When Sorin finally awoke, it was to an unfamiliar softness beneath him. His eyes fluttered open, his body still aching, but the cold, hard stone of the torture chamber was gone. He was immediately in a panic and began to thrash back and forth in terror. The memories of breaking bone and bubbling flesh vivid in his mind. He could not help but feel the horror of what he had experienced over who knew how long condensed into a few brief moments. He was back in the damp chamber, strapped down and powerless to resist.

Sorin desperately struggled against the bonds in his memory expecting them to be present around him. Instead, he found himself lying in a bed, the sheets smooth and gentle against his skin. He blinked, adjusting to the dim light filtering in from somewhere nearby, but there was no one around.

Sorin let out a long breath, sinking deeper into the bed. He was free from the slab, no longer strapped down, no longer in agony. But as his thoughts swirled, another worry crept in. What if this was another trick? Another spell designed to torment him? The necromancer was clever—this could easily be part of his twisted game.

The thought caused Sorin’s heart to race. His breath quickened as panic continued to course through him, the walls of the room seeming to close in. He couldn’t trust any of this, not after what he had endured. Desperately, he tried to focus, to center himself. Slowly, he called upon his powers, focusing on the Veil of Vesperos.

To his relief, the shadows obeyed. They coiled around him, wrapping him in the familiar cloak of darkness. He let out a breath, feeling the tension in his body ease. If his powers were working, then this wasn’t another mental torturescape, wasn’t another cruel trick by Wuthum.

Sorin sat up, his muscles still sore but his mind beginning to clear. He glanced around the room—simple, but comfortable. It felt too normal after everything he had been through. He still didn’t trust it completely, but at least he knew it wasn’t an immediate threat.

His thoughts turned inward. He had felt it when he was in the chamber—his Eye of Discernment had changed, and had evolved in the heat of survival. With his spirit still fragile, he carefully focused on that part of himself, exploring the new depth of power he had unlocked. It was no longer just an ability to pierce illusions—now, if he channeled enough spirit, it could destroy illusions, ripping them apart temporarily. This power wasn’t just passive perception; it was a weapon, one that could dismantle the lies around him and reveal the secrets of the world.

The realization brought him a small measure of comfort. He was still weak, still recovering, but he had gained something in that chamber. Something powerful.

Sorin slowly composed himself, breathing deeply as he rose from the bed. His body still ached, though it was no longer the searing pain of torture. Instead, it felt like the lingering exhaustion of a man who had been through far too much. He glanced down at himself and found that he was clean, dressed in simple but fresh clothes—soft fabric that felt foreign after weeks of harsh leather straps and cold stone.

Taking stock of the room, Sorin noticed it was bare, aside from the bed and a single window. He walked to the window and peered out. The dead city lay beyond, silent and still, the ruins stretching out beneath a gray, foggy sky. There was no other furniture, nothing else of note in the room. No weapons, no signs of any magic or traps. Just... simplicity.

Sorin turned from the window and made his way to the door. When he stepped out, he was met with a surprising sight. The room he entered was a stark contrast to the rest of the necromancer’s tower—a cozy living room with a fireplace crackling gently, its warmth filling the space. Plush couches were arranged neatly around a low coffee table, and an armchair sat near the hearth. In that armchair sat Wuthum, looking zoned out, staring blankly at the fire.

Sorin's body tensed instinctively. He had endured so much at the hands of this man, and even though Wuthum had groveled for forgiveness before Sorin fell into unconsciousness, Sorin couldn’t shake the instinctive fear and revulsion. He involuntarily clenched his fists, but before he could act, Wuthum startled and blinked as if waking from a dream.

The necromancer turned and saw Sorin standing there. His face immediately brightened, and to Sorin's shock, he smiled like a kindly old man rather than the twisted figure of cruelty he had come to know.

“Ah, you’re awake!” Wuthum’s voice was cheerful, almost jovial. He stood from the chair, his movements slow and unthreatening. “It’s so good to see you up and about. I’ve been waiting for you to come around. I must say, I’ve put you through quite the ordeal. For that I must apologize.”

Sorin blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in Wuthum’s demeanor. His torturer was now acting like some benevolent grandfather, a complete contrast to the madman who had nearly killed him.

Wuthum, as if completely unaware of Sorin’s tension, continued speaking. “I can’t apologize enough for everything I put you through. Truly, it was a mistake—a misunderstanding. But now that’s all behind us, yes? Come, come, have a seat.” He gestured to the couch across from the fireplace, where a lavish breakfast sat on the coffee table—steaming bread, eggs, fruits, and a pitcher of what looked like fresh water.

Sorin’s stomach growled involuntarily at the sight, the hunger gnawing at him after what felt like an eternity without real food. He hesitated, glancing at Wuthum, unsure whether to trust any of this. But there was no immediate danger, and Wuthum—oddly enough—seemed genuine in his strange, almost unsettling cheerfulness.

Seeing no other alternative, and driven by his hunger, Sorin silently sat down on the couch. The food looked far too good to resist, and without a word, he began to eat, taking cautious bites at first, then more as his hunger overtook him.

Wuthum sat back down in his armchair, watching Sorin with a pleased expression. "There you go, get some strength back into you," he said, his tone still disturbingly pleasant. Sorin ate, the tension never fully leaving his body, all the while feeling deeply unsettled by the drastic change in the man who had once delighted in his suffering.

As Sorin continued to eat, Wuthum sighed, a contented sound that seemed disturbingly at odds with his previous demeanor. He leaned back in his armchair, his bony hands resting on his lap. “It’s such a relief,” he muttered, almost to himself, “to be free from those... blasted hallucinations. I can’t even remember the last time I had my mind to myself. Always so crowded, always voices, visions—driving me madder and madder.”

Sorin glanced up from his meal, swallowing another bite of bread. Wuthum seemed genuinely relieved, almost wistful as he spoke. The strange cheerfulness continued to hang over the necromancer like a shadow, though his mood was far more subdued now.

“With my mind clear again, I can finally start to put everything back together,” Wuthum continued. “I can return to my work for the Dark Pantheon, regain my place among them, and continue where I left off... so much lost time to make up for.”

Sorin hesitated before speaking. “It might not be that easy,” he said carefully, his voice still low from the strain of his recovery. “My mentor, Magnus... he told me the Dark Pantheon sent delegates to you. But they never came back. After that, this place started being called the Fen of the Necromancer, and it was declared a zone that shouldn’t be entered.”

Wuthum frowned, the pleasant demeanor slipping slightly. “That’s unfortunate,” he said, furrowing his brow. “But with my status, I’m sure they’d still invite me back. The deaths of a few emissaries aren’t enough to erase my importance to them.”

Sorin considered that for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I suppose that could be true.”

But Wuthum’s frown deepened as he looked at Sorin with a puzzled expression. “Though, why would they call this place a ‘fen’? This is a lovely forest, full of life. I’ve always thought it was quite peaceful.”

Sorin froze, the fork halfway to his mouth. “A forest?” he repeated. “This place is a swamp. A complete wasteland of mud, rot, and decay.”

Wuthum blinked, his gaze unfocused for a moment as if trying to process Sorin’s words. “A... swamp?” he said slowly, almost as if he couldn’t believe it. He sat back, lost in thought, his face clouding over. “It was a forest... so vibrant, so full of life...”

Sorin watched Wuthum carefully, realizing with a sinking feeling that the necromancer’s insanity had stretched far longer than either of them had realized. Perhaps Wuthum hadn’t just been plagued by hallucinations of the Light Pantheon—his grip on reality itself had been slipping for years.

Wuthum rubbed his temple, his expression darkening. “I suppose, in my madness, I may have twisted the landscape. Spells can do that, especially over time... and the undead,” he muttered, almost to himself, “when not controlled properly, they kill. It’s in their nature. They may have wiped out everything that lived here.”

He paused, glancing at Sorin with sudden unease. “Or perhaps... perhaps in my madness, I ordered it. The death of the land, the creatures. All of it.”

Sorin remained silent, watching Wuthum’s realization slowly take hold. The cheerful old man facade was fading, replaced by a deeper, darker understanding of the destruction he had wrought—on both the land and himself. It seemed uncharacteristic for a necromancer to care so deeply for life, but that appeared to be false.

“You are a necromancer, a follower of Mortis, wouldn’t such a thing please you,” Sorin voiced timidly. Wuthum sighed a bit sadly.

“No, no it wouldn’t. Mortis may be the God of Death and Decay, but he teaches that death is sacred and it happens in its own time. That the decaying of life should be withheld as long as possible. Followers of Mortis wield death to prevent more deaths. We create the undead because we do not wish to sacrifice the lives of the living to achieve our goals,” Wuthum explained softly.

“Oh that is a far nicer outlook on death and decay than I would have ever thought,” Sorin said.

“Why thank you,” Wuthum said with a smile.

As Sorin finished his meal, he decided it was time to share more of what he knew. "The Fen has been more than just a cursed wasteland," he began, watching Wuthum’s expression carefully. "In a strange way, it’s become a major roadblock to the Light Pantheon. If they ever wanted to invade from the north, they’d have to deal with this place—and no one’s willing to march an army through this swamp with your undead army lurking here."

Wuthum's eyebrows raised slightly, though he said nothing, waiting for Sorin to continue.

"Since you took up residence here, the north has been incredibly peaceful compared to the rest of the world," Sorin explained. "That’s what Magnus taught me, at least. The threat you posed, whether you knew it or not, kept the Light Pantheon from even considering an invasion from the north. They couldn’t risk it. The rest of the world may be in chaos, but here… you’ve held them back, even in your madness."

Wuthum leaned back, nodding slowly as he absorbed the information. "So, in my madness, I’ve kept the peace," he muttered. "Unexpected, but a pleasant surprise. I am pleased to know that I continue to serve the Dark Pantheon even during my madness."

Sorin hesitated for a moment before deciding to reveal something more personal. "I have a confession to make," he began, his voice low. "My ability, Eye of Discernment... it might only be temporary when it comes to breaking your hallucinations."

Wuthum stilled, his expression darkening as Sorin continued. "I can destroy them with enough spirit, but I don’t know how long that will last. You could fall back into madness again."

For a moment, the room was silent. Wuthum’s face grew thoughtful, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair. Finally, he let out a long sigh. "I suppose it can’t be helped. Whether I’m sane or not, my presence here has been enough of a deterrent to the Light Pantheon. At least I’ve served some purpose."

Sorin nodded but saw a flicker of something deeper in Wuthum’s eyes. The necromancer shifted in his seat, thinking. "There may be precautions I can take," he said slowly, as if piecing together a plan. "Now that I have some clarity... perhaps I can use certain spells or wards. Something that could either prolong my sanity... or, at the very least, allow me to be mildly functional even in the depths of madness."

Sorin leaned forward. "If you need help with that, I’ll offer what I can."

Wuthum glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "And what is it you want in return? I owe you so much as it is. This clarity, even if its temporary, means even more to me than you can imagine."

Sorin took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I need you to bring my teacher Magnus Warbringer back from the dead."

The air between them grew heavy as Wuthum’s gaze sharpened, the flicker of the fire casting long shadows across his face. For a moment, neither spoke, and Sorin felt the weight of his request settle into the room.

Wuthum leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you mean... to bring him back with an intact consciousness? A fully restored mind, not just a reanimated body?”

Sorin met Wuthum’s gaze and nodded. “Yes, that’s what I need.”

The necromancer sighed deeply and shook his head. “That’s a very difficult ask, Sorin. To resurrect someone with their mind intact... it’s not the same as simply raising the dead. Bringing back a consciousness requires more power, more precision. And depending on the rank of the person you’re trying to restore... well, it complicates things.”

Wuthum’s gaze sharpened. “What was his rank? This Magnus Warbringer?”

Sorin hesitated briefly before answering. “He was an Exarch.”

Wuthum’s expression shifted into one of contemplation, his lips pressing together as he mulled over Sorin’s request. “An Exarch... that’s no small feat. The spirit of someone that powerful will be difficult to bind back into a body with full consciousness. Even for me.”

Sorin remained silent, waiting for Wuthum to reach a decision. After a few moments, the necromancer sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I can help you,” he said slowly, “but there’s a condition. It will take years, perhaps dozens of years, to make Magnus whole again. And for that... I need to be able to maintain focus, to keep my mind clear enough to complete the task.”

Wuthum’s eyes met Sorin’s. “If I’m going to do this, you’ll need to stick around long enough for me to find a way to stabilize my sanity. At least enough to function. If I fall back into madness, I won’t be able to finish the resurrection. Not in the way you want.”

Sorin considered Wuthum’s words carefully, understanding the gravity of the task. “I’ll stay,” he said finally, his voice steady. “We’ll make sure you can keep your mind clear. I’ll help as much as I can.”

Wuthum nodded, his expression serious. “Good. Because if we’re going to do this, I’ll need every bit of focus I can muster. It will only be till I can figure out a solution to my problem.”

There was a moment of silence between the two of them. Sorin broke the silence with a question. “Wuthum, if you don’t mind me asking… could you tell me how this happened to you? The curse or hallucinations I mean?”

Wuthum leaned back, his eyes darkening as memories long buried began to surface. "You want to know how I was cursed?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "It wasn’t just some trick of fate or a spell gone wrong. No... it happened in battle. My last great battle, however long ago that was. Based on what you have told me, it was at least several hundred, if not thousands of years ago."

Sorin listened intently as Wuthum continued, his voice growing more distant, as though he was recalling a story from another lifetime.

"It was a siege," Wuthum began, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. "This city was a city dedicated to Beacon, the God of Guidance and Inspiration. It was a beacon of light—quite literally—and a stronghold for the Light Pantheon on the front lines. I didn’t go alone. I had allies with me—powerful friends. They brought the muscle, the strength. I brought the army of the dead."

Wuthum’s smile twisted into something dark. "Together, we attacked. We forced our way through the city’s defenses, slaughtering their soldiers and priests. It was a hard-fought battle, but we were winning. Or so we thought."

He paused, his expression clouding over with bitterness. "What we didn’t know was that a champion of Beacon was in the city—a warrior named Eldros Sunbane. He wasn’t just another follower of the Light Pantheon. Eldros was a legend, known for his exploits on the battlefield. His light was said to be able to purify any darkness, to turn back even the most cursed of creatures. He had faced down our armies of darkness, and never once had he faltered."

Wuthum’s eyes narrowed. "Eldros was the kind of man who inspired stories—tales of bravery, valor, and righteousness. He was the one who pushed back our armies in the Northern Peaks, holding the line when no one else could. His sword, Lightweaver, was said to be blessed by Beacon himself, able to cut through even the thickest shadows and always show him the correct path."

The necromancer’s voice grew quieter as he recounted the fall of his allies. "One by one, Eldros cut them down. My friends—some of the strongest warriors and mages I’ve ever known—fell to him. His light burned through their defenses, and none could stand against him. By the time I realized the true threat we were facing, it was too late."

Wuthum’s voice cracked slightly, his fingers gripping the armrests of his chair. "In the end, it was just me and Eldros. My army of undead still stood, but my allies were dead. Eldros himself was on the verge of death, but his spirit was unbroken. And in his final act... he cursed me. With his dying breath, he unleashed an attack that wasn’t meant to kill me."

Wuthum’s eyes glistened with a mix of rage and pain. "No, he wanted me to suffer. He wanted me to turn away from Mortis, to break my allegiance to the God of Death and follow Beacon. The curse... it was meant to torment me, to fill my mind with hallucinations and voices until I repented. Until I gave up my faith and followed the Light."

Sorin could see the raw hatred in Wuthum’s eyes as he spat the next words. "But I would never do that. I believe in Mortis, in the truth of death and decay. So, I fought the curse. I fought it... until it broke me. Until it drove me mad."

Wuthum’s hands trembled as he continued. "Before I completely lost myself, I did what little I could. I couldn’t destroy Beacon’s power—not outright—but I sealed it. I trapped his divine energy in the church’s altar, hidden away, depriving him of that strength. It was the last thing I did before the curse consumed me."

He fell silent, the weight of his tale settling in the room.

Sorin remained silent as Wuthum paced slowly across the dimly lit room, his fingers tracing the worn surface of a weathered table. The necromancer’s voice was gruff, weighed down by centuries of accumulated bitterness and experience. "I didn’t have the strength to destroy Beacon's power," Wuthum finally said, breaking the silence. "Not because I lacked the will, but because I'm only a High Archon of Mortis. Only Soulforge Ascendants and Demigods are able to destroy the divine power of a God."

Sorin raised an eyebrow. "Only Soulforge Ascendants or those with the blood of the gods—demigods—can destroy divine power?"

Wuthum nodded, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Sorin with renewed intensity. "That’s right. That’s why you were able to do it—to destroy the altar’s power. You carry the blood of Vesperos, and that gives you a kind of authority over divine energy. The rest of us can only hope to seal or contain it. But you… you can obliterate it."

Sorin stared at his hands, digesting the revelation. His fingers flexed unconsciously as if testing this newfound understanding of his potential. "I know very little about being a Demigod," he admitted, his voice low. "My father, Vesperos, told me some things when I was able to visit his Divine Realm, but our time was limited. He said that, as a Demigod, I can learn any power that he’s bestowed upon his followers. But beyond that… I’m mostly in the dark."

Wuthum’s eyes glinted with curiosity. “You can learn any power from Vesperos' followers? That explains why Demigods are always so unpredictable—why they have such a wide array of abilities and spells. But you’re right—Demigods tend to keep their cards close to their chest. They don’t flaunt their powers and secrets. At least, not the smart ones.” He paused, staring into the shadows as if lost in thought.

Sorin nodded. "Vesperos said I could learn his powers given enough time and if I reached a high enough Rank. But that's about all I know." He let out a quiet breath, a mixture of frustration and anticipation. "I have no idea what powers I’ll be able to unlock or how I’m supposed to harness them. All I know is that I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I can do. I am currently just a follower with a large divine conduit."

Wuthum grunted, his expression darkening. "I’ve seen a few Demigods over the years. Lived long enough to witness their rise and—more often than not—their fall. They’ve always been dangerous, feared. It’s no secret why they’re killed by the enemy pantheon the moment they’re discovered. It’s not just about their strength; it’s that ability to destroy divine power. That makes you, and others like you, a threat no god can afford to ignore."

Sorin absorbed Wuthum's words, a knot forming in his stomach. He had always known his heritage made him different, but hearing it laid out so plainly made the weight of it all the more real. "So… what you’re saying is that my existence is essentially a death sentence, one massive target for the Light Pantheon."

Wuthum snorted. "Not quite. It’s only a death sentence if you’re caught unaware. You’re alive now, aren’t you? You’ve got the blood of Vesperos in your veins. And as long as you play your cards right, that’s an advantage. You’re more than just a follower—you’re a force. The Gods know it, and that’s why they fear you."

Wuthum paused, his face twisting into a contemplative frown. "There’s something else about Demigods… something strange. They don’t just inherit their parents' powers. At some point, they develop an ability—a unique power that doesn’t align with their godly parent at all. I’ve seen it happen, and it usually emerges around the Disciple rank. When it does, it’s often what exposes them for what they truly are."

Sorin’s brow furrowed. "An ability that doesn’t match their parent? What kind of power?"

Wuthum shrugged. "It varies. I’ve seen a Demigod who was the son of Cruentus, the God of Bloodshed and Violence, develop healing abilities, or one who was the daughter of Tenebris, the God of the Void and Emptiness, suddenly gain the power of creation. It’s unpredictable, but it’s always potent. And it’s part of what makes demigods so powerful and dangerous—no one can fully anticipate what they’ll become."

Sorin was silent, turning over Wuthum’s words in his mind. He had always felt the weight of his divine heritage, but now it seemed heavier, filled with untapped potential and unseen dangers. "So, I’ll gain this power when I reach Disciple rank?"

"Likely," Wuthum replied, watching Sorin closely. "And when you do, it won’t just be another skill. It’ll be something that sets you apart, something that doesn’t make sense for a child of Vesperos. It’s what makes your kind… special. And it’s also what makes you a target. Something so peculiar will be recognizable and cause you to become exposed."

Sorin let out a slow breath, his mind racing with possibilities. A part of him was eager to see what this strange ability would be. But another part—the more cautious, wary side—knew that every step forward brought him closer to revealing his true nature to those who would want him dead.

"Disciple rank," Sorin murmured, feeling the weight of that threshold looming ahead of him. He knew he couldn’t remain in the shadows forever. And when the time came, when his power fully emerged, there would be no turning back.

Wuthum’s voice grew quieter, more thoughtful as he spoke, his eyes never leaving Sorin’s face. “There’s something else about Demigods you should know,” he said. “Those close to them—especially followers of the same God—tend to expand their Divine Conduits at an accelerated rate. It’s as if being near a demigod reaffirms their faith and strengthens their connection to their God. Their Divine Conduits grow faster than normal, allowing them to ascend ranks more quickly.”

Sorin listened carefully, his expression neutral but intrigued. This was good news to Sorin.

Wuthum continued, his tone becoming more focused. “In other words, a Demigod can create powerful allies simply by being near them. Those who follow the same God as you, for instance, will grow more powerful just by standing by your side. If you know how to use that, you could forge a circle of followers who would rise with you—an army of elites that grow stronger alongside you.”

Sorin contemplated this bit of news. He would have to form allies soon to capitalize on this aspect of his powers. If so many were going to try to kill him, he would need to surround himself with trustworthy and capable allies.

Wuthum paused, glancing at Sorin with an almost predatory gleam in his eye, as though weighing his next words carefully. "But…" He trailed off, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "There’s something else bothering me. You mentioned your twin brother, Quin… and that he’s a Demigod too. The son of Solarius."

Sorin said nothing, but his jaw tightened slightly at the mention of Quin. Sorin did not like bringing up Quin as it would only paint a target on his back. The more people in the Dark Pantheon that knew about Quin’s existence, the more danger he would be in. Sorin in no way wanted his brother to be hunted down like some sort of animal.

Wuthum’s expression darkened, concern creeping into his features. “If Quin is the son of Solarius, the God of Light, Wisdom, and Might, then he will be a powerful adversary—one that could pose a serious threat to you and the Dark Pantheon. Solarius’ followers already hold immense influence, and a Demigod at their head… especially one with the potential Quin has… he could turn the tide in any battle. He would need to be dealt with before he reaches his full potential.”

Sorin remained silent, his eyes cast downward as Wuthum’s words hung in the air. The idea of killing Quin, his own brother, stirred something uncomfortable within him. He didn’t want to betray Quin, and he didn’t want to see him killed. But he knew that the world they lived in wasn’t so simple. He kept his thoughts to himself, unwilling to share the conflict brewing inside.

Wuthum watched Sorin carefully for a moment before his eyes flickered with realization, understanding the silence for what it was. “I see…” he muttered. “You’re not ready to face that possibility. But you should know, Sorin, if Quin reaches his full potential, he could become a devastating weapon for the Light Pantheon. He might not always be your brother in the way you remember him.”

Sorin didn’t respond, his face a mask of calm. Inside, though, the tension twisted like a knife. Wuthum’s words were too close to the fears Sorin had buried—fears of what he and Quin might become. Would Sorin even recognize his brother if they met again?

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After a long pause, Wuthum shifted the topic, his tone more speculative, though still carrying an edge of caution. “With two Demigods on the continent—both of you still budding—it’s not hard to see what’s coming. War. A war that could either devastate the Dark Pantheon or the Light Pantheon. It all depends on whether Quin or you are killed before you reach your full strength. The Gods themselves will see to it that either you or he doesn’t make it.”

Wuthum let out a breath, a dark eagerness creeping into his voice. “But if both of you grow into your full potential, it’ll be a long, bloody war. Perhaps the bloodiest the world has seen in centuries.” His eyes gleamed with something close to excitement, a hunger for the destruction that would follow. “For some of us… that’s not a bad thing. War is how we earn glory and power in service of our Gods.”

He paused, his expression shifting into something more personal. “And for me, well, war might give me a chance for some revenge. I’ve lived too long with Beacon’s curse, driven mad by the very light his followers worship. If the war comes, I’ll make sure Beacon’s name is ground into dust.”

Sorin watched as Wuthum’s enthusiasm grew, his eagerness palpable. The necromancer’s hunger for power and vengeance radiated from him like heat from a fire. It was clear that Wuthum was not afraid of the impending war—in fact, he welcomed it.

But for Sorin, the reality was more complex. He was caught between his loyalty to the Dark Pantheon and the lingering bond with his brother. The path ahead was growing darker, and each step brought him closer to a confrontation he wasn’t sure he could avoid. Still, Sorin said nothing. For now, silence was the only weapon he had against the growing storm inside him.

The conversation with Wuthum had been both enlightening and deeply troubling for Sorin. He had learned much about his own potential as a Demigod and the dangers that lay ahead, but the weight of those revelations now pressed heavily on his mind. For the next few days, Sorin remained in Wuthum's eerie domain, resting and recovering from his journey, as well as continuing to meditate and gather spirit. The rest was sparse as everytime Sorin closed his eyes or his mind drifted, memories of pain and entrapment plagued him.

Gone were the nightmares of Magnus’s death, replaced by new fresh nightmares of horrors he had experienced rather than witnessed. Waking up in a cold sweat was the least of the symptoms as Sorin would experience phantom pains where his body would cease up, tensing with all it had in preparation of a bone that was about to crack, pus that was about to burst from rotting flesh, or being trapped in his own mind with no escape.

What made it worse was that there was no goal, no task that Sorin could throw himself into to make himself feel better. With the nightmares that caused him such strife with Magnus’s death, he threw himself into getting here in hopes of reviving him. There was no solution to this situation, nothing that would take away the experience of torture. No goal that he could throw himself into. Nothing except grow stronger, he supposed.

During this time, Sorin spent more hours conversing with Wuthum, discussing the intricacies of divine power, Demigods, and the looming threat of war. However, as the days passed, Sorin noticed a subtle but growing change in the necromancer. Wuthum, who had been composed and focused a few days prior, was starting to become increasingly erratic. He would flinch at invisible things, his eyes darting to corners where nothing lurked, and his hands would tremble more frequently. Occasionally, he would mutter under his breath; his words garbled as though he were trying to drive away some unseen presence.

The hallucinations from Beacon’s curse were returning.

Sorin, ever observant, watched these moments grow more frequent and severe. Wuthum, for all his power, was struggling to keep his mind clear. Realizing that the situation could spiral out of control, Sorin acted. Sitting across from Wuthum, who seemed on the verge of a breakdown, Sorin took a deep breath and summoned every ounce of spirit he could muster. His Eye of Discernment flared to life, and he focused it on the necromancer.

With all his spirit channeled into the Eye, Sorin pierced through the growing hallucinations, casting them away from Wuthum’s mind. It was an exhausting effort, draining Sorin of nearly all his gathered spirit, but it worked. Wuthum’s erratic movements slowed, and the wild look in his eyes faded as clarity returned.

Wuthum released a long, shaky breath, leaning back in his chair. "Thank you, Sorin," he rasped, his voice heavy with gratitude. "I could feel it creeping back. The madness… never truly leaves, but your power gave me the clarity I needed. Again."

Sorin nodded, but the exhaustion from the effort weighed heavily on him. “It was the least I could do.”

Wuthum took a moment to compose himself before continuing. “While you were recovering these past few days, I’ve searched for solutions to stave off the curse. Beacon’s power still lingers within me, even after you destroyed its hold on the altar. The curse is ancient, tied to the divine, and as you know, there is no easy way to remove something of that nature."

Wuthum then began explaining the methods he had been exploring. "I’ve tried several approaches, some of which I’ve been using for centuries to keep the madness at bay, but none have been truly effective. Now, with your help, I’ve been considering more drastic measures."

He paused as if gathering his thoughts. “First, I’ve been experimenting with old, forgotten rituals of Mortis. There are rites that focus on siphoning away divine influence from a cursed object or person. I’ve been trying to adapt them to my condition, but they’re dangerous—these rites can siphon too much spirit and leave me vulnerable to the curse’s backlash.”

Sorin frowned. “That sounds like a double-edged sword.”

“It is,” Wuthum agreed. “But it’s worth the risk. If I can siphon away enough of Beacon’s influence, I might be able to weaken the curse enough to keep it manageable.”

Wuthum then gestured to a collection of strange, black stones on a nearby table. “Second, I’ve been crafting talismans imbued with necromantic energy. These stones absorb small amounts of divine energy, redirecting it into the land itself. It’s slow, but over time, they might draw enough of the curse out of me that I can function at a reduced capacity. However, they need to be placed in specific locations around the fen for maximum effect—and that’s something I haven’t had the time or the strength to do before you came along.”

Sorin studied the stones. “And the third option?”

Wuthum sighed. “I’ve been researching an ancient artifact—the Helm of Dark Reflection. It’s said to reflect and absorb divine attacks, making it one of the few relics capable of shielding its wearer from a curse like mine. But finding it… well, it’s been lost for centuries. I’ve traced rumors of its location to the eastern mountains, but I’m unsure. And even if I were, traveling there in my state would be a death sentence.”

Sorin nodded thoughtfully, taking in everything Wuthum had explained. Each method had its risks and limitations, but they were steps toward a solution.

Wuthum’s voice softened as he concluded. “For now, your Eye of Discernment is the only thing that has brought me true relief. It’s given me time to think clearly and to plan. But I can’t rely on you forever. The curse is tied to me, and sooner or later, it will try to reclaim my mind.”

Sorin stayed silent, his mind churning. He knew that helping Wuthum was vital in bringing Magnus back, but the curse was clearly a constant threat. "We’ll find a way to hold it off," Sorin said. "One way or another, you won’t fall to it again."

Wuthum’s eyes met Sorin’s, a faint smile of gratitude passing across his lips. “I believe you, Sorin. Together, we’ll find a way.”

A few weeks passed, and during that time, Wuthum settled on his temporary solution to keep his mind intact, he would scatter the necromatic stones throughout the fen. He had discovered that it would come at a cost. Wuthum had explained it as best as he could to Sorin, but Sorin did not possess nearly enough knowledge of the intricacies of spirit and necromancy to grasp it. What Sorin had understood was that Wuthum would be sealing away slivers of his power along with the curse into the stones and allowing the isolated portions of power to fight for supremicy. To ensure that the curse did not win over Wuthum’s own power and spirit, he would have to make sure that each stone contained substantially more of him than the curse.

If the curse won out, then Wuthum would be unable to recover his lost power. Additionally, a fair majority of the curse would have to still be within Wuthum, granted at a reduced capacity, because Wuthum could not sever to much power from himself or he would lose control of his undead army causing a disasterous flood of undead to surge out of the fen and to the closest population center, Cestead the City of Academies.

The method allowed Wuthum to continue working at a reduced his strength and capacity. It would leave him vulnerable, but it was worth his sanity. In this vulnerability, Wuthum would no longer be able to afford to leave the safety of his fen, knowing that any journey beyond its borders might lead to his death if his reduced faculties were exposed.

Wuthum implemented this method over many days, spending most of his time traveling the fen with an undead escort to place the stones. When he finally returned, Sorin noticed the difference immediately. Wuthum was more composed now, his thoughts less erratic, though the lingering weight of the curse was still visible in his posture as if he were always bracing himself against something unseen. Despite his weakened state, Wuthum remained determined.

“I’ll be able to function for now,” Wuthum said, his voice low but steady. “But I can’t leave this place. Not like this. The moment I step beyond the fen, any number of enemies find out about my departure and find my weakness, and I’d be easy prey.” His eyes glinted with resolve. “Until I find a permanent solution, this will have to do.”

Sorin nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "How long will it hold?" he asked.

“A few years, perhaps longer if I maintain focus. But I’ll need to dedicate myself to something worthwhile while I still can,” Wuthum replied. He turned to Sorin, his expression growing serious. “That’s why I’m making you a promise, Sorin. I will dedicate myself to creating a new body for Magnus—a vessel that can house his soul and allow him to continue growing in strength.”

Wuthum walked over to a table cluttered with strange materials—glistening bones, shimmering stones, and a few ancient relics. He picked up a small shard of crystal, holding it up to the dim light of the room. “Creating such a body is no easy task. The materials are rare and incredibly expensive. I’ve scoured the world over the centuries, collecting what I could, and I barely have enough for this one attempt. I doubt I’ll find these resources again for thousands of years.”

Sorin’s chest tightened. The weight of Wuthum’s words sank in—this was their one shot at bringing Magnus back.

“I understand,” Sorin said quietly. “We’ll make it count.”

Wuthum nodded, his skeletal hand closing around the shard. “I’ll begin preparations immediately, but there’s something else I need from you.” He hesitated for a moment, his voice taking on a more urgent tone. “I need you to pass on some information to Zane Warbringer—Magnus’s brother.”

Sorin tilted his head at the mention of Zane. Sorin had been heading toward Warbringer Academy with the hope of finding Zane Warbringer, who was not only a powerful figure in his own right but the person who would continue Sorin’s training.

“You mentioned you were on your way to the academy to find Zane,” Wuthum continued. “I believe Zane could help break this curse. Perhaps he knows someone who follows Morsus, the God of Curses. Morsus’s followers are experts in curses—if anyone can find a way to free me from Beacon’s grip permanently, it would be one of them.”

Sorin considered this, nodding slowly. “I’ll do it. I’ll find Zane and explain the situation. If there’s someone who can help you, we’ll find them.”

Wuthum exhaled, relief evident on his weathered face. “Good. Zane is a powerful ally, from what you have told me about his position. If anyone can gather the resources or connections needed to help me, it’s him.”

The necromancer’s voice softened, his gaze distant. “I’ve lived with this curse for too long, Sorin. If there’s a way out of this madness, I’ll find it. But I’ll need your help to make sure I’m not fighting this battle alone.”

Sorin met Wuthum’s eyes, the weight of the necromancer’s plea heavy on his shoulders. “You have my word. I’ll speak to Zane, and we’ll find a way to break the curse. In the meantime, do whatever you need to do for Magnus.”

Wuthum grinned faintly, the barest hint of hope flickering in his eyes. “Then we have a plan. However, there are some things that must be handled before you depart.”

Wuthum then began to pace about the room. When Wuthum spoke, his voice was steady but filled with a strange mixture of reverence and anticipation. The necromancer held the small shard of crystal in his skeletal-like hand, the object shimmering faintly in the firelight. “Before I can craft a body for Magnus, we need to conduct a ritual,” Wuthum explained, his dark eyes fixed on Sorin. “This will allow me to capture Magnus’s spirit within this crystal. Don’t worry, it will be painless for both you and Magnus.”

Sorin looked at the crystal, then back at Wuthum. “And once his spirit is captured, you’ll be able to study it? Build him a body that gives him full autonomy?”

Wuthum nodded. “Exactly. Normally, when someone is brought back through necromantic means, they lose pieces of themselves. They’re more like puppets—mindless, bound to their master’s will. But this crystal… it will allow me to house Magnus’s soul in a way that keeps him intact. No side effects. No undead limitations.”

Sorin’s brow furrowed slightly, but he trusted Wuthum’s knowledge. “Alright. When do we begin?”

“I have already made the preparations. We begin immediately,” Wuthum stated.

Wuthum turned, gesturing for Sorin to follow him deeper into the tower. They descended a narrow, spiraling staircase that seemed to sink endlessly into the earth. The walls were slick with moisture, the air thick and cool, carrying the faint scent of decay. As they descended, the flickering light of torches grew dimmer, but a spell flared to life Wuthum’s hand provided a steady, ethereal illumination.

At last, they reached the bottom. Wuthum led Sorin into a massive underground chamber. The room was vast, the ceiling stretching high above them, barely visible in the shadows. It was circular, with thick stone columns lining the edges, each one carved with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with a dull, greenish light. The floor was made of black, polished stone, etched with intricate patterns forming a large, spiraling circle in the center of the room.

At the heart of the chamber was a stone altar. Surrounding it were several pedestals, each holding strange objects—bones, shards of glass, and vials of glowing liquid. The altar itself appeared to be relatively new, covered in symbols of death and rebirth, glowing faintly in the dim light. Despite the eerie stillness of the room, there was an odd feeling of anticipation in the air, as though the space itself was waiting for the ritual to begin.

Wuthum approached the altar, his staff tapping lightly against the stone floor. “This is where we’ll perform the ritual,” he said. “The followers of Mortis have spent millennia perfecting this process. The circle inscribed on the floor will draw in the energy we need to capture Magnus’s soul. All you need to do is stand by the altar and focus your mind on Magnus—his presence, his spirit, anything that binds you to him.”

Sorin nodded and approached the altar, feeling the cold emanating from it. He stood in the center of the circle, his eyes tracing the strange markings on the ground. Wuthum moved to one of the pedestals and placed the crystal in the center of the altar.

“The ritual itself is simple,” Wuthum continued, his voice low but clear. “I will invoke the powers of Mortis to guide Magnus’s soul into the crystal. You, as someone deeply connected to him, will act as a conduit. Your connection will allow the process to happen without resistance. Once his soul is captured, I’ll be able to study it and craft a body that’s perfectly attuned to him.”

Sorin took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. “And Magnus… he’ll be unharmed?”

“Completely,” Wuthum assured him. “His soul will remain intact, unaltered. This is simply to contain and preserve him while I work. Magnus’s autonomy will be fully restored once he has a new body.”

Wuthum raised his staff, and the air in the chamber began to hum with energy. The runes carved into the columns glowed brighter, their greenish light casting eerie shadows across the walls. The patterns on the floor began to pulse with energy, sending ripples of light through the stone beneath Sorin’s feet.

“Place your hands on the altar,” Wuthum instructed, his voice steady.

Sorin stepped forward and did as he was told, placing both hands flat on the cold stone surface. The moment his palms touched the altar, he felt a surge of energy flow through him. It wasn’t painful, but it was powerful, like a current of unseen force pulling at his spirit. He closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts on Magnus—his mentor, his guiding force, the man who had shaped so much of who he had become.

Wuthum began to chant in a low, guttural tone, speaking words in an ancient language that Sorin couldn’t understand. The air grew heavier, and the light from the runes began to swirl in the air, spiraling around Sorin and the altar. The crystal on the altar glowed brighter, its light pulsing in time with Wuthum’s chanting.

Sorin felt a strange tug within him, as though something deep inside was being drawn out. He focused harder on Magnus, on their bond, on the promise of bringing him back. The energy around him intensified, the room filling with a low hum that seemed to vibrate through the very stone.

Suddenly, the light from the crystal shot upward, casting an ethereal glow across the chamber. Sorin could feel it—the presence of Magnus’s soul, fragile but unmistakable, being pulled from wherever it had lingered, guided by the ritual’s power.

As the light from the crystal grew stronger, Sorin could sense Magnus’s spirit entering the crystal, its essence merging with the glowing shard. There was no pain, no resistance—just a gentle, peaceful transition. The light around Sorin began to fade as Magnus’s soul settled within the crystal, and the hum in the chamber quieted.

Wuthum’s chanting slowed, and the energy in the room gradually dissipated. The runes dimmed, and the swirling light around the altar stilled. Wuthum lowered his staff, breathing heavily from the exertion.

“It’s done,” Wuthum said softly, his eyes fixed on the crystal. He stepped forward and gently lifted the shard from the altar, cradling it as though it were the most precious thing in the world. “Magnus’s soul is safely contained. Now I can begin the work of creating a body for him.”

Sorin removed his hands from the altar, feeling a strange calm wash over him. “How long will it take?”

Wuthum looked down at the crystal, his expression serious. “It will take time—years, maybe decades. Crafting a body that can house a soul as strong as Magnus’s requires precision. But now that I have his essence… it’s only a matter of time.”

Sorin nodded. The ritual had gone smoothly, and now, the next step of their plan could begin. Magnus would be restored—but there was still much work ahead.

Wuthum placed the crystal in a secure, rune-inscribed box on one of the pedestals, sealing it with a wave of his hand. He turned back to Sorin, his expression filled with determination. “Now that we’ve begun, I won’t stop until Magnus is brought back. You’ve done your part. The rest is up to me.”

Sorin felt a weight lift from his shoulders, knowing that they had taken the first crucial step. All the suffering up until this point had been worth it. Magnus would once again walk the earth and strike fear into his foes in the Light Pantheon. Sorin would grow in strength and one day, together, they would take revenge on Lief Stoneheart.

Wuthum looked at Sorin, his eyes a mix of intensity and finality. “With Magnus’s soul safely contained, the next steps are on me. You, however, have dallied here long enough. Your journey awaits you, Sorin.” He gave Sorin a pointed look, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air. “It may be time for you to depart and continue on your path.”

Sorin, though reluctant to leave Magnus in his current state, knew Wuthum was right. There were too many moving pieces, and he couldn’t afford to lose any more time. “I understand,” Sorin said, his voice steady, though a flicker of hesitation passed across his features.

“But,” Wuthum continued with a thin smile, “I won’t send you away unprepared. I’ve prepared some gifts—tools to aid you on your journey.”

Sorin raised an eyebrow, curious. He had learned to appreciate the necromancer’s generosity, but gifts from someone like Wuthum often carried great significance.

The necromancer extended his hand, revealing a small, intricately crafted ring. The band was a dull, gleaming black, inscribed with delicate silver runes that shimmered faintly in the dim light. “This is a storage ring,” Wuthum explained. “A magically enchanted object that can store other items within it. Simply feed it a little spirit, and you’ll have access to everything inside. It’s a valuable tool—don’t lose it.”

Sorin’s eyes widened as he accepted the ring, slipping it onto his finger. He had heard of storage rings before, but they were incredibly rare and priceless artifacts, often reserved for the most powerful or wealthy individuals. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, recognizing the magnitude of the gift.

Wuthum waved off his gratitude. “You’ll need it more than I do. I have gained plenty over my years of conquest. But that’s not all.”

With a gesture, Wuthum motioned for Sorin to follow him. They left the ritual chamber, walking through the winding corridors of the necromancer’s tower. They descended countless staircases, the air growing cooler and heavier as they went deeper underground. The stone beneath Sorin’s feet was slick with age, and the torches lining the walls cast flickering shadows that danced in the corners of his vision.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Wuthum stopped before a large, stone door. He pushed it open with a creak, revealing an empty room made entirely of smooth, cold stone. In the center of the room was a single pedestal, upon which rested a sleek, dark egg. Its surface gleamed in the dim light, swirling with an array of shifting, iridescent colors.

Sorin stepped closer, his gaze drawn to the mesmerizing patterns. The egg seemed almost alive, its surface rippling with mysterious energy.

Wuthum’s voice broke the silence. “This is a familiar egg,” he said, his tone filled with reverence. “A familiar is a unique creature that hatches when someone feeds it spirit. Once it hatches, it bonds with you. Its appearance, its powers, even its personality are shaped by both its lineage and the spirit you feed it. A familiar can grow alongside you, taking a portion of your absorbed spirit to Rank up.”

Sorin turned to Wuthum, intrigued. “Why don’t more people have familiars, then?”

“Because they’re rare,” Wuthum replied, his gaze fixed on the egg. “And they’re a heavy investment. A familiar requires a portion of your spirit to grow, which means it slows your own progress. Most people, especially those higher up in the ranks, don’t want to risk their own advancement by sharing spirit with a familiar. And since familiars can only be bound by those at the Disciple rank or lower, most people lose interest once they rise higher.”

Sorin considered Wuthum’s words carefully. “But if raised well, they can become powerful?”

“More than powerful,” Wuthum said, a hint of pride in his voice. “A familiar is an extension of your will. It can develop unique abilities that complement your own, making it a valuable ally in both combat and strategy. And if you nurture it properly, it can grow to become something truly formidable.”

Sorin studied the egg once more, feeling the latent power within it. “How do I hatch it?”

“Feed it your spirit,” Wuthum instructed. “But once it absorbs enough of your energy, it will hatch and imprint on you. What it becomes depends on you—and the spirit you provide. Choose wisely, because this familiar will be with you for the rest of your life, but I recommend you have it hatch. Someone with your heritage will create something incredibly unique and powerful.”

Sorin took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the decision before him. The idea of a familiar—something uniquely tied to him, with the potential for immense power—was both thrilling and daunting. He reached out, placing his hand gently on the surface of the egg. It was cool to the touch, but beneath its smooth exterior, Sorin could feel a faint pulse, as if something inside was waiting to be awakened.

“I’ll take care of it,” Sorin said quietly, his voice filled with determination.

Wuthum nodded, satisfied. “Good. Remember, a familiar is not just a tool—it’s a companion, an extension of yourself. Feed spirit into it and it will handle the rest.”

Sorin took a deep breath as he stood over the sleek, dark egg resting on the cushion. His hand hovered above it for a moment, then he let his fingers graze the surface, feeling the swirling energy just beneath its shell. With a focused mind, Sorin began feeding the egg his spirit, channeling it carefully into the shimmering surface.

The egg responded almost immediately, its colors—pink, blue, and black—rippling in intricate patterns. A faint tremor began to run through it, and the egg shook on the cushion, rattling softly at first, then with increasing intensity. Sorin stepped back, his heart pounding as cracks began to form along the shell. The light in the room seemed to dim, as if all attention was drawn to the hatching process.

With a final, sharp crack, the egg burst open, shards of the shell falling away to reveal what lay inside. A small creature, no larger than a cat, tumbled out with an indignant squawk. Sorin’s eyes widened as he took in the familiar’s appearance: it stood on four legs, each ending in sharp talons. Its body was covered in shimmering scales, except for the wings that sprouted from its back, which were adorned with soft, vibrant feathers. A yellow beak gleamed in the dim light, and its yellow, cat-like eyes blinked curiously at its surroundings. A long tail swished behind it, tipped with a few stray feathers. Perched atop its head were two perky ears, twitching like those of a dog.

The creature’s color scheme was as striking as its form—its scales a swirling combination of deep pinks, blues, and blacks, blending together in an almost hypnotic pattern.

Sorin watched in awe as the familiar stretched its wings, revealing feathers as brilliantly colored as the rest of it. It gave another small squawk, this time more triumphant, and with a flap of its wings, it lifted into the air. The creature flew around the room, its wings cutting through the air with grace, and its cat-like eyes gleaming with curiosity as it explored its surroundings.

After circling the room a few times, the familiar swooped down and landed on Sorin’s shoulder, its talons gripping his cloak with ease. Sorin, still in awe, smiled at the creature, marveling at how majestic it looked.

“You’re incredible,” Sorin murmured, unable to hide his admiration.

The familiar turned its head toward him, meeting his gaze with its piercing yellow eyes. For a moment, there was a sense of shared understanding between them. But then, without warning, the creature opened its beak and let out an ear-piercing squawk, directly into Sorin’s ear.

Sorin yelped in surprise, his body jerking reflexively as he clutched his ear. “What in the—!”

Wuthum, who had been watching from the side, burst into laughter. “Majestic, indeed!” he said, his voice filled with amusement. “Seems your familiar has quite the personality.”

Before Sorin could fully recover from the shock, the small creature nipped his ear, its sharp beak leaving a tiny cut. Sorin winced, feeling the sting of the bite. A moment later, the wound began to glow with a faint, dark light. The familiar’s eyes gleamed briefly with the same dark energy before it let out a contented chirp and curled up on Sorin’s shoulder, nestling into the crook of his neck.

The familiar’s small, scaly body was warm, and within moments, it had fallen asleep, its breathing slow and steady.

Sorin touched his ear, feeling the warmth of the dark glow fading away. “What just happened?” he asked, turning to Wuthum.

Wuthum’s laughter subsided, and he gave Sorin a knowing look. “It needed to ingest your blood to complete the familiar bond. That dark glow you saw? That was the bond being formed. From now on, the two of you will be linked—spiritually, mentally. It’s a necessary part of the process.”

Sorin nodded, glancing at the sleeping creature on his shoulder. “So… we’re bonded now?”

“Indeed,” Wuthum said with a grin. “It’s yours for life. And it’s already claimed you as its own. I’d say the bond is well and truly formed.”

Sorin couldn’t help but smile, despite the ringing in his ear. He gently ran his fingers along the familiar’s scaled back, marveling at its strange beauty. Even with the mischief, the creature had a certain charm—a wild, untamed energy that matched Sorin’s own.

Wuthum chuckled again, shaking his head. “Just be prepared for more surprises. Familiars are known to be unpredictable… and yours seems to have a taste for theatrics.”

Sorin glanced at his new companion, feeling a surge of warmth and pride. “I think we’ll get along just fine. He’s got a sense of humor, like me.”

Sorin gently stroked his new familiar’s back as it slept on his shoulder, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m curious about what this little one can do,” he mused aloud, glancing at Wuthum. “It’s already shown some personality, but I wonder what kind of abilities it’ll develop.”

Wuthum tilted his head, considering Sorin’s words. “Every familiar is unique. What powers it develops will depend on the spirit you feed it and the bond you share. It could be anything—strength, speed, magical abilities. Time will reveal its true nature.”

Sorin nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. He looked at the small creature, nestled comfortably against his neck. “I think I’ll call you… Vestian,” Sorin said softly, feeling the name resonate. The familiar let out a faint chirp in its sleep, as if acknowledging its new name.

Wuthum smiled, pleased. “Vestian. A fitting name. I’m glad to know you won’t be traveling alone. It’s comforting to think you’ll have an ally by your side, even if it’s a small one for now.”

The necromancer motioned for Sorin to follow, and together they walked through the winding halls of the tower. After ascending several staircases, they reached Sorin’s room, where his belongings had been kept during his stay. Wuthum gestured toward the familiar twin swords lying against the wall, their dark, sleek blades catching the dim light of the room.

Sorin approached the table, his hand resting on the hilts of his swords, feeling the familiar weight. He slid them into the scabbards strapped to his back, feeling more complete now that his weapons were once again on his back. “Thank you, Wuthum. For everything.”

The necromancer waved a bony hand. “Think nothing of it. You’ve done your part in helping me. Now, it’s time for you to continue your journey.”

Together, they made their way down to the base of the tower, the air growing fresher and lighter as they descended. At the entrance, the mist of the fen drifted lazily around them, the atmosphere still heavy with the eerie quiet of the swampland.

Wuthum turned to Sorin, his eyes gleaming with a rare moment of warmth. “I wish you safe travels, Sorin. May Mortis guide you, and may you find the answers you seek.”

Sorin nodded, his expression resolute. “I’ll hurry to Warbringer Academy and speak to Zane about helping you. Hopefully, he knows someone who can break this curse once and for all.”

Wuthum’s lips curled into a grateful smile. “Thank you. And don’t worry—none of the undead will disturb your travels through the fen. The entire area should be safe for you.”

The necromancer raised a hand and pointed toward the southeast. “That’s the direction you’ll want to head. Once you leave the fen, the path should become clearer.”

Just as Sorin was about to set off, he hesitated, turning back toward Wuthum. His brow furrowed slightly. “There’s one thing I’ve been wondering about… those black pools I encountered on my way here. They showed me visions of my death—peculiar ones. I can’t shake the feeling that they were more than just illusions.”

Wuthum paused, his gaze darkening as he considered Sorin’s words. “The black pools, yes. They’re… peculiar, indeed. I’m not entirely sure what they are anymore. Long ago, when Beacon’s power was rampant in this city, those pools were used to show potential futures and paths that one could take. It was said they gave insight into what might be, depending on choices made.”

Sorin raised an eyebrow. “But that’s not what they showed me. They only revealed images of death.”

Wuthum nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Yes. That’s the strange part. Since the land has been corrupted with Mortis’s power through me, the pools now only show images of death, like what you saw. Whether they predict potential futures or not… I can’t say. Beacon no longer has any influence over this place, and Mortis, as you know, holds no domain over the future. His power is tied to death and decay, not foresight.”

Sorin frowned, feeling a shiver run down his spine as he recalled the visions the pools had shown him. “So… they might just be echoes of what was? Or perhaps twisted by the influence of Mortis?”

Wuthum shrugged, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Perhaps. Or maybe they’re remnants of both powers—Beacon’s old magic still lingering, warped by Mortis’s presence. Either way, I wouldn’t put too much stock in what you saw. The future is always in motion, and even if they showed you possible deaths, nothing is set in stone.”

Sorin nodded slowly, though the unease didn’t fully leave him. He gave Wuthum a final nod of thanks. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you again, Wuthum.”

The necromancer watched as Sorin turned and set off toward the southeast, his familiar Vestian still curled up contentedly on his shoulder. As Sorin disappeared into the mist, Wuthum stood at the base of his tower, his thoughts lingering on the path ahead for the young Demigod. There was much yet to unfold, and the shadows of both the past and future loomed large.