Iscariot stumbled as he materialized in the shadowy graveyard, the same cursed ground where he first began raising his army of the dead. The air was cold and heavy, thick with the memories of ancient rituals and the stench of decay. His body collapsed, his limbs trembling as he hit the earth with a dull thud. He was barely conscious, his vision swimming in and out of focus, but he fought to summon what little magic he had left, his hands trembling as he attempted to heal his battered form.
The familiar pulse of dark energy coursed through him, but it was faint, flickering like a dying flame. His magic was failing him, and the pain in his chest intensified with every breath. As he labored to repair his wounds, a voice slithered into his mind, chilling and cryptic.
“Your soul is damaged,” Wispein’s voice hissed, disembodied yet close. “You can't heal that wound with mere magic. The damage is in your soul. Only resurrection can mend such a wound.”
Iscariot groaned, his voice hoarse. “Then I will resurrect,” he growled, though the words felt empty.
Wispein’s laughter was like a whisper of wind through dry leaves. “Resurrection is not so simple for one such as you. Beings of immense power cannot rise from the dead like common heroes. Your essence is bound in ways they could never understand. Even if you were to resurrect, it would take time—a long time.”
“How long?” Iscariot rasped, his hand clutching his chest as if the pain might escape through his fingers.
“With the strength you have acquired, it could be centuries... perhaps even longer,” Wispein replied, her voice both indifferent and amused by his suffering.
Iscariot's breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling as the pain clawed at him. His thoughts raced to the Bronze Elves, the only beings who had stood as equals to him. “What about the Bronze Elves?” he forced out between gasps. “How long for them?”
A long pause followed before Wispein finally answered. “Their fate remains uncertain. The dragons slew three of their kind in ancient battles, and none have ever returned. Their kind may never resurrect. Perhaps you share their fate.”
A wave of despair washed over Iscariot, and he nodded slowly, the weight of his mortality settling in. He lay still for a moment, his body broken and his mind in turmoil. The ground beneath him felt colder now, as if the graveyard itself was claiming him.
“So I can’t heal this?” Iscariot asked, though he already knew the answer.
“You cannot,” Wispein replied, her voice smooth. “Not unless you find a ritual to cleanse your soul. ”
“And how am I supposed to find it?” he snapped, anger replacing his despair. “I can’t just take it in my condition.”
“No,” Wispein whispered, “You are too weak for that.”
Iscariot managed to pull himself to his feet, though his legs trembled under the weight of his injuries. “I have gold,” he said through gritted teeth. “Gold stored in the vaults at Nuri'Fon.”
Wispein's laughter came again, soft and mocking. “You think you can simply return there? The lords of necromancy will sense your weakness and tear you apart the moment you set foot in the city. You would be a fool to go there now.”
Iscariot started to walk, his body aching with every step. “Then I'll disguise myself,” he said, determination replacing doubt. “I'll return to Fairfon and gather my strength.”
Wispein’s laugh echoed through his mind again, this time darker, more sinister. “Disguise yourself?” she sneered. “You failed to keep Ta'Ffair hidden. You’ve lost everything.”
Iscariot let out a deep, labored sigh, his body slumping against the cold surface of an ancient tomb. The weight of his injuries and the toll of his lost power bore down on him like a leaden shroud. He rested momentarily, his hand brushing over the worn stone, feeling the rough, weathered edges beneath his fingertips as he struggled to collect his thoughts. His path forward felt insurmountable, but surrender was not an option. He had come too far and sacrificed too much. Yet, the cost of wielding such immense power had been far more significant than he ever imagined.
Closing his eyes, he tuned out Wispein’s mocking voice, brushing her words aside with a wave of his hand. He focused instead on someone who could help him. “Zavet,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he extended his mind outward in search of him. The effort drained him further, and before he could solidify the connection, his consciousness slipped away, pulling him into a deep sleep.
His eyes opened to a familiar serenity. Zavet stood before him, not as the warrior he had once known, but as a builder, constructing a stone house with his bare hands. The sight was surreal, a calm within the storm. Zavet worked with quiet purpose; his expression focused and intense as he labored over each stone. His hands moved with precision, crafting the structure's walls with care.
But Iscariot saw more than just the physical labor. Surrounding Zavet were his colony and family members, each standing motionless, their eyes vacant, and their minds once fractured by terrible forces. Zavet, with the power of the well coursing through him, was restoring their minds, piece by piece, using his newfound abilities to give them back their memories, identities, and souls.
Iscariot watched in silence, hidden within the folds of his consciousness, observing Zavet’s work. He had intended to speak, to reach out, but something in Zavet’s face made him hesitate. It wasn’t just the determination; he saw despair, the deep-rooted hatred burning behind Zavet’s eyes. The more Zavet restored, his anger grew, simmering beneath the surface like molten rock ready to erupt. Iscariot knew that hatred was for him. Zavet would never forgive him for what he had done. If anything, he would hunt Iscariot down and kill him.
Iscariot recoiled from the vision, snapping back into his body with a sharp intake of breath. His chest heaved as he lay sprawled atop the tomb, staring at the darkened sky. “Zavet will help me,” he whispered to himself, though the certainty in his voice was hollow. He knew Zavet’s hatred was real, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use him. There were other ways to gain what he needed.
He closed his eyes again, allowing a new thought to form, one laced with deception. What if I made myself look like Zavet? The idea came to him suddenly, sharp and clever. If he disguised himself as Zavet, he could infiltrate the palace in Ffairfon. There would surely be ritual scrolls there.
He rested until the sun had met the horizon. He stood, his body still aching but more composed now, ready for what lay ahead. The city of Ffairfon was near the graveyard. He traveled during the day, knowing the only people who would recognize him would not be awake this early morning, slipping through the forgotten pathways outside the city until he reached the outskirts. As he approached the city’s edge, he scavenged for clothing, finding discarded garments in a heap near an old market stall. Among them was a woman’s long dress, ragged but serviceable. He smiled grimly to himself. Zavet always wore a long kilt that dragged the ground, more out of practicality for his short stature than any fashion.
He donned the dress and adjusted it to resemble the kilt Zavet wore, then wiped the dirt and grime from his face as best he could. His remaining magic was weak, but it was enough to complete the disguise, altering his features to resemble Zavet’s. His skin darkened, his frame grew taller, and his eyes reflected Zavet’s familiar gleam. He was satisfied with the illusion.
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With his transformation complete, Iscariot made his way toward the palace, moving with a newfound confidence. The guards barely glanced at him as he passed through the gates, his appearance shielding him from suspicion. Inside the palace, he walked among the grand tapestries and stone walls, his eyes scanning the surroundings. Each tapestry told stories of victories and noble deeds, but Iscariot knew the truth. Everything he saw, every story depicted, was a lie. One carefully crafted by Wispein to manipulate these people.
He paused for a moment, tilting his head as realization struck him. She was using me, he thought, his anger simmering beneath the surface. Wispein didn’t care about him or his goals. She merely wanted to drag these people through hell, to torment them for her own amusement. Iscariot clenched his fists but quickly pushed the thought to the back of his mind, where Wispein would not hear. He would confront her later, but first, he needed to regain his strength.
He continued through the palace, moving with purpose until he found the archives where the ritual scrolls were kept. The halls were silent, save for the occasional footsteps of servants and palace guards. He slipped into the library, scanning the shelves until he found what he sought: a hefty tome bound in dark leather, the pages filled with arcane rituals. As he thumbed through the book, one of the necromancers from the guild entered the room. The man glanced at Iscariot but paid him no mind, too engrossed in his tasks to notice anything amiss.
Iscariot’s fingers stopped on a page detailing a ritual of soul cleansing. It was precisely what he needed. Without hesitation, he took the page from the book, carefully folding it and tucking it into his cloak. He left the palace quickly, not bothering to speak to anyone.
With the ritual in hand, Iscariot allowed himself a small, victorious smile. Soon, he would have the power to confront Wispein and perhaps even more.
Iscariot moved swiftly through the day, keeping to the shadows as he returned to the graveyard. His illusion had served him well in the palace, and the ritual scroll he had stolen was now his most valuable possession. He clutched it tightly beneath his cloak, the cool parchment brushing against his fingertips, a reminder that salvation was within his grasp.
Upon arriving at the graveyard, he cared to remain out of sight, weaving between the tombstones and crypts that had become his familiar haunt. The eerie silence of the graves was comforting in a way, its stillness unbroken by the living. The shadows seemed to welcome him back as he found a secluded spot away from prying eyes. He could no longer sense Wispein’s presence lurking in the corners of his mind. It was as if she had retreated completely, her mocking whispers gone.
She must have pulled away, he thought, relief washing over him. She wouldn’t know he had discovered a way to heal his soul without her interference. It was his secret to keep, and he intended to wield that knowledge with caution.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting early morning rays over the gravestones as he unrolled the scroll and spread it out on the cold, damp earth before him. He knelt beside it, his fingers tracing the ancient symbols and runes inscribed on the page. The ritual was complex but organized, requiring precise movements and words of power. Every detail mattered.
He began the ritual slowly, his voice low as he whispered the incantations written in the ancient tongue. His hands moved gracefully, drawing symbols in the air, each gesture unlocking a different layer of the ritual’s magic. Raw energy began to swirl around him, rising from the earth itself, binding him to the forces that would cleanse and restore his fractured soul.
As the ritual progressed, he felt a surge of power deep within him, faint at first but growing steadily with each passing moment. It was working. Once cracked and broken, his soul began to mend, the jagged edges fusing as the magic took hold. His body trembled with the intensity of it, the dark energy coiling around his spirit, feeding him the strength he so desperately needed.
With each word he spoke, he felt the connection to his soul deepen, the power coursing through him becoming more potent. It was as though the darkness within him had been dormant, waiting for this moment to reawaken. His soul was no longer damaged, no longer fragile. It was fortified, strong, and complete once more.
When the ritual was finished, Iscariot collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from him, his body no longer burdened by the broken fragments of his soul. He was whole. He was powerful again.
He rose slowly, his senses sharper than they had been in days. He could feel the magic within him, and the full extent of his abilities was restored. A smile crept across his lips. I’m back. But he knew better than to act recklessly. His enemies would be watching, waiting for any sign of weakness. He needed time to rest and time to plan.
His thoughts drifted to Nuri'fon, the palace of the lords. He would go there next. The lords had ambitions and missions to fulfill, and they would continue to carry them out without question. He did not need to intervene, at least not yet.
Without hesitation, Iscariot called upon his magic and teleported to the palace in Nuri'fon, the familiar rush of energy enveloping him. When he arrived, the grand halls greeted him, and the dark stone walls and high ceilings were in stark contrast to the bleakness of the graveyard. He moved through the palace quickly, his presence unnoticed as he passed by the guards and servants. No one dared to question him here. His authority was absolute.
He found an empty chamber tucked away in the depths of the palace, far from the prying eyes of the lords. It was dimly lit, and the air was cool and still. The room had been unused for some time, which suited him perfectly. He needed solitude, and he needed to recover fully before making any bold moves.
As he lay down on the small bed in the corner of the room, his mind began to race. The ritual had restored his power, but he still had much to do. With a final exhale, Iscariot closed his eyes, momentarily allowing the world's weight to lift from his shoulders. The dark, quiet room in the palace of Nuri'fon enveloped him, providing a rare moment of solace. His body, still drained from the recent ordeal, needed time to recover fully. He knew he would be fully restored in just a few days. Then, and only then, would he decide on his next move.
The real question gnawed at the back of his mind was more personal and intimate. What side am I on? For the first time in a long while, doubt crept into his thoughts. The old certainties that once governed his every action felt less solid as if the ground beneath him had shifted. Wispein had always been the voice guiding him, controlling him even, bending his will to her desires. But now, in the stillness of the palace, he was beginning to see beyond the web she had spun around him.
She had me kill my family. The thought settled over him like a cold shroud. His mind drifted back to the moment he first saw his mother again, not in life but in a memory buried deep within his soul. The memory had resurfaced recently, triggered by the most unexpected revelation, Zavet. Zavet had spoken of her, calling her “mother” as if she belonged to them both. The realization had been like a blade to his chest.
We are brothers, Iscariot thought bitterly. The revelation had shaken him to his core; now, it was impossible to ignore. Zavet, the one he had considered an adversary, was more than just another rival. He was blood. Zavet was older by about eight months, just enough time to make him part of an earlier clutch, but not so far apart that they wouldn’t have been raised together.
In retrospect, their similarities, shared magic, and innate connection to the same forces made perfect sense. But Wispein had twisted those bonds, using them to manipulate Iscariot, bending his youth and inexperience to her advantage. She had made him kill his own family, severing the most sacred of ties, all to further her agenda.
That’s why she could control me so quickly, Iscariot realized. He had been so young when it all began, barely more than a child when he had first tasted true power. His mind had been impressionable, his will malleable, and Wispein had taken full advantage of that. She had filled his head with lies and made him believe in the righteousness of his actions, even as she turned him against his blood. And he had followed her commands without question.
The truth had begun to unravel, and a new sense of clarity came with it. His relationship with Wispein had always been one of servitude disguised as partnership. She had never cared for him. She had only seen him as a tool to be wielded against her enemies. And when the time came, she would discard him just as quickly.
Lying there in the quiet of the palace, Iscariot’s mind raced with the implications of what he had learned. He could no longer be her puppet, dancing to her tune. But that didn’t mean he would turn away from his gained power.
Zavet, he thought again, his mind circling back to his brother. The revelation of their bond complicated everything. Zavet would never forgive him for the pain he had caused, nor the betrayal that had come with their mother’s death. Yet, there was still a thread of possibility, a thin, fragile line of connection.
Iscariot wasn’t sure. But what he did know was that the world had changed. He would have to make a decision that could shape the future of everything he had fought for. Would he remain aligned with Wispein, following her into the depths of whatever madness she sought to unleash? Or would he forge his path, perhaps even one that led him to an alliance with Zavet?