Necromancer

In the black-mirror halls of the Triade’s temple in Dynastes, a Necromancer steps through whispered corridors. Shadows cling to their robes, bones of past sacrifices bead the hem, faint light glimmering off runes carved in violet. In their hand, a skull flickers with unnatural flame—life no longer tethered to flesh.   Around them the air quivers: corpses shift, severed hands creep, and a hush falls over those who watch. The Necromancer speaks a name lost to time, and the dead obey: soldiers fallen in distant wars rise with hollow eyes, becoming pawns in a deeper scheme. The Villages beyond the hills tremble at rumors—not just of plague or stolen bodies—but of laughter when people are gone, and the silhouette of shadows where once only dust lay.   They are both curse and promise. For the Necromancer knows death is a doorway—and not every door should be sealed.