The night draped over Verindale like a heavy cloak, the moon's feeble light struggling to pierce through the thick canopy of trees. Alaric stood alone at the outskirts of the village, a sense of solemn purpose guiding his every move.
With a deep breath, Alaric muttered the incantation under his breath, the words slipping through his lips like a whispered secret. The air around him grew charged with an unseen energy, a primal force that responded to his command.
As the last syllable left his lips, the ground trembled, and a spectral glow illuminated the area. From the earth emerged the fallen villagers of Verindale, their forms ethereal and shimmering with ghostly light.
They stood before Alaric, a silent assembly of the awakened dead, their eyes fixed on him with unwavering loyalty. Some retained hints of their former intelligence, while others were driven by a primal instinct to protect their master.
Alaric felt a surge of power and responsibility wash over him as he beheld his undead army. They awaited his orders, bound to him by the dark magic that now coursed through their veins.
"Rise, my loyal servants," Alaric commanded, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "You are reborn in darkness, and together, we shall shape our destiny."
The undead villagers nodded in unison, a silent acknowledgment of their allegiance. They awaited their master's will, ready to carry out his commands without question.
As the moon cast its silvery glow upon the scene, Alaric knew that he had taken a decisive step into a world of darkness and power. With his undead army at his side, he felt the beginnings of a plan taking shape—a plan that would lead him down a path of revenge and redemption.
With a determined stride, Alaric led his spectral army back towards the village, their footsteps echoing a promise of dark deeds yet to come. The Necromancer of Verindale had awoken, and the world would soon feel the tremors of his wrath.