Zavet continued his studies within the black pyramid, unaware of the growing chaos outside. He had no idea that Ta’Ffair was the one who silenced the call of heroes. 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 motherly affection, took her time teaching him the theory of magic.
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, "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."
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, that had cost many lives. "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 guardians of the moons must convene to discuss the survival of the prime world."
Without wasting another moment, Mah’nethotep began preparing the Message Ritual. 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 guardian.
“Guardians of the Moons, this is Mah’nethotep. 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 moons hang 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 an ancient and neutral ground untouched by time and conflict, where rulers and guardians could come together in peace to deliberate on matters of great importance.
Finishing the ritual, Mah’nethotep lowered his hands. "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 follower "While I’m gone, you’re in charge," Mah’nethotep instructed, his tone firm. "Watch over the guild, continue the fight against Iscariot’s forces, and most importantly, watch 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, "I will be gone for a short time. The pyramid is safe. Only those with Talich or myself’s permission may enter." 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.
He opened his grimore and began to cast the ritual to open the door to the Realm of Convergence. The ritual was only meant for guardians to use so it required magic only the guardians possessed.
As he 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 days to 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 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 anticipation. As he reached the clearing, the sight that greeted him stopped him. The once vibrant grove had been reduced to a crude village of mud huts. The lively lizardfolk he had known were gone, replaced by their cold, undead counterparts. Lizardmen patrolled the area, their movements stiff and mechanical, their eyes sunken and had a faint red glow of necromancy. They were no longer the creatures he remembered; they had been transformed into greater undead.
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 clan's matriarch, 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 moan as tears streamed down his scaled cheeks.
Through his tears, Zavet searched the hut. He found fish bones, metals, and crystals among the simple belongings. 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 caught his breath: three large eggs carefully nestled in a bed of leaves. They were bigger than usual, 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. His 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, and 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. he gasped, stumbling back as Zavet’s blade pierced through him.
But Zavet didn’t stop. Using the momentum of his leap to jump on to a tree after stabbing iscariot. Zavet launched himself at him once more. He unleashed a necromantic blast from his hand, propelling himself toward 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."
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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. 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. 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 his own anger and loss. "I want to burn the world," he said quietly, his voice thick with grief. "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.