates was a grand courtyard, lit by flickering blue torches that cast ghostly shadows along the stone pathways.

Several figures elves stood in the center of the courtyardves, but not like the ones Zavet was used to seeing. Their skin was a deep, dusky gray with purplish undertones, and their long, silver hair shimmered in the torchlight. Their eyes, pale and emotionless, regarded him with curiosity as he stepped forward.

One of the elves, a tall figure dressed in black and red robes, stepped forward. "May we help you?" he asked, his voice smooth and emotionless.

Zavet shifted uncomfortably under the elf’s gaze. "Umm… We were exploring down here, trying to figure out where all these undead are coming from."

The elves tilted their heads in unison, their expressions inscrutable. "It seems you had undead with you," one of the elves observed. "And a necro-tainted orc."

Zavet turned back to glance at Vlad and Krunk, who were still frozen at the entrance. "Uh… yeah. We’re… looking for something. We don’t really know what yet," he admitted, feeling more out of his depth than ever. "Just… exploring."

The elf’s pale eyes glittered with faint amusement. "Exploring, indeed," he said, his voice carrying an ominous undertone. "But what you find may not be what you seek."

Zavet stood at the edge of the courtyard, his voice barely audible as he surveyed the strange surroundings. The cherry blossoms swayed gently, a bizarre sight in the dark, lifeless cavern. “What is this place?” he asked, still reeling from the unnatural beauty around him.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the castle. She was an elf, her bronze skin covered in deep scars, as though she had been through years of torture. Though her face was ageless, her eyes bore the weight of centuries of suffering. Zavet felt a tug deep within him, a flicker of recognition he couldn’t explain. “Ta’Fair?” he whispered, almost unsure of himself.

The elf froze at the name, her gaze sharpening momentarily. She seemed to wrestle with some distant memory before it slipped away again. “My name is Cherry,” she said softly, her voice distant and worn. “Like these beautiful cherry blossom trees.”

Zavet blinked. He hadn't seen the trees when they first arrived, and he was sure they hadn’t been there. There was no light, no warmth in this cold, forgotten place. How had they grown here? The air felt thick with enchantment, and everything about the scene felt wrong.

“I’m Zavet,” he began cautiously, but before he could say more, Cherry was on him, moving faster than any of them could react. Her hands wrapped around his throat with a strength that belied her frail appearance, her eyes burning with rage.

“I don’t like that name,” she hissed, tightening her grip. “Promises were never kept for me. No one ever came for me. Liars! All of them... liars! *She* was a liar.” Zavet gasped for breath, his fingers clawing at her hands, but she was too strong. The guards shifted uneasily, unsure of what to do, until one of them finally spoke, voice calm and gentle.

“Miss Cherry, please,” one of the guards said, stepping forward cautiously. “He’s just a guest. He means no harm, and he’ll be leaving soon.”

Cherry’s grip loosened. She hesitated, then slowly released him, stepping back with a haunted expression. “No more promises,” she muttered, backing away from Zavet. “No more lies.”

She turned and leaped gracefully into the branches of a cherry blossom tree, perching there like a watchful sentinel. Zavet rubbed his throat, still catching his breath, but something inside him clicked. The name Ta’Fair and the whispers in his past all pointed back to her.

“Neth once told me my name meant ‘promise’ in the dragon’s tongue,” Zavet said, his voice rough but steady. He looked up at her, his eyes searching. “The name I heard whispered when I was created, Wispein. It was her, wasn’t it? She gave me that name. She betrayed you.”

Cherry’s expression darkened. Her eyes grew distant, her voice trembling. “She promised me she’d let me go,” she said quietly. “Wispein trapped me here. She lied to me and kept me here while my family died. Neth is gone... all of them are gone. I should have joined them. We were supposed to meet again in a place we built for ourselves in the afterlife. But Wispein... she betrayed me. She promised I’d be free, promised I’d see my loved ones again. But I’m still here.”

Zavet stepped closer, his voice softening. “She is evil. She has one of my tribe mates under her control.”

Cherry’s voice cracked as she spoke. “She’s the reason I’m trapped here. She took everything from me, and now I’m left with nothing but this lie... this prison. I want to see Neth again. I want to die.”

Zavet hesitated, but he could see the pain etched into every scar on her body. He took a deep breath and said, “Can I bring my friends in? We need to know the full story. We need to understand what happened.”

Cherry studied him for a long moment before giving a slow nod. She gestured to the guards, who moved to lower the barrier that had kept Vlad and Krunk at bay. The magical shield fell, and they hurried inside, their faces tight with worry.

Wide-eyed at the sight of Cherry, Vlad whispered, “What’s happening here?”

Zavet shook his head, his voice low. “We’re about to find out.”

Once ominous and cold, the courtyard had taken on an eerie calm. Comfortable chairs now circled the cherry blossom tree, and Zavet, Krunk, and Vlad found themselves seated with Cherry, formerly Ta'Fair. Her scarred face glistened in the dim light, and her eyes, hollow and ancient, surveyed each of them with quiet intensity.

Zavet cleared his throat, introducing her to the group. Cherry’s gaze lingered on Krunk, her head tilting ever so slightly. "Dragons created your kind," she said, her voice as soft as a whisper yet filled with gravity. "All monsters were their doing."

Krunk stiffened, his eyes darting between Cherry and Zavet, processing the revelation. His orcish lineage had always been shrouded in myths and half-truths, but this was new. "I didn’t know that..." he muttered under his breath, the weight of history pressing down on him.

Cherry chuckled softly, the sound hollow. “Most of your kind don’t know. None of them do.” Her eyes clouded over as she leaned back in her chair. “My family and I left our world when we were just a few hundred years old. We were children, running from what we believed were mistakes we could fix. We were naïve.”

She paused, her voice trembling as she delved into her memories. “We weren’t related, but we were more than family. After thousands of years together, that happens. Neth… I loved him. We believed we shared a soul.”

Cherry’s words hung in the air, each sentence dripping with sorrow. "We thought we could do better than our elders. Create worlds. Test our powers. We were fools. We created hundreds of worlds, but none like this one. We crafted a world small enough to fit in a gemstone, about three times the size of this castle. But it wasn't just any world. It was sentient. It followed us between realms as we shaped more worlds, always learning, always watching."

Her eyes flicked to Zavet, the gravity of her tale sinking deeper. “That world, the gemstone. It gave birth to dragons. Not through creation magic, but through something more primal, like birth.”

The courtyard, once still, seemed to hum with Cherry’s words. She continued, her voice growing quieter, more distant. “We were thrilled. Life, true life. Born from our power. But the dragons… they became too strong. The first generation consisted of simple, oversized lizards who were vicious but dumb. We didn’t fear them. They couldn’t use magic, not at first. But they evolved, and their children. Oh, their children were something else.”

Zavet, Vlad, and Krunk sat frozen, entranced by the tale. Cherry’s eyes glossed over with a faraway look, her voice shaking slightly. “The second generation of dragons... they were intelligent. They used magic. We knew we couldn’t control them, so we did what we thought was best. We destroyed as many eggs as we could in secret. But nine dragons survived.”

Her gaze fell on Zavet’s dagger, the ancient bone blade strapped to his waist. “Your dagger,” she said softly. “That’s one of the weapons forged from the bones of the first generation. Old Fang, we called him. You must’ve proven yourself worthy to wield it.”

Zavet instinctively touched the dagger’s hilt, feeling its ancient magic hum beneath his fingertips. He nodded but said nothing.

“The third generation of dragons... they were Wispein, Taigha, and Nuri,” Cherry continued, her voice now whispering. “The most powerful creatures we had ever seen. At first, we feared them, but eventually, we became friends. Neth and I… we became close to Nuri, especially me. We shared something… deeper.”

Cherry’s eyes filled with pain. “Neth never knew. Nuri and I… we had plans. The last night I was free, we made plans to be together. To see what would happen if we had offspring. It was meant to be a night of creation, of joy.” Her voice trembled as the memory surfaced. “But Wispein… she deceived me. She made herself look like Nuri and paralyzed me with something... unnatural. She dragged me down here, deep into the dark. She tortured me for years.”

Zavet clenched his fists, his heart pounding. Cherry’s words were heavy, with a deep and ancient pain reverberating in the walls around them. Vlad and Krunk exchanged uneasy glances, realizing they were hearing truths buried for millennia.

Cherry took a shaky breath, her hands trembling in her lap. “Wispein cast spells on this place, trapping me here. She told me the others were dead. Neth… my family… all gone. She promised she’d let me go, but it was all lies. Lies to keep me imprisoned, alone.”

The courtyard fell silent. The cherry blossom tree seemed to sway with the tension in the air. Zavet, Krunk, and Vlad sat in stunned silence, the weight of Cherry’s story crashing down. The history they thought they knew was shattered.

Vlad was the first to break the silence. “If what you’re saying is true… we need you now more than ever. We need to tell Mah’Nethotep.”

Cherry tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “How will you tell him?”

Krunk, caught in the intensity of the moment, blurted out, “He’s alive.”

The change in Cherry was immediate. She began to tremble, her body shaking violently as tears streamed down her scarred face. Raw magic pulsed off her in waves, thick and suffocating. The guards outside felt it, too, rushing into the courtyard, their faces panicked.

Zavet leaped to his feet, his senses screaming. “Something’s wrong,” he said urgently. “I can’t cast any spells; she’s absorbing the magic!”

The air around them began to hum, the ground trembling as Cherry’s grief-fueled magic consumed the courtyard. Zavet looked at Vlad and Krunk, knowing they wouldn’t make it out in time.

Without hesitation, Zavet twisted the ring on his finger, focusing his thoughts on the classroom. There was a blinding flash of light, and then, suddenly, they were back.

The ring turned to dust in Zavet’s hand.

Tear, who had been in the middle of a lecture, stared at them in shock. “Uh… yeah, that ring wasn’t designed to teleport three people,” he said, looking at the broken remnants in Zavet’s palm. “You just broke it.”

Vlad grinned, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. “Doesn’t matter. We just found someone, someone who’s going to change everything. The Master is about to reward the hell out of us. We’re about to be kings, Krunk.”

The trio, Vlad, Krunk, and Zavet. They had spent hours searching for Mah’nethotep. Their footsteps echoed down the ancient stone corridors of the Necromancer's Guild Hall, the sound soft and muffled in the gloomy light. They had looked in his private chambers, the arcane libraries, and even the training yards, but Mah’nethotep was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t until they ventured into the Hall of Remembrance, where the sarcophagus of Ta-Ffair lay, that they finally found him.

Mah’nethotep sat cross-legged in front of Ta’Ffair’s ornate tomb, his gaze distant, lost in thought as though he were speaking to her spirit. His golden eyes flickered with the weight of ancient memories as he traced his fingers over the carvings on her sarcophagus, which were filled with glyphs and runes that glowed faintly in the dim light.

Vlad stepped forward cautiously, his voice low and respectful. “Master, we found something, something important. We want to show you.”

Mah’nethotep’s eyes focused, drawn back to the present. He rose silently, nodding. “Show me.”

The trio set off without another word, though Zavet stayed behind to attend his lessons with Tear. Vlad and Krunk led Mah’nethotep deep into the cave system beneath the city. It took longer this time without Zavet’s guidance. The labyrinth of tunnels seemed more confusing, but Mah’nethotep was in no hurry. He stopped to inspect every cave drawing they passed, running his hands over the ancient markings. He examined each undead they encountered, observing their movements and their magical essence.

“This is the work of a Lord of Necromancy,” he muttered as they came across a group of armored undead soldiers, their hollow eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. “These troops are not of the usual stock; someone powerful created them. Someone with knowledge older than this kingdom.”

Vlad and Krunk exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. The deeper they went, the more oppressive the air became, thick with necromantic energy. It felt like they were walking into the belly of some ancient beast.

Finally, they emerged into a large, open courtyard deep within the cavern. The smell of death was overwhelming, but something else lingered, something far more personal. Mah’nethotep’s steps faltered as his sharp eyes caught sight of a figure sitting at a table in the courtyard's center. Ta’Ffair.

She sat there, sipping tea calmly as though this was a mere social visit. Across from her sat two dark-skinned elves, their eyes gleaming red in the torchlight. Mah’nethotep recognized them instantly as drow, denizens of the Underdark, usually hostile and secretive. But all that faded away in his mind as his eyes locked on Ta’Ffair.

She looked up, her gaze meeting his as if sensing him from across the years and the sea of magic that separated them.

“Hey, Neth,” she said softly, as though no time had passed.

That was all it took. Mah’nethotep’s legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees. His breath caught in his throat as tears rose in his golden eyes. The strength that had sustained him for millennia melted away instantly, and his vision tunneled until he could see her: Ta’Ffair, his love, his soulmate.

He couldn’t speak. His throat was tight, choked by the flood of emotions that tore through him. Ta’Ffair rose and embraced him tightly, her touch warm and familiar, though her body bore the scars of centuries of torment. Old wounds marred her skin.

He pulled back slightly, holding her at arm’s length. “Your body… it’s scarred. What happened to you?”

She sighed, her eyes darkened by memories of pain. “I was trapped here. Bound by spells, I couldn’t break. These drow,” she gestured to the two elves, who watched silently, “they were part of it. I’ll tell you everything, but we need to leave this place right now.”

With great effort, Mah’nethotep broke the spells that had imprisoned her. His magic surged through the air, unraveling the dark threads that had kept Ta’Ffair bound for so long. In an instant, they were gone, teleported back to the Black Pyramid, where Mah’nethotep could keep her safe.

Meanwhile, Vlad and Krunk returned up through the cave system, but something had changed. The air was colder, the darkness thicker, and the undead more numerous. They were no longer just wandering the caverns; they were organized and moving purposefully. Vlad and Krunk fought through wave after wave of undead, but something was wrong. The undead were not attacking with their usual mindlessness. They were... waiting.

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Suddenly, the attacks stopped. The undead parted like a sea, forming a circle around Vlad and Krunk, preventing them from going any farther. A small figure emerged from the ranks of the undead, short, lizard-like, with glowing green eyes that burned with intelligence and malice.

“Hello, Vlad. Krunk,” the figure said in a smooth, sinister voice.

Vlad’s eyes widened. “Iscariot…”

The small lizardman stepped forward, his smile wide and unsettling. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Before Vlad or Krunk could react, magic surged through the air, wrapping around them like chains. Iscariot’s magic twisted their bodies, corrupting them and turning them into greater undead. Their skin paled, their eyes gleamed with an eerie light, and their strength grew, but they were no longer fully in control. They were bound to Iscariot’s will.

As the transformation completed, Iscariot handed them each a small necklace. “These will make you look alive. Useful, yes? You wouldn’t want anyone to suspect.”

Vlad and Krunk nodded, their faces blank, the last vestiges of their free will slipping away. Then Iscariot handed them five small statues, each about six inches tall. The statues were grotesque, carved from bone and shaped like twisted golems.

“These are bone golems,” Iscariot explained. “When you enter the heroes’ stronghold, say the phrase I’ll give you. They will animate and kill everything inside, living or undead.”

Vlad and Krunk felt their bodies move on their own, compelled to obey. Iscariot’s voice filled their minds, commanding them. "Kill the heroes. Steal their items. But don’t get caught.”

Their hearts pounded, but they had no choice. The magic that controlled them was too strong. Their fate was sealed.

With a final, twisted smile, Iscariot waved them off. “Good luck, my friends. I’ll be watching.”

As Vlad and Krunk trudged their way back to the surface, weighed down by the gravity of their new reality, they exchanged only brief glances, communicating a shared sense of dread. The command pulsed through them, Iscariot's dark magic intertwining with their own wills, making disobedience impossible. There was no room for rebellion, no space to even contemplate resistance. The mission was set, and they were now pawns, enslaved to an ancient evil.

The days that followed were quieter for Zavet. He remained at the Black Pyramid, immersed in his lessons with Tear, the complex study of magic, and learning to master his newfound powers. Every day was a struggle as he slowly deciphered the intricate language of necromancy, weaving spells of great potency. Yet, perhaps the most surprising development was the bond he began to form with Ta’Ffair.

She treated him with a warmth and familiarity that reminded Zavet of a loving grandmother. Her presence was both comforting and firm, guiding him not only in the craft of necromancy but in life itself. Whenever they talked, her voice was soft, motherly, and filled with affection.

“You remind me so much of him,” Ta’Ffair often said, a faraway look in her eyes. “Neth was always so curious at your age. Always asking questions, always trying to prove himself.” She would smile, placing a gentle hand on Zavet’s shoulder. “You have that same fire.”

Zavet smiled, feeling a warmth in his chest. Though his journey had been filled with uncertainty, her presence made him feel grounded, as if he had found another family.

While Zavet trained and learned, a far grimmer situation was unfolding beneath the city. Runner and the rest of the kingdom’s forces, having noticed the absence of Vlad, Krunk, and Zavet, mounted an expedition into the labyrinthine cave system in search of them. The cave’s passages, damp and eerie, seemed to close in on them the deeper they ventured. The stench of death lingered in the air like a suffocating blanket, and it became clear to all that this place was not just another cavern but something far more sinister.

Lina, leading her own group, marched ahead of the Barons and knights. They had no idea that Vlad and Krunk had already made their way out, now under Iscariot’s control. Her resolve was ironclad, though the dread of the unknown hung heavy over them.

Meanwhile, the knights of the Golden Lotus were not far behind. A proud and formidable order, they had spent generations protecting the kingdom, their golden armor gleaming even in the darkness of the cave. Led by their Knight Master, they had always believed their training and divine magic made them invincible. But this cave, this place of ancient evil, had shaken even their confidence.

Suddenly, as they moved deeper into the labyrinth, they encountered something that made the hair on their necks stand up. At first, it was only a whisper of movement, like the shifting of shadows, but then, as if materializing out of the darkness itself, Iscariot appeared.

He stood amidst a sea of undead, a wave of malicious power surrounding him like a dark halo. His glowing green eyes flickered with a sickening glee as he surveyed the knights, his lips curling into a sinister smile.

Without hesitation, the Knight Master stepped forward. “You will fall before the light of our blades!” he declared, his voice filled with righteous fury. Channeling all the divine power he could muster, he cast a barrage of healing spells at Iscariot. Sixteen waves of golden light surged forward, striking Iscariot with the force of a tidal wave. Each spell collided with the dark lizardman’s form, causing his body to tremble, his skin to sizzle and crackle under the intensity of the holy magic.

For a moment, the knights allowed themselves to hope. They poured everything they had into the assault, slashing, casting, and screaming prayers into the void as they pushed forward. Iscariot seemed to falter, his form kneeling under the weight of their relentless barrage.

But as the last healing spell was cast, and the final sword fell, the knights were spent. Exhausted and shaking, they could barely stand, their hands trembling too violently to properly grip their swords. They gasped for breath, their armor heavy and drenched in sweat. Victory seemed close, just within reach.

Iscariot lay still for a moment longer, and then, slowly, he began to rise.

He stood tall, his body glowing with a sickly green light, the cracks and burns on his skin knitting themselves back together. His maniacal laughter echoed throughout the cave, sending chills down the spines of every knight.

“Your best couldn’t even make me sweat,” Iscariot sneered, brushing off the dust from his armor. “Did you really think that would be enough?”

With lightning speed, he snatched a sword from one of the knights, turning it on them in an instant. Before the knight could react, Iscariot slashed across his chest, cutting through the golden armor as if it were paper. The knight fell, gasping in disbelief, as the life drained from his body.

Iscariot bent over him, placing a hand on the knight's chest. Dark magic surged through his fingers, and within moments, the knight's eyes flickered open once more, glowing a malevolent green. Undead.

One by one, Iscariot turned each of the fallen knights into his thralls, reanimating their bodies with dark power. Their once pristine armor now looked twisted and corrupted, the golden sheen replaced with a dull, sickly gray.

Iscariot stood back, watching with satisfaction as the newly risen undead knights formed a line before him, their once noble expressions now vacant and lifeless.

"Go," Iscariot commanded, his voice dripping with venom. "Return to your comrades. Kill them. Turn them into my army."

The undead knights moved without hesitation, marching deeper into the cave to slaughter their former allies. There was no mercy left in their eyes, no recognition of the bonds they once shared. They were now merely tools of Iscariot’s growing army, puppets in his game.

As Iscariot watched them go, a dark smile played across his lips. His army was growing. Becoming an unstoppable force.

The battle in the caves beneath the city had descended into chaos. Iscariot's dark magic had twisted the tide of the fight, corrupting the valiant Knights of the Golden Lotus into undead monstrosities. Their gleaming armor now bore the tarnish of death, and their once noble visages were distorted with dark magic. As they turned on their allies, the caves became a battlefield of desperation and betrayal.

The first to fall were the soldiers of Erenlond. Unprepared for the sudden betrayal, they were overwhelmed by their former comrades. The Knights of the Golden Lotus, now under Iscariot’s control, cut through them with ruthless efficiency. Erenlond's forces, once disciplined and strong, crumbled under the onslaught. Those that weren't killed outright were turned into mindless undead, their bodies animated by Iscariot’s dark magic.

The scene was gruesome. Knights who had fought side by side for years were now ripping into each other, the air filled with the sound of clashing metal and the screams of the fallen. Blood stained the ancient stones beneath their feet, mixing with the foul stench of necromantic decay. The once orderly ranks of the soldiers became a chaotic scramble for survival.

Farther away, Krimlond and Razlond's forces found themselves cornered, pressed hard by the undead hordes. Just when hope seemed lost, the Knights of the White Orchid arrived, their white and silver banners gleaming like beacons in the dark. These knights were known for their swift strikes and unyielding defense, and they moved like a wave of salvation through the battlefield.

With expert precision, the White Orchid Knights slashed through the undead ranks, creating a corridor of escape for Krimlond and Razlond’s soldiers. Despite their best efforts, the battle was still grim. Many of the knights fell, their shining armor soon battered and bloodied. Yet their sacrifice bought just enough time for the survivors to flee deeper into the cave system, regrouping at strategic points to slow the advance of Iscariot's forces.

Solond's forces, however, were not so fortunate. Despite their formidable numbers and strength, they suffered heavy losses. Iscariot had prepared for them, his traps and undead warriors waiting in ambush at every turn. Edmond, the leader of Solond, had returned just in time to rally his men, but even with his strategic mind, the forces of Solond were being decimated. Waves of undead surged forward, their rotten limbs fueled by the dark magic coursing through them.

In the heart of the chaos, Edmond fought valiantly, his sword cutting through the undead with lethal precision. His armor was smeared with blood, his muscles burning with exhaustion, yet he refused to fall. His mind raced, calculating every move, every command, knowing that one wrong step could mean the end for his men. But despite his best efforts, the losses mounted. Whole squads of soldiers were wiped out, their bodies joining the ranks of the undead.

Realizing the battle was lost, Edmond ordered a full retreat. The caves echoed with the desperate shouts of commanders and the panicked cries of the soldiers as they tried to flee. What had once been a controlled evacuation quickly devolved into chaos. Hundreds of soldiers and knights tried to flee through the narrow passageways, their heavy armor slowing them down, while the undead pursued them with relentless speed.

It was a stampede. Soldiers shoved past each other, desperate to reach the surface. Some were trampled underfoot, their cries lost in the cacophony of the retreat. The narrow tunnels became choke points of chaos, as bodies piled up, making it harder for those at the rear to escape. The wounded were left behind, their pleas for help unanswered as their comrades ran for their lives.

The Knights of Solond, once proud and mighty, were now scattered and broken. Edmond himself barely managed to escape, bloodied and battered, his forces a fraction of what they once were. The loss of so many men weighed heavily on him as he watched the survivors stumble out of the caves, their faces pale with horror. Solond had taken a devastating blow, and though they had survived, they had been humbled by Iscariot’s dark power.

Back at the cave entrance, Lina stood with a grim expression, her eyes scanning the fleeing soldiers as they emerged from the darkness. Her heart sank as she counted the numbers; too many were missing. The cave, which had once seemed like a promising lead, had turned into a deathtrap. They had barely scratched the surface of what lay beneath the city, and already, the cost had been staggering.

As the last of the survivors stumbled into the daylight, the decision was made. The cave was too dangerous to explore further without reinforcements. They had to regroup, gather more forces, and come up with a new strategy. But for now, all they could do was retreat and lick their wounds.

The battle in the caves had been a bitter defeat, and the shadow of Iscariot loomed larger than ever.

As the survivors of the cave expedition emerged into the light, they felt a brief but profound sense of relief. The harrowing labyrinth below them was now behind them, but something was undeniably different. The strange pull, the mystical call that had drawn them all together, compelling them to fight, seek, and overcome, was gone. Its absence weighed heavily on them, though none could explain why.

The heroes, soldiers, and adventurers had all felt the call when it first began, pulling at their very souls, urging them toward some grand purpose. It had united them, guided them, and given them strength through their struggles against Iscariot’s undead forces. But now, without warning, that call had vanished, as if the reason for their gathering no longer existed.

Confusion spread through the camp. Whispers and rumors filled the air as everyone sought to understand what had happened. Some believed it was a sign of victory, that perhaps the quest had been fulfilled in some unknown way. Others, more skeptical, feared it was an ominous sign that something terrible had happened in the depths of the caves. But no one knew the truth. No one knew that Ta'Ffair had been found.

The leaders and seasoned veterans tried to maintain order, but uncertainty gnawed at them all. Why had the call ended so abruptly? What had changed? As they discussed their next steps, they realized that the pull that had once bound them together, guiding their actions and decisions, was no longer there. They were left adrift, each facing the growing darkness of Iscariot’s forces without the guiding light they had relied upon.

Back in the city, chaos had already started to take root. The knights and warriors who had fallen in battle during their retreat from the caves began to rise again, animated by the dark necromantic energy that had been spreading across the land. Iscariot's influence lingered, even here. Those that had survived the battle watched in horror as their fallen comrades, now twisted and mindless, began to stir, rising from the dirt with hollow, dead eyes.

Without the call to unite them, without the sense of destiny pulling them forward, panic set in. The once organized ranks of soldiers and mercenaries began to fray. People argued over what to do next; some wanted to continue the fight, while others saw no reason to remain. The fear of what lay ahead, of facing Iscariot’s growing army without the mystical force that had once guided them, was too much for many to bear.

One by one, small groups began to leave. The once unified army of heroes and warriors fractured as each person weighed their own survival against the threat of the undead. Some tried to convince themselves that the call’s end was a sign of completion, that their work here was done. Others simply wanted to escape the inevitable confrontation with Iscariot.

Merlot, leader of Razlond’s forces, was among the first to make his decision. He gathered his remaining troops and announced, “The call has ended, and whatever fate brought us together seems to have passed. We’ve done our part. There’s no point in throwing away more lives against an enemy we can’t defeat. I’m taking my men back to Razlond.” His words resonated with many. The call had led them here, but without it, there was no clear path forward.

As Merlot’s forces packed up and began their march back to Razlond, others quickly followed suit. The exodus spread like wildfire. The camp that had once been full of eager warriors and ambitious adventurers slowly emptied, as people sought to return to their homes and lands, far from the threat of Iscariot.

Meanwhile, Zavet continued his studies within the black pyramid, entirely unaware of the growing chaos outside. He had no idea that Ta’Ffair, the one who had unknowingly silenced the call, had been found. In her presence, Zavet was focused on learning and honing his skills under the watchful eye of someone who saw him as more than just a student. Ta’Ffair, who viewed him with a motherly affection, took her time teaching him, guiding him through the lessons of magic and necromancy, as if he were one of her own.

For Zavet, there was no indication that the world beyond the pyramid had changed so drastically. He was unaware that the armies once united under the call were now scattering, leaving only a handful to stand against the ever-growing forces of Iscariot. The war was far from over, but without the call to drive them, fewer and fewer were willing to face the darkness head-on. The heroes who remained had no idea why the pull had ended, and without that guiding force, the future seemed bleak.

Ta'Ffair sat with Mah’nethotep and the senior members of the Necro Guild, her voice steady but urgent as she revealed the truth. "Wispein," she said, her eyes flickering with the weight of centuries of knowledge and betrayal, "has betrayed us all. She has played both sides from the beginning. Iscariot is not the true enemy; she is. All of this chaos, all of this suffering, has been her doing."

The room fell into a stunned silence, the weight of her words sinking in. For years, they had believed that the forces they were battling were the true threat, that Iscariot’s undead legions were the ultimate challenge. But now, with Ta'Ffair’s revelation, everything was turned on its head.

Mah’nethotep, his expression grave, stood from his seat at the head of the table. "This changes everything," he said quietly. His mind raced with the implications, the years of conflict, and the misunderstandings that had cost so many lives. "We need to act swiftly. This betrayal is too great to handle alone. The Guardians of the Moons must be informed."

He began pacing, his long, dark robes trailing behind him as he thought aloud. "The only place we can meet safely is the Realm of Convergence. It was created specifically for moments like this, when the rulers and guardians of the moons must convene to discuss the survival of the prime world."

Turning to Ta'Ffair, he added, "You need to be there as well. Wispein’s treachery goes beyond anything we’ve faced. The Guardians will need to hear the truth directly from you. And until then, I won’t let you out of my sight." His voice softened as he spoke to her, the pain of their long separation still fresh in his heart.

Without wasting another moment, Mah’nethotep began preparing the Message Ritual, a complex spell designed to communicate with the rulers of each moon. His hands moved methodically through the motions, drawing intricate glyphs in the air, which shimmered with a pale, ethereal light. The air around him hummed with arcane energy as he focused his will on sending the message to each ruler, one by one.

“Guardians of the Moons,” his voice echoed across the realms, resonating through the fabric of space and time, “this is Mah’nethotep, Necromancer Lord and Guardian of Ffairfon. The world faces a greater threat than we ever imagined. Wispein has betrayed us all. She is the true enemy. I summon you to the Realm of Convergence for an emergency council. The fate of the prime world hangs in the balance.”

As he spoke, the glowing glyphs dispersed into the air, vanishing as they carried his message to the far reaches of the moons. The ritual was precise, and the location of the meeting, the Realm of Convergence, was embedded in each message. The Realm of Convergence was an ancient and neutral ground, a place untouched by time and conflict, where the rulers and guardians could come together in peace to deliberate on matters of great importance.

Finishing the ritual, Mah’nethotep lowered his hands, his energy spent. "It’s done," he said, his voice tinged with both exhaustion and resolve. "They’ve been called. Now we must prepare."

He turned to Talich, his most trusted lieutenant. "While I’m gone, you’re in charge," Mah’nethotep instructed, his tone firm but full of trust. "Watch over the guild, continue the fight against Iscariot’s forces, and most importantly, keep an eye out for Wispein’s influence. She won’t sit idle while we prepare. She’ll try to disrupt our plans."

Talich nodded, understanding the gravity of his new responsibilities. "I won’t let you down," he promised, though the weight of the task ahead was clear in his eyes.

Mah’nethotep looked to Ta'Ffair, offering his arm to her. "We must go. I can’t let you out of my sight, not now." His voice was laced with both protectiveness and urgency. He couldn’t bear to lose her again, not after all the years they had been apart. Together, they stepped through the swirling portal that Mah’nethotep conjured, its dark energy crackling with power.

As they vanished into the portal, heading toward the Realm of Convergence, the remaining members of the Necro Guild watched in silence. The meeting of the Guardians of the Moons would decide the future of the prime world, and the fate of everything they had fought for now hung in the balance.

Talich turned to the others, steeling himself for the challenges ahead. "We have our orders. Let’s get to work. Wispein won’t wait for us to act. We need to be ready for anything.”

Zavet turns to Talich “I'm going to take a few weeks to go see my family. I need to check on them. “ Talich nods “I did agree to that. Take the portal and there is a stable master you can get a horse. “ Zavet thinks for a second “I never rode a horse before.”

Zavet trudged through the dense forest outside of Ffairfon, following the map that led him to his ancestral home. The journey had taken days, each step closer to the grove where his family once lived filling him with a mix of anticipation and dread. As he reached the clearing, the sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks. The once vibrant grove had been reduced to a crude village of mud huts. The vibrant, living lizard folk he had known were gone, replaced by their cold, undead counterparts. Lizardmen patrolled the area, their movements stiff and mechanical, their eyes glowing with the sickly green light of necromancy. They were no longer the creatures he remembered; they had been transformed into greater undead and enslaved to some dark will.

Zavet approached cautiously, his heart sinking as he tried to communicate with them using his native language, a series of intricate head movements and hisses. But they did not respond. They did not recognize him, their minds twisted beyond recovery. He moved deeper into the village, past more undead sentries, until he came across the mud huts. The air was thick with decay, and the smell of death clung to everything.

Inside one of the huts, Zavet found them, his family. Once proud and strong, his siblings were now reduced to soulless shells. Their bodies moved with the jerky, unnatural motions of the undead. His mother, the matriarch of the clan, stood among them, her once wise and kind eyes now hollow and dead. The sight of her broke him.

Tears welled up in Zavet's eyes as he knelt before his family. He couldn't bring himself to destroy them, even though he knew they were beyond saving. They were not like the heroes, who could be resurrected. His family had no such fortune. They were lost forever. The weight of that realization crushed him, and he let out a low, pained hiss as tears streamed down his scaled cheeks.

Through his tears, Zavet searched the hut. Among the simple belongings, he found fish bones, metals, and crystals. He took the metals and crystals, clutching them tightly to his chest. These would be the only mementos he had left to remember his family by. Then, in the corner of the hut, he found something that made his breath catch, three large eggs, carefully nestled in a bed of leaves. They were bigger than normal, a sign that they had been laid after his mother had become a lizardman. His heart clenched as he realized what this meant. These were his siblings, unborn and untouched by the necromantic curse.

With great care, Zavet wrapped the eggs in soft cloth and placed them in a pouch at his side. "I will take care of you," he whispered through his tears, his voice trembling with emotion. "I won't let anything happen to you."

Just then, a familiar voice echoed from outside the hut, sending a chill down Zavet’s spine. "Oh, you did come," the voice said, dripping with malice. Zavet froze. He knew that voice. He had heard it countless times before, and each time, he had grown to hate it more.

"Iscariot," Zavet snarled, his eyes narrowing as he stepped outside. There, standing at the edge of the village, was the one responsible for all of this. The necromancer's eyes gleamed with a sick amusement as he surveyed the scene, taking pride in the destruction he had wrought.

"You did this?" Zavet asked, his voice low and dangerous as he set the eggs gently on the ground and drew his dagger, unwrapping his trusted weapon, Rumpwhip.

Iscariot chuckled darkly, his gaze sweeping over the undead village. "These were hard to kill, believe it or not," he said, a twisted grin spreading across his face. "Your family fought harder than that Bronze Elf you follow around like a lost puppy. But in the end, they fell, just like everyone else will."

Zavet felt a wave of rage wash over him, the air around him seeming to thicken as his fury boiled over. Without hesitation, he leaped forward, attacking with a ferocity he had never felt before. Time seemed to slow as he moved, his body propelled by pure rage. His dagger sliced through the air, finding its mark in Iscariot's chest. The necromancer gasped, stumbling back as Zavet’s blade pierced through him.

But Zavet didn’t stop. Using the momentum of his leap, he kicked off a nearby tree, launching himself at Iscariot once more. He unleashed a necromantic blast from his hand, propelling himself faster, and landed on Iscariot with all his strength, driving the dagger deeper. Iscariot crashed to the ground from the impact, his breath knocked from his lungs. Zavet was relentless, pulling the dagger out and preparing to strike again. But before he could, Iscariot muttered a spell, a necromantic blast erupting from his hand. It should have harmed Zavet, but instead, it healed him, only fueling his attacks further.

Iscariot, realizing his magic was useless, was forced to engage in hand-to-hand combat. He had always relied on his spells, never expecting to need physical prowess. But now, he had no choice. He fought back as best he could, blocking Zavet’s strikes and attempting to gain the upper hand. But Zavet was too fast, too driven by his hatred.

In a desperate move, Iscariot used his necromantic will, forcing Zavet to stop in his tracks. Zavet's body froze, his muscles locked by the command. "There we go," Iscariot said, breathing heavily as he regained his composure. "You’re strong. Probably the closest I’ve ever been to being overwhelmed." He flashed a wicked grin, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light.

Zavet screamed internally, trying with all his might to break free of the spell. He pushed with every ounce of mental strength he had, but the world around him began to fade. The village, his family, everything disappeared, and he suddenly found himself standing before a well, the same well that Iscariot had discovered.

Iscariot was there, standing on the other side, his posture guarded, defensive. Zavet blinked in confusion. "Where did you take me?" he demanded, but Iscariot didn’t answer. He only stood there, watching Zavet with an unreadable expression.

Zavet noticed the way Iscariot positioned himself, always keeping between him and the well. Something about the well seemed important, too important. Zavet took a step forward, and Iscariot moved to block him. There was a faint hum coming from the well, a hum that vibrated with raw power.

"What’s in there?" Zavet asked, but again, Iscariot remained silent.

Frustrated, Zavet charged at him, his claws bared. His weapons were gone, but it didn’t matter. He tore into Iscariot, ripping flesh from bone, his attacks brutal and relentless. Iscariot, weakened and bleeding, fell to the ground, unable to match Zavet’s strength in this strange place. But even as Zavet stood victorious, Iscariot still guarded the well.

Zavet pushed past him, stepping up to the edge of the well and peering down. Inside, swirling necromantic energy pulsed with a green light, debris from old castles and bones floating in and out of view. A voice called out to him from the depths, familiar and cold. "Don’t," it warned. "It will kill you." It was Wispein, the black dragon who had caused so much suffering.

"You’re a liar and a betrayer," Zavet spat, severing the mental link with her. "You killed people for your own amusement. You’re evil."

He turned back to Iscariot, his eyes burning with determination. "You have to deny her. She’s making you kill good people, people who are just trying to survive. She’s the one who started these wars. She’s the real enemy."

Before Zavet could say more, Iscariot lunged at him, shoving him into the well.

Zavet tumbled through the endless abyss, his mind spinning as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. He had fallen, or rather, been pushed into the well by Iscariot, and now he felt as though he were falling forever. But as he steadied himself, he realized he wasn't falling at all. Instead, he floated, suspended in a sea of necromantic energy. Raw magic crackled around him, swirling like an ethereal storm, the air thick with the hum of forgotten power. His body righted itself, and he floated upright, his feet never touching any solid ground.

"What is this place?" Zavet muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the strange, twisted world that stretched around him. It was like being inside a storm of magic, where fragments of forgotten things, bones, tombstones, and debris floated by as if lost in time.

Then, a voice echoed through the void, familiar yet unsettling. “It’s the Well of the Forgotten,” the voice whispered, reverberating in the necromantic energy. “This is the raw magic that created the Moon of the Forgotten.”

Zavet whipped around, trying to locate the source of the voice, his heart pounding. The voice sounded like Mah’nethotep’s, the powerful necromancer who had always seemed untouchable. But something was off; this voice wasn’t as commanding or cold. There was something softer, more human.

In the swirling magic, Zavet spotted a figure approaching. It was a bronze-skinned elf, young and beautiful, his body adorned with gleaming gold jewelry and gemstones. His short skirt was bordered with runes, and his bare chest glistened with the light reflecting off his jewels. There was an ancient elegance to him, though he radiated the vitality of youth.

“Who are you?” Zavet asked, his voice wary as he studied the elf.

The elf smiled, a sad and knowing expression. “I am Mah’nethotep,” he said softly. “I created this place.”

Zavet stared at him, disbelief written across his face. “No,” he shook his head, stepping back slightly. “Mah’nethotep is old. You...you are not him.”

The elf, this younger version of Mah’nethotep, sighed, his expression clouded with regret. “I am him as he was when he created the Forgotten,” he explained. “I am the part of him that was lost when he thought Ta’Ffair had died. I am the good that died with her.”

Zavet’s heart sank as the implications hit him. This was the piece of Mah’nethotep that had been shattered, the remnants of the light that had once existed in the powerful necromancer. He had seen the cruelty and brutality in Mah’nethotep as he was now, and this younger version, the good that had been left behind, was all that remained of what had once been.

Zavet dropped his eyes, feeling the weight of his own anger and loss. "I want to burn the world," he said quietly, his voice thick with grief. "I want to kill every necromancer. I don’t want to see the undead used like this. My mother, sisters, and brothers didn’t have heroic souls. They’re lost. I’ve lost them forever." His voice broke as he spoke, the pain tearing at him, and he fell backward, sinking deeper into the swirling energy of the Well of the Forgotten.

As he sank, tears floated upward, shimmering in the magical currents. He watched as everything, the bones, the fragments of forgotten lives, floated above him while he descended into the depths. The sorrow consumed him, the loss of his family ripping him apart from the inside. He curled into a fetal position, holding his knees close to his chest, trying to shield himself from the crushing weight of it all. His heart ached with the knowledge that they were gone, truly gone, and there was no bringing them back.

As he sank deeper, he noticed a large dragon skull drifting nearby. Its massive, hollow eyes stared back at him, and for a moment, Zavet felt the pull of its magic, trying to connect with him. But he ignored it, letting himself sink further into the abyss, too lost in his grief to care. His mind spiraled, and he felt as though he were being ripped apart by the raw magic around him. He was alone, truly alone, adrift in a sea of forgotten souls.

Then, a voice broke through the storm of his thoughts, a voice that called out to him, soft and familiar.

“Zavet,” the gentle and soothing voice called. It cut through the darkness, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Zavet smiled.

"Thebe," he whispered, the name coming to his lips like a lifeline. "Where are you?"

He reached out into the void, his hand stretching toward the sound of her voice. To his surprise, a hand materialized out of the darkness and clasped his. It was warm, alive, and real. Zavet opened his eyes slowly and found himself no longer in the swirling magic of the Well but lying in a familiar place. His head rested on someone's lap, and when he looked up, he saw her, Thebe.

She smiled down at him, her fingers gently rubbing his bald, scaled head. “You’re safe now,” she said softly. “We thought we’d lost you.”

Zavet blinked, his vision clearing. Around him stood Talich, Runner, Lina, and the rest of the Necro Guild. Krimlond stood tall at their side, watching over him with a protective gaze. The weight of the world lifted from Zavet’s chest as he realized he was not alone anymore. They were all here. He had been saved.

"We pushed him back, Zavet," Lina said, her voice filled with quiet strength. "Iscariot had no choice but to retreat."

Zavet’s mind swam with the memory of the fight, the Well, and his family. He sat up, feeling a surge of power coursing through him. The necromantic energy from the Well still pulsed within him, making his heart race. "I can kill him," he said, his voice trembling with determination. "I can kill Iscariot. The Well gave me its power."

Talich, his closest ally, stepped forward and hugged him tightly. "We know you can, Zavet," he said, his voice steady and calm. "But you don’t have to do this alone."

Lina spoke up next, her expression serious. "We got reports of a smaller lizardman coming this way a few days ago," she said, her gaze locking with Zavet’s. "At first, we thought it was you. Talich even said you were in class at the time, so we dismissed it. But after hearing you say you were going home, we realized it had to be Iscariot. That’s when we knew you needed help."

Zavet looked around at the faces of his friends, his guildmates, the people who had come for him when he was at his lowest. His heart swelled with gratitude, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the crushing weight of loneliness began to lift.

Over the next few days, Zavet remained in the ruined grove, determined to transform the desolate village into something more than a graveyard. The pain of his family’s loss was still raw, but he channeled that sorrow into rebuilding, turning the destruction left by Iscariot into something new. He scoured the grove for stones, shaping them into a small house with his bare hands. The process was slow, each rock carefully chosen and placed with precision. It was a labor of love, a way to honor the family he had lost and the home they once shared.

The undead lizardmen, once roaming aimlessly as sentinels of the village, did not escape his notice. At first, Zavet was unsure how to handle them. They were his kin, his brothers, sisters, and neighbors, now twisted into mindless undead servants by Iscariot’s cruel magic. Killing them would have been a mercy, but Zavet couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he decided to do something far more radical.

Standing before them, Zavet called upon the necromantic power that still flowed through him, a lingering gift from his time in the Well of the Forgotten. With a deep breath, he extended his hand and let the magic pulse through his body, flowing into the undead lizardmen. They jerked and twitched as the magic worked its way into their decayed bodies, but they did not resist. Zavet whispered words of command, soft but firm, and his magic wrapped around their empty minds like a gentle tide.

He poured more of the necromantic energy into them, feeding them with the raw magic of the forgotten, but with a difference: he gave them back their minds. Their eyes, once empty and lifeless, began to flicker with faint intelligence. They stood taller, their movements more fluid, more like the people they had once been. Zavet wasn’t bringing them fully back to life, but he was restoring a part of what had been stolen from them.

“Help me,” Zavet said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. He stared into the eyes of his siblings and former neighbors, now somewhere between life and death. “Help me rebuild.”

The undead lizardmen responded. Slowly at first, they began to gather rocks and stones from the surrounding area, mimicking Zavet’s efforts. Though their faces showed no emotion, there was a kind of silent understanding in their movements. They were not fully the people they once were, but they were more than the mindless creatures Iscariot had made them.

Together, they worked. Zavet directed them with gentle commands, ensuring they didn’t overexert themselves. The sound of stone clinking against stone filled the air as the skeleton of the house began to take shape. The mud huts around them were a grim reminder of the life that had been, but with each new stone laid, Zavet felt a small spark of hope ignite within him.

The house he was building wasn’t just a shelter; it symbolized his resilience and refusal to let Iscariot’s cruelty define his future. It wasn’t large, just big enough for him and the three eggs he had found, but it was sturdy. The stone walls were thick, and the roof was made from woven branches and large leaves, lashed together with vines. It blended seamlessly with the surrounding grove, a natural extension of the land his people had called home.

Every night, after hours of labor, Zavet would sit by the eggs, carefully inspecting them, ensuring they were safe. He had made a small nest in the corner of the house, a place where they could stay warm and protected. As he cradled the eggs in his hands, he would talk to them, whispering promises of the life he would give them.

“You’ll be safe here,” he said one night, his voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’ll grow up strong, and this will be your home.”

The undead lizardmen remained by his side throughout the nights, silently keeping watch over the grove. They stood like sentinels, guarding not only Zavet but the future he was trying to build.

The next morning, as the sun's light began to filter through the dense canopy of the grove, Zavet stood silently by the nest he had crafted for the eggs. His heart weighed heavy with the decision he was about to make. Leaving the last remnants of his family behind was not easy, but he knew he had no choice. His journey wasn’t over, and there were still dangers he needed to face. He knelt beside the eggs, gently stroking their smooth surfaces. Each one was precious to him, representing the only living piece of his lineage.

His mother, now an undead sentinel but with her mind restored, stood quietly nearby, her gaze fixed on Zavet. There was no warmth in her eyes; she was, after all, still a shell of her former self, but he could sense a lingering spark of recognition. She had once been a fierce protector of her family, and Zavet trusted her to fulfill that role again, even in this twisted form.

He stood and approached her. “Mother,” he began, his voice soft but resolute, “I need you to do something for me.”

The undead lizardwoman tilted her head slightly, acknowledging his presence but remaining silent. Zavet looked back at the nest where the three eggs rested, nestled in a bed of soft leaves and woven vines.

“These eggs are all that’s left of our family,” he continued. “I can’t stay here to protect them, but you can. Watch over them. Guard them as you would have in life. If they hatch while I’m away, find them fish to feed them. Take care of them as you would your own.”

His mother shifted slightly, her movements mechanical but purposeful. Zavet could tell that she understood, even if her emotions no longer surfaced in the way they once had.

“And when they hatch,” Zavet added, his voice catching slightly, “go to the necro guild hall and inform someone there. Find Talich, or anyone from the guild. They’ll help you and the hatchlings. Don’t stay here alone.”

He stepped closer to his undead mother, standing before her as if waiting for a response. Though no words came, he felt her understanding in the way she stood still, her once wild and uncontrolled movements now deliberate and focused. The necromantic magic he had infused into her and the others had given them enough of their old selves to follow these commands.

For a moment, Zavet allowed himself to imagine his mother as she once was, alive, vibrant, and fierce. She would have done anything to protect her children, and now, even in death, that instinct remained. He couldn’t linger on the past, though. There was too much ahead of him, and Iscariot’s threat still loomed.

Zavet turned toward the path leading out of the grove, his gaze lingering on the small stone house he had built and the undead lizardmen who stood watch. This place had once been his home, but now it was a memory, a place where the living no longer thrived. Yet, in the eggs, there was hope for something new, something better.

He took one last look at his mother. “Thank you,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if she could truly understand the depth of his gratitude. “I will come back.”

With that, he gathered his belongings, strapped his weapons to his back, and set off down the path. The familiar sounds of the grove, the rustling leaves, the soft hum of insects faded behind him as he made his way deeper into the wilderness. He had a mission, and though he left a part of his heart behind in the grove, he knew he was doing what needed to be done.

As Zavet disappeared into the trees, his mother remained where he had left her, standing vigil over the nest. The undead lizardmen, his former family and neighbors, continued their silent patrols around the village. Though they were no longer truly alive, the bond of family and duty still persisted in their hearts, however faint.