The air in the southern region was thick with the scent of damp earth and rot. Elias's caravan had made its way through the mist-choked forests that bordered the ancient temple, the sound of hooves on the wet ground barely audible over the unsettling silence. Even the birds had fallen quiet, as if the very land itself held its breath.
Elias stood at the head of the procession, his eyes narrowed as they approached the ruins. The soldiers had reported strange sightings—figures moving within the temple's shadow, strange symbols appearing on the walls, and the growing sense of dread that permeated the air. But what truly troubled him was the figure that had emerged from the temple, a being that seemed to defy logic and reason. It had spoken of him by name. It had called to him.
The thought sent a chill down Elias's spine. He had expected to encounter remnants of the past, perhaps traces of forgotten magic or the ruins of a long-lost civilization. What he hadn't expected was a living, breathing force of unknown origin.
The temple loomed before them, partially hidden by overgrown vines and the creeping tendrils of moss. Its architecture was ancient, but the stonework was unlike anything Elias had seen before. The columns were twisted, as if the very stone had been bent by an unseen hand, and the once-grand entrance had been consumed by the forest, only faint carvings of forgotten deities visible in the flickering torchlight.
"Master," Rhea called, approaching his side. Her voice was tense, betraying the unease she felt. "We're close. The soldiers are nervous. They've never seen anything like this."
Elias glanced over at her, his face a mask of cold resolve. "I know. Keep them in line. We cannot afford weakness now."
Rhea nodded, but her expression remained troubled as she moved to issue orders to the soldiers. Elias turned his attention back to the temple, the whispers of the gods from the crypt still echoing faintly in his mind. He could feel their presence, their hungry gaze upon him. The words they had spoken had not been idle threats. They had warned him that the price of his power would be steep. The gods wanted to reclaim what they had lost—and Elias was their tool.
The path leading up to the temple was strewn with shattered stone and the remnants of what had once been a grand courtyard. The air was heavy with the oppressive weight of centuries of forgotten worship. As they reached the temple's base, Elias could feel the temperature drop. His breath became visible, curling like smoke in the air.
"What is this place?" one of the soldiers muttered nervously, eyeing the darkened entrance.
Elias stepped forward, his voice commanding. "It is a place of power, lost to time. A place where the gods once walked. We must uncover its secrets."
The soldiers followed, their footsteps hesitant on the worn stone, the silence broken only by the soft sound of their breathing. As Elias reached the temple's entrance, he raised his hand. Magic crackled beneath his skin, a pulsing energy that resonated with the very stone of the temple. He felt a sharp tug, as though something inside the structure was calling to him, pulling him deeper into its depths.
With a wave of his hand, the heavy stone doors groaned and slowly creaked open, revealing a vast, shadowed interior. The air inside was thick with the scent of incense, old and stale. Elias's eyes gleamed in the dim light as he stepped into the temple, the others following cautiously behind him.
The walls of the temple were adorned with strange carvings, depicting figures that seemed to writhe in agony. Some of the depictions appeared human, but others were grotesque and otherworldly, their forms stretched and distorted in unnatural ways. The symbols on the walls seemed to pulse with a faint, eerie light, almost as if they were alive.
At the far end of the temple stood an altar, carved from a single slab of black stone. The altar was covered in what looked like old, dried blood—its surface marred with symbols that seemed to resonate with Elias's own power. As he approached, a shiver ran down his spine. This was no ordinary altar. It was a place of sacrifice, a place where the veil between life and death had once been thin.
"There," Elias said, pointing to the altar. "That is the source of the disturbance. We must uncover what lies beneath."
The soldiers hesitated, clearly unnerved by the dark energy emanating from the altar, but Elias could see that they were not the only ones affected. Even Rhea's face was pale, her gaze shifting uneasily between the altar and the surrounding shadows.
"Stand ready," Elias commanded, and with a sharp motion, he extended his staff. The crystal at the tip glowed brightly, casting a cold, bluish light that illuminated the room in stark contrast to the flickering torchlight.
Elias stepped forward, his hand outstretched toward the altar. As he neared, the air grew heavier, the whispers louder, almost unbearable. He could feel the gods' presence pressing in on him, their voices calling out to him in an ancient tongue, a language long forgotten by mortal ears. Their words wrapped around him, their meaning twisted and incomprehensible, but one phrase stood out above the rest.
"The price of power is death."
A jolt of energy coursed through him as his magic met the altar. The stone shuddered beneath his hand, and for a moment, the very air seemed to crackle with electricity. Then, with a low rumble, the altar began to shift, revealing a hidden passage beneath it.
"What is this?" Rhea whispered, stepping forward in awe.
Elias's eyes gleamed with a mix of triumph and fear. "This is the heart of the temple. The source of their power."
Without another word, he descended into the dark passage. The soldiers followed, their torches flickering as they moved deeper into the earth. The air grew colder, the walls narrowing as they descended into the bowels of the temple. It was a long, winding path, lit only by the faint glow of Elias's magic and the flickering torches of the soldiers.
At the end of the passage, they reached a vast chamber, its floor covered in dark stone and dust. The walls were lined with more ancient carvings, and in the center of the room stood a stone pedestal, atop which rested a dark orb. It pulsed with an ominous light, the very air around it vibrating with a raw, untamed power.
Elias approached the pedestal, his heart racing. This was it. The source of the gods' influence, the object that had called to him. His hand hovered over the orb, and as he touched it, a surge of magic shot through him, burning hot and cold at once.
The world seemed to crack open around him. The whispers of the gods grew louder, more insistent, filling his mind with visions of ancient, forgotten realms. He saw the gods, vast and terrible, standing before him—creatures of unimaginable power, their forms shifting and changing as though they were not bound by the laws of reality. Their voices rumbled through the very fabric of existence.
"You have chosen, necromancer," one voice boomed, deep and echoing, as if coming from the very core of the earth. "You have awakened us, and now you must serve."
Elias's grip tightened on the orb as the power surged within him, threatening to overwhelm him. The gods had spoken, but their words were not just a warning. They were a command.
The price of power, Elias realized, was not just death. It was servitude—a servitude to forces far greater than anything he had ever imagined.
And now, it was too late to turn back.