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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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