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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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