Night had fallen like a veil of ash across the scarred terrain of the former bandit stronghold.
The air still carried the scent of blood and charred wood. Smoldering embers glowed faintly beneath collapsed tents and burned-out watchposts. The battlefield lay quiet now—eerily quiet. Nothing moved except the whispering wind weaving through the skeletal remains of the trees.
Then… footsteps.
A low crunch of gravel echoed from the smoke-laced ground.
A shadowy figure emerged through the fog of ruin—a tall man draped in a dark, tattered cloak stitched with ancient runes, the edges trailing like mist. In one hand, he held a gnarled staff crowned with a pale crystal. In the other, a weathered tome, bound in cracked leather and laced with iron symbols that pulsed faintly with crimson light.
Four silhouettes followed behind him—the remaining strongest bandits, their armor blackened from war, their expressions hard with fury and reverence.
The first bandit, broad-shouldered and scarred, kicked a shattered shield aside in rage.
"They destroyed everything! Our outpost, our men! Like insects!" he roared, veins bulging from his neck.
The second bandit silently walked among the corpses, scanning the carnage. "None of our brothers survived… not even the cage guards. They're all dead."
The mysterious figure stepped into the heart of the ruined camp, unmoved by the devastation. Smoke curled around his feet as if bowing to his presence. He stopped in front of an empty iron cage, its door twisted open, its chains broken.
A faint, dry chuckle escaped from his lips.
His voice—old, deep, and cruel—echoed like whispers from the underworld.
"It doesn't matter. I have what I came for. Enough power… to raise an army."
His fingers brushed the surface of the old tome. As he spoke, the four bandits dropped to their knees in reverence, bowing before him.
The figure's eyes flared with dark fire.
"Rise with me, brothers of ruin. The time of the dead has come."
He opened the book, and strange runes spiraled into the air. His free hand glowed—a pale blue fire emanating from his palm, traveling up his wrist and merging with the crystal on the top of his staff. The staff hummed, growing brighter… brighter…
A surge of arcane energy exploded like a rising star from the tip of the staff, illuminating the entire camp in a haunting glow.
He raised the staff and shouted in a thunderous voice:
"WAKE UP!"
The air trembled.
The corpses twitched.
Then, with a ghastly convulsion, one by one—the dead began to move.
Their eyes burned with unnatural fire. Bones cracked and reset, wounds stitched themselves with cursed tendrils. Some dragged their weapons, others screamed wordlessly as they stumbled to their feet—no longer human. An army of the damned… reborn under moonlight.
The screen cuts to black.
---
Scene Shift – Vaithara Border Camp
The soft drumbeat of the night watch echoed through the forest, steady but hollow. The camp was alive but tense. The fire pits glowed, and soldiers walked the perimeter in silent alert.
In his command tent, Prince Jay Vashisth leaned over the war table, studying maps, trying to calm the unease building in his chest. His eyes, tired but sharp, flicked between symbols of enemy movements and reinforcements.
Across the table stood his loyal Captain Raag, his armor bearing fresh dents from the last battle.
"I don't like the silence after that raid," Jay muttered, tapping the edge of the map. "No magician or necromancer appeared during the battle. That's not normal. If they were watching, they'll come next."
Captain Raag nodded grimly. "They've seen our strength. They'll want to test our weakness."
"Exactly." Jay looked toward the tent flaps, where soldiers passed like shadows. "And if we're not ready, they'll strike when we least expect it."
Raag crossed his arms. "Our messengers should have reached the Capital by now. The king will send reinforcements."
Jay's brow furrowed. "They'll take time to arrive. We need to survive until then."
Raag's voice turned firm. "We're ready, Your Highness. Every soldier is on alert. We'll face whatever comes—even if it's a necromancer himself."
Jay nodded but his thoughts lingered on the edge of dread.
His heart, however, wandered elsewhere.
---
Madhvi's Tent
Inside a smaller tent away from the command zone, Madhvi sat beside Vaishnav's resting body. The old man's face was pale, his breath shallow but stable. She dipped a cloth in herbal water and wiped his forehead gently.
Her own eyes were heavy with grief and fatigue. She clutched a small charm made of wildflowers, whispering prayers beneath her breath.
"Please… wake up, Baba. I'm not strong enough without you."
Outside, the night deepened.
---
Vaithara Kingdom Palace
Back in the capital, King Varyan Vashisth sat in his private war chamber, pacing beneath the great mural of his ancestors. The flames in the wall sconces flickered with unease.
His warlord knelt beside the throne. "I've already sent the Royal Vanguard Unit. My finest men. They'll reach the border in three days."
The King sighed, eyes distant. "Still too long. Jay's instincts are rarely wrong. If he suspects necromancer activity, we should be sending more."
"And we shall," the Warlord assured. "Let us trust the boy who carries your blood. He's the Warlord you raised him to be."
The king turned to the window, staring into the night sky.
"May the gods protect him… and may Salagar find answers before it's too late."
---
Royal Library – Forbidden Wing
Deep within the palace's oldest towers, Yougandhar and Salagar moved through the forgotten archives, lamps in hand. Dust and cobwebs clung to the scrolls, and even the air felt ancient.
Salagar brushed past rotted shelves and pulled out an iron-bound volume etched in Old Vaitharan script.
"This one," he whispered. "The Book of Vaidantha."
Yougandhar opened it. Symbols shimmered in the lamplight—sigils of blood-binding, shadow-walking, and resurrection magic.
Salagar's expression darkened. "The Arc Wizards were not mere scholars. They were weavers of death and rebirth… necromancers who could twist life itself. If one of them has returned…"
"Then war is no longer between kingdoms," Yougandhar finished grimly. "It's between life and what crawls beneath it."
---
Back at the Border – The True Enemy Arrives
Beyond the forest line, hidden behind the trees, the Arc Wizard stood atop a rise, gazing at the glowing lights of the Vaitharan camp. His face, partly covered by a cracked mask, revealed eyes burning with pale fire.
One of the strong bandits leaned beside him.
"They're ready, my Lord. Sentries, walls, drums… it won't matter."
The wizard chuckled softly.
"Look… my army."
Behind him, over a hundred dead soldiers, reanimated and twisted in form, stood in rows—eyes glowing, bodies wrapped in dark mist. Some wielded axes, others rusty blades, some hammers and rods from ancient times. They swayed like trees in a storm, bound by a single will.
The Arc Wizard raised his hand… and dropped it.
"Strike."
The dead ran—fast, unnatural, screaming with voices of the damned.
---
Alarm in the Camp
The first sound was the low thump of the drums—then a piercing horn. Soldiers scrambled to arms. Fire pits flared, shields clashed, archers ran to the towers.
Jay burst out of his tent.
"Sound full alert! Position archers, shield walls, NOW!"
The captain raced to his side. "They're coming from the north gate! Too many… they're not human!"
Jay grabbed his sword and turned toward his royal guards.
"You two—guard Madhvi and her father. Don't leave their side, no matter what."
They nodded and ran toward the healing tents.
Jay's eyes narrowed. "This is what I feared."
Raag joined him, sword drawn. "Let's give them hell."
Jay raised his sword to the night sky.
"To the walls! Hold the line!"
The soldiers roared back, forming ranks as the undead horde charged into view—eyes blazing, weapons raised.
And from the forest, the Arc Wizard smiled beneath his mask.
The battle had begun.
---
To be continued…