The scent of death clung to the air. Smoke curled from the wreckage of the High Lord's encampment, mingling with the bitter stench of charred flesh and steel. The night was still, save for the low murmurs of the newly risen dead. They waited, silent and obedient, their forms shrouded in the lingering mist of shadow magic.
Voss stood at the center of it all.
Her eyes, once merely fierce, now burned with an unnatural glow, deep pools of darkness reflecting the power that surged within her. She felt stronger—as though every life taken, every soul bound, only fed the growing storm inside her.
This new strength was intoxicating.
But she could not lose herself in it.
Drakonix shifted beside her, its massive form barely visible against the night. The hydra's six heads scanned the ruined battlefield, its tongues flicking out to taste the air. It was restless. Hungry.
Voss ran a hand over its nearest head, calming it. "Not yet," she whispered. "The real battle still waits."
She turned, her gaze falling upon the handful of survivors—the Varden.
Scattered among the undead were the rebels who had fought and lived, those who had dared to defy the High Lord and survived his wrath. They had witnessed her power, her return from death itself, and now they stood before her—waiting, watching.
Among them, Striga stepped forward.
Her crimson armor was smeared with blood, her blade still smoking from the flames of battle. There was a wariness in her eyes, a flicker of something close to fear.
"You…" Striga hesitated, gripping the hilt of her sword. "What are you now?"
Voss met her gaze, unwavering.
"The same as I was before." Her voice was steady, controlled. "A warrior. A survivor." She let the silence stretch, then added, "The only difference is that now, death does not frighten me."
Striga exhaled, shaking her head. "It should."
Voss smiled faintly. "Perhaps."
She turned to the others, her voice carrying across the camp. "This was just a warning. The High Lord will feel this loss, but he will not retreat. He will come for us, harder and stronger. He will bring horrors we have not yet seen."
A murmur ran through the gathered warriors.
"Let him come," one of them growled, stepping forward. A tall man with a jagged scar across his cheek, his armor dented but his stance unshaken. "We've bled for this war. We've lost everything. We won't stop now."
Others nodded, the fire in their eyes rekindling.
Voss lifted her chin. "Then we march. We gather our strength. And when the time comes…"
She let the shadows swirl around her fingertips, tendrils curling like smoke.
…we end him."
The night swallowed their voices, but the promise of war had already been spoken.
Far away, in the depths of his frozen citadel, the High Lord would soon learn:
The dead did not rest. And neither would she.
Chapter Seven: The Gathering Storm
Dawn broke over the scorched battlefield, casting long shadows across the remains of the High Lord's encampment. The air was thick with the scent of ash and blood, but the dead no longer stirred. Voss stood at the edge of the carnage, watching as the last remnants of her summoned warriors dissolved into nothingness—bones turning to dust, armor crumbling like brittle leaves.
She exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of their souls lift. She had called them once, and now, they returned to the void.
It was a power no other mage possessed, a power that made her both feared and hunted.
A cold wind swept through the valley, carrying whispers from the east. The High Lord knew.
He would retaliate.
Voss turned to the Varden, now gathered around the remnants of their makeshift camp. The rebels were battle-worn, their wounds hastily bandaged, their faces lined with exhaustion. Yet, despite their losses, there was something different in them now—resolve.
They had fought the High Lord's forces and survived. They had seen his army bleed.
And they had seen Voss rise from death itself.
Striga stepped forward, her expression grim. "This won't stop him," she said, wiping soot from her cheek. "We wounded him, but he will return in greater numbers. He'll bring beasts, warlocks, and whatever horrors he's been breeding in his dungeons."
Voss nodded. "I know."
Silence stretched between them before Striga spoke again, her voice lower. "You didn't need to do that. To let them go."
Voss glanced at the spot where the last of her undead had vanished. "They were never meant to stay."
Striga's gaze was unreadable. "That kind of power… it changes people."
Voss met her eyes, unwavering. "Only if you let it."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Striga exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "We're going to need allies. More than what's left of the Varden."
Voss turned her gaze toward the distant horizon. She knew where they needed to go next.
"The elves."
Murmurs rippled through the rebels. Some looked hopeful, others wary. The elves had not involved themselves in mortal wars for centuries—not since the old alliance had shattered in betrayal.
One of the rebels, a broad-shouldered woman with a missing ear, scoffed. "They won't help us. They're just waiting for us to die off like the last time."
Voss's expression darkened. "They don't have a choice anymore."
She turned to face them fully. "The High Lord has begun using orcs and goblins. That alone should have been enough for the elves to act. But now, he is twisting them into something worse. He is building an army that no mortal kingdom can stand against."
Silence.
Then, Striga spoke. "So we force their hand?"
Voss nodded. "We show them the truth. We remind them of their duty." She met their gazes, one by one. "And if they refuse?"
Her fingers curled, shadows flickering at her fingertips.
"Then we make them listen."
---
...Far to the North…
The High Lord stood at the peak of his frozen citadel, his gaze fixed on the distant storm brewing at the edge of his lands. He could feel it—the shift in the world, the disturbance in the balance of power.
She lived.
And worse, she had become something even he did not yet fully understand.
Negar stirred beside him, the dragon's wings twitching, its breath sending a layer of frost crawling over the stone. It felt the unease, the whisper of something beyond mortal comprehension.
The High Lord smiled coldly.
"It doesn't matter," he murmured. "She can raise the dead a thousand times over. It won't change what's coming."
He turned, his cloak billowing as he descended into the depths of his citadel. In the darkness below, warlocks chanted in an ancient tongue, their voices weaving spells older than time itself.
He had prepared for this.
The undead? Shadows? The elves? They were all distractions.
He reached the lowest chamber, where the air was thick with the scent of blood and sorcery. The massive stone doors loomed before him, etched with sigils that pulsed with raw, forbidden power.
Beyond them, something stirred.
Something that did not belong in this world.
He laid a hand on the door, feeling the presence beyond it shift in recognition.
Soon.