Mithlas rose from sweetened dreams. He wiped the crust from his eyes and saw that the room had darkened to a cooler palette, lit only by dimly adjusted alchemical lights. Beyond the windows, the sky had darkened with thick, muddy clouds, rusted by the sun’s fall.

He had overslept. No matter - one couldn't complain when they were so well rested. With a good long yawn and a stretch, he sank back into the silks. Gods… When was the last time he was so blessed by the Dream Goddess?

When the world came back to him in full, Mithlas’ thoughts went back to his goal.

Dar’Gehon!

Now he was refreshed enough to show them what he could do. Dark magic coursed through him like a full bladder waiting for release, even in this holy ward-ridden place. He couldn’t wait to sing his spells in a place where the borders between life and death were much weaker than under that Cot-Hill near Rinn’Caile.

He trembled just picturing the faces of those Cleric-dropouts and second-rate sorcerers that dared call themselves necromancers when he graced them with his very presence. Now where was that throne of his…?

He clapped his hands, “Throne! Stop fooling around with your Knoblets and get over here.”

The Bone Throne groaned. They tossed the ebony Knoblet - a warrior piece - to the side and scuttled forward, abandoning the Gwyddbwyl board that they and the unbound monks found in the bedroom to pass the time. Poor Doorwedge hid his own frustration; all of that planning and preparation to pull off a brilliant play had gone to the dumps - much like everything that happened in his life and unlife.

Suffice to say, they weren't looking forward to being sat on again. They braced themselves as Mithlas crawled over the edge of the bed. He made a little “Umph!” and a loud “Skkkrkkk!” when he got on the Bone Throne. A few of the monks were sure that they broke something again.

Their king seemed more distracted than usual. His hands flicked across his hair and straightened out his clothes tentatively, fearful that his slimy hands would stick to his wig and clothes if he touched them too much. They did. Just a little.

Exhaling sharply, he said to Doorwedge and the other walking monks, “Bring me a mirror. I must look my best for my grand return.”

They obeyed, pushing an ornate standing mirror over to him. The sight that greeted him did not please him one bit. He had tolerated it earlier -he had been too tired to see sense- but now he could scruitinise every flaw.

Missing were the less-than perfect contours of his face. Gone were the stray hairs he laboured to pin back throughout the day. The uneven shape of one eyebrow that remained ever concealed by his hair. Only the single black spot under his eye that marred his complexion remained; that damned birthmark that no amount of powder or magic could conceal. Even a god couldn't get rid of it.

All of that mattered little now that everything about him was horrendous. In his eyes, he was a pile of dung that had been painted with low quality makeup -by elven standards that is- and decorated with a wig.

He felt… Awful. Mad even. He wouldn't have had to go this far to make such terrible sacrifices if being a necromancer weren’t so difficult. No. It wasn't that. He went to Dar’Gehon and was told he lacked the talent for their magic. Talentless! Ha! If they had just taught him and listened to his ideas, they would have recognised his greatness! Oh, how he’d show them.

“I’ll show them all!”

His sudden outrage shook deep within the bones of all the undead under his control. Even the ancient, tree-burdened Cot-hill elves left to stand guard outside the house could feel his anger.

“Worms! I’ve had enough rest. We march for Dar’Gehon now!”

And away they went. Mithlas felt more energised after he had awoken. In turn his surge in vigour was felt by the undead under his control. Each and every one of them could feel strong magic forcing their every move. They felt as strong as they remembered being at the peak of their life. Perhaps even stronger.

Mithlas forgot all about the two servant girls that had been left in the mansion. They both hid in one of the rooms, out of sight and muttering thanks to the Goddess of Dreams for her mercy. From their window, they watched the undead carry the Slyth’taynt away. Of the dead, they saw Dame Gnatta, looking up at them with dead eyes as she marched on.

It broke the hearts of the girls to see their holy knight this way. It wasn't all that long ago that they were all peacefully going about their lives. With the lord and lady away, the four of them enjoyed their idling. Now, one of their heroes was nothing more than a puppet of evil magic. Making a sign of the Gods of Light, they turned from the window, lost on what to do.

☽༺𓆩𖤐𓆪༻☾

Though it had not rained that day, dew had quickly formed to dampen everything that hadn’t been sheltered. Worms, slugs and other little servants of decay had grown excitable, gathering and feasting where rot dwelt. A chill spread across the air, intensifying as the sun faded. The clouds parted for a clear night, as forecasted. Blue-green light, like the palour of a spirit, broke past the dark wisps that were left until a great skull-marked orb hung alone: a Wraith Moon.

A group of hooded figures emerged from the catacombs of Dar’Gehon. As they passed, all that crept and slithered formed a path for them. They wore black robes contrasted by silver trimmings and bone toggle buttons. Only one stood out from the rest; a tall, masculine figure who wore a silver-engraved skull-half mask that covered the bottom half of his face. An orb of Falselight illuminated their way as they moved towards an open spot in the vast burial grounds. That particular spot was marked only by the statue of the Lich King - its base concealing the door to the great crypt housing what little remains were recovered.

“Prepare the array,” commanded the masked leader, his voice deep with a hollow chill to every word.

The necromancers obeyed, enchanting the ground as they painted shapes in the grass with rodent’s blood - any ordinary paint would have sufficed, but it was scarcely available in a place like this. Several placed common offerings of silver, gemstones and their king’s favourite foodstuffs within the circles around the edge of the array.

Indeed, all of the Undying Scion’s best underlings were hard at work. Except for one.

Balandra’s only task was to lead the spell-song upon the array’s completion. As she waited, she arched an eyebrow at their handiwork. The offerings were correct. The array itself however, much like previous attempts, was of questionable shape and quality. The real problem, however, was the location of their ritual. A shame - a Wraith Moon was perfect for drawing in the dead regardless of what realm of death they resided in.

“The Lich King is close at hand,” Delwynn said, “I can feel him from beyond the grave.”

Balandra knew his words were mere Trog dung. Wherever the Lich King could be reached, it certainly wouldn’t be from his remains. The Holy Order made sure of that but it was futile trying to persuade anyone to pursue any alternative theories.

“Are you sure this will work this time?” she cut in, every ‘s’ accentuated like a wet hiss - a feature inherited from the Lich King, hence their family name, Neidredd.

“Of course it will work, Bal. You dare question my intelligence?” Delwynn snapped.

She hung her head low to hide the disgust in her eyes - how dare he, “No, your darkness.”

“Good. Then keep your lips…” he made a pinching motion towards her lisp, “... shut. Not another word from you until the array is complete.”

Balandra stifled a spell of Walking Necrosis. Under different circumstances, she would have killed him in an instant and taken her rightful place. After all, she was the Lich King’s daughter; the true Undying Scion. Unfortunately for her, the councilmen had decided and made the necessary rituals to ensure that the successor they chose could never be stabbed in the back by their own. A clever decision - it had prevented pointless bloodshed after all - but one they would come to regret. If only they had chosen someone who was truly worthy.

In the end, she was relegated to being a left-hand woman. Second best. At worst, a mere wife, despite her brilliance - again, another wonderful decision from one of her father’s chosen councilmen. She was wasted here and she knew it well, but she alone couldn't break the rituals that kept her bound. From under her long cloak sleeve, she wrung out the platinum band on her left hand. ‘This damnable hex of matrimony…’

As for why Delwynn was chosen to be the next successor, he had fit three criteria: 1 - he was a pure-blooded Lehelit like her father. 2 - he was a man like her father. 3 - he could at least summon five undead. Of course, these criteria were in no way chosen by her father; he died so abruptly and had no intention of having a successor, such were his dreams of eternal rule. This was all in part, made up by the senior members of the sect. And now, thanks to them, the Sect of the Lich King was now as flaccid as their-

“Bal. If you’d please.”

She snapped out of her thoughts. The array was finished and all waited expectantly for her.

“My deepest apologies, your deathlessness.”

Taking a sharp breath from her nostrils she stepped forth into one corner of the array, “Mac’thuid tua’th Ais-Ssseiri’gyfod…”

She led the chant, her hands directing all of the followers. Their voices came together into a beautifully dark refrain. Each word gave power to the lines. Overlapping whispers from beyond their world further enhanced the spell. Rodent blood glowed, first bright crimson before burning into a ghostly green. Spirits swirled all around, none quite reaching the center of the array - the space reserved for the Lich King. Any that dared touch his offerings were quickly rendered ectoplasm to further fuel the spell.

The song continued until the Wraith Moon disappeared behind thick clouds, but their king did not come. Their unhallowed choir died down, leaving the followers looking a tad drained of life.

“Godsdamnit! What was that?!”

“What was what?” One cultist asked. One look from all the others made them regret that decision. When he saw the Undying Scion snap around to meet his gaze, he regretted ever being born with a mouth.

“Are you braindead? Does it look like we succeeded in reviving the Lich King?!”

“No…”

The cultist fell to the ground, prostrating himself low enough to kiss the fertile soil.

“Forgive me, your deathlessness!”

Delwynn muttered something under his breath. The cultist’s face fell as he felt his bones trembling. He cried out as sharp pains overwhelmed his spasming body. His bones pushed against his skin, straining away from tendons - it was as if his skeleton were trying to free itself from the rest of his body. He continued to beg for mercy, but the cultists around him took a few steps back.

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“Erhem.”

The masked one was thrown off, “What?!”

Freed from further torment, the cultist fell flat on his face, letting out several groans of pain before passing out. Balandra rubbed the furrow of her brow as she took a sharp breath.

“I think you should reconsider your decision to de-bone our fellow man. We have too few precious followers to dispose of, you see,” she said, her tone turning sweet. “Just a suggestion, my Scion.”

That much was true. With fewer people, the strength of their rituals had waned more and more.

“Precious followers?” he scoffed. “They’d be more useful to me as shambling corpses. They're all just as brainless anyway!”

“Perhaps,” she said, “Although, it would be inconvenient if you had to complete all of these rituals by yourself.”

With a “tsk”, Delwynn turned away from the cultist. “You make a very good point, dearest. Very well. Deathmasters, get him out of my sight.”

Several picked up their fallen brother. The skin of his face and hands looked taut and bony. It would take their healers a while to set his bones in place and reattach his muscles. He was promptly carried off back into the main catacombs.

The other followers were left, standing awkwardly and looking at their feet as children caught in the act of mischief. Meanwhile, their Undying Scion paced back and forth, searching for faults he could not see in the array - they were glaringly obvious to certain cultists in the group but none were brave enough to speak up. He muttered to himself about how hard he's had it.

‘Oh woe is me!’ Balandra rolled her eyes, ‘It still hasn’t occurred to you yet that his soul ISN’T HERE?’

Delwynn turned to all of them.

“Don't just stand there!” he said, “Help me figure out where you went wrong.”

As hilarious as it was to watch Delwynn fumble everything, it was doubly frustrating - to Balandra at least. They should be out there, searching for the true location of whatever remained of the Lich King’s spirit instead of wasting her precious lifespan on the same fruitless rituals. Her father was no fool. He would have been paranoid enough to have some remains of himself out there in case the Holy Order succeeded in casting him into the Outer Planes - and succeed they did, despite the insistence of the other cultists. She witnessed it herself. None but the Lich King possessed the power to locate the right leyline in their world that lay close to his soul in that bottomless place of torment.

It was best to make oneself seem busy. She pretended to trace the lines and examine the offerings. Eventually, she noticed Delwynn coming straight over to her; he only did that if he really wanted something.

“Oh, dearest. What went wrong? Tell me,” he asked, voice soft but Balandra knew him well enough to see past it.

“You want my opinion?”

“I don’t want your opinion. I want an answer. This was supposed to have gone perfectly. Things were going perfectly. I’ve seen nothing wrong with the array. The offerings were correct. Not a single cloud got in the way. So what else could have gone wrong?”

‘Ah. Of course. So it’s my fault.’

He didn’t want the real answer. He was always right, after all. But Balandra was never one to accept false blame.

“There are too few of us, my love,” Eugh. “Times have been hard since the Schism.”

“Oh yes, the Schism…” he said with disgust, “Who did those fools think they were to question my leadership? I bet those fools regret ever leaving our glorious domain.”

‘Yes and no.’ Balandra recalled hearing back from the other sects. Those that hadn’t been hunted down by overzealous knights on patrol or beasts in the wild were holed up in swamps and curse-stricken lands. She didn’t blame them. Some were doing quite well for themselves, but with everyone so scattered, they had little chance of reviving the Lich King.

“I’m sure they are, your darkness. They were so wrong for leaving you.”

“After what they did I should have had all of them all buried up to their heads in maggots. I don’t need them. I have enough loyal followers.”

He was in denial, of course. Having all of those members leave at once certainly bruised his ego. There was no getting around their lack of numbers either, and these days finding new necromancers was a pipe dream.

“Certainly, your darkness.”

“Pah…” he waved her off, “Get the others to clean this up. We’ll have to wait for the… what was it again?”

“The Blood Aurora,” she sighed. They would have to wait for the next spring. Not that it mattered. It was time wasted just waiting for another failed attempt. A maddening loop of disappointment.

“Ah, yes the Blood Aurora. Next time, I expect you to make sure that the next ritual goes as planned.”

“But, your darkness,” she began with a faltering smile, “How do you suppose we do that with the few we have?”

He shrugged, “You’re clever enough. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Her mouth hung open, face twitching as she fought to hold back her anger.

“Gods… Don’t tell me I have to think for you too, Bal. Must I waste my precious brain on something so trivial?”

It certainly wasn’t the first time, but Balandra’s cup of patience had overfilled and spilled over. Enough was enough.

She let out a laugh, “This is pointless.”

He blinked, “What?”

“We’ve been doing the same thing every year. EVERY ritual. And yet we’re still not close to reviving the Lich King.”

“That’s because you’re the problem,” that elicited another giggle from her, “You think this is funny? I have worked so hard to make sure things were immaculate! I wonder if all of these failures are on purpose. If not, then you’re just a terrible orator with that lisp of yours.”

“Oh please. I inherited this so-called lisp from the Lich King. He didn’t need a gaggle of idiots to sing his spells for him.”

“If you know so much, then what exactly is the problem, hmm?”

“His soul isn’t here. The Knights of the Holy Order banished him far from our reach. We’ve wasted enough time hiding in this crypt. We should be out there, looking for wherever he might have left a piece of his soul-”

“There you go again. Whipping your tongue at me for some hairbrained theory. I thought we were over this, Bal.”

“It’s not a theory. I was there when he perished,” her eyes narrowed, “A true scion knows their king. I should be searching the world for his traces.”

He scoffed, “Keep dreaming. You know you can’t go where I don’t want to. Even death cannot part us.”

He lifted one hand from his sleeve, showing his wedding band. That accursed copy of her own ring.

“Even if you could leave my side, you’d be nothing without me.”

“I’d take my chances. If you’re really that good, then cut me off and banish me.”

She knew he couldn’t, despite that smug look in his eyes. He put a hand on her cheek and when she tried to slap it away he held her firmly by the jaw and drew closer to her. They stood eye to eye.

“Now why would I want to do that, dearest? I’d be a terrible Scion to let the Lich King’s fragile little rose go to such dangerous places to chase tales.”

A disgusted look crossed Balandra’s face. It took every fibre of her being not to utter the worst spells. Her tongue began to bleed.

“Auugh!” Despite his mask, the Undying Scion’s face fell, “What are you doing? I command you to stop!”

Delwynn dropped her. He shouted a bit, his words gradually became unintelligible from his quickly swelling tongue. All the while, Balandra laughed.

“And do you really want to know how I feel about you, Delwynn?”

He froze in place.

“I think you never deserved a-” he paused, her eyes noticing some movement behind her.

“What?” he smirked under his mask, though his smugness was denied by his trembling voice, “Too scared to tell me what you really think about your leader?”

“Shh! What is that?”

“Don’t you shush me, woman! You will treat me with respect-”

“Shut up, Delwynn. Look at the trees.”

The two squinted their eyes. In the darkness of the surrounding forest they made out the shadow shapes swaying back and forth. Closer those shapes drew; tall figures. Small ones too. An indistinct blob at their center. The sound of leaves and branches moving, not from the push of the night’s breaths but through their own movements.

“Holy Knights,” the Undying Scion’s voice faltered.

“No. This is something else. They would have triggered our glyphs.”

Whatever they were, they were certainly getting closer. The Undying Scion narrowed his eyes.

“If it's not the damned paladins, then it's those traitors. They think they can just come in here with an army to take what I rightfully deserve? We’ll see about that.”

There was no way any of the apostates should have been prepared to take on the Sect, even in their weakened state. Yet, they managed to pass through the outer glyphs meant for the Holy Order and the middle glyphs meant for converting unwitting intruders into zombies. It seemed to Balandra that one of those groups was incredibly lucky and found success. She was part-hopeful, part-dreading what was about to come.

“Deathmasters! Boneslaves! To me!”

At Delwynn’s command, all of the cultists and their undead servants surrounded him at once. They prepared themselves for the approaching creatures, summoning forth shallowly buried undead from the other parts of the crypt. One cultist fetched him a broken shaft; it was all that was left of the Lich King’s Withered Rose and it was given to Delwynn of all people. He wielded it like a cudgel - the thorns had served him well before. Though its magic had waned, some fragment of the soul powering it remained; its whispers allowed Delwynn to summon a sixth zombie. Balandra kept her tongue at the ready, the rest of the cultists waited for her direction.

The figures stopped a few feet short for the necromancers to reach them with ranged spells. An angry voice could be heard in the distance, but none could quite make out the words properly. Based on the movements of the large blob with many legs, they assumed that the voice belonged to it… whatever or whoever it was.

“Are they arguing?” one cultist murmured.

Delwynn smirked from under his mask, “Idiots. Boneslaves! Get them!”

All of their undead rushed into the forest wielding rusted swords, spears and farming equipment. There was a commotion for a while as they kept fighting and the satisfying sound of metal on bone and flesh rang out. Delwynn sickered as their invaders seemed to struggle against the undead. That seemed to prompt them to keep moving forward. All of their own undead didn’t come back when they called them back. That was fine. They just needed to soften their enemy up just before they continued to advance.

“Bal,” he looked over to her. “You know what to do.”

She was way ahead of him. Her voice led the dark choir. All of the glyphs under their enemy began to flare up. With their final word, necrotic flames engulfed the shadow figures and the remaining Boneslaves. One who always sang an octave too strong collapsed to one knee, the faintest wrinkles forming on their gaunt face. The sight took Balandra aback.

“Yes!” Delwynn cackled like mad, “Serves you fools right! Bal, I want their skulls brought to me. They’d make fine candleholders for our crypts.”

Snapping back into reality, she answered, “Yes, your darkness.”

They waited for the thick flesh-eating smoke to dissipate. It often took a while - which was extremely excruciating for whoever found themselves on the receiving end of the spell. As they waited, something peculiar happened. The clouds appeared to part once more. Wraith-light touched every corner of Dar’Gehon. Strangely enough, the sky was only clear over that particular part of the land with the Wraith Moon directly above it.

Just then, their own undead came rushing back through the smoke. Before they could react, one of the faster undead chopped off their master’s hand. Before it could strike the cultist down, an acid spell engulfed the zombie, quickly melting them down to their waist.

“Fall back!” Delwynn’s voice broke.

Balandra hissed out a spell. Five more undead rose from between herself and the encroaching undead to buy her time. More of their own undead came. Whoever was behind this must have been a skilled necromancer. But this was nothing they couldn’t handle.

Or so they thought.

In one huge sweep, several cultists and their undead servants were knocked backwards. Again, it happened. Several undead, tall and fused to rotted trees pounded away at any unfortunates that happened to be in their path. Several more ancient-looking figures came forth. Bal even found herself fighting for her life against an undead knight of the Holy Order. The necromancers that summoned them were still nowhere to be seen.

“How… How is this possible?!” she cried out as she pushed off the dame.

Quickly she rushed away, reviving one fallen brother by her side to fight for her. He was quickly cut down once more.

‘Hells! Where’s Delwynn?!’

The Undying Scion was nowhere to be seen amidst all the chaos.

“HAHAHAHAHA! GUESS WHO, BITCHES?!”

Something emerged from the mist. A large creature that scuttled upon the limbs of many undead. Its gleeful cackling rang out loudly through the battlefield, sending shivers down Balandra’s spine.

She fell at the feet of a large creature. She noticed that sat upon it, was a Slyth’Taynt. It leaned forward, eyeing her with its amphibious, yellow orbs. Its fetid stench hit and kept her pinned down.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” the creature chuckled. “Throne, pick her up.”

Several boney hands came down upon her. Before she could utter a spell, they clamped her mouth shut.

“Hello again, Balandra. Did you miss me?”