Selithrae POV
Dying is a funny thing in Orbisar. She knew she wasn't Selithrae, but a soul pulled into the body of Selithrae. She had no memories of her own—only Selithrae's. Any resurrection spell had to be cast within a month in Orbisar; after that, it was of no use.
Selithrae, according to her memories, died after the fall of Ther'vassi. When she woke a century later, she knew she wasn't Selithrae anymore, but a frost wight. She had Selithrae's flesh, name and memories, but a different soul.
A century meant either the Almighty had resurrected her or a new soul had taken the body. She doubted even the fallen Moon Goddess could pull off a resurrection a century later.
When gods die, what happens to the believers in the kingdom of gods? If a kingdom is designed, a caretaker takes over; if not, they all go to the Sea of Souls.
Selithrae, tired of creating wights, held worry beads and sipped mycelbrew. The former head priestess and legendary monk of the Dragon Age was anxious. Thousands of years had passed, yet she still remembered clearly when the gods wreaked havoc on the mortal realm.
Despite the passage of time, she could not let go. As a frost wight, she gained the power of undeath and tundra. She strengthened the Eternal Winter spell once again; millions of living beings would be affected, yet she didn't care. She was betting everything on the war in E'nathyr.
If she died in E'nathyr, then all living beings in Orbisar would pay the price for her end. She knew the Orchid Cult would be there as well; she would hand over the millions of souls under her care to the Orchid Cult.
Selithrae was no general; as such, she called upon the heroic legends among the moon elves. Only one answered her call, now sitting in front of her. A man of legend, supposedly—she couldn't see how he could be of use, but he was all she had. Others claimed that this fight wasn't theirs, or that she wasn't Selithrae.
Aevyrion didn't ask who, when, or where; he only asked, "Can I wage war to my heart's content?"—with a creepy smile even for a frost wight.
She had gathered nearly ten thousand wights; they needed to become an army. As for organization, the volunteers from moon-elf souls were of mixed quality.
"Let's go and meet our army," said Selithrae.
Aevyrion, with his creepy smile and a stocky figure unlike an elf's, said nothing and followed the frost wight.
They reached the balcony. Below them were thousands of frost wights with misshapen bodies—some missing arms and legs, some looking half-eaten. Those were her people, the damned ones; after becoming undead, they would never be freed. Neither gods nor Hell would accept them.
Aevyrion stepped forward and addressed them.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I LOVE WAR! I love when the sword meets the sword; I love the rain of arrows; I love magic churning the earth beneath my feet; I love facing the breath of dragons—I LOVE WAR!" As Aevyrion spoke, the army began to stir.
"I know you may not love war as I do, but we are going to war for revenge! I will make an army of you riffraff and lead you to victory!" He watched their reaction.
"I will sacrifice many of you for victory—for our revenge! Now let's begin training."
Turning toward Selithrae, he said, "We need proper armor and weapons for this riffraff."
"The armor and weapons will arrive in batches—5,000 in a month, 5,000 in two months' time," Selithrae replied.
"That's good," Aevyrion said.
Vyrgil POV
Vyrgil examined his new servants. Having released his old servants just hours ago, he realized how much they wanted to be free of him. Vampires, with their long lifespans, had vast resources—including people. As soon as he announced that they could be freed by providing a replacement, they brought thousands.
He even discovered hundreds of plots to kill him and replace him as the ancestor of vampires. He signed a non-aggression treaty with those old servants. They divided areas of influence, and no one could attack another directly or indirectly. For some reason, the lich was happy to help with the contractual obligations.
He ordered his new servants to create an army of undead. They would be cannon fodder and aid in the conflict in six months' time. The drow city E'nathyr had thirteen Transcendents; he would deal with only one, and his army would strike at the cannon fodder. He didn't even need to kill the Transcendent—only hold that Transcendent back.
He had tons of bodies still in good condition at the Ther'vassi laboratory. Those would become zombies, ghouls, and the like. As an artificer who focused on mass production, as long as he had enough resources, he could easily arm an army of millions. Before that, though, he needed blueprints.
War had changed in the Goblin Age; previously, armies fought individually, but now they fought using collective strength. Legions of the Ther'vassi army could unleash strikes akin to forbidden magic, or defend against dragon breath thanks to the magic engraved in their weapons and armor.
The lich promised to devise something suitable against the drow. All Vyrgil had to do now was wait—for the promised rewards and for time.
Vortal POV
Vortal had been a paladin of the Sun Goddess; Sum'gial caught him. The horrific experiments left him broken, bent, and disturbed. He lost his faith and swore vengeance on the necromancer.
The experiments left him skinny and ugly, but they granted him power beyond any mortal—made him Transcendent. The necromancer's experiments changed his muscle structure; in his bony frame he had the power to lift dragons, to smash mountains. Despite all his power, he wanted his handsome, faithful self back.
Now he had to act like an abomination, spewing out phrases like "muscle is power." Throughout the years, he searched far and wide for the necromancer's weaknesses. He found his children—the most prominent: Jacob, Veyn'dor, and Vyrgil—the good, the bad, and the ugly, as he liked to call them.
All of them had motives to kill the necromancer, but ever since he was experimented on, he could never trust others. He wanted the lich to suffer the way he had—as an expendable test subject, destroyed once his usefulness was done. That's why he was in E'nathyr, biding his time. He chose Veyn'dor; Veyn'dor only cared for the knowledge the lich hoarded.
Veyn'dor was a typical drow; once he had the lich's phylactery, he would enslave the lich until the end of time.
Vortal pinged the lich once again in the Forums of the Damned. He would keep doing so until the end of time, if necessary.
Bael'sha d'Veyn POV
Bael'sha d'Veyn, Matron Mother of House d'Veyn, knitted a veil while listening to her eldest daughter and heir, Xeirra d'Veyn, report on her previous consort: Sum'gial, the Lich of Death. Those who knew her would have been surprised at how quietly and closely she listened. Normally, she was a ball of fury and passion.
Within her small frame—for a female drow—poison, intrigue, and fire flowed like water over a waterfall.
Bael'sha wasn't sure how to feel about Sum'gial. Born a commoner, he rose to prominence in the academy. With scraps of resources and altered, obviously incomplete spells, he could create new magic. He was a true genius. She recognized him as such and offered him the position of consort, giving him resources and spells. He quickly repaid everything she had given him threefold.
She pretended not to notice the occasional wrongdoing. When he left E'nathyr—after she chose a new consort, for he had become too powerful in House d'Veyn—she thought she would never see him again.
"How many soldiers should we take, Mother?" Xeirra asked softly, interrupting her thoughts.
"As many as we have, daughter," she answered, her voice cutting like a knife.
"Would that not be wasteful?" Xeirra asked again.
Bael'sha looked her in the eye and said, softly yet with undeniable authority, "This is not our plan, daughter; it is the plan of the Mushroom Queen—may she bless House d'Veyn. We will take all the soldiers, all the students, all our slaves, every magic item, and attack that tower!"
"I understand, Matron," Xeirra said, bowing her head.
"See that you do," Bael'sha replied, her voice still sharp as a knife.