A finger for a finger.
A hand for a hand.
A body for a body.
A royalty for a Purgatorist.
Those words echoed ominously across the dark, cursed land like the tolling of a forgotten bell. The silence that followed was thick, heavy—almost sacred.
The grave stood at the center of a desolate plateau, surrounded by the lifeless remnants of an ancient battlefield.
Bones, broken weapons, shattered sigils—testament to countless forgotten wars.
Vel'Zorath stood in front of the grave, his cloak torn and soaked in dried blood, the air around him charged with the lingering energy of forbidden creation.
The ritual circle had been drawn with perfect precision, every symbol pulsing faintly with violet and black hues.
He raised his hand and whispered the final incantation.
"With this body… and this soul… I will resurrect you."
The earth trembled beneath him.
