Isgram stepped into the room, his presence as commanding as the fire in his veins. The doors creaked shut behind him, plunging the hall back into silence. His boots echoed off the stone floor, each step deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world, though none of them did.
The council members shifted in their seats, eyes wary, unsettled by the sudden arrival of the fire magisto. The name alone carried weight, and his reputation for unyielding resolve preceded him.
He did not sit. Instead, he stood tall, crossed his arms, and surveyed the room with a quiet, unreadable expression.
Fujin's gaze softened for a moment, but his voice remained firm. "You've come at an opportune moment, Isgram."
Isgram nodded, acknowledging the old elf's words but offering nothing further. He wasn't here for pleasantries.
One of the younger elves, his face tight with frustration, spoke up. "So, you're the one they're pinning their hopes on, then?"
Isgram turned his gaze on the elf, and the room held its breath. The weight of the question hung heavy in the air.
"I'm here because you got coin," Isgram said, his voice sharp, a quiet edge beneath the surface. "I didn't come to solve your problems, but to see where I fit in the puzzle."
Another elf, older, with a weary look in his eyes, leaned forward, his voice low and cautionary. "Fujin has made arrangements with your people, but tell us, Isgram, what are these powers you wield? You magistos are not the common ally."
A hushed murmur rippled through the council, as the word "magisto" was like a curse on their tongues. The stories were old, but the fear they provoked was still fresh.
"I'm no monster," Isgram said, his eyes flicking to the elf. "Only those who cross me find out about my powers."
There was a pause, and some of the elves exchanged glances, their unease noticeable. It was a dangerous game to place their trust in such power.
"Enough," Fujin's voice cut through the tension, steady and calm. He motioned for Isgram to step forward. "We are not here for idle chatter, but for the future of Davra.
Our people are suffering."
Isgram's gaze swept over the council. They were a worn lot, a mixture of desperation and calculated resolve in their eyes.
"We've made a deal with the haven," Fujin continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "We've traded for food. But you," he turned his gaze to Isgram, "Are invited by this council to expand our agreement."
The room was silent. Every pair of eyes was on Isgram.
He remained still, the flames in his veins resting as he finally understood the depth of the issue at hand. There was no easy solution, and the council's desperation didn't make him sympathetic.
"Food will not be enough if the curse is truly as powerful as they say," Isgram said, his voice cold and clear. "This isn't something you can bargain your way out of, Fujin. You need magic. One neither you nor I possess."
Fujin caught his meaning, and his eyes looked darker than ever.
The older council members who spent a long time running the village, far before Fujin was the chief, were aware of the implication.
One was brave enough to raise the question.
The old elf's eyes narrowed. "Then what do you suggest?"
Isgram's lips curled into a grim smile. "That depends on your willingness to accept things far darker than mere famine. This curse you speak of? It is intentional.
If you want to survive this, I suggest you hand over all the dark books you can get your hands on to my leader. As I'm sure you have all been notified by now, he is of the right... aptitude for such a situation."
The council members exchanged uneasy glances, their minds racing, the weight of Isgram's words sinking in.
"Are you suggesting...?" one elf trailed off, his voice tight with fear.
Isgram didn't answer immediately, his expression unreadable. "I'm not here to soften the meaning of this, so yes. You will have to resort to dark magic to fight dark magic.
My lad, Fang, is a capable necromancer.
Probably one of the few left in the empire. If we can give him the right materials, especially knowledge, he might be able to help you.
No promises."
One councilwoman stood abruptly. "You'd have us consort with necromancers? With forbidden texts?"
Another leaned in, eyes cold. "If the choice is between purity and extinction, I choose to live."
Fujin slammed his fist on the table, shutting the council from infighting in front of their newest ally. "We'll pay, as long as it ensures our survival."
Isgram nodded, acknowledging the seriousness in the chief's resolve. But something flickered in his eyes—an unspoken thought, something darker that he kept buried deep within.
"Let's see what you're really made of," he said, turning toward the door.
"And one advice to you all: Pray tonight.
Pray to the gods you abandoned, if they haven't abandoned you yet."
He closed the door with a soft bang, like a gavel calling the judgment.
Fujin was the first to speak again, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. "Let us hope, for all our sakes, that we've made the right choice."
Fujin exhaled slowly and sank back into his chair, and the air swirled quietly around him.
He stared at the candle on the table, watching the flame bend and twist—less a source of light, more a reminder of what they had just invited.
"He wasn't wrong," murmured the older elf who had spoken earlier. "We've let this curse grow roots under our feet. Prayers won't feed the fields, but the gods will."
"But necromancy?" said the councilwoman who had stood, her voice still brittle with disbelief. "We're talking about death magic. That path ends in chains, or worse."
Fujin raised a hand, silencing her. He said with a sigh, "I'm aware. But you saw him. I saw their powers, and you all have seen the files documenting the recent skirmishes they had with Whitemoor.
None of us can deny their strength."
The youngest elf stood, fists clenched. "And what if this necromancer of his brings more ruin? What if the Empire finds out what we've done?"
"Then we're already dead," Fujin said, eyes hard. "Let's not pretend we have clean hands or good choices left."
Outside, the sky bled orange, sunset choking on ash.
Meanwhile, Isgram walked alone down the dirt path from the council chamber, flanked by empty houses and sickly trees. The wind dragged dry leaves behind him like whispers.
He didn't head straight back to camp. Instead, he veered off toward the edge of the village, where the wheat fields once stood proud. Now, the land looked like it had been cursed by the gods themselves. Soil turned black. Crops shriveled into skeletons. A stench hung in the air—sour, like old blood and rot.
He knelt and placed a hand on the earth. Heat rose from his palm instinctively, like the land might speak to him if he coaxed it.
Nothing.
No mana. No warmth. Just cold, cursed silence.
"This is one hell of a dead land... I can't even feel the death magic here, but again, I'm not attuned to it like Fang and Gaia. This might be the end of this village."
----------------------------
Fang hunched over the workbench, sleeves rolled, ink smudged on his fingers. The scar across his shoulder pulsed faintly, shrinking day by day—a sign the death magic still lingered.
Gaia's book lay open beside him, stuffed with diagrams and notes in two different hands—hers and now his. Under lamplight, Fang had made progress.
Mana stones.Two successful reanimations.Stable and powerfully charged with more than twice the mana the rabbits consume daily.
"Show mana."
{2400\3400}
"Fuck me, this is getting costly. I can't believe Gaia is already on the 4000 mana realm."
It wasn't enough.
He needed more.
Without constant mana, they went dormant. Starved. He fed them himself, burning through reserves.
The breakthrough came with imprinting.
He marked each mana stone with a sigil—ק. The rune preserved the souls and tethered them. With a word, he could summon or return his warriors at will.
He tested it. Again. And again. Even Smoke went back to his stone form.
The big bastard flickered into stone form and back, hungry and twitching. But it worked.
'Now I can train properly,' Fang thought, exhaling through his nose.'No more feeding Smoke like a spoiled warhound. He hunts too much anyway. And he's eating through my reserves like he's bulking for a tournament.'
He rolled his shoulders, eyes flicking to the other stones.
their mana rotated inside, yearning for the sweet kiss of death.
But no kiss will be given.