Echoes of the Forsaken

The fire was nothing but embers now. Dying coals crackled softly beneath a thin veil of ash, casting faint orange flickers against the forest floor. The Withered Woods lay in eerie silence, thick with mist and the hollow breath of the wind.

Liora sat alone at the edge of the camp, bathed in darkness, the faint pulse of the Heart of Mourning still seeping into her skin. The crystal rested in her palm, cold and jagged, its faint violet glow illuminating her pale fingers.

Her hands were shaking.

She clutched the shard tightly, staring into its swirling depths, her eyes clouded with exhaustion. The raw necromantic energy still clung to her soul, sharp and wild, like barbed wire scraping against her essence. The pain was dull now—a faint ache that lingered in her chest—but the power was unrelenting.

No matter how tightly she gripped the crystal, she could still feel it slipping through her grasp, like shadows in her veins.

"It's changing you," Alaric's voice echoed in her mind.

"You almost lost control," Selene had said.

They were right.

She had felt it. The slipping. The madness.

For the briefest of moments, when she had unleashed the bone warden's death throes back at the temple, she hadn't just commanded the dead—she had become part of them. She had felt herself sinking into the shadows, lost in the swirling tide of souls, unable to separate herself from the countless echoes of the departed.

And she hadn't cared.

For a fleeting heartbeat, she had wanted to sink further.

Liora exhaled sharply, her breath shaky. Her eyes flicked toward the campfire. Alaric and Selene were sleeping nearby, their weapons still close at hand. Even in their sleep, they didn't trust her.

She could feel the space they kept—their subtle distance—the unspoken wariness.

And it stung.

She curled her fingers around the crystal, ignoring the way it cut into her skin, the sharp edges biting into her palm. The necromantic energy slithered through her veins with a familiar, almost seductive warmth.

The whispers were louder now.

"Summon us, mistress…"

"Let us rise…"

"Let us serve…"

Her knuckles turned white, but she didn't let go.

Suddenly, a snap of twigs sounded from the forest's edge.

Liora's eyes snapped toward the sound. Her grip tightened instinctively on the crystal, magic flickering faintly at her fingertips.

The forest was still.

But her gaze narrowed as she scanned the shifting mist, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw a figure moving through the gloom. A shape barely visible, its form blurred by the dense fog.

She rose silently to her feet. Her boots pressed softly into the damp earth as she stepped away from the dying fire and into the shadows beyond. The mist clung to her cloak, swirling around her ankles as she moved.

The trees around her were black silhouettes against the faint silver haze of moonlight. Her breath fogged faintly in the cold air.

And still, she felt the presence.

Somewhere just beyond the veil of mist. Watching. Waiting.

She moved cautiously, one hand outstretched. The Heart of Mourning pulsed faintly in her palm, its violet glow dim but unwavering. She let her magic spread subtly into the earth, sensing for the presence of the dead.

And then she heard it.

A faint whisper.

"Liora…"

She froze.

Her breath hitched sharply, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her fingers curled slightly, and without thinking, she reached for the bone dagger at her waist.

Another whisper.

"You cannot hide from us…"

Her eyes narrowed sharply. Her free hand curled around the crystal. The mist thickened around her, swirling unnaturally, as though responding to her magic.

A shape stepped into view.

A man in tattered robes, his face pale and hollow, his eyes darkened by the same violet haze that pulsed in her veins. His skin was withered and sunken, stretched tightly over jagged cheekbones. A faint, nearly skeletal grin cut across his face, but his eyes were unmistakable.

A revenant.

But it was not just any revenant.

It was one of hers.

One of the nameless souls she had raised in battle only days before. She had left his broken corpse behind on the fields of Hollowcrest, where her necromantic rage had first spiraled out of control.

Yet here he stood, dragged from the grave, still bound to her call.

The violet fire in his eyes flickered faintly, and his voice was hers.

"You called us, mistress," he rasped softly. "And we never left."

Liora's breath caught in her throat.

She staggered back, her boots skidding slightly on the damp earth. Her pulse thundered in her ears as her eyes flicked over the revenant's withered form. His hands were cracked bone and sinew, and his ribs were visible beneath the torn scraps of flesh.

But he didn't attack.

Instead, he knelt.

His skeletal hands pressed into the dirt. His broken, twisted form bent before her. And when he spoke, his voice was a harsh rasp, but there was no doubt in his tone.

"Command us," he murmured. "And we will destroy your enemies."

Liora's heart twisted violently. The world blurred at the edges. Her chest tightened, and her throat burned. She could still feel the bone warden's soul lingering in her veins, fueling her power, amplifying the magic she could barely contain.

And for the briefest of moments, the temptation burned in her chest.

The memory of the battle flashed in her mind—the rage, the power, the unstoppable force she had become when she let the magic consume her.

Her fingers twitched slightly.

She could feel it—the urge to call them forth.

To let them rise.

To let the dead drown the world.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. The words were on her tongue—the familiar necromantic incantation ready to slip from her lips.

But then she saw it.

The faint flicker of recognition in the revenant's hollow gaze.

And she realized, with a sharp jolt, that she could still see the man he had once been. The faint traces of humanity lingering in his withered eyes.

A distant memory of who he once was.

Her throat tightened. She took a shaky step back, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Her grip on the crystal slackened slightly.

"No," she whispered.

The revenant's eyes narrowed slightly. The faint haze of violet flickered faintly at the edges of his irises. His sunken gaze met hers.

"You cannot deny us, mistress," he rasped softly. His voice was almost pleading. "We are yours."

But Liora's hands were trembling now. The bone dagger slipped slightly in her grip. She forced herself to take another step back.

The revenant stared at her. His skeletal face was void of expression. But she could feel his longing—the faint, desperate ache of a soul that no longer belonged to itself.

And then he simply… faded.

His withered form slowly crumbled into dust, his bones collapsing into ash. His voice lingered faintly in the wind—a broken whisper.

"We are yours…"

And then he was gone.

Liora fell to her knees, her breathing uneven. She clutched the Heart of Mourning tightly to her chest, trembling violently. Her vision blurred, and her pulse pounded in her ears.

But no matter how hard she tried to slow her breathing, she couldn't escape the thought clawing at her mind.

Her magic was growing too strong.

Too wild.

Too monstrous.

And she was starting to like it.