Iscariot drifted into a deep, dreamlike state. At first, he wasn’t sure if it was a dream or something else entirely. He found himself standing in a familiar grove, quiet and serene, nestled beside the stone house that Zavet had built. The house was as solid as it had been, its rough stones worn but sturdy. The grove, however, pulsed with a strange energy, an energy that led his gaze to the well of power that shimmered in the center of it all. The well’s magic was palpable, a swirling vortex of energy that seemed to hum with knowledge.

Sitting near the well was Zavet, his brother, though the word felt foreign on Iscariot's lips. Zavet was engrossed in his work, calmly carving something out of wood, sitting in a rocking chair that creaked with each slow movement. As Iscariot approached, he remained silent, watching Zavet in his peaceful task. Without a word, Iscariot manifested a rocking chair on the opposite side of the well. He sat down, the chair moving gently beneath him as he studied his brother silently.

Zavet didn’t acknowledge him immediately, continuing to carve as if the dream was only his own. Feeling a strange calm wash over him, Iscariot let Zavet speak first.

“Why are you in my dream?” Zavet finally asked, his voice steady and deliberate. He didn’t look up from his carving.

Iscariot’s gaze dropped to the ground, his usual composure absent in this strange, ethereal place. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice lacking its typical coldness and authority. There was no stoic mask to hide behind, not here.

Zavet continued to carve, his knife moving slowly, deliberately, shaping the wood into something delicate. Iscariot squinted, finally noticing the intricate details forming in the wood. Toys, he realized. Zavet was carving toys, simple and small but crafted with care.

“Why are you making toys?” Iscariot asked, breaking the silence again, unable to understand why his brother would engage in such an act.

This time, Zavet looked up, his eyes locking onto Iscariot’s. There was a weight behind his gaze, a deep intensity that conveyed more than words could. “You didn’t get them all,” Zavet said, his voice carrying a quiet defiance. “I will not allow you to get them all. Not my family. Not you.”

Iscariot averted his eyes, the weight of Zavet’s words pressing down on him. The truth of his past actions, the deaths he had caused, and the families he had torn apart all lingered like a dark shadow over him. But something had changed, something fundamental within him. He didn’t want to continue down the same path.

“I won’t go after them,” Iscariot whispered, his voice barely audible. “Can I tell you something?”

Zavet’s eyes darkened, his gaze piercing as he looked across the well at his brother. The air between them grew heavier, thick with tension and unspoken history.

Iscariot swallowed hard before speaking again. “I saw you… I saw you call her mother,” he began, his voice wavering. “She was also my mother.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, their impact immediate. Zavet’s calm demeanor shattered. He stood abruptly, throwing his carving down with a sharp clatter against the stones beneath his feet. “You killed her,” Zavet spat, his voice laced with venom. “If she was your mother, why would you kill her?”

Iscariot shrank back in his chair, the weight of guilt pressing down on him harder than ever before. His hands gripped the arms of the rocking chair tightly, his knuckles white. “Wispein used me,” he confessed, his voice raw with regret. “I know that now. She made me kill so many people. She took full control after I failed to keep Ta'Ffair from the heroes. She forced me to kill our family. I had no will of my own.”

Zavet’s face hardened, though the initial fury had given way to something else—something more profound and colder. He sat down slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving Iscariot’s. “I knew it,” Zavet said quietly, almost to himself. “I knew she was controlling you the whole time.” His voice softened but still held the edge of a blade. “But I can’t forgive you, even if we are brothers. You killed them.”

Iscariot nodded, not expecting nor wanting forgiveness. “I don’t want you to forgive me,” he admitted, his voice heavy with resignation. “I am beyond forgiveness. If you forgave me, you would become an enemy to all your friends and family. I won’t let you betray them. Not for me.”

There was a long pause, the well of power between them pulsing faintly in the dreamlike haze. Iscariot could feel its pull, the knowledge it held, the secrets it kept. He knew he had to give Zavet something that would change the course of things, even if they could never reconcile.

“But I have something for you,” Iscariot said, standing slowly. Zavet’s gaze followed him warily as he approached the well. “Wispein did give me something,” he added as he reached out, dipping his hand into the well’s swirling energy. He held an old, tattered book when he pulled his hand back.

“Knowledge,” Iscariot said, handing the book to Zavet. “This book is about the Bone Collector and the Order of Necro wardens. Even though they died out centuries ago, there is one survivor who was their mentor. He created them long ago to protect the sentient undead and the Moon of the Forgotten. They were the protectors of necromancers. The Order was snuffed out by the Order of the White Orchid centuries ago, but their legacy lives on.”

Zavet hesitated but took the book, opening it cautiously. His eyes scanned the pages, but before either could say anything more, the dream began to dissolve, the world around them fading as reality pulled them back.

Iscariot jolted awake, his body tense and covered in a thin layer of sweat. He sat up quickly, his mind racing. “Was that a dream?” he muttered, trying to shake the lingering sense of unreality. But one thought took hold as he processed what he had seen and heard.

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Necro wardens. The words echoed in his mind, along with another memory that seemed to line up with the dream. The dragon skull, the ancient one from which he had retrieved the dagger, had spoken to him once, long ago, in dreams as well. It had claimed to be the Old Fang, the commander of the Necro Wardens, and the dagger he had taken was their symbol of power.

Iscariot's mind whirled with the implications: the Bone Collector, the Necro Wardens, and Zavet. There was more to this than he had ever realized.

Iscariot, now fully awake and clear-headed, made a decision. He would help Zavet to ensure the resurrection of the Necro Wardens. There was power in the old order, which could be harnessed for protection rather than destruction, and Zavet could be the key to that resurgence.

Determined, he closed his eyes, forcing his consciousness to return to the well of power. Slowly, the familiar grove materialized in his mind's eye—the same grove from the dream, with the stone house Zavet had built standing steadfast beside it. But the well called to him.

This time, Iscariot did not hesitate. He dove into the well's depths, letting the ethereal currents of power guide him. He allowed his consciousness to be pulled deeper into its abyss until the world around him faded into a cavernous darkness. There, waiting for him, was the massive and ancient dragon skull. Its hollow eye sockets stared into the void, devoid of life yet still holding an air of immense authority.

Iscariot approached the colossal skull with a steady breath, his resolve unwavering. He had taken the Guardian’s dagger long ago, but now he had come for something greater.

“Old Fang,” he announced, his voice echoing in the empty chamber like a forgotten chant. His tone was respectful and assertive, calling on the name of the once-great dragon, the ancient commander of the Necro Wardens.

The air around him shifted. The lifeless sockets of the skull began to glow faintly, a dull red light flickering to life within them. The massive form of the dragon stirred as much as a disembodied skull could stir, filling the space with an overwhelming sense of power. The ground beneath Iscariot’s feet trembled lightly, a reminder of the raw strength this creature had once wielded.

“You are the one,” a voice rumbled, deep and resonant, vibrating through the very essence of the void. “You took the Warden’s dagger.”

Iscariot stood tall, meeting the dragon’s glowing eyes without fear. “Yes,” he replied. “I took the dagger and wish to restore the order. I want to help you rebuild the Necro Wardens.”

The skull’s eyes flared brighter, a sudden intensity surging through the well as the dragon’s energy grew more focused. “Restore the order?” Old Fang’s voice dripped with both curiosity and suspicion. “Do you know what it means to be a Necro Warden? What it requires?” The dragon’s tone was a warning, as though to test Iscariot’s resolve.

Iscariot remained calm, his face expressionless but his voice steady. “Yes,” he answered. “I understand the burden and the purpose. I have seen the destruction and know what the Necro Wardens stood for. I want to bring that balance back.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, the dragon’s eye sockets burned brighter still, the crimson light blazing like molten fire. The presence of Old Fang grew heavier, and Iscariot could feel the weight of ancient eyes scrutinizing him, measuring his worth.

“Balance, you say,” the dragon rumbled. “The Necro Wardens were protectors but were not free from death. They embraced it. You must find those who can carry such a burden, who understand the true nature of life and death.”

“I will,” Iscariot said firmly, meeting the dragon’s gaze without wavering. “I have already found one who could be their leader. He can find the others.”

The dragon seemed to ponder his words, the glowing red light in its eyes flickering rhythmically, almost as if in thought. “One is not enough,” Old Fang finally replied, his voice a low growl. “The Order cannot rise with one. You must find three willing to carry the weight of life and death, who understand the delicate balance between the two.”

Iscariot nodded, his mind already working through the possibilities. He knew that Zavet could be the key, not just as a member but as a leader. Zavet, with his unwavering loyalty to his people, determination, and strength, could find others capable of taking on the mantle of the Necro Warden. There had to be others—necromancers, warriors, perhaps even undead, who could rise to the challenge.

“I found one,” Iscariot said confidently, “and he will find the others.”

Old Fang's eyes flared again, though this time with what Iscariot could almost describe as approval. “Good,” the dragon said, its deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.

Iscariot bowed his head slightly, a rare show of respect.

The dragon's glowing eyes seemed to dim slightly, the raw intensity easing. “Go,” Old Fang commanded, his voice softer. “Find those who will stand between life and death, and when you do, return to me. I will give them the tools to protect the forgotten.”

Iscariot stepped back, feeling the pull of the well begin to loosen its hold on him. He could feel the world of the grove and the stone house calling him back, the dreamlike state beginning to fade. But before the connection was entirely severed.

Iscariot opened his eyes, again finding himself in the palace room where he had chosen to rest. The dragon's words hung heavy on his mind.

Iscariot sat up, restless, and decided to check on his Lords. As he stepped into the courtyard, he was met with excitement rather than panic. Sentient undead and necromancers were rushing outside, their faces alight with anticipation.

“The Moon of Life has been destroyed,” one of them informed him, almost triumphantly.

Iscariot felt a surge of satisfaction. The Moon of Life, the enemy to all undead and a symbol of vitality, was no more. Its destruction had been part of the plan all along.

He looked at his Lords, who were already discussing their next moves with eager voices. “Lord Merek was consumed by the ritual that destroyed the moon.” Iscariot nodded in thought. As Merek was the first lord, he had stolen. “It is fine. We proceed as planned. “

The news of losing Merek might have troubled Iscariot more under different circumstances, but now it barely registered. This was the final step in bringing back Wispein. She must have reached out to the lord of Liches, believing he had failed her.

Her presence within his mind sparked to life once again. He fought to prevent her from fully taking over again, but it was useless. She was too strong. His mind faded as she was in control again.

“Good,” she said out loud, through him. “You put a spark of hope in the heart of the people. Now we will tear it out.”