Chapter 5

Iscariot's first memory was of a voice, a faint whisper that seemed to call him into existence. "Iscariot," it murmured, barely audible. With each recollection, the whisper grew louder until it became a commanding force that thrust him into being. He found himself crawling out from the tangled roots of a great tree, his body emerging into the world with a sense of urgency.

Surrounding him were freshly created lizardmen, primitive beings struggling to stand and walk. They were like newborns, their eyes confused as they attempted to make sense of their surroundings. Iscariot, too, was filled with the instinct to survive, learn, and adapt. The grove was a place of beginnings, a cradle of life where he, like the others, had to learn to navigate his new existence.

The voice returned to Iscariot frequently, becoming his constant companion and teacher. It was a maternal presence, instructing him in the basics of language and the mysteries of magic. "This is how you speak," it would say, guiding him through the sounds and meanings of words. "This is what you eat," it instructed, pointing out the fruits, plants, and small creatures that were safe to consume. It also warned him, “Avoid these,” indicating the poisonous flora and dangerous predators lurking in the shadows.

The voice was not just a teacher; it was a protector. It told him who to avoid, steering him clear of certain lizardmen and other beings that roamed the grove. Stay away from them, it warned, instilling a sense of caution in him.

One of the most crucial lessons was leaving the grove early. You must go before Zavet, the voice urged, referring to the largest and strongest among the lizardmen. Zavet was a formidable figure, but the voice insisted that Iscariot's destiny lay beyond the confines of the grove. He never questioned the voice's wisdom; to him, it was an unquestionable authority, a maternal figure he trusted implicitly.

Iscariot never questioned the voice's identity. To him, it was his mother, a source of soothing words and encouragement. The voice calmed him with gentle reassurances when he was frightened or uncertain. You are strong, Iscariot. You have a great purpose.

The teachings extended beyond the immediate needs of survival. The voice imparted to him the secrets of the undead, knowledge that surpassed even the most skilled lords of necromancy. The dead are not to be feared, it taught him. "They are a source of power, a tool for those who know how to wield it."

This knowledge sets Iscariot apart from his peers. While the other lizardmen were learning to hunt and gather, Iscariot was delving into the arcane arts, guided by the wisdom of his unseen mother. He practiced the incantations and rituals, feeling the surge of power that came with mastering the dark arts.

The time came for Iscariot to leave the grove. The voice had prepared him well, instilling the knowledge and skills he needed to survive in the world beyond. Go now, it urged. Your path lies elsewhere.

Iscariot obeyed, feeling a mixture of trepidation and excitement. He knew his destiny was out there, waiting for him to claim it. The grove had been his birthplace, but it was not his home. His home was somewhere beyond, where he could fully realize his potential and fulfill the purpose that the voice had hinted at.

As he stepped away from the familiar trees and the primitive lizardmen, Iscariot felt a sense of loss but also a sense of liberation. He was leaving behind the only life he had known, guided by the voice that had been his constant companion. But he was also stepping into a world of endless possibilities, armed with knowledge and power that set him apart.

After leaving the grove, Iscariot traveled toward the graveyards, where heroic souls lay buried. These were no ordinary graveyards; they were sacred resting places imbued with dense, raw, necromantic magic. The voice had instructed him to go there to amass an army, promising him the power he needed to fulfill his destiny.

However, these graveyards were heavily guarded by the kingdom's army. Soldiers were stationed there specifically to prevent necromancers from desecrating the graves. The voice's guidance was crucial as it led Iscariot through hidden paths and dense forests, ensuring he remained unseen by the kingdom's patrols. You must be cautious, she warned him. The kingdom's soldiers are vigilant and will not hesitate to strike you down if they sense your intent.

Iscariot moved silently through the forest, his senses heightened, and his mind focused on the task ahead. The voice-directed his every step, guiding him through routes that kept him out of sight. Turn here, she would whisper. Hide in the shadows. Move quickly but quietly. Her instructions were clear and precise, ensuring that Iscariot avoided detection.

The forest was thick and treacherous, with twisted roots and low-hanging branches that could easily trip or scratch an unwary traveler. But Iscariot was agile, his movements fluid and deliberate. He had learned to trust the voice implicitly, knowing that her guidance was his best chance of reaching the graveyards undetected.

As he traveled, Iscariot could feel the power of the necromantic energies growing stronger. It was a palpable force, thrumming beneath the earth's surface and vibrating in the air around him. The closer he got to the graveyards, the more intense the sensation became. It was as if the ground was alive with ancient power, waiting to be harnessed.

Finally, he reached the outskirts of the graveyards. He could see the faint glow of the protective wards the kingdom had placed around the area, and he could hear the occasional clink of armor as soldiers patrolled the perimeter.

Remember what I have taught you, the voice whispered. You must disable the wards and neutralize the guards without drawing attention to yourself. Use the knowledge I have given you.

He nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see him. He waited until nightfall when the darkness would provide the needed cover. As the moon rose, he crept closer to the wards, using his magic to blend into the shadows. He extended his senses, feeling the intricate weave of the wards' magic. With careful precision, he began to unravel them, using the techniques the voice had taught him.

One by one, the wards fell, their glow dimming until completely extinguished. Now came the more dangerous part: dealing with the guards. He moved silently, his movements fluid and precise. He used his magic to cloud their minds, making them tired and disoriented. They slumped to the ground one by one, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

With the wards disabled and the guards neutralized, he finally entered the graveyards. The raw necromantic energy was overwhelming, but he felt excited. He was finally here, ready to fulfill the purpose the voice had set for him.

Now, my child, the voice urged. "Raise the fallen heroes and make them your own. They will be the foundation of your army."

He began the incantations, his voice low and steady. The ground trembled, and the air grew cold. The heroic souls started to rise, their spectral forms glowing with an eerie light. They were bound to his will, their eyes filled with reverence and determination.

You have done well, the voice said, a note of pride in her tone. "But this is only the beginning. There are many challenges ahead, and you must be prepared for them. But know this: I will always be with you, guiding you every step of the way."

He nodded, feeling a sense of purpose and resolve. With his new army at his command, he knew he was ready for whatever lay ahead.

The first time Iscariot and Zavet met was on the way to the second graveyard. It was not face-to-face, but Zavet came to him through Astral projection. The voice spoke for him, the first time she had done that. It is also the first time since he came into existence that he heard his name. He thought a lot about that first encounter with Zavet. The voice seemed afraid, and she wanted Zavet away from him.

The second graveyard proved even easier for Iscariot to conquer. The wards that protected it were intricate, but he had quickly learned how to unweave such magic. With each spell he dismantled, his confidence grew. The voice guided him, teaching him the subtleties of magical wards and how to counter them.

There were more guards this time, but Iscariot's undead minions quickly overpowered them. The soldiers, though vigilant, were different from the combined strength of Iscariot's growing army. This time, he created an even stronger undead, flexing his magical prowess and pushing the limits of his necromantic abilities. Each new minion was a testament to his power and skill.

Isariot's display of power was noticed. It drew the attention of Merek, the lord of liches, a formidable figure known for his mastery of necromancy. As Iscariot worked his magic, he felt a presence approaching. The voice spoke through him, introducing him with confidence. “Merek, lord of liches. My name is Iscariot. I am--”

Merek interrupted him, his tone dismissive. “I do not know you. I make a point of knowing all the necromancers.” His voice was commanding, carrying the weight of authority and expectation of obedience. Merek's presence was overwhelming, his power palpable.

Before the voice could respond, Merek asserted his will over Iscariot, attempting to dominate him with a command. However, Iscariot felt nothing, no compulsion to obey. Merek's eyes narrowed as he tried again, but the result was the same. Iscariot stood unaffected, defying the command of a lord of liches.

The lord of liches stepped back, disbelief evident on his face. No necromancer had ever defied his voice commands. Iscariot turned to face Merek, feeling the magic within the command fizzle and fail. The voice within him surged, and his eyes began to glow a bright green, the color of necromantic power.

Typically, greater undead had eyes that glowed red, and living necromancers did not have glowing eyes at all. But Iscariot was different, a unique blend of the living and the undead. The glow in his eyes was a testament to his power and the voice that guided him.

Merek, stunned by Iscariot's resistance, gathered his power, readying himself for a confrontation. “What are you?” he demanded, a mix of curiosity and anger in his voice. He had never encountered a necromancer who could resist his will, let alone one who exuded such raw, untamed power.

The voice within Iscariot responded, filled with authority and confidence. “I am Iscariot, born from the fall of the forgotten. You will not command me, Merek. Your power holds no sway over me.”

Merek's eyes blazed with anger. “You dare defy me?” He raised his hands, summoning dark energies, ready to strike down this insolent upstart. But Iscariot stood his ground, unafraid. He channeled the necromantic energies that thrummed beneath his skin, feeling the power surge through him.

As the confrontation reached its peak, the air crackled with dark magic. The voice within Iscariot guided him, providing him with the strength and knowledge to counter Merek's attacks. With a wave of his hand, Iscariot unleashed a torrent of necromantic energy, meeting Merek's assault head-on.

The clash of their powers was intense, shaking the ground beneath them. Iscariot’s defiance and unique abilities gave him an edge over Merek. As their dark energies collided, Iscariot felt the strength of his magic surge, a potent force that even Merek, the lord of liches, could not withstand.

Merek’s eyes widened in shock as he felt Iscariot’s will pressing against his own. He struggled to maintain dominance, but Iscariot’s power was relentless, a tide of necromantic energy he could not hold back. The ground around them trembled, gravestones shattering under the strain of their magical duel.

Slowly, inexorably, Merek was driven to one knee. His expression twisted with effort and disbelief; he fought to resist the overpowering force of Iscariot’s will. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands trembled as he attempted to summon more dark energy to fend off the assault. But Iscariot’s strength grew, fed by the raw necromantic magic that thrummed through the graveyard.

With a final, desperate effort, Merek tried to push back, but it was too late. Iscariot’s will crushed his resistance, seizing control of the lich’s mind. Merek’s defiance melted away, replaced by a blank expression as his consciousness was overwhelmed. He was no longer a master of necromancy; he was a puppet, his strings pulled by Iscariot’s commanding hand.

Iscariot stood over the fallen lich, his eyes still glowing with the bright green light of his necromantic power. He had done the unthinkable: overpowered the lord of liches, asserting his dominance in a realm where no one dared challenge Merek. The voice within him hummed with approval.

As Merek knelt before him, utterly defeated, Iscariot felt a surge of triumph. He had not only survived but had proven himself superior. The path ahead was clear—he would continue to amass power.

“Reanimate all the heroes within this graveyard,” Iscariot commanded Merek, his voice firm. The voice within him hummed with approval, then whispered, I think it's time to test your power. Let us march on Nuri'Fon.

Merek nodded and teleported away to carry out Iscariot’s orders. In an instant, the lich began a powerful ritual, casting a spell to raise the dead within a twenty-foot radius. Each incantation was precise, and with every wave of his hand, more corpses rose from their graves, ready to serve.

Iscariot watched intently, absorbing the spell's intricacies. The voice guided him, helping him understand and eventually amplify the ritual. Soon, he could extend the magic to cover the entire graveyard, bringing all the heroic souls under his control.

As the undead rose, chanting his name, a new presence intruded into Iscariot's mind. Zavet, the strongest among the lizardmen, pushed away the voice that had guided him for so long. This unexpected interruption made Iscariot momentarily falter, but he quickly regained his focus.

Merek teleported back beside him, bowing slightly. “Master Iscariot, your legion of undead is ready,” he reported, his tone respectful. Iscariot looked at the vast army he had raised, a sea of undead warriors standing before him, their eyes glowing with necromantic energy.

Though pushed aside, the voice still lingered, urging him to take the next step. Iscariot knew what he had to do. He turned to his newly formed legion, his expression one of cold determination. “Go forth and kill the living,” he commanded, his voice echoing with authority.

Iscariot felt Zavet’s presence in his mind, pushing against the voice that had guided him for so long. Summoning his will, he directed his power toward Zavet, finding the task significantly more manageable than overpowering Merek. Zavet did not resist; he succumbed like an uncontrolled undead. Satisfied, Iscariot pushed Zavet's influence away, clearing his mind. The voice, however, did not return immediately.

With his path clear and his mind focused Iscariot commanded his undead legion to march toward Nuri'Fon. The rhythmic shuffle of the undead filled the air, a chilling prelude to the chaos they intended to unleash. Merek, now firmly under Iscariot's control, moved beside him, an imposing figure symbolizing the power Iscariot now wielded.

As they neared the outskirts of Nuri'Fon, the city loomed in the distance, its walls standing tall against the horizon. The anticipation of the impending conquest hung heavy in the air. Iscariot could feel the necromantic energies swirling around him, feeding his strength and resolve.

Finally, just as they were about to launch their attack, the voice returned, its presence a familiar and comforting guide. Wait, she instructed, her tone filled with urgency and purpose. I have an ancient but powerful spell we can cast on the townspeople. Then, we can kill a few and spread a necrotic disease.

Iscariot paused, absorbing her words. The voice had never steered him wrong before, and he trusted her judgment implicitly. “What must I do?” he asked, his mind shifting gears to accommodate this new plan. Merek had instructed him to have the undead bury themselves.

The voice detailed the spell, its intricacies, and its dark origins. “This spell will weave through the very essence of the townspeople, making them susceptible to necrotic magic. Once infected, the disease will spread rapidly, turning the living undead.”

Iscariot began the incantation, his hands weaving the complex patterns necessary to cast the spell. The air around him shimmered with dark energy, and a faint green light emanated from his eyes, intensifying as the spell took shape. Merek stood by, ready to assist if needed, but this was Iscariot’s moment.

With a final flourish, Iscariot unleashed the spell. Tendrils of necromantic magic snaked through the air, penetrating the city’s walls and seeping into the bodies of its inhabitants. Unaware of the impending doom, the townspeople continued their daily routines, oblivious to the dark magic taking hold of them.

Satisfied with the spell's initial spread, Iscariot turned to Merek. “Now, we begin the second phase. Select a few targets and kill them. Their deaths will activate the necrotic disease.”

Merek nodded and teleported into the city, selecting key individuals and ending their lives with swift, precise strikes. As each body fell, the necrotic disease began to spread, fueled by the dark magic Iscariot had cast. The townspeople started showing signs of the infection, their flesh turning gray and their movements sluggish.

Within hours, the disease had spread throughout Nuri'Fon. Once vibrant and full of life, the city's inhabitants were now shambling corpses bound to Iscariot’s will. He watched with satisfaction as his army of undead grew, bolstered by the newly risen dead.

As the undead marched through Nuri'Fon, Iscariot felt a surge of triumph. The voice within him whispered praise, reinforcing his belief in his destined greatness. With each step, the city fell deeper into his grasp, its living inhabitants either succumbing to the necrotic plague or joining the ranks of the undead.

Iscariot stood at the forefront of his legion, his eyes glowing with the bright green light of his necromantic power. The voice, now a constant presence once more, guided him, her wisdom and strength ever-present. Together, they would conquer Nuri'Fon and any city that stood in their way.

That's how he felt until Mah’nethotep and Talich jumped from the palace's roof. “Who commands you?" Talich said, with authority in his voice, attempting to force Iscariot to reveal his commander. Iscariot resisted Talich's attempts.

Iscariot noticed that both men possessed the formidable power of necromancy. While Talich was no match for Iscariot, Mah’nethotep proved to be an insurmountable adversary, defying all of Iscariot's attempts to defeat him. When Mah’nethotep shook his head and spoke, he made it clear that he was neither undead nor considered a necromancer. Instead, he claimed to be the very creator of the magic Iscariot was using, stating, "My name is Mah’nethotep." His name alone exuded a commanding air of respect. As Iscariot ventured forth, he sensed the voice reacting in a manner he had never experienced. It was not fear for who he was but rather a fear for something else. Perhaps it was not even fear but rather an apprehension of what was. The voice warned Iscariot, saying, "Don't let him touch you. He will sever our connection."Iscariot noticed that both men had the power of necromancy. Talich was no match for Iscariot, but Mah’nethotep proved impossible to defeat, no matter how hard Iscariot tried. Mah’nethotep shook his head and said, “I'm not undead nor considered a necromancer. I am the creator of the magic you are using. My name is Mah’nethotep.” His name alone commanded respect. Iscariot could feel the voice react like he had never felt before. It wasn't fear for who he was, but her fear was for something else. Maybe it was not fear but fear of what was. The voice told Iscariot, "Don't let him touch you. He will sever our connection."

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As Iscariot stood among the fallen, savoring his victory, Mah’nethotep suddenly launched a powerful mental assault on him. The force of Mah’nethotep's will was unlike anything Iscariot had ever encountered. It was a torrent of raw power, an unyielding pressure that threatened to crush his consciousness. Alone, Iscariot knew he could not withstand this onslaught.

But he was not alone.

The voice within him, his constant guide and mentor, surged with power. The voice that had nurtured and shaped him directed all her energy into countering Mah’nethotep’s attack. The struggle was intense, a battle of wills fought on a plane beyond the physical. Iscariot felt the crushing weight lift as Wispein’s strength intertwined with his own, forming a barrier against the Bronze Elf's overwhelming might.

Mah’nethotep, sensing the interference, took a step back. His eyes widened in shock and recognition. “Wispein, you live? My friend, please stop and join me. This is not the time. You will cause the gathering of heroic souls to reoccur. We must wipe out the heroic souls in one fell swoop to take revenge on the dragons.”

Never hearing the voice's name, Iscariot tries to speak but finds himself mute. He attempts to move, but his body remains unresponsive. Panic sets in—a foreign and terrifying sensation for him. He has never been locked out of his own body before. She has taken complete control.

She speaks through him, not with his voice but with her own, a whisper that cuts through the silence: "Mah’neth, you have no idea what happened in the days leading up to my banishment to the space between the moons. She is not dead. Nuri took her soul and stored it within something. It was here. I felt it."

Mah’nethotep stares at Iscariot, eyes wide with hope and despair. "Why do you do this? She is gone. You torment me with the idea of my love being alive. I created this magic to bring her back. Her soul was destroyed, just like the rest of my people. Nuri and Taigha killed them all and ripped their souls apart. I saw them do it. I barely survived myself. Please, Wispein, you are my oldest friend. We are the only ones left from that time. Help me kill the druids and take the kingdom."

Wispein, through Iscariot's body, looks around, memories flooding back—memories of a time when dragons and elves were allies, a time long lost.

Merek teleports next to Iscariot, his stance ready to defend. Mah’nethotep tilts his head toward the lich, a cold, calculating expression on his face. "You have taken one of my lords. What were your intentions? You knew Merek. You would have felt my power through him even if you did not."

Before Iscariot can react, Mah’nethotep is suddenly upon him. Wispein struggles to maintain control, but she is lost in her memories. Mah’nethotep's bronze hand touches Iscariot, severing the connection between him and Wispein with a single, decisive touch.

Iscariot feels her presence leave him. Now in control of his body, he stumbles backward, eyes wide with fear. “No,” he murmurs, his voice trembling. Mah’nethotep turns his gaze to him, his expression unreadable. “No,” Iscariot repeats, backing away further. The elf had just taken her from him, severed their connection. Desperately, he reaches out for her with his mind, but there is no response.

Mah’nethotep steps closer, his voice low and probing. “Are you okay, Wispein?”

Sensing Iscariot's distress, Merek acts swiftly. He sends a bolt of highly concentrated necromantic energy hurtling toward Mah’nethotep, striking him in the face. The elf staggers back, visibly affected but not severely harmed. Now panicked and unsure what to do, Iscariot lunges forward, attacking wildly. Mah’nethotep rolls back, avoiding most of the damage but still sustaining injuries.

“Stop, Wispein!” Mah’nethotep shouts, his voice laced with both confusion and frustration.

In his agitated state, Iscariot lashes out with his tail, striking Mah’nethotep across the chest and sending him sprawling.

The streets echoed with tension as Mah’nethotep vanished, reappearing atop a nearby building with a commanding presence. His voice, imbued with ancient power, boomed across the battlefield. “You leave me no choice. Hear me, my lords of necromancy. Come to my side and defend your master.”

In response to his call, seven dark figures materialized beside him, each radiating formidable power. Emmett, the Lord of Revenants, stood tall with a skeletal grin, his eyes flickering with ghostly fire. Emmerich, the Lord of Death Knights, clad in blackened armor, held a massive, blood-stained sword. Behr, the Lord of Banshees, appeared as a spectral figure, her wails echoing through the air. Treston, the Lord of Vampires, emerged with a predatory gaze, his fangs glinting. Zamza, the Lord of Zombies, exuded a putrid stench, his rotting minions shuffling restlessly. Kyln, the Lord of Ghouls, crouched low, his claws ready to tear flesh. Lastly, Elias, the Lord of Death Rogues, is cloaked in shadows, his daggers gleaming with malice.

The seven necromantic lords stood at attention, their combined presence casting a palpable dread over the scene. “My lord,” they intoned in unison, their voices a chilling harmony.

Mah’nethotep gestured toward Iscariot, his eyes blazing with determination. “I need him alive,” he commanded, his voice brooking no dissent.

Iscariot backed away, eyes darting between the necromantic lords and his allies. Merek, sensing the imminent threat, readied himself, his necromantic energy coalescing around him. The air crackled with tension, a silent promise of the chaos.

The necromantic lords advanced synchronized, embodying a different aspect of death and decay. Emmett saw Merek and realized this creature could control them. “Don't allow him to force his will on you. Keep pressing the attack.”

Behr floats forward, wails piercing the air, a sound that could kill anyone who hears her cry. Treston moves with inhuman speed, his eyes fixed on his prey. Zamza shuffles and moans, decaying hands ripped through the ground, grabbing Iscariot. Kyln's hunger is evident in their every movement. Elias slips into the shadows, his form barely visible, ready to strike from the darkness.

Merek unleashed his necromantic energy, sending tendrils of necrotic magic toward the advancing lords. The tendrils wrapped around Emmerich, but the warrior hacked at them with his sword, severing the dark energy. Iscariot, driven by fear and fury, lashed out with his tail once more, striking at the nearest foe.

Behr screeched as Iscariot’s tail connected, dissipating into a cloud of ectoplasm, Covering Iscariot. Emmett attacked Merek with his ghostly hands, clawing at his protective wards. Merek channeled more energy, sending bolts of necromantic magic at the revenant's, but they absorbed the blows, their forms flickering but remaining intact.

Mah’nethotep watched from his vantage point, his expression unreadable. He raised his hands, and dark clouds began to gather above, swirling ominously. “You will not escape your fate, Iscariot; I can sense she is no longer within you.” he intoned, his voice resonating with ancient power.

Treston lunged at Iscariot, his fangs bared, but Iscariot dodged, slamming his tail into the vampire’s side. Treston hissed in pain, his eyes glowing with rage. Zamza takes control of the nearby zombies. He commands them to attack Iscariot. They closed in, their moans creating a cacophony of despair. Iscariot swung his tail again, decapitating a zombie, but more took its place, their rotten hands reaching for him.

Kyln, seeing Zamza take control of Iscariot’s zombies, does the same and takes control of the ghouls, who circled Merek, their eyes gleaming with malice. Merek cast a protective barrier around himself, but the ghouls clawed at it relentlessly, their hunger for flesh driving them forward. Elias follows suit and takes his death rogues. They move in the shadows, their daggers flashing as they strike at Merek’s wards, weakening them.

Mah’nethotep’s dark clouds swirled faster, lightning crackling within them. He chanted an incantation, and a bolt of dark energy shot down, striking the ground between Merek and Iscariot. The force of the impact sent them both sprawling, the ground shaking beneath them.

Merek struggled to his feet, his eyes blazing with determination. “We can’t hold them off forever,” he shouted to Iscariot, his voice strained. “We need a plan.”

Iscariot, panting and bloodied, looked around at the advancing necromantic lords. “We need to disrupt their coordination,” he said, his mind racing. “If we can take out Mah’nethotep, the rest might falter.”

Merek nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Agreed. But getting to him won’t be easy.”

As if on cue, Mah’nethotep raised his hands again, and the dark clouds above roiled with fury. “You will not escape your fate,” he repeated, his voice a dark promise.

Summoning his remaining strength, Iscariot focused on his connection with Wispein, even though it had been severed. He reached deep within himself, drawing on the last vestiges of their bond. He felt a faint echo of her presence, a flicker of the power they once shared.

He found only a well glowing with green energy. As he stared inside, he saw a vase world. Was that the forgotten? No, it was all the magic within the forgotten.

Elias stabbed Iscariot in the back with one of his daggers, pulling him abruptly back to reality. Pain seared through him as Elias faded into the shadows once again. Iscariot tried to fight off the necromantic lords, but they proved too powerful. Despite his best efforts, they overwhelmed him.

Iscariot's heart sank as he watched Merek fall, struck by a dark bolt of energy Mah’nethotep unleashed from the swirling clouds above. The force of the attack sent Merek sprawling to the ground, his protective wards shattering. Mah’nethotep, seizing the moment, forced his will upon the weakened lich, reclaiming control.

Now, all eight lords of necromancy turned their attention to subduing Iscariot. Emmett’s revenants grabbed at him with ghostly hands, their touch freezing his skin. Emmerich’s death knights encircled him, their swords drawn and ready to strike. Behr’s banshees wailed, their screams piercing his mind and dulling his senses. Treston’s vampires darted in and out, their fangs flashing as they sought an opening. Zamza’s zombies pressed forward, their decaying forms relentless in their assault. Kyln’s ghouls pounced, claws tearing at his flesh. Ever the shadowy assassin, Elias struck from the darkness, his daggers finding their mark with deadly precision.

Iscariot struggled against the onslaught, but he was outmatched and outnumbered. His movements became sluggish as the necromantic energy from the lords drained his strength. His vision blurred, the world around him becoming a haze of pain and chaos.

Mah’nethotep descended from his perch, his expression triumphant. “You should have accepted your fate, Wispein,” he said coldly, his voice echoing with dark power. Now, you will serve me once more.”

With a final surge of will, Iscariot tried to break free, but it was useless. The combined might of the necromantic lords was too much. Emmett’s revenants held him in place, their icy grip unyielding. Emmerich’s death knights raised their swords, ready to strike if he made another move. Behr’s banshees continued their haunting wails, filling his mind with despair. Treston’s vampires and Zamza’s zombies formed an impenetrable barrier while Kyln’s ghouls crouched, ready to pounce. Elias remained in the shadows, his presence a constant, deadly threat.

Mah’nethotep approached, his eyes glowing with a malevolent light. “You have lost, Iscariot,” he declared, his voice a mixture of gloating and finality. “Submit, and perhaps I will show you mercy.”

Taking advantage of the sudden distraction, Iscariot again sought the well within himself. Driven by a desperate need to escape and regroup, he found the well, a dark portal of swirling energy, easy to find amid the chaos. Without hesitation, he dove into it.

He seemed to fall forever, tumbling through an abyss that defied time and space. Fragments of the Moon and remnants of ancient castles floated by, bathed in an eerie green light. Finally, the sensation of falling ceased, and he began to float in the void. The green light was more than just illumination; it was raw necrotic magic. This wasn't ordinary magic—it was creation magic, a force that only the bronze elves of ancient times could wield.

The magic was intoxicating, its energy inviting him to embrace it. He could feel its ancient power resonating within him, the same power that had created the lizardmen like him and Zavet, the same power that had forged the Moon. The immense energy surged through him, filling every fiber of his being.

He reached out, grasping the magic with unyielding determination. As he did, he felt the raw, primal force intertwine with his essence. It was as if the magic recognized and accepted him. He focused, forcing the magic to the surface so he could wield it.

The energy coursed through him, a torrent of power that threatened to overwhelm him. But Iscariot was no stranger to powerful magic. He steeled himself, channeling the energy with precision and control. His body glowed with an ethereal light, the necrotic magic merging with his own. He then knew that Necrotic magic was just tainted creation magic. It was tainted with sadness and loss.

He could feel the transformation, the ancient magic enhancing his abilities and amplifying his strength. His senses sharpened, his mind cleared, and his body felt revitalized. He was no longer just Iscariot; he was a vessel of ancient magic, a conduit for its immense power. He was the embodiment of necromancy. The moon was within him, much like Mah’nethotep while on the moon.

He became acutely aware of his surroundings as he floated in this well of power. The fragments of the Moon and castle remnants held secrets, memories of a time long past. He could sense the presence of other beings, echoes of the bronze elves who had once wielded this magic. Their knowledge, their power, was now his to command.

He focused on his purpose. He needed to return to the battlefield to confront Mah’nethotep and his Lords of necromancy. But this time, he would not be alone. He had the power of the ancient magic within him, a force that could tip the scales in his favor.

Drawing the magic inward, he prepared to leave the void. The green light swirled around him, forming a protective cocoon. He concentrated, visualizing the battlefield and the enemies he would face. The magic responded, enveloping him in a surge of energy. A voice came to Iscariot, soothing and familiar yet powerfully commanding. It felt like the comforting voice of a mother but distinctly male. He pushed his mind outward, seeking its source. Before him materialized the giant skull of a dragon, its presence immense and imposing.

“What are you doing here?” the dragon’s skull asked, echoing with ancient wisdom.

“I am necromancy,” Iscariot replied, his words imbued with the will of the entire moon. The eyes of the dragon’s skull glowed with an eerie, cold blue light, illuminating the void around them.

“You prepare for battle?” the skull rumbled. “Do you need the blade?”

Iscariot tilted his head, considering the question. He shrugged slightly, and a memory surfaced—a dagger forged from the bones of the first dragon turned undead. He recalled its immense power, far too great to be trusted by any ordinary being. The dagger had been cursed by a powerful heroic soul, ensuring the bronze elves or dragons would never see it. This knowledge flowed into him from the dragon’s skull.

Driven by an instinctual understanding, Iscariot reached into the dragon’s mouth and grasped the bone blade. As he pulled it free, the dagger pulsed with a dark, ancient energy, its surface cold to the touch. The bone blade seemed to hum with a life of its own, resonating with the necromantic magic that flowed through Iscariot.

The skull’s eyes flared brighter. “That blade carries a curse and a promise. Use it wisely, for its power is both a gift and a burden.”

Iscariot nodded, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand. He knew the blade’s history and the consequences of wielding it. This was not just a weapon; it was a key to untold power, a relic of a bygone era when dragons and necromancers held sway over the realms.

With the bone blade in hand, Iscariot felt a surge of confidence. The magic of the ancient bronze elves and dragons infused him with renewed strength. He was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, armed with the knowledge and power of ages past.

He turned away from the dragon’s skull, the green light of the necrotic magic still swirling around him. The void seemed to pulse with anticipation as if recognizing the moment's significance. Iscariot knew his path was fraught with danger, but he was prepared to confront it head-on.

Iscariot floated up to the mouth of the well and climbed out. He opens his eyes, bringing himself back to reality. The hands of the undead still hold him. He can see Mah’nethotep making his way to him. Iscariot skin starts to crack with greenish-gold crackly energy. All the lesser undead around Iscariot had the necrotic power, giving unlife drained from them. They fall to the ground as motionless corpses. The lords of necromancy rush in to detain him, but he inserts his will. They attempt to resist, but his newfound power is absolute. They all slowly fall to one knee, screaming in horror as they feel the moon's power overwhelm them.

The lords of necromancy fall to his will. Mah’nethotep sighs, knowing what just happened. “ You found where I hid the magic. Iscariot, that power was hidden so I could recreate the moon. I can not draw on that magic without my people; that is the last of that power. “

Iscariot stared into Mah’nethotep’s eyes, a burning intensity in his gaze. “Where is she?” he demanded.

Mah’nethotep, the bronze elf, met his gaze without flinching. “She was banished,” he replied. “Only the dragons can undo that magic.”

Iscariot’s nostrils flared as he took in the scents around him. He caught the distinct smell of the airship as it began to fly away. His eyes followed it, and he felt a surge of magic building within him, ready to unleash a devastating spell.

But before he could act, a blur of motion charged at him. Talich attacked with a flurry of skilled strikes. Iscariot barely had time to react as Talich’s mace came down on him, each blow dealing significant damage. Talich’s weapon was no ordinary mace; it was the Sanctifier, a flail made by Dianah, the current ruler of the moon of life. It was a gift to the queen, known as the most potent undead-slaying weapon. Possibly the only weapon Mah’nethotep had ever feared.

The Sanctifier glowed with a holy light, each strike burning Iscariot with its divine energy. Pain seared through his body, but he fought to maintain his focus. He could feel the power of the necrotic magic within him, urging him to fight back. Yet, the Sanctifier’s blows were relentless, each a reminder of its deadly purpose.

Then Iscariot summoned the blade, a weapon of immense power that had never been named. Its existence was a closely guarded secret, known only to a select few, all of whom were long dead. As the blade materialized in his hand, it hummed with dark energy, ready for battle.

The fight began anew. Drawing on tens of thousands of years of necromantic knowledge, Iscariot anticipated every move Talich made. He matched Talich’s attacks with the precision and skill of a master, countering each blow with deft maneuvers. Despite the ferocity of Talich’s onslaught, Iscariot began to overwhelm him, his superior knowledge and experience giving him the upper hand.

Seeing Talich struggling, Mah’nethotep intervened, hurling bolts of lightning at Iscariot. The non-necromantic magic forced Iscariot to split his focus, dodging the lethal strikes while continuing to battle Talich. The distraction gave Talich an opening. He wrapped the flail’s chain around Iscariot’s dagger, the enchanted links binding the two weapons together. Both weapons flew through the air with a mighty yank, disarming them.

In a desperate move, Talich grabbed hold of Iscariot, his grip like iron. “Master, grab the flail and teleport to our meeting place!” he shouted.

Mah’nethotep, recognizing the futility of continuing the fight, seized the flail and the dagger then vanished in a flash of light. Iscariot watched him disappear, his frustration mounting.

With Mah’nethotep gone, Iscariot turned his full attention to Talich. He rose off the ground, using his tail to lift himself to Talich’s height. His eyes burned with a fierce determination as he crossed his arms, summoning his power.

“You’re done,” Iscariot said coldly, extending his hand. A surge of raw necrotic energy blasted from his palm, hitting Talich with immense force—the overwhelming power disintegrating Talich’s form in a blinding flash of light.

As the dust settled, Iscariot hovered in the air, the remnants of his enemy falling away like ashes. He had triumphed, but the battle was far from over. Mah’nethotep had escaped, taking the flail and, unknown to him, the dagger.

Iscariot stood in triumph; his enemies were defeated, and his power was solidified. The lords of necromancy, still reeling from the intensity of the battle, gathered around him, their expressions a mixture of awe and submission. They looked to their new master, awaiting his command.

“What is your next move, master?” they asked in unison, their voices echoing through the battlefield's eerie silence.

Iscariot took a moment to survey the scene. The once bustling city now lay in ruins, a testament to the fierce conflict that had just taken place. He knew that this was only a temporary victory. The kingdom would not quickly abandon their city. They would return, seeking to reclaim what they had lost.

With a determined expression, Iscariot sat down on a piece of rubble, the weight of his new responsibilities settling upon him. “We will stay here and wait,” he declared, his voice firm and resolute. “They will want their city back. When they return, we will be ready.”

The lords of necromancy nodded, understanding the wisdom in his words. They dispersed to fortify their positions, preparing for the inevitable counterattack. Iscariot watched them go, his mind already planning the next steps. He needed to consolidate his power, ensure the loyalty of his new followers, and prepare for the challenges ahead.

As he sat there, his thoughts turned to the quest that had driven him to this point. The memory of his mother, banished and lost, filled his heart with a renewed sense of purpose. He would not rest until he had found a way to bring her back, to undo the banishment that had torn them apart. The path ahead was dangerous, but he was ready to face it.

Drawing on the ancient magic that now flowed through him, Iscariot began to weave a spell of protection around the city. The green light of necrotic energy shimmered in the air, creating a barrier shielding them from their enemies. As the spell took shape, he felt a sense of calm wash over him. The power of the bronze elves and dragons was his to command, and he would use it to achieve his goals.

The night wore on, and the city settled into an uneasy silence. The lords of necromancy patrolled the streets, their eyes ever watchful for signs of their enemies. Iscariot remained seated, his mind focused on the task at hand. He knew the battle was far from over, but he was confident in his ability to lead and protect his newfound domain.

The city was engulfed in a relentless siege. The living citizens, initially defiant, found themselves increasingly overwhelmed by the unyielding undead forces. As the siege dragged on, their fortifications, once strong and proud, were battered by wave after wave of relentless attacks.

The undead, undeterred by the living’s tenacity, pressed on with vigor. The remaining defenders quickly resurrected the fallen whenever a section of the city’s defenses was breached. This cycle of death and rebirth only prolonged the conflict, making each victory for the undead short-lived and hard-earned.

Amidst the chaos, Treston and Elias, masters of stealth, embarked on a crucial mission. Using their expertise, they infiltrated the heart of the city’s defenses, slipping through shadows and avoiding detection. Their goal was to uncover the sources of the city’s resurrection magic, the hidden halls where heroic souls were brought back to life to defend their city.

Treston and Elias located the concealed resurrection chambers through meticulous scouting and cunning. These places were fortified with ancient and powerful magic, ensuring that even the mightiest defenders could be brought back to the fray.

Once they pinpointed the locations of these critical sites, they swiftly reported their findings to Iscariot. The urgency of their message was clear: if the city’s ability to resurrect its fallen defenders were not neutralized, their siege would be futile.

Iscariot, fully aware of the stakes, acted decisively. With a wave of his hand, he summoned his necrotic energy, channeling it into a destructive force. The magic was precise and focused, aimed directly at the resurrection halls that Treston and Elias had identified.

Once bustling with the arcane energies of life and death, the halls began to crumble under the onslaught of Iscariot’s power. The walls cracked, the magical wards shattered, and the air was filled with the sound of collapsing structures and dissipating energies. Each hall that fell significantly affected the city’s ability to regenerate its forces.

As the last of the resurrection chambers fell, the undead forces intensified their assault. The living defenders, now bereft of their means to revive their fallen, began to falter. The undead pressed their advantage, pushing deeper into the city’s remaining defenses.

Once a bastion of resistance, the city was now in defeat. The living’s defenses crumbled, and their will to fight waned in the face of relentless undead onslaught. The once-mighty fortifications now stood as crumbling ruins, unable to withstand the overwhelming undead force.

Amid this tense atmosphere, a faint, familiar presence brushed against Iscariot's mind. It was Wispein, though her voice remained silent, carefully concealed. Despite her banishment, her mind still reached out, a silent beacon of support. Mah’nethotep’s touch had only temporarily severed their connection, and now she lingered in the shadows of his thoughts, careful not to reveal her presence too overtly.

Iscariot felt a subtle stir within his mind, a whisper of reassurance that did not intrude on his concentration. He sensed her presence but could not decipher her exact words. It was as if she was watching over him, but she remained silent, respecting his need to stay resolute and undistracted.

Her silence was deliberate, a way to avoid weakening his determination. She knew that any hint of her vulnerability might cloud his resolve, and she wanted him to remain focused on the task at hand. Her presence was a silent encouragement, a reminder of their bond and the purpose that drove him.

Iscariot drew strength from this intangible connection. Even though he could not hear her voice, her support was palpable. It bolstered his spirit, reinforcing his commitment to his goals. He took a deep breath, the weight of his new role settling upon him with a renewed sense of purpose.

The city around him was a battlefield still echoing with the remnants of conflict. The lords of necromancy, ever vigilant, prepared for the inevitable return of their enemies. Iscariot stood tall amidst the chaos, his resolve unshaken.