The Weeping Catacombs – A Necromancer’s Trial

The Guild – Rumors & an Unwanted Reputation

Arlan stepped into the Veyleigh Adventurer's Guild, rolling his sore shoulders as he approached the counter. The air was thick with the usual mix of sweat, alcohol, and cheap incense, but the liveliness in the hall made it feel suffocating.

He ignored the boisterous laughter and the clinking of tankards, keeping his hood low as he slid his completed quest notice across the desk.

The scarred guild clerk barely looked up as he counted out Arlan's payment.

"twelve silver," the man grunted, tossing the coins onto the counter. "Decent work. No serious injuries?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Arlan replied, pocketing the money.

He glanced around, lowering his voice. "You ever hear anything about the Weeping Catacombs?"

The clerk scoffed. "You planning to dig up more graves, Rook?"

Arlan smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Just wondering if there's been any undead activity."

The clerk's expression darkened. He rubbed his chin, thinking. "Not much in recent years. Place was abandoned long ago—some noble family's burial site. If anything's waking up in there, it ain't natural."

Arlan nodded. He already knew that much.

He turned to leave—

Then he heard it.

"Loud. Reckless. Dumb as a sack of bricks—yep, that's the guy we're looking for!"

Arlan's body tensed.

That voice—

Slowly, he turned his head—just enough to see.

A group of adventurers further into the hall full of people, chatting with some guild members. His breath caught in his throat.

It was them.

Tomas.

Leila.

Beren.

And Mira.

His old companions. The people he had abandoned.

Tomas stood at the front, arms crossed over his broad chest, his ever-present smirk plastered on his face as he gestured wildly. "You'd know him if you saw him. Walks around like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders. Always muttering to himself. Probably hasn't changed his clothes in a month."

The guild member laughed. "Sounds charming."

Leila snorted. "Oh, he's something. Most of the time, he's just confused. He once tried to use a spoon as a weapon."

Beren, grinning, grunted. "It was a big spoon."

Mira, however, wasn't smiling.

She stood slightly apart from the others, arms folded, her fiery hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes weren't laughing like the rest of them.

They were scanning the crowd.

Searching.

For him.

Arlan swallowed hard. His heart ached. He clenched his fist, forcing himself to move.

Don't let them see you.

He ducked his head and turned away, his pulse hammering as he slipped between the guild patrons, making his way toward the exit as quickly as possible.

Bones, Following his master, tilted his head. "Say hello?"

Arlan ignored him.

His hands felt clammy. His chest tight.

Hearing their voices again. Seeing them again. It made something inside him unravel.

He had left them.

They were looking for him.

And now?

He ran.

He shoved through the guild doors, stepping out into the fresh air of Veyleigh's streets. His breath was shaky, uneven.

He clenched his jaw.

He couldn't see them. Not now. Not like this.

He had a mission.

He had to stop the necromancers.

And if that meant staying away from his old companions—

Then so be it.

Arlan turned down the street and vanished into the crowd.

The Weeping Catacombs – A Forbidden Ritual

The Weeping Catacombs loomed before him, carved into the cliffs along the coastline. Faint mist clung to the entrance, as if the air itself was warning him away.

Arlan adjusted his cloak, stepping forward. The moment he crossed the threshold, he felt it.

Necrotic energy. Strong.

Someone was already here.

"Stay quiet," he whispered to Bones and Shade.

They slipped into the darkness.

The deeper they went, the stronger the presence became. Arlan could hear it now—a low chanting in a language he didn't fully understand.

Then he saw it.

A lone necromancer stood at the center of the crypt's chamber, his dark robes billowing from the raw power radiating off the ritual circle beneath him.

A half-formed abomination writhed within the sigils—a mass of bones and rotting flesh, struggling to take shape just like the one he had seen in Duskhaven.

The necromancer's voice rose, his hands moving in practiced motions.

He hadn't noticed Arlan yet.

Arlan's mind raced. If he acted now, he could stop the ritual before it fully completed.

But his hesitation cost him.

The necromancer's head snapped toward him.

For a moment, they stared at each other.

Then—the necromancer grinned.

"A fellow practitioner?"

His voice was smooth, curious, but laced with something more dangerous.

Arlan kept his expression neutral, fingers twitching toward his wand.

"You could say that."

The necromancer chuckled, tilting his head. "You're early. I thought I'd have more time before I was interrupted."

Arlan's eyes flickered to the grotesque thing in the ritual circle. "I'm guessing you're not raising that for fun."

The necromancer's grin widened. "Oh, but I am. Fun for me, at least. The rest of the city won't enjoy it much."

Arlan's grip tightened. "You're trying to raise an undead army. Just like you guys did in Duskhaven."

The necromancer's smile didn't waver. "Ah… so you know."

Then—his expression darkened.

"And you also understand… that I can't let you leave."

The First Real Battle – Necromancer vs. Necromancer

The necromancer moved first.

A wave of skeletal arms burst from the ground, clawing at Arlan's feet. He barely had time to react, leaping backward as bone-shards scraped across his boots.

"Shade—disrupt him!"

Shade flickered into a mass of darkness, sweeping toward the enemy caster.

The necromancer didn't flinch.

With a sharp command, a barrier of runic symbols flared to life, blocking Shade's attack.

Arlan cursed. This wasn't some novice playing with death magic—this guy knew his craft.

And he was already summoning more undead.

The abomination in the ritual circle shuddered, its grotesque body solidifying. The thing was massive—twisted arms, gnarled skulls peeking out from its grotesque, patchworked flesh.

It let out a sickening, gurgling roar.

"Okay," Arlan muttered. "That's disgusting."

The necromancer raised his hands, commanding it forward.

"Kill him."

The creature lunged.

Arlan didn't have time to process the pain in his chest from seeing his old friends again.

Because if he lost this fight—if he failed—there wouldn't be a Veyleigh left for them to search in.

He had to win.

Even if it killed him.