Hoat, Lavender, and the remaining Erenlond members burst through the gates of the Krimlond embassy, their faces pale and eyes wide with urgency. The usually calm and calculated Hoat was the first to rush inside, his breath ragged as he made his way toward the central chamber where Baroness Lina often held court. The ornate silver and emerald-decorated walls of the embassy blurred in his periphery as he focused solely on delivering the grim news.

Sensing the urgency in Hoat's demeanor, the guards immediately opened the doors, allowing him to enter without question. Inside, Baroness Lina stood with Gauge and Teric, their conversation halting abruptly as Hoat stormed in.

“Go on the defensive!” Hoat’s voice echoed through the chamber, tinged with fear and anger. “We’ve been ambushed!”

Lina’s sharp eyes narrowed, and she stepped forward, her twin silver swords glinting ominously at her sides. “Explain,” she demanded, her voice as cold and unforgiving as the icy winds of Krimlond’s coastline.

Hoat took a moment to catch his breath, his eyes meeting Lina’s. “We fell into a trap,” he began, his voice laden with grief and frustration. “A lord of necromancy was inside the keep. He slaughtered Runner and Talich before we could react. It was... it was Elias, the Lord of Ghouls. His presence alone paralyzed half our forces with fear.”

Standing just behind Hoat, Lavender lowered her head in sorrow, her hands still trembling from the encounter. The other Erenlond members who managed to escape looked equally shaken, their clothes torn and stained with dirt and blood.

Hoat’s voice broke slightly as he continued, “He’s taken Zavet, Lina. We tried to protect him, but Elias was too powerful, and... now he’s gone. We barely made it out alive.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of the news settling on everyone present. Lina’s expression hardened, her eyes blazing with fury and sorrow. “We will not let this stand,” she said, her voice cold and resolute. “Hoat, gather your forces. We’ll mobilize immediately.”

Lavender’s heart pounded as she turned to Lina, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “We must inform the Grove and the High Druid. They need to know what’s happening.”

Lina’s eyes, sharp as ever, met Lavender’s. She nodded, her voice low and commanding, “The more reinforcements, the better. Go, quickly.”

Without another word, Lavender spun on her heel and hurried out of the keep, her mind racing with the gravity of the situation. She barely registered the intricate carvings on the embassy walls or the guards who stepped aside to let her pass. Her focus was singular: reaching the forest as fast as possible.

The embassy’s heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind her as she emerged into the cool night air. The moonlight cast eerie shadows across the cobblestone path leading to the forest line. As she neared the edge of the woods, she noticed a figure emerging from the darkness—Flynn, one of the more enigmatic members of Erenlond.

“Are you heading to the Grove of High Druids?” Flynn asked, his voice calm yet probing.

Lavender nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “Yes,” she replied, her voice tinged with the sorrow of the recent events. She took a deep breath and recounted the harrowing ordeal at the keep.

Flynn listened intently, his expression darkening with each word. When she finished, he looked at her, his eyes sharp with suspicion. “Lavender, there’s something you need to know. Zavet, Talich, Runner, and Gauge—they’re all necromancers. Krimlond has been aiding them, knowingly.”

The revelation struck Lavender like a physical blow. She staggered back, her mind whirling as she pieced together the overlooked signs. Talich hadn’t turned undead like Runner had when he died. Zavet’s armor—ghoul flesh, she now realized with a shiver—and the fact that poison did not affect him. It all made a sickening kind of sense now.

“Were they putting on a show?” Lavender murmured, more to herself than to Flynn.

Flynn nodded grimly. “They claimed to have killed a lord of necromancy. But you and I both know that’s impossible for just two people. Two living people, anyway.”

Lavender’s resolve hardened, and she squared her shoulders. “We need to tell the High Druid. Now.”

Without another word, she approached a nearby tree, placing one hand on its rough bark. “By the power of nature,” she intoned, her voice filled with authority and reverence, “bring me to the place of creation.”

The tree responded to her command, its bark rippling like water. Before Flynn’s watchful eyes, the tree’s surface opened up, swallowing Lavender whole. A moment later, Flynn, a sly grin tugging at his lips, followed suit, vanishing into the ancient wood.

The world shifted around them, and they reappeared in a vast, serene meadow bathed in soft green light. At the meadow’s center stood a colossal oak tree, its leaves shimmering with an otherworldly glow. Treants, unicorns, and other mystical creatures roamed the area, but Lavender’s attention was drawn to the figure before the tree—a towering entity made of leaves, branches, and vines. His massive frame was crowned with elk antlers, giving him an imposing yet regal appearance.

“Lord Julian,” Lavender began, her voice filled with both reverence and urgency, “we are in dire need of help within Tiaghaneth.”

Julian, the embodiment of nature’s power, regarded her with wise, ancient eyes. He slowly lowered himself to sit on the grass, bringing his formidable presence down to their level. “What has happened, my faithful druids?” His voice was deep, resonating with the very earth beneath them.

Flynn stepped forward, his tone smooth but laced with deception as he recounted the events, ending with a pointed accusation. “The kingdom is knowingly aiding necromancers, Lord Julian.”

A heavy sigh escaped Julian as he absorbed the news. “I thought we had destroyed the Forgotten, but it seems the undead and necromancy have grown stronger and more numerous.”

Julian rose, his massive form towering over them once more as he approached the ancient oak tree. Placing a hand on its trunk, he spoke with grave determination, “Mother, we seek the power to destroy all necromancy. Now that they are all on our playing field, lend us your strength.”

Deep within the oak, a voice echoed, ancient and resonant, “We shall make the world tremble. This spell will bring many casualties, but it is the price we will pay to rid the world of necromancy once and for all.”

The ancient tree's roots began to hum, vibrating with a force that grew stronger with each passing second. The ground beneath Lavender’s feet trembled, the vibrations spreading from the oak in ripples. The air grew thick with the scent of earth and ozone as the power of nature was unleashed.

The vibrations intensified, escalating into a full-blown quake. The very ground seemed to groan under the strain, and the trees in the meadow began to sway violently. Then, with a deafening roar, the earth split open, cracks racing across the meadow and far beyond.

Back in the city, the effects were catastrophic. Buildings shuddered and swayed, their foundations cracking under the relentless force. Once proud and steadfast, the ornate spires of the Krimlond embassy crumbled like sandcastles, raining debris onto the streets below. The cobblestones buckled and heaved, sending people sprawling as they tried to flee the collapsing structures.

Screams filled the air as the earthquake continued to rage, the ground beneath the city tearing apart with relentless fury. Whole city sections sank into the earth, swallowed by the gaping chasms that opened up without warning. The once-grand city was reduced to chaos, its people struggling to survive the wrath of the earth itself.

Still in the meadow, Lavender and Flynn felt the reverberations of the devastation they had set in motion. The ground beneath them quaked with violence that mirrored the destruction unfolding in the city. His eyes closed, Julian stood resolute, his hand still pressed against the oak tree as the spell continued its destructive course.

Finally, the earthquake began to subside, the ground’s violent shaking slowing to a tremor before stilling altogether. The meadow was eerily quiet, the air heavy with the aftermath of the spell. But in the distance, the distant wails and screams from the shattered city could still be heard—a grim reminder of the cost of their actions.

Julian opened his eyes, the weight of the spell’s consequences evident in his gaze. “The world has been purged of necromancy, but the price... was high.”

Lavender and Flynn exchanged a glance, the magnitude of what they had done settling in their hearts like a stone.

Julian, Flynn, and Lavender stood in the meadow, unaware of the true extent of the devastation they had unleashed. They believed they had taken a necessary step to cleanse the world of necromancy, but they had no idea that the kingdom would never fully recover from the consequences of their actions.

Back in the city, chaos reigned. The once-thriving metropolis was reduced to a nightmarish landscape of rubble and despair. Merlot, the powerful leader of Razlond, was on his hands and knees, frantically digging through the debris. Dust clung to his sweat-drenched skin, and his usually composed demeanor had given way to panic.

He had been on top of the building when the earthquake hit, waiting for the queen to join him on the roof. She had just stepped inside when the ground started to heave, and the entire structure had collapsed within moments. All that remained was a mountain of shattered stone and twisted metal.

“Your Majesty!” Merlot’s voice, usually so strong and commanding, was hoarse with desperation. He clawed at the rubble, his hands bleeding as he tried to unearth any sign of life. “Please, someone! Anyone!” His cries echoed through the empty streets, but there was no response. The city, once bustling with activity, was eerily silent.

As he dug, Merlot’s mind raced. How could the world be so cruel? The lords of necromancy had been attacking the kingdom relentlessly, their undead armies overwhelming the defenses. They were losing, and he knew it. But now, in the earthquake's aftermath, the undead were nowhere to be seen. The threat had vanished, leaving only the devastation in its wake.

Merlot’s heart pounded in his chest as he tossed aside a large chunk of stone, hoping against hope to find the queen alive beneath it. But all he uncovered was more debris. His panic grew with each second, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He couldn’t lose her—not like this. Not after everything they had fought for.

“Please!” he shouted again, his voice breaking. “Please be alive!” But there was no answer, only the sound of the wind whispering through the ruins. The world felt unbearably empty, and a deep dread settled over him. He was a man of immense power, a warrior who had faced countless enemies, but now he felt utterly helpless.

Tears stung his eyes as he continued to dig, refusing to accept the reality slowly becoming undeniable. The queen, his queen, the woman he had sworn to protect, was gone. He had failed her. He had failed the kingdom.

Hours passed, but Merlot kept searching, his strength waning with each futile attempt. He ignored the pain in his hands, the exhaustion threatening to overtake him. All that mattered was finding her. But as the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the ruins, it became clear that his efforts were in vain.

Merlot slumped to the ground, his body trembling with grief and despair. The city lay in ruins around him, a testament to the horror that had befallen them. He had always believed in his ability to protect those he cared about, but now he realized that even his power had limits.

The queen was gone, and with her, the hope of the kingdom. The devastation wrought by the earthquake was beyond anything he could have imagined, and the future of Tiaghaneth was now shrouded in uncertainty. The lords of necromancy had been a threat, but now, as Merlot looked out over the broken city, he understood that the true danger had come from within.

Deep in his heart, the world had changed irrevocably, and he knew nothing would ever be the same again.

The city of Tiaghaneth was not just devastated by the earthquake—it was cursed. Iscariot's spell lingered, a dark cloud over the city that twisted death into something unnatural. As Merlot searched desperately for the queen, he couldn’t have known that the true horror was yet to be revealed.

Beneath the piles of rubble, those who had perished in the catastrophe were not at peace. The spell woven by Iscariot ensured that death was no longer the end but a grotesque continuation. The citizens who had lost their lives in the chaos did not simply die; they became trapped in a state of undeath. Their hearts no longer beat, their lungs no longer needed air, and hunger was a forgotten sensation. Yet, they lingered, entombed beneath the debris, their bodies cold and still, but their souls tethered to their decaying forms.

As the dust settled over the ruined city, the eerie silence was occasionally broken by the soft rustle of movement from within the rubble. The undead stirred, but they did not rise. Iscariot's curse was insidious—it kept them bound, neither fully dead nor alive, leaving them to rot in their stone and metal prisons.

This cruel twist of fate compounded the tragedy. The earthquake had taken countless lives, but instead of rest, these souls were condemned to a form of stasis, buried alive in a state of perpetual limbo. Their families, those who survived, would face the unimaginable task of digging through the ruins, not just to mourn the dead, but to find them, destroy their undead bodies, and release their spirits so they could be resurrected.

As the earthquake began to shake the foundations of Tiaghaneth, Iscariot floated above the city, surveying the chaos unfolding below. His dark cloak billowed in the wind, and his eyes glowed with the malevolent energy that had fueled his necromantic conquests. He had just arrived at the location where the undead Runner had informed him Zavet was being held—a place that, under normal circumstances, would have been an easy target for Iscariot’s power.

But these were not normal circumstances.

The ground beneath him heaved and buckled, buildings crumbled like sandcastles, and the earth roared in agony. The city was in the throes of destruction, but Iscariot focused on his quarry. Zavet. He had been so close to capturing him, to bending his will to the dark purposes of necromancy. But as the earthquake intensified, Iscariot’s plans began to unravel.

Zavet, sensing the danger, seized the moment. As the ground split open and structures collapsed around him, Zavet made his move. He had been trapped, but now the chaos of the earthquake provided him with an unexpected opportunity. Amid the upheaval, Elias, the lord of necromancy who had been holding him captive, was pinned under a massive slab of stone. The weight of the rubble immobilized Elias, and for the first time, Zavet saw a chance for freedom.

With a swift and decisive motion, Zavet drove his blade into Elias, piercing the heart of the necromancer. The lord of necromancy’s eyes widened in shock as the fatal blow was delivered. His body convulsed, and the dark energies that had sustained him flickered and dimmed. In those final moments, Elias’s grip on life was severed, and he crumbled into the dust of the ruined city.

Iscariot watched the scene unfold from above, powerless to intervene. He could only observe as one of his most powerful allies was struck down. The death of Elias was a devastating blow, but it was not the only loss Iscariot would suffer that day. The earthquake’s wrath was indiscriminate, and the earth claimed two other lords of necromancy in its wake. Their lives were snuffed out instantly, their dominion over the undead severed.

As the tremors continued to rock the city, Iscariot could feel the death of his creations rippling through his being. The undead hordes he had painstakingly raised and commanded were annihilated in the blink of an eye. The ground opened up and swallowed them, the buildings collapsed and crushed them, and the air seemed to tear apart their existence. The losses were catastrophic, and for the first time in his long reign of terror, Iscariot felt a pang of fear.

Only four lords of necromancy remained now—Emmett, the lord of Revenants; Emmerich, the lord of Death Knights; Behr, the lord of Banshees; and Merek, the lord of Liches. They were powerful, but the balance of power had shifted dramatically. The earthquake had done more damage to their forces than any battle they had ever faced.

As Iscariot hovered above the city, paralyzed by the magnitude of the destruction, a familiar voice echoed in his mind. It was the voice that had guided him through so many trials and conquests, a voice that had never led him astray. But now, there was a note of caution, even fear, in its tone.

“This is an unknown force, Iscariot,” the voice warned. “We cannot comprehend its full extent. Retreat now before it claims you as well.”

Is that panic? Iscariot thought, feeling a deep unease in the voice's message. But even he could not deny the logic. The earthquake had unleashed a power beyond his control that had already decimated his ranks and taken the lives of four lords of necromancy. To stay would be to court disaster, to risk his destruction.

Krimlond’s forces took three long, exhausting days to regroup after the earthquake, and the true test was not in rebuilding but in surviving. The warriors of Krimlond, who had always prided themselves on their strength and unity, were now pushed to their limits. Exhausted and battered, they gathered just outside the ruined city, their faces etched with weariness but also with a determination that refused to die.

Zavet, Talich, Runner, and the others had somehow escaped the disaster. Talich and Runner had fallen during the chaos; their lives snuffed out amid the turmoil. But in a remarkable display of quick thinking and leadership, Gauge took charge of the resurrection hall, clearing it first and ensuring that his fallen comrades were brought back to life a day later. The hall, usually a place of solemn ritual, became the heart of their survival—a place where hope was rekindled.

The camp outside the city was hastily assembled, a patchwork of tents and shelters, but it was more than just a physical refuge—it was a testament to their resilience. Fires burned in the center, casting flickering light on the faces of those around them. These were the survivors, men and women who had faced the unthinkable and lived to tell the tale. They were bruised and scarred, both physically and emotionally, but there was a spark in their eyes, a fierce determination that could not be extinguished.

Conversations around the fires were low and intense. They spoke of those who had fallen, of close calls and miraculous escapes. Zavet, now among them, shared his own harrowing experience, his voice steady but filled with the weight of what he had endured. There were no grand speeches, no declarations of victory—only a quiet understanding that they had survived something extraordinary. And in that survival, they found strength.

Despite their weariness, the survivors of Krimlond were not idle. They knew that to rebuild and recover, they needed to act swiftly and decisively. Zavet, despite the exhaustion that hung over him like a shroud, took on a crucial role. With his unique ability to detect necromantic energy, he roamed the ruined city, guided by an almost preternatural sense of the dark magic that had ensnared its people.

His journey through the wreckage was both grim and urgent. The city’s ruins were a labyrinth of destruction, where every creak of debris and every shadow held the potential for new horrors. Zavet’s senses led him to those trapped beneath the rubble. Citizens claimed by Iscariot’s spell and turned undead. Their bodies lay entombed in the wreckage, neither truly dead nor alive, caught in a state of unnatural stasis.

Zavet approached each of these unfortunate souls. He used his blade to end their suffering, a swift and merciful act to release them from their state of limbo. Each death was a painful reminder of the cost of the disaster, but it was also a necessary step toward restoring some semblance of normalcy. By killing these undead, Zavet ensured they could be resurrected properly, giving them a chance to return to the world of the living.

As he moved from one location to another, Zavet was driven by the knowledge that his actions were vital for the city's future. The task was grueling and emotionally taxing, but he remained focused, determined to bring back as many of the city’s people as possible. Finding, killing, and allowing the trapped citizens to resurrect was a relentless cycle, but it needed to be completed for Krimlond to heal.

Amid the devastation, Zavet’s efforts were a beacon of hope. Each rescued citizen was a testament to the survivors' resilience and commitment to reclaiming their homes. The city’s recovery began through rebuilding the physical structures and the revival of its people, who would help forge a new path from the ruins.

Flynn and Lavender stood before the imposing canvas tent, its exterior marked by the crests of Tiaghaneth and the White Orchid Knights. The scent of damp earth filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of burning wood from nearby campfires. The camp, still in the midst of recovery, was a stark reminder of the devastation that had befallen the kingdom.

As they approached, one of the White Orchid Knights, a broad-shouldered man clad in gleaming armor, stepped forward, raising a hand to halt them. "Do you have an appointment with His Majesty?" he asked, his tone firm but not unkind.

Lavender, her green eyes steady, shook her head. "No, but we’ve uncovered something critical and need to inform His Majesty immediately."

The knight studied them for a moment before nodding. "Wait here." He disappeared into the tent, leaving Flynn and Lavender in the uneasy quiet of the camp. The soft murmur of voices from within the tent was the only sound.

Moments later, the tent flap was pushed aside, and Merlot, the interim ruler of Tiaghaneth, emerged with the knight by his side. His face was drawn, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion and worry. "Did you find her?" he asked, his voice edged with desperation.

Flynn stepped forward, his expression grave. "No, Your Majesty. But we found something just as pressing—two necromancers who’ve been posing as our allies."

Merlot’s expression darkened, frustration flaring in his tired eyes. "More allegations," he muttered, almost to himself, "when we should be focusing on finding our people—our Queen."

Lavender took a deep breath, her voice steady but urgent. "Your Majesty, it’s crucial that we root out these necromancers and the undead. They are a blight upon the world, and we must rid ourselves of them."

Flynn nodded, his expression resolute. "It’s Zavet and Talich, Your Majesty. Just as I suspected and warned during the last meeting."

Merlot’s gaze sharpened, turning icy as he regarded Flynn. "Flynn, didn’t you once accuse your baron and nearly all your barony of being necromancers? After that fiasco, how long did it take to restore Krimlond’s reputation in the kingdom? If you’re so eager to spy on them, perhaps you should join Erenlond and let Krimlond focus on what they do best without your interference." His words cut through the air like a blade, deliberate and unyielding.

Flynn’s face flushed with anger. "It’s illegal to be a necromancer! Are you saying they can break the law because they’re from Krimlond?"

Merlot let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "You don’t even know the laws you’re so keen to enforce. It’s illegal to consort with, create, or control undead. Being a necromancer, in itself, isn’t a crime. Just like last time, you’re stirring up trouble that will only get more people killed." He paused, his voice lowering to a cold whisper. "By the way, Flynn, did you ever find your wife and children?"

The question hit Flynn like a physical blow, and he stammered, his anger faltering. "You lie… That’s not true… They are uhh…" His eyes darted around, the weight of Merlot’s words sinking in as he realized the truth. His accusations and suspicions had so consumed him that he had not even searched for his own family.

Lavender’s eyes widened in horror, her hands trembling as she dropped her head, overwhelmed by guilt and shame.

Merlot’s expression hardened further as he stepped forward, his knuckles white as his fists clenched at his sides. Without warning, he delivered a swift punch to Flynn’s nose. The impact sent Flynn stumbling back, crashing to the ground. Blood streamed from his nose, his eyes wide with shock.

One of the White Orchid Knights quickly placed himself between Merlot and Flynn, preventing any further retaliation from Flynn, whose face was now contorted with a mix of pain and fury.

Flynn spat blood onto the grass, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage. "This is why we sought out the Grove of the High Druid! He saved our kingdom with that earthquake!" His words hung in the air, the implication of his statement slowly dawning on everyone present.

Merlot’s face drained of color, his voice breaking as he spoke. "What did you just say?"

A twisted smile spread across Flynn’s face, sensing the impact of his revelation. "I said. Lavender and I are the ones to thank for the lords of necromancy retreating. We bought the kingdom time to find our people and rebuild."

Lavender’s face paled, panic flashing as she grabbed Flynn’s arm, trying to stop him. "Shut up, Flynn! That’s not what happened!"

But it was too late. Merlot’s legs gave out from under him, and he collapsed to the grass, expressing utter devastation. "You… you did this?" he whispered, his voice choked with grief. "Our city… our people… My wife… my son, and my daughter… They lost their lives because of that earthquake. They were children… their souls too young to be heroic. They won’t resurrect… My wife… we don’t know if her soul was strong enough…"

The White Orchid Knights, sensing the gravity of the situation, moved swiftly to encircle Flynn and Lavender. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords, ready to act at a moment’s notice.

The knight who had first addressed Flynn and Lavender stepped forward, his voice cold and authoritative. "Flynn, Lavender, by order of His Majesty, you are under arrest for your actions leading to the devastation of our kingdom and the loss of countless lives. You will be taken into custody and judged for your crimes."

Flynn struggled to his feet, his face a mask of fury and defiance. "You can’t do this! We saved the kingdom! We—"

The knight silenced him with a stern look. "You’ve done enough. Take them away."

Two other knights moved in, binding Flynn and Lavender’s hands with enchanted chains that glowed faintly, ensuring they couldn’t use any magic to escape. Flynn’s protests were drowned out by the sound of clinking chains and the grim silence of the camp.

As Flynn and Lavender were led away, Merlot remained seated on the grass, his head bowed, consumed by the weight of his grief. The White Orchid Knights stood by him, their presence a silent show of support for their broken leader.

As the knights led Flynn and Lavender away, the heavy atmosphere inside the camp seemed to settle like a suffocating blanket. The silence was broken by the soft rustle of the tent flap, and Yvonne, Merlot’s only remaining child, emerged. She appeared youthful, barely more than a teenager, but the weight of responsibility had aged her beyond her years. She wore battle gear, a polished breastplate and greaves, with a sword strapped to her side, the hilt well-worn from training and use. Her silver eyes, a hallmark of her lineage, gleamed with a mix of concern and determination.

Yvonne took in the scene—the disheveled state of her father, the knights’ tense stances, and the lingering presence of the druids, now being escorted away. Her heart ached at the sight of her father, who had always been a pillar of strength, now crumbling under the weight of his grief and anger. She stepped forward, her voice soft yet steady. "Father, are you okay?"

Merlot looked up, his tear-streaked face a portrait of sorrow and despair. The sight of Yvonne, his only living child, standing before him in battle gear, was both a comfort and a reminder of everything he had lost. His composure shattered, and he broke down, his tears flowing freely. For a moment, he was not the powerful leader of Tiaghaneth but a father grieving for the children and wife he would never see again.

Yvonne knelt beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. She said nothing, allowing her presence to offer the solace words could not.

After a long moment, Merlot’s tears began to subside. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his grief hardening into resolve. His voice, though raw, carried the authority of a king. "The druids," he began, his tone laced with the weight of his decision, "are to be watched closely. If they do anything—anything at all—we are to know about it immediately."

Yvonne listened intently, her expression solemn. She knew her father’s words carried the weight of a decree, one that would reshape the way the druids were treated within the kingdom.

"If they kill anyone without our knowledge," Merlot continued, his voice growing firmer, "they are to be treated as murderers. I don’t care if they witness a necromancer raising the dead or anything of that nature. They must report their findings to one of our knights. Only then will an investigation be conducted. The druids are not to be trusted."

Yvonne’s eyes widened slightly, but she quickly masked her surprise. She understood the gravity of her father’s words—this was not a mere suggestion but a command that would alter the delicate balance between the kingdom’s forces and the druids.

"Do you understand, Yvonne?" Merlot asked, his gaze locking onto hers. He needed to know that his daughter, his heir, comprehended the importance of this directive.

Yvonne nodded solemnly. "Yes, Father. I will ensure that the knights carry out your orders."

Merlot’s expression softened slightly as he looked at his only remaining family, Yvonne. "We cannot afford any more losses," he whispered, his voice heavy with the pain of recent events. "The kingdom is on the brink… We must control what we can."

Yvonne tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword, feeling the weight of her father’s expectations settling on her shoulders. "I will do everything I can to protect the kingdom, Father. You have my word."

Merlot gave a slow nod, the faintest hint of a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. "I know you will, Yvonne. You are your mother’s daughter—strong and unwavering."

Yvonne stood, helping her father to his feet, her arm gently supporting his weary frame. As they began to walk back toward the tent, she glanced back at Flynn and Lavender, their figures slowly disappearing into the distance. The druids, once revered for their wisdom and connection to nature, had now become symbols of disruption and distrust.

Merlot’s voice, though soft, carried a weight of authority that pierced through his grief. “The druids have upended our lives once again,” he murmured, his tone tinged with a mixture of frustration and sorrow. He turned to Yvonne, his gaze steady but tired. “It’s time for you to start learning what it means to be queen, Yvonne. I want you to go and talk with the High Druid at the Grove. They need to understand the consequences of their actions.”

Yvonne nodded, though her heart sank at the thought. She had always found the druids exasperating, with their aloof demeanor and their tendency to prioritize nature over the kingdom’s immediate needs. Yet, she understood the importance of maintaining a dialogue, even with those she found difficult. “I’ll go, Father,” she replied, her voice steady. “But after I speak to the High Druid, we need time to mourn. We’ve lost so much… it’s overwhelming.”

Merlot nodded in agreement. “Your mother’s side of the family has a beautiful ancestral home, secluded and known only to our inner circle. It’s where your grandparents live. We’ll go there after your visit to the grove. It will give us some peace, a chance to remember and grieve properly.”

Yvonne felt a wave of relief at the thought of retreating to the ancestral home, a place untouched by the recent turmoil. The idea of being surrounded by family, in a haven far from the chaos of the kingdom, was a comforting one. “Thank you, Father,” she said softly, as she gently escorted him toward the tent. “I’ll speak to the druids, though I must admit… I’m not looking forward to it. They always act as if they’re above the kingdom’s laws, as if their connection to the land makes them more important than the rest of us.”

Merlot managed a weak smile at his daughter’s candidness. “I know, Yvonne. But that’s exactly why you need to go. We need to remind them of their place, that they’re part of this kingdom, not above it. While you’re there, ask them to supply wood and iron to help rebuild what they destroyed. It’s the least they can do.”

As they reached the tent, the flap opened, revealing Elandor Silverleaf, the kingdom’s archmage. The elf’s presence was calming, and his aura was one of ancient wisdom and quiet strength. He was seated at the table, his piercing silver eyes taking in the sight of the two as they entered.

“Your Majesties,” Elandor greeted them with a respectful nod. His voice was smooth, carrying the melodic cadence of his kind. “I have been keeping tabs on the one known as Zavet. You will be glad to know that he is not truly a necromancer in the traditional sense. The transformation that made him a lizard man was due to residual raw magic from the Moon of Necromancy. He didn’t seek out necromantic power; it’s simply part of his nature now. But despite this, he is a good-hearted soul. And, I must add, quite young—perhaps no more than three years old.”

Yvonne guided her father to a chair, helping him sit down before turning her attention to the archmage. A genuine smile lit up her face at the mention of Zavet. “Hello, Master Silverleaf,” she said warmly. “I’m glad to hear that Zavet is good. He made me laugh during the tournament. There’s something endearing about him, despite everything.”

Merlot, however, did not immediately respond. He sat with his head bowed, his mind still burdened by the weight of his losses. Elandor noticed this, and a frown creased his ageless face. He hesitated for a moment, then pressed on, determined to lift the spirits of his king.

“I have more good news,” Elandor continued, his tone gentle but firm. “From what I’ve gathered, Zavet has an unusual gift—he can smell the undead. The rumors say he has found more survivors than all of our search parties combined.”

Merlot’s head slowly lifted at this revelation, his eyes focusing on the archmage. The news seemed to spark a small but significant shift in his demeanor. “Where is he now?” Merlot asked, his voice more alert than it had been since they’d entered the tent. “I’d like to join him and help with the search. I need to do something—anything—besides sitting here and crying. I need to contribute.”

Elandor nodded, sensing the importance of this request. “He’s currently near the city's outskirts, continuing the search for survivors. I can have one of the knights take you to him.”

Yvonne watched her father closely, her heart aching for him. She understood that he needed this to focus on a task, to find a way to channel his grief into something productive. “I’ll stay here and ensure the kingdom runs smoothly while you’re away,” she said softly. “And I’ll handle the druids. Go, Father. Do what you need to do.”

Merlot looked at his daughter, his eyes filled with a complex mixture of love, pain, and gratitude. He reached out, placing a hand on her cheek. “Thank you, Yvonne,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “You’ve grown into someone your mother would be so proud of.”

Yvonne placed her hand over his, squeezing it gently. “We’ll get through this, Father. Together.”

With a final nod, Merlot stood, his resolve firming as he prepared to join Zavet in the search for survivors. Elandor summoned a knight to escort him, and as they left the tent, Yvonne turned back to the table, her mind already racing with the tasks that lay ahead. She sat down at the table next to elandor. “Can you take me to the druids to be my adviser? I most definitely will need one.” Elandor nods and puts his hand gently over hers “of course. We will even bring a unit of knights.” He said gently

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The hour-long trek through the ruined city weighed heavily on Merlot's spirit. Every step brought back memories of the life he once knew: the bustling streets, the laughter of children, and the sound of markets filled with life. Now, it was nothing but silence, interrupted only by the distant creaks of the rubble shifting as the city groaned under its own destruction.

At last, they spotted Zavet. The lizard-man was hunched over, working alone in a large pit of debris. His scales seemed dull, and his face looked paler than Merlot had ever seen before, an unsettling contrast to the energy he displayed during the tournament. Zavet was digging furiously, his movements efficient but lacking the strength of purpose they once held.

Merlot approached carefully, stepping over broken beams and scattered stone. “You don't mind if I help you, do you?” he asked softly, his voice carrying a gentle kindness.

Zavet looked up, his yellow eyes tired and dull. He forced a small, strained smile as if it took more energy than it should. “Ok,” he answered quietly, his tone devoid of enthusiasm.

Merlot crouched beside him, taking in Zavet's worn appearance. The lizard-man looked exhausted, his scales scraped and bruised from constant work. Despite the clear signs of fatigue, Zavet continued his task with methodical precision, digging through the wreckage as if the weight of the entire kingdom rested on his shoulders.

Merlot took a deep breath, introducing himself, “My name is Merlot.”

Zavet nodded weakly, acknowledging the introduction without pausing in his work. Meanwhile, the White Orchid knight who had accompanied Merlot, Ulrich, maintained a respectful distance, his eyes scanning the area for potential threats. He stepped forward with a nod and introduced himself, “Ulrich Orchid.”

Merlot shot Ulrich a knowing look and smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “That’s the queen’s older brother. Bit of an asshole, though,” he added with a chuckle. “Necessary, but everything that comes out of his mouth is… well, shit.”

Ulrich laughed and tossed a small piece of broken brick playfully at Merlot, the levity of the moment bringing a brief flicker of life back to the scene. Zavet looked up at them with furrowed brows, his expression serious. “That’s not nice,” he said quietly, clearly not amused by their banter.

Without warning, Zavet bent down and effortlessly lifted a massive chunk of debris—at least three hundred pounds, Merlot guessed—and tossed it aside as if it weighed nothing. Beneath the rubble, a decaying, broken form stirred—a citizen of the city turned undead by the lingering necromantic energies that still plagued the area.

Zavet’s face grew solemn. He crouched down, his clawed hand gripping a small dagger. With a swift, practiced motion, he plunged the blade into the heart of the undead, its hollow eyes going blank as it crumbled into dust. Merlot watched in silence as shadows began to swirl from the dagger, twisting and curling through the air like smoke. The shadows coalesced around Zavet’s wrists, forming bracers made of black leather and shadow as if the very essence of death had gifted him this dark armor.

Merlot reached down, offering Zavet a hand, pulling him out of the rubble pit. Zavet climbed out without a word, his face still grim. He barely acknowledged Merlot’s help, instead moving immediately to the next pile of debris. Merlot watched him for a moment, his heart heavy with a mixture of concern and admiration for the young lizard-man’s resilience.

The night dragged on as the three of them continued their grim task. With each new pile of rubble they unearthed, more undead emerged—former citizens who had been trapped and consumed by the dark magic that had ravaged the city. Zavet moved tirelessly from one site to the next, his strength never faltering despite the increasing weight of the dead they discovered.

Merlot and Ulrich worked alongside him, doing what they could to assist. For every broken body they uncovered, Zavet delivered a swift and merciful blow, dispatching the undead with a practiced efficiency that betrayed his inexperience in years. The shadows that had gathered around his wrists grew darker and denser with each kill, though Zavet paid them no mind, his focus solely on his grim duty.

As the hours passed, the city around them remained eerily silent, save for the occasional shifting of stone and the soft moans of the undead as they were found. The moon hung high in the sky, casting pale light over the shattered remnants of the kingdom.

Finally, as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Merlot could feel exhaustion pulling at him. His muscles ached, his hands were raw from lifting stone, and his heart felt heavier with every step. He turned to Zavet, who was still digging with the same intensity he had started with hours ago.

“Zavet,” Merlot called softly, approaching the lizard man. “We need to rest. We’ve been at this all night.”

Zavet didn’t respond. He continued working, pulling another stone slab free and tossing it aside. His eyes were unfocused, his movements almost mechanical. It was clear he was running on nothing but sheer willpower at this point.

Merlot frowned, placing a hand on Zavet’s shoulder. “We need sleep, Zavet. You’ve done more than enough tonight. Let’s stop for now.”

Zavet finally paused, glancing over at Merlot. His face was blank, devoid of the emotions Merlot had grown accustomed to seeing from the young lizard-man. Without a word, Zavet shook his head and turned back to the rubble, resuming his work in silence.

Merlot sighed heavily, exchanging a glance with Ulrich, who had been watching the exchange. Ulrich’s expression mirrored Merlot’s own concern, but neither of them pressed Zavet further. They simply continued to work alongside him, knowing that trying to force him to stop would be futile.

And so, they continued, working through the rubble until the city was bathed in the soft glow of morning light.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the war-torn streets, Merlot turned to Ulrich, his expression weary but determined. “Let’s go talk to Lina,” he suggested. Ulrich nodded, knowing well that the day was far from over. The two men left Zavet to his grim tasks, making their way to the Krimlond embassy.

The city was eerily quiet as they walked, the echoes of the past night's work haunting them. The once grand structures of the city now lay in ruins, and the silence was only broken by the distant sounds of the undead that Zavet tirelessly hunted. It was a somber reminder of the destruction wrought upon their kingdom.

Upon arriving at the Krimlond embassy, the guards at the entrance immediately recognized the two men and stood aside, allowing them entry without question. Merlot, despite his exhaustion, maintained a calm demeanor. “Can you direct me to Lina?” he asked one of the guards, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

The guard, a young man with a stern face, hesitated before replying, “She is still sleeping, Your Majesty.”

Merlot nodded understandingly. “Don’t wake her,” he instructed. “But can you have someone prepare breakfast for Sir Ulrich and me? We’ve been with Zavet all night.”

The guard gave a sharp nod before heading off to the kitchens, where he knew the staff would likely still be sleeping after the long night. The embassy was quieter than usual, the air thick with the exhaustion that permeated the entire city.

Merlot and Ulrich found their way to the common room, a spacious area with heavy wooden tables and chairs arranged for the embassy’s guests. The room, usually bustling with activity, was now almost empty, save for a few remnants of the night before. As Merlot sat down, his eyes landed on a large form sleeping on a pallet on the floor. He didn’t need to ask; he knew it was one of Krimlond’s own, too exhausted to make it to a proper bed after the previous day’s turmoil.

Ulrich sank into the chair beside him with a sigh of relief. The knight’s usually composed demeanor had been worn thin by the relentless strain of the past few days. “I’m going to need some sleep soon, Your Majesty,” Ulrich admitted, his voice laced with fatigue. “I haven’t slept in three days. I can’t fight like this.”

Merlot nodded, his concern evident in the creases of his brow. “I’ll be fine, Ulrich. Go get some rest. You’ve more than earned it.” Ulrich hesitated for a moment, clearly reluctant to leave his king, but the exhaustion won out. He rose from his chair and left the room, heading for the servant quarters where he could finally find some respite.

As Ulrich departed, a guard entered the common room carrying a large bowl filled with a hearty breakfast—diced potatoes, scrambled eggs, tomatoes, and sausage all mixed together. The aroma filled the room, a small comfort in the midst of so much loss. The guard set the bowl down in front of Merlot, his face apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir,” the guard said humbly. “Nobody was in the kitchen, and I didn’t know who worked there, so I made you what I had for breakfast this morning.”

Merlot managed a tired smile, grateful for the gesture. “Thank you,” he said, his voice warm. The simple meal was a welcome relief after the long night, and Merlot dug in, savoring the flavors as much as his exhaustion would allow. But before he could finish the bowl, sleep finally overtook him. His head dipped forward, resting on the table as he slipped into a deep, much-needed sleep.

Sometime later, Merlot felt a gentle hand shaking his shoulder. He blinked his eyes open, groggy and disoriented. Hoat was standing beside him, concern etched on his face. “Hey, bud, get up,” Hoat said softly. “Let’s get you to a bed.”

Merlot mumbled incoherently, his mind still foggy from sleep. “I went and helped Zavet,” he managed to say, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Someone needs to make him take a break. That poor child needs some rest… and food. Then I want to go back out with him.”

Hoat nodded, understanding the strain Merlot was under. He gently patted Merlot on the back and helped him to his feet. “I’ll send Runner out to get him,” Hoat reassured him. “But that kid’s been through a lot. They tortured him, even if it was just for a short time. He’s having a rough go of it, especially with some people blaming him for all of this.”

Merlot’s heart sank at the thought. He hung his head, the weight of guilt and sorrow pressing down on him. “So it’s not him,” he said softly as if trying to convince himself. “As I suspected. Elandor told me he was good… I heard rumors he killed a lord of necromancy by himself.”

A voice from the corner of the room interrupted their conversation. Talich, who had been resting on the pallet, sat up and stretched, his muscles stiff from sleep. “He killed two of them,” Talich said, his voice gravelly from disuse. “He took down Elias and Kyln.”

The names meant little to Merlot, who was not deeply versed in the hierarchy of necromancers, but the gravity of Talich’s words was not lost on him. Few knew the names of the lords of necromancy, but the fact that Zavet had taken down not one but two of them was a feat that would have sent ripples through the kingdom had it not been overshadowed by the catastrophic events that followed.

Merlot looked at Talich with a mix of awe and concern. The realization that this young lizard-man, barely old enough to understand his own power, had played such a crucial role in the battle against the necromancers left Merlot both impressed and deeply troubled. How much more would this boy have to endure before it broke him? How much more could he take before the burden became too great?

“I’m sorry,” Merlot said quietly, though it was unclear whether he was speaking to Talich, Hoat, or simply to the universe at large. “I didn’t know.”

Talich offered a small, tired smile. “None of us did,” he replied. “But we know now. And we’ll do what we can to protect him. He’s been through hell, and he’s still standing. That counts for something.”

Merlot nodded, the resolve in his heart hardening. Zavet needed protection, guidance, and rest. And Merlot would make sure he got it.

Merlot’s exhaustion was so profound that he barely remembered the walk to the private quarters. Each step felt heavier than the last, his body betraying his mind’s determination to stay upright. The corridors blurred together, and it was only thanks to Hoat’s steady support that Merlot didn’t collapse before reaching the bed. At some point, Hoat had to half-carry him, his strength the only thing keeping Merlot from sinking to the floor in sheer exhaustion.

By the time they reached the private quarters, Merlot’s awareness had faded almost entirely. He felt the soft give of the mattress beneath him, the cool sheets against his skin, but the sensation was distant. Sleep pulled him under before he could even offer Hoat a word of thanks. His last conscious thought was of Zavet, the young lizard-man he had left to continue his grim work among the ruins.

Meanwhile, as Merlot drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, Runner was already making his way through the devastated city, searching for Zavet. The morning sun had risen fully now, casting a pale light over the shattered remnants of the once-thriving capital. The streets were eerily silent, with only the occasional sound of debris shifting or distant voices breaking the quiet.

Runner’s heart was heavy as he picked his way through the rubble, his mind replaying the events of the past days. The devastation was overwhelming, and it seemed impossible that the city could ever recover from such a blow. Yet, despite the chaos and the destruction, one thought remained clear in Runner’s mind: he had to find Zavet.

The young lizard-man had been through more than anyone should endure, and Runner knew that if Zavet continued to push himself, it would only be a matter of time before he broke. His pace quickened as he moved through the ruins, his eyes scanning the debris for any sign of Zavet. He searched building after building, checking every crevice and corner where the young man might have taken refuge.

It wasn’t until nearly midday that Runner finally found him. Inside a building that had somehow survived the earthquake relatively intact, Zavet lay unconscious, curled up on the cold stone floor. The sight of him, so small and vulnerable, tugged at Runner’s heart. The lizardman’s usually vibrant black scales were dulled with exhaustion, his breathing shallow and uneven. It was clear that Zavet had pushed himself far beyond his limits.

Runner’s first instinct was to rouse him, to shake him awake and make sure he was all right. But as he knelt beside the young man, the exhaustion etched into every line of Zavet’s face stopped him. This wasn’t just the tiredness of a long day’s work—this was the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of someone who had carried too much for too long.

Runner sat down next to Zavet, leaning back against the cold stone wall. He glanced around the room, noting how it had weathered the quake with minimal damage. It was a small blessing in a city otherwise devastated. The thought crossed his mind that they had been incredibly fortunate that the Krimlond embassy had also survived unscathed. Had the quake hit there with the same force it had elsewhere, the losses would have been unimaginable.

With a deep sigh, Runner allowed himself to relax for the first time in what felt like days. His body ached with fatigue, and he knew that he, too, had been running on empty. But he couldn’t leave Zavet alone—not like this. So, he stayed where he was, his eyes growing heavier with each passing minute.

The room was quiet, the only sound the soft, rhythmic breathing of the two resting figures. Despite the destruction outside, there was a strange sense of peace in this small, undisturbed corner of the city. Runner could feel sleep tugging at him, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to fight it off for much longer.

With a final glance at Zavet to make sure he was still breathing steadily, Runner allowed his eyes to close. He let himself drift off into sleep, his head resting back against the wall. And there, in the midst of a ruined city, the two warriors slept side by side by side.

Elandor Silverleaf trekked through the rugged terrain of the ancient mountains, where legends said the final stand of the Bronze Elves against the dragons took place. The air was thick with the weight of history, and the very earth beneath his feet seemed to hum with memories of a battle fought long before the reckoning of men. To most, the Dragon Wars were a tale from a thousand years ago, but Elandor knew better. The truth, buried beneath layers of myth, spoke of a conflict twenty thousand years old, when Wispein, the dreaded dragon, was defeated and woven into the web of magic that held the very moons in place. This web, a tapestry of arcane energy, was the source of the world’s connection to the moons—a bond that allowed for powerful imbuements and the rarest of rituals that drew upon lunar magic.

But Elandor was not here for history’s sake. He sought a cave, not just any cave, but the hidden lair of Adair, the ancient guardian. Adair was no ordinary dragon; he was the third dragon ever created, a green wyrm, younger and far weaker than his ancestors, yet immeasurably significant. Unlike the mighty dragons of myth, Adair’s power was intertwined with the world itself, making him the sole creature imbued with its primal magic. He was the originator and teacher of druidic magic, though the High Druid would fervently deny this truth, insisting that such magic was born of the world itself, taught by the forests and animals. Yet the truth remained that Adair had nurtured this magic, though he held no connection to the revered Grove.

After days of searching, Elandor finally found the entrance to the cave, an ominous maw on the side of the mountain. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside, the air growing cooler and more oppressive with each step. The darkness was absolute, but he pressed on, feeling the weight of the earth and time itself.

Finally, he stopped in the cavern's heart, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness. “Oh great, Adair, Guardian of the world. Tiaghaneth needs your aid. The Moon of Undeath has fallen, and we fear the web has weakened.”

The silence that followed was deafening, but then the ground began to tremble, and the cave walls shook. A colossal shadow loomed on the wall, growing larger as it approached. Elandor stood his ground as the shadow resolved into a towering figure—a human-like form covered in green and brown scales, his presence filling the cavern. Adair, the dragon in his humanoid form, stretched and smiled at the mage, his eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom.

He spoke, but the words were an alien tongue, one not spoken in this world for eons. Elandor frowned, unable to understand. “The common language, your guardianship,” he requested, his voice steady but respectful.

Adair raised an eyebrow at the interruption, then nodded slightly before speaking again, this time in the common tongue. “What year is it?”

Elandor replied, “1648 AT.”

Adair’s eyes widened in surprise. “I went back in time? Again? Damn, I was in the future.” He turned as if to leave, but Elandor, sensing the urgency of his mission, stepped forward, blocking his path.

“Adair, please. We are in dire need of the Gathering of Heroic Souls. The same ritual used during the Dragon Wars.”

Adair paused, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the elf. “A ritual was crafted so that such a gathering would never be necessary again. Why not use that?”

Elandor nodded, understanding the implications. “We could, but only the descendants of the dragons can perform it. None of the living descendants are ritual casters. We are in desperate need.”

Adair scoffed, his expression skeptical. “Ah, so it’s that time again. Has the queen perished yet?”

Elandor hesitated before replying, “Lost.”

Adair’s gaze softened, and he sighed. “No, not yet. Very well, I will cast the spell to make the Gathering permanent. But understand this—it will be the kingdom's eventual downfall. Without it, however, the future queen does not gain a heroic soul, and the future king succumbs to corruption by necromancy.”

Elandor nodded solemnly. “We can’t afford a corrupted king or a queen who can’t resurrect.”

With a resigned shrug, Adair turned back to the cave wall. His hands moved through the air, weaving symbols from the ambient magic, each one glowing with an eerie light before burning into the rock. The cave seemed to pulse with power as the ritual progressed, the symbols embedding themselves deep into the stone, forming an intricate pattern. Suddenly, thousands of blue, transparent cords of magic shot out from the symbols, snaking through the air and attaching themselves to those with heroic souls across the realm.

Elandor watched in awe, his heart sinking as he saw one of the cords latch onto him. “Ah, I was hoping I wouldn’t be part of the Gathering. Those days are long behind me.”

Adair finished the ritual, the symbols on the wall fading into the stone, now a permanent mark on the cave. He turned to Elandor, his expression serious. “I don’t choose who participates in the Gathering. These gatherings are always hard on those with heroic souls. I do not envy them. This will cause turmoil at first as people struggle to accept each other for who they are. But heed my advice, Elandor: do not let the people burden the kingdom’s officials with petty squabbles. Let them handle their issues on their own. The less the queen has on her plate, the faster the kingdom will rebuild. Perhaps it won’t take a hundred years this time.”

Elandor nodded, the weight of what had just transpired settling heavily on his shoulders. He knew the path ahead would be fraught with challenges, but with Adair’s aid, they had a chance—a slim one—to restore the kingdom and prevent the catastrophic future the dragon foresaw. With a final glance at the ancient guardian, Elandor turned and left the cave, the weight of the future pressing down on him as he made his way back to the troubled kingdom of Tiaghaneth.

The moment the blue cord of magic connected to those with heroic souls, a ripple of awareness spread throughout the realm. The connection wasn’t painful, but it was unmistakable, like a gentle tug on the very essence of their being. For Zavet and Runner, who had been napping in the late afternoon sun, the sensation was jarring enough to snap them both out of their slumber.

Zavet bolted upright, his eyes wide with confusion and alarm. He felt the cord’s pull, a subtle but persistent force that seemed to call to something deep within him. As he looked down, he saw the ethereal blue strand connected to his chest, pulsating with an otherworldly light. Panicked, he swatted at it, his voice rising in a mixture of fear and frustration. “What is that?” he screamed, desperately trying to brush the cord away before it faded into near-invisibility.

Runner, who had also been startled awake, sat up and examined the cord now connected to him as well. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head, trying to make sense of it. “Uh... I don’t know,” he admitted, his usual composure shaken by the mysterious magic.

Zavet, still on edge, leaped away from Runner, his heart racing. The sudden movement caused his tail to detach—a reflexive response that had evolved over generations for self-preservation, though rarely triggered outside of true danger. He stared at the severed appendage, his chest heaving with a mix of adrenaline and annoyance. “Runner?” he blurted out, a hint of embarrassment coloring his voice as he glanced around, half-expecting some unseen threat. “I thought you were a bird or something.”

He sighed heavily, bending down to pick up his tail. The sight of it lying limp in his hands only deepened his irritation. “Do you know how hard it is to grow a new one? Or how impossible it is to walk without it?” Zavet’s tail was not just a part of his anatomy—it was integral to his balance and his sense of self. The thought of being without it, even temporarily, filled him with dread.

Runner, trying and failing to suppress a grin, couldn’t help but find humor in the situation. He watched as Zavet tossed the tail in his direction, the limp appendage hitting him with a soft thud. It was too much for Runner, who burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the quiet surroundings. Standing up, he began to wobble exaggeratedly, his voice mocking mimicry. “Hur hur, look at me, I’m Zavet. It’s hard to walk without a tail,” he teased, swaying from side to side in an exaggerated imitation.

Zavet’s glare could have melted stone, but Runner’s good mockery eased the tension gripping him. Despite his irritation, Zavet couldn’t stay mad at Runner for long; their bond went deeper than friendship.

Runner shook his head, still chuckling. “Alright, alright. Enough of that. We should head back to the keep. Let’s get some food and do a bit of training before we return.”

Zavet hesitated, the pull of the blue cord still lingering in the back of his mind. But as he looked down at his scales, noticing how chipped and dry they had become, the thought of staying out here seemed less appealing. His scales, once lustrous and smooth, now felt rough and sore against his skin. A swim would do wonders for them. “Yeah,” he finally agreed, running a hand over his scales, “I need to go swimming. My scales hurt.”

Runner clapped a hand on Zavet’s back, the gesture both comforting and reassuring. “Come on, I know a creek just outside the city. We can catch some fish while we’re at it.”

At the mention of fish, Zavet’s mood brightened. He could already imagine the cool water soothing his scales and the taste of freshly caught fish, their crisp, salty flavor dancing on his tongue. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders.

Together, the duo left the city, their pace relaxed as they made their way through the familiar paths leading to the creek. The landscape around them was serene, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the trees. Birds chirped lazily in the branches above, and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze added a soothing backdrop to their journey.

When they reached the creek, the sight of the clear, flowing water brought an immediate sense of relief to Zavet. He wasted no time stripping off his gear and slipping into the water, letting out a contented sigh as the coolness enveloped him. Runner followed suit, though his dip was less about comfort and more about washing off the dust from the day’s work.

They spent the next few hours in peaceful companionship, catching fish and cooking them over a small fire by the water’s edge. The scent of the roasting fish filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the creek. As they ate, the tension of the day melted away, replaced by the simple pleasure of good food and good company.

For a while, they spoke of nothing important, letting the moments of silence speak for themselves. Yet, even as they relaxed, the memory of the blue cord lingered in their minds, a reminder that their roles as heroic souls were far from over. But for now, they allowed themselves this brief respite.

As Zavet and Runner made their way back to the keep, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue over the landscape. The path was familiar, yet their minds were far from the tranquility of their surroundings. The earlier events and the strange blue cord of magic that had connected them lingered in their thoughts, unspoken yet heavy in the air between them.

As they walked, Zavet began to share something that had been on his mind. “You know, Runner, while we were out there, I had some help from two guys. They were going around, finding people and sending them to the halls of resurrection.”

Runner looked over at him with interest. “Who were they?” he asked, curious about the identities of these mysterious figures.

Zavet chuckled, shaking his head as he remembered the encounter. “Honestly, I was so out of it. I didn’t even catch their names or anything they were saying. All I could hear was that damn command Iscariot gave me, echoing in my head like a broken record. I didn’t want to do it, you know? But I found that if I was too tired to understand who I was talking to, I wasn’t forced to follow his orders. It was like being half-conscious shielded me from his control.”

Runner slowed his pace, processing this new information. This was the first time he’d heard anything about what had happened to Zavet after they were killed. “You never told us what happened after we died,” Runner said, his voice quiet, tinged with both concern and curiosity.

Zavet exhaled deeply, his eyes clouded with the memories of that dark moment. “It wasn’t something I wanted to relive, but I suppose you should know.” He began to recount the harrowing events. “I was beaten, left barely able to move. I watched as you were turned into a ghoul right in front of me. The light in your eyes was gone, and then Ekias commanded you to go get Iscariot. It was like a nightmare.”

Runner listened intently, his fists clenching at the thought of his own body being manipulated in such a grotesque way. The idea of becoming a ghoul, a mindless undead, and being used as a tool against his will was horrifying.

Zavet continued, his voice heavy with the weight of what he had seen. “Then, Elias killed Talich. Just like that, with a flick of his wrist. He didn’t even hesitate. But he let everyone else go. I guess they weren’t worth the trouble. After that, Iscariot appeared, like he was summoned by the destruction and death around him.”

Zavet’s expression darkened as he recalled the confrontation. “He asked me why I was helping the city instead of him. I told him the truth—I don’t want to kill people. That’s not who I am. But he wasn’t having it. He started telling me that as undead, people’s lives would be better. They would be stronger, faster, more resilient. It was like he was trying to justify his actions, but something about the way he spoke… it wasn’t entirely his own words.”

Runner tilted his head slightly, sensing there was more to the story. “What do you mean?”

Zavet met Runner’s gaze, his eyes filled with unease. “I could hear a voice, Runner. A woman’s voice, whispering in his ear, telling him what to say, what to do. It was like she was pulling the strings, and Iscariot was just her puppet. But when she tried to push her will onto me, something strange happened. I felt this… force push her away. It even severed the link she had with Iscariot, just like that. He was confused, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do.”

Runner frowned, troubled by the implications. “That’s… unsettling. It sounds like someone else is pulling the strings, someone even Iscariot can’t fully control.”

Zavet nodded. “Exactly. But then, as if trying to regain control, Iscariot commanded me to kill the nobles of the kingdom. Only, there was a small problem with that—I don’t really know who the nobles are. It’s not like I go around memorizing faces and titles.”

Runner couldn’t help but let out a small, grim laugh at that. “So, his plan fell apart because you didn’t know who to kill?”

“Pretty much,” Zavet replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. But the smile quickly faded as he continued. “Then, the world started to shake. I think it scared him—it sure scared me. He thought I was somehow causing it, and he floated out of there, straight into the sky like he was running away.”

Zavet’s voice grew softer as he recalled the final moments of that encounter. “As he flew away, I saw Elias trapped under some rubble. He was struggling, about to free himself. But something inside me—no, inside the dagger I was holding—compelled me to act. I didn’t even feel the pain of my injuries. I just knew I had to kill him, and before I knew it, I had plunged the dagger into his heart, ending him right then and there.”

Runner’s eyes widened, the gravity of Zavet’s words sinking in. “That dagger… it had a will of its own?”

“It felt that way,” Zavet admitted, his voice heavy with the burden of that dark moment. “It wasn’t just a weapon in my hand—it was like it was guiding me, pushing me to do what needed to be done. I don’t know if it was right or wrong, but in that moment, it felt like there was no other choice.”

As they approached the keep, the weight of the conversation hung between them like a thick fog. The keep loomed ahead, a symbol of the struggles they had faced and the battles yet to come. Zavet and Runner shared a moment of silence, both processing the enormity of what had been revealed.

Finally, Runner broke the silence, his voice low but resolute. “We’ve been through hell, Zavet. But we’re still here. And whatever comes next, we face it together.”

Zavet nodded a determined light in his eyes. “Together,” he agreed.

Zavet and Runner made their way inside the keep. Everyone was inside the common room including all the barons, Merlot, Ulrich, and Yvonne. “Well you missed the meeting.” Lina says To them.

Talich waves them down. “I'll inform you. Come on, let's go outside for a bit.”

As they made their way outside, the evening air was cool, and the shadows of the surrounding trees stretched long across the clearing. Talich led them to a well-organized camp, a stark contrast to the chaos they had faced just days before. The area was cleared by the people who had once lived nearby and now transformed into a temporary refuge for the survivors. Waxed canvas tents were arranged in a circle around a large campfire, their dull colors blending into the earthy tones of the forest. The warm light of the fire flickered across the faces of those huddled around it, casting long shadows that danced along the ground.

Five golems made of solid granite patrolled the perimeter, their massive forms moving with an eerie precision. These sentinels, crafted to protect, exuded an ancient, unyielding strength. Their eyes glowed faintly with the energy that powered them, reflecting off the firelight. The rhythmic crunch of their heavy footsteps added a sense of security to the camp, a constant reminder that they were under watchful protection.

Talich gestured toward the tents. "The soldiers are handing these out," he said, his voice carrying a note of practicality. "I suggest you two get yourselves a tent. And by the way, you've been ignoring someone." He pointed towards the campfire, where Alley sat quietly, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

Alley, noticing them, gave a small wave, but her eyes lingered on Runner before quickly looking away, a shy smile playing on her lips. Zavet, always the one to break the ice, waved back with a grin. "Hey, it's Alley! How have you been?"

Alley stood up and approached them, her steps hesitant at first, but she quickly enveloped Zavet in a warm hug. Then, turning to Runner, she leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. Runner, caught off guard, flushed with embarrassment, a sheepish smile spreading across his face.

Talich, observant as ever, raised an eyebrow at the interaction. "Runner, you've got a woman, huh?" he teased, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Runner chuckled, scratching his head in a rare display of bashfulness. "Yeah, we've been spending a lot of time together," he admitted, his voice softening as he glanced at Alley.

Alley smiled, her eyes meeting Talich’s briefly before she responded. "We've gotten close over the last few days. He needed a tent to sleep in last night, so I let him stay with me."

Zavet, ever the oblivious one, smiled brightly. "That was really nice of you, Alley. I think we're going to go get ourselves some tents after Talich talks to us." His words were earnest, and his understanding of the situation was limited to the surface.

Talich sighed, but the warmth of his smile didn’t fade. "I have something important to talk to you about. Alley, you can stay too—you might need to know what's going on."

Once they all settled around the campfire, the flickering flames reflecting in their eyes, Talich began, his tone more serious. "Alright, did any of you notice a blue magical cord attached to you earlier today?"

All three nodded, their faces etched with curiosity and concern. They opened their mouths to speak, but Talich raised his hand, signaling them to hold their questions. "Yeah, I’m getting to it. That was a very old ritual. The last time it was used was during the Dragon Wars. It’s called the Gathering of Heroic Souls."

The weight of his words hung in the air, the gravity of the situation sinking in as he continued. "You are now linked to the ley lines of magic, the very veins of the world’s energy. The magic cord you saw will pull you to where you’re needed most, but it can only do this once every twenty-seven days. Most of the time, this pull will be felt by all heroic souls, drawing them to a specific location. This area is usually within a fifty-mile radius."

He paused, letting the information settle before going on. "This gathering used to be a way for heroes to unite against future or current threats. Now, we have rituals that can do something similar, but those only work once for each casting. But this time... it was reactivated by one of the last known elder dragons—Adair, the green dragon. He’s also the guardian of this world."

Runner, who had been listening intently, finally spoke up. "If he’s the guardian, why doesn’t he just go kill Iscariot?"

Talich shrugged, a look of uncertainty crossing his face. "That’s a good question, and I don’t have an answer. I don’t know what makes him a guardian or why he doesn’t interfere with wars. But from what I understand, the earthquake caught his attention, and that’s why he agreed to reactivate the gatherings."

The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed Talich’s explanation. The group sat in contemplation, the weight of their newfound responsibility settling on their shoulders.

Zavet stood up abruptly, brushing the dirt from his scales. "I’m going to go find one of these tents," he declared, his voice carrying a hint of urgency. "I need somewhere to keep all the stuff I’ve been finding. I already lost a bunch of gems I tried to hide."

Talich chuckled, a deep, hearty laugh that echoed through the clearing. "Are you looting the ruins, Zavet?" he teased, his eyes glinting with amusement.

Zavet shook his head, his expression serious despite the humor in Talich's voice. "No, I’m giving them a better home. Those gems were being mistreated, left abandoned in the rubble like that." His tone was almost defensive as if the thought of leaving anything valuable behind was a personal affront.

Talich’s laughter grew louder, but it was a laugh of understanding rather than mockery. "You’ve always had a soft spot for shiny things, haven’t you?"

Zavet gave a small, sheepish smile but didn’t respond. Instead, he turned to leave, his mind clearly set on his mission. But before he could take more than a few steps, Runner jumped up, his movements quick and almost frantic. "Oh, let me go get the tents, Zavet," he blurted out, glancing nervously at Talich. His sudden enthusiasm seemed a little forced as if he was trying to delay Zavet’s departure for some reason.

Talich, noticing Runner’s odd behavior, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Runner, now visibly anxious, added, "And, uh, Talich... make sure he doesn’t get too close to any nobles, okay?"

Zavet, who had been half-listening, suddenly froze in his tracks. He turned slowly, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The weight of Runner’s words brought him back to reality. "Fine," he muttered, almost begrudgingly. With a heavy sigh, he walked back to the campfire and plopped down beside Talich, his earlier excitement now replaced with a somber expression.

Runner watched him for a moment, his eyes filled with concern, before giving Talich a meaningful look. "Zavet," Runner urged, "you need to tell Talich what happened with Elias and Iscariot."

Zavet’s face tightened, his eyes dropping to the ground. It was clear that the memory weighed heavily on him, something he hadn’t fully processed or wanted to revisit. But Runner’s insistence left him no choice. With another resigned sigh, Zavet began recounting the events that had unfolded after their deaths at Elias’s hands.

He spoke slowly, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. "After we were killed, I was beaten, and I saw you get turned into a ghoul, Runner," he began, his eyes still fixed on the ground. "You were commanded to find Iscariot and Elias... he killed Talich." Zavet paused, the memory of Talich’s death clearly painful for him to relive.

Talich, listening intently, remained silent, his expression unreadable. He didn’t interrupt, letting Zavet continue at his own pace.

Zavet went on, his voice growing quieter as he spoke. "Elias let everyone else go, but then Iscariot showed up. He asked me why I was helping the city instead of him. I told him I didn’t want to kill people. He started talking about how, as undead, their lives would be better—how they’d be stronger. But... I could hear a voice whispering to him, telling him what to say and do. It was like Iscariot wasn’t fully in control, like the voice was in charge."

Zavet’s brow furrowed, his tail twitching slightly as he recalled the encounter. "The voice tried to push its will onto me, but something stopped it. I felt something... something powerful, pushing it away. It even severed the link it had with Iscariot. He looked confused as if he didn’t know what to do for a moment. Then, he commanded me to kill the nobles of the kingdom. But..." Zavet looked up at Talich, a weak smile crossing his face, "Good thing I don’t really know who the nobles are."

Talich couldn’t help but chuckle at that, shaking his head. "That’s probably for the best," he remarked, trying to lighten the mood, though his concern was still evident.

Zavet’s expression darkened again as he continued. "Then... the world started to shake. Iscariot thought it was me, but I didn’t know what was happening either. He floated up and flew into the sky. I saw Elias trapped under some rubble. He was about to get free, but... something inside the dagger I was holding made me kill him, ignoring all the pain I felt."

The campfire crackled in the silence that followed, the weight of Zavet’s confession hanging in the air. Talich leaned back slightly, processing everything he had just heard. His expression was severe, but there was a softness in his eyes, a hint of understanding.

Finally, Talich spoke, his voice calm and reassuring. "Zavet, I can help if that command starts to take over. But until that moment comes, let’s keep you away from the nobles, just in case. We’ll figure this out.." Zavet nodded, relieved by Talich’s words.

Runner and Alley walked off together, their footsteps fading as they headed to collect the tents. The camp around the fire grew quieter, the crackling flames casting long shadows across the surrounding tents and the watchful granite golems.

Talich remained by the fire, deep in thought. He reached into his satchel and pulled out his book of ritual scrolls. The leather-bound tome opened with a familiar creak, revealing pages filled with intricate diagrams and ancient script. His fingers lingered on a particular ritual designed to send messages across vast distances—a task he needed to complete urgently.

However, when Talich reached for his ritual component bag, his heart sank. He rummaged through it, realizing he was missing the key materials needed to perform the ritual. With a resigned sigh, he closed the book and carefully stowed the tome and the bag back into his satchel. The absence of the necessary components meant he couldn’t cast the ritual tonight.

“Zavet,” Talich began, his voice breaking the silence. He turned to his companion, who was still seated by the fire, poking absently at the flames with a stick. “I’m going to need to leave tonight.”

Zavet looked up, surprised. “Leave? Where are you going?”

Talich’s expression was calm as he explained, “I need to go to the Black Pyramid. I have to give a report to my master, and it can’t wait. It’s not dangerous, so you don’t need to worry. But it’s something that needs to be done.” He pointed to his tent, which stood a little way off from the others, its entrance flapping slightly in the cool night breeze. “You can sleep in there tonight. I’ll be back in a few days, but while I’m gone, I need you to watch for any undead in the city. The ruins might still be harboring them.”

Zavet frowned, concern evident in his eyes. “The Black Pyramid... it’s not dangerous, right?”

Talich gave him a reassuring smile. “Not for us. I’ve made the journey many times before and’ll be back before you know it. Just stay with Runner for the time being. He’ll be back soon, and you two can handle anything that comes up. I’ll bring back some supplies that might help with our search.”

Zavet nodded, though his concern didn’t entirely fade. He trusted Talich, but the thought of leaving alone, even to a place he claimed wasn’t dangerous, was still unsettling. Still, he knew better than to argue. Talich was a seasoned warrior and a skilled magic practitioner—if anyone could handle the journey, it was him.

The stars twinkled in the darkening sky as the night deepened, and Zavet waited with Talich by the fire. The two of them sat in companionable silence, the occasional pop of the firewood the only sound breaking the quiet.

An hour passed, the sky now fully dark, and the camp was bathed in the soft glow of the firelight. Just as the first hints of unease began to creep into Zavet’s thoughts, Runner and Alley returned. They carried two waxed canvas tents, their breath visible in the cool night air.

“We got the tents,” Runner announced cheerfully as they approached. His good mood lit up the surrounding area, even as the night grew colder.

Talich stood up as they arrived, giving them both a nod. “Good timing,” he said, his tone appreciative. “Runner, I need to talk to you for a moment.”

Runner’s expression shifted from cheerful to curious, sensing the seriousness in Talich’s voice. He handed one of the tents to Zavet, who took it without a word, then turned to face Talich. “What’s going on?”

Talich glanced at Alley, standing a few paces behind Runner, and then back to Runner. “I have to leave for a few days,” he explained. “I must travel to the Black Pyramid to report to my master. While I’m gone, could you stay with Zavet? Keep an eye out for any undead still lurking in the city, and make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble.”

Runner nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. “You can count on me,” he said confidently. “We’ll keep things under control here.”

Talich smiled, a brief but genuine expression of gratitude. “I know you will. I’ll try to get back to you as soon as I can. Just stay safe, and remember, the undead are still a threat. Don’t let your guard down.”

With that, Talich gathered his belongings, preparing for the journey ahead. The air around the campfire seemed to grow colder as he packed away his things, the weight of his departure hanging over the group. Though they all knew it was necessary, the prospect of Talich’s absence left them feeling more vulnerable.

As Talich prepared to leave, Zavet and Runner watched him with admiration and concern. Keeping the camp and the city safe weighed heavily on their minds. They could only trust Talich’s skill and hope for his swift return.

Talich paused before leaving, giving them one last look. “Take care of each other,” he said quietly, the firelight flickering across his face. Then, with a final nod, he turned and disappeared into the night, his figure quickly swallowed by the darkness.