Fog clung to the land like a second skin, curling around bones and stone. The Necropolis loomed at the center of the compound, its towers whispering in dark winds. But today, the fog did not feel as cold. Something had changed.
In the graveyard, as acolytes sifted bone-dust and performed their morning rites, the silence broke with low murmurs. The youngest among them, pale and thin, leaned toward an elder.
"It was Ishlar, wasn't it?" he asked. "The one they buried behind the Necropolis?"
The elder acolyte didn't answer immediately. He finished aligning a skull on the altar before muttering, "It was him. The same eyes. But… different."
"I heard him speak," another whispered. "He was clear. His voice — it had weight. Like before."
"He's not like the risen," said a third, older child. "Not like the others I've seen… the ones who just follow and groan. He was himself."
They gathered tighter, a ring of quiet voices and haunted eyes.
"Does that mean," one dared to say, "if we fall in battle… we can return? With our names? Our memories?"
A pause.
"If we serve him," another muttered, "we might not die at all."
One girl, scarred from the murloc attack months ago, spoke louder than the others. "It's more than that. Maybe… maybe he could bring back others, too."
They all turned to her.
"Our families," she said, eyes glassy. "My brother. Yours. If he found their remains… maybe they could walk again. Like Ishlar."
"That's not how necromancy works," the elder began.
"But this isn't necromancy," the girl interrupted, almost fiercely. "We've all seen the old necromancers. Their dead walked like dolls — no thoughts, no soul. But Ishlar… he's more alive now than we are."
A quiet awe passed through them.
"What if… if we find them again? Their bones. What if Vanthelis could bring them back?" the youngest asked.
They dared not speak the answer aloud — but the idea was planted, and it would not leave them.
Within the Necropolis, in a chamber lit by flickering green flame, Vanthelis stood alone over the island map. His eyes traced the roads, the cliffs, the mines — the fragile shape of their growing domain.
Footsteps echoed.
Ishlar approached, armored in dark steel, Frostmourne across his back. There was weight in his stride, but no hesitation.
"You've returned," Vanthelis said, not turning.
"I never left," Ishlar replied. "Not really."
Vanthelis finally looked at him. "And yet you walk. Speak. Remember."
"Every scream. Every breath. I don't feel pain anymore. I feel… fire. Purpose."
Vanthelis nodded slowly. "You're not like the dead the world knows."
"No. I'm not," Ishlar said. "And I know it's not just power. It's something else. Something deeper."
"It's not the kind of necromancy people fear," Vanthelis muttered. "My will doesn't bind you. You're not shackled to my thoughts."
"I chose to rise," Ishlar said. "And I'll choose to serve."
"Not as a servant," Vanthelis corrected him. "But as yourself."
He gestured toward the shadows. Eight ghouls stepped forward, hunched and twitching — but their eyes glowed with understanding, not mindless hunger.
"These eight are yours," Vanthelis said. "The others stay. They'll guard the Necropolis, night and day."
Ishlar looked over the ghouls, then turned to Vanthelis.
"I'll need builders."
"Haben will go with you," Vanthelis said. "Ziggurats. Spirit Towers. Every edge of the island must be fortified. I want no weak side."
As if summoned by his name, Haben appeared. Taller now. Sharper. The once-rowdy boy had forged himself in hardship, and now stood like a young general in training.
"I'll lay the foundation for the towers," Haben said. "Make sure they rise before the next moon."
"Good," Vanthelis said. "There are no second chances now."
He stepped forward and placed a hand on Ishlar's shoulder.
"This island is ours. This time, we carve it in bone and flame."
Ishlar met his gaze. "And if I fall again?"
"You won't," Vanthelis replied. "But if you do — I'll bring you back again. Stronger. Wiser. That's a promise."
As the sun began to fall into twilight, Ishlar and Haben walked from the Necropolis with the eight ghouls trailing behind, silent and aware. They did not groan or drag their feet. They moved like soldiers.
In the courtyard, the acolytes had gathered.
They said nothing.
But they watched.
Not in fear.
Not in awe.
But with belief.
No chants were spoken. No prayers were whispered. There were no "Masters" to be called. Only Vanthelis — boy-king of the dead, who gave life to the fallen and purpose to the forgotten.
One acolyte whispered to another as they passed.
"If he can bring back Ishlar…"
"Then maybe he can bring back anyone."
"Maybe even my sister…"
"Even my mother."
"They always said necromancers bring back corpses," one boy said. "But he brings back people."
The sun dipped lower.
The Necropolis glowed behind them.
With that the undead, scourge of the humanity take their first step toward the destruction or salvation? Who knows..