Silence pervaded the space between headmistress and master necromancer, as if the air itself were made of cotton. The Teir’Dal’s mere presence unnerved Netheel to no end. It had always stuck in her craw that the forces of hate were the ones to first divine the whereabouts of the vault. By all rights, it should have been Tunare’s own faithful who made the discovery, thereby seizing custodianship of the Pact.

Now this vile necromancer, this ‘Xon Quexill’ was custodian. The sheer alien nature of the man grated on the headmistress’s nerves. She found herself wondering if this awkwardness was what Laera had to endure in order to befriend her shadow knight companion. Shaking her head, Netheel wondered how she did it. The silence alone was a testament to the gap that existed between the two races of elves.

It was unnatural what the Teir’Dal were. The spawn of Innoruuk were an abomination to all life—twisted as they were of the true elven form, which was wrought by the Mother of All. Such fundamental rifts in nature could never be bridged, the headmistress thought to herself. Not on a large scale, at least.

Time slipped away in the disagreeable quiet of the cavern. Netheel was amazed at the monolithic nature of the necromancer. She fancied the man could stand motionless all day long without a hint of life betraying him. Xon Quexill’s patience seemed endless in his complacency.

Now that she thought about it, that was exactly what annoyed her so. The necromancer seemed so self-assured and confident even as he sent his advocate—his very daughter, from what she gathered—into the thick of it. Considering her own distraught feelings surrounding Laera, she had to wonder what it would be like to send your own flesh and blood into harm’s way. It was something she couldn’t fathom.

“What did she mean?” the necromancer asked quietly.

Nearly jumping at the sudden, unexpected sound of the Teir’Dal’s voice, the headmistress strove to retain her composure.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, her manner strained in its politeness as she refused to look at the man.

“Your advocate’s parting words spoke of sacrifice,” explained the necromancer. “What did she mean when she said she wasn’t the only sacrifice upon Tunare’s altar?”

Netheel pressed her lips together, still looking away. If this Teir’Dal thought this was any business of his, custodian or no, he had another thing coming.

“At first I surmised that she alluded to my daughter,” Xon Quexill continued ponderously. “But the more I thought about it, the less sense such a statement made. Her words had the ring of finality, as if she herself had already become a sacrifice. Further, if she were consigning herself to defeat at the hands of Innoruuk’s advocate, she would be the only sacrifice in that regard. So, I am compelled to question the meaning behind her words.”

Lips still pressed tightly, the headmistress considered the necromancer’s words. Though he was loath to admit it openly between them, she could plainly see his only concern, in all his musings, was for his daughter. Perhaps the Teir’Dal’s question was worth answering after all.

“Laera wasn’t speaking of your daughter, necromancer,” came Netheel’s cold reply. “Her words and their meaning were directed solely at me.”

Quexill’s head turned slightly toward the headmistress, an uncomprehending frown on his face.

Netheel returned the Teir’Dal’s look with a hesitant glance of her own.

“In becoming Tunare’s advocate in the Pact,” she explained, “Laera has been forced to turn her back on a great deal of holy principles she had learned from birth. In befriending your daughter, she’s forsaken all things righteous in the teachings of the Mother. In this way, she has sacrificed all that she was, and all that she held true. In a cruel twist of irony, she has been made an outcast from Tunare’s teachings in order to serve as Her advocate in the Pact.”

The master necromancer nodded, understanding that much of it all too well.

“Though she makes this sacrifice willingly,” the headmistress continued, speaking to herself more than anything, “Laera has made it clear that in manipulating events so she has no choice in the matter, I have forsaken such principles as well—that I, too, belong on that altar no less than she. The only difference is that somehow I’m not an outcast as she is. For I am not the one who befriended our blood enemy.”

Quexill stood pondering the headmistress’s words and how they pertained to his own situation with Dreketh. He found it remarkable how in a single sentence, Tunare’s advocate had said the exact same thing his own daughter had said to him, and in a way only her superior would understand. It earned the master necromancer’s grudging respect.

“Your pupil is wise beyond her ears, headmistress,” he commented.

Netheel nodded her agreement.

“In the few months she spent alone with your daughter, she has gained more wisdom than her teacher has in decades of study.”

Graciously accepting the reciprocated compliment with a slight bow of his own, Quexill returned to his musings amidst the serenity of the cavern.

Casting the master necromancer several uncertain glances out the corner of her eye, Netheel cleared her throat to pose her own question.

“Did you make the selection?” she asked quietly.

Quexill turned slowly to address the headmistress, his face a mask.

“No,” he answered evenly. “No, the selection was made by he who came before me—a priest named Kella N’Threk. It wasn’t until his recent untimely demise that I undertook the burden of custodianship in the Pact.”

“And by then it was too late, wasn’t it?” Netheel said, her voice taking on a sympathetic tone. “By then you were unable to spare your daughter from such a fate.”

The master necromancer’s implacable face remained cold, his eyes glimmering.

“I, too, have daughters,” the headmistress confided, turning to face the crystal vault as she spoke. “Three, if you can believe that. Though they’re fully grown now and have children of their own, I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to send any of them off to-”

“To what, headmistress?” Xon Quexill interrupted. “To their death at the hands of the Teir’Dal for sake of some obscure prophecy to champion the egocentric cause of your pale goddess?”

Sighing disconsolately at the dark elf’s sharp words, Netheel shook her head.

“Something like that,” she whispered.

Taking a moment to consider her admission, Quexill joined the headmistress in watching the lucid structure some distance away.

“I would remind you, headmistress,” he said calmly, “that my daughter is now bereft of the Touch, which places both advocates on an even keel. It isn’t impossible that your pupil will emerge victorious to claim the Chalice in the name of your goddess.”

“As always, you speak nonsense, guild master!” someone called out from behind.

Turning about quickly at the sudden voice, both headmistress and necromancer discovered a moderately young dark elf male in dark robes standing in the cavern entrance.

“K’Jartan,” Quexill muttered under his breath.

“Why stop there, Master Quexill?” The youth swaggered his way inside as he spoke, followed closely by a number of armed Teir’Dal close behind. “Why not confess the real cause for your confidence in sending your own daughter off to a quest best suited for the likes of gods? Why not reveal the reason you remain complacent in her safety, all the while turning your back on the best interests of your own deity?”

“What’s going on?” Netheel asked cautiously, seeing the number of armed Teir’Dal entering the cavern grow to alarming proportions. “Who is this man?”

“His name is Glazn K’Jartan,” the master necromancer replied, loud enough for all to hear. “He’s an accomplished Denizen of the Dead and my successor to the role of guild master. He is also an arrogant, self-righteous despot who blames me for thwarting his designs on the title, aren’t you, Glazn?”

His impious grin widening, the young necromancer performed a sweeping bow.

“At your service,” he said blithely. “And quite possibly the most generous introduction you’ve given me to date, Quexill. I’m quite flattered.”

The master necromancer’s jaw clenched at K’Jartan’s insolent display.

“I have to admit,” the youth continued, stepping forward with brazen aplomb, “your skill in thwarting our dearly departed priest’s schemes is impressive, even to me. Beyond N’Threk’s assurances to the contrary, you’ve managed to leave no stone unturned…save one.”

“What is he talking about?” Netheel asked, taking a cautious step backwards at K’Jartan’s approach.

“He’s the one stone,” Quexill answered, his eyes riveted to the young necromancer.

“The symmetry of enlightened self-interest was too perfect to pass up,” K’Jartan went on to say. “Though I must confess, I had my reservations when Innoruuk’s priest first approached me. After all, the old man was obviously crazy. I didn’t want anything to do with him and his mad schemes until he revealed how my goals and the will of Innoruuk do indeed coincide. In so serving His divine interests in thwarting prophecy, he showed me how your death would become a happy byproduct, should I desire it.

“And desire it I did, obviously.” The boasting necromancer gestured to his entourage of guardsmen. “Mad or not, I realized the blind priest just handed me the victory for which I’d been thirsting all these years. Not a day goes by, Xon Quexill, that I don’t dream of your death at my hands. I figure if the Prince of Hate is served in your passing, then so much the better. He will reward his devout servants.”

“Reward by genocide, you mean,” Quexill spoke up. “N’Threk may have revealed to you the spoken prophecy, but he’s done a disservice by not sharing its vision. If the Prince of Hate obtains the Cup of Ages, he will leave the Teir’Dal to perish at the hands of Tunare’s army. I have seen it, as did N’Threk.”

“Teir’Dal such as yourself, perhaps,” K’Jartan replied, gesturing. “Look at you, casually conversing with the likes of her. Even your lapdog daughter has turned from the principles of hate to embark upon this wretched Pact. N’Threk knew she would. She is inherently flawed and impure. It’s in her blood. It’s why he selected her.”

Quexill’s hands clenched, his nostrils flaring as he contained his anger.

“But you are right about one thing,” the young necromancer continued. “As much as it pains me to be the instrument of her unworthy salvation, she will live to relinquish the Chalice into the hands of Innoruuk. She’ll have no choice in the matter, you see.”

“You failed to best me in the trials of leadership, Glazn,” the master necromancer observed. “What makes you think I would allow you to interfere with the Pact of Zeranon in any way?”

“I would have thought that would be obvious,” K’Jartan shrugged. “Tell me, Xon…what was it like encountering a spell of such magnitude?”

Quexill’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come-come ‘Master’ Xon,” the youth chided. “You and I both know you attempted to thwart my observation that even now continues to prey on the wood elf.”

“What is he saying, custodian?” Netheel demanded, hearing mention of Laera.

“Don’t waste your breath, woman,” K’Jartan tossed an uncaring hand at the headmistress, his eyes never leaving Quexill. “My esteemed guild master would never admit such a failure to the likes of you. Isn’t that right? This is the first necromantic web you’ve encountered in decades that you could not unravel, if I’m not mistaken.”

Burning with questions of how the young necromancer was able to divine such a spell, Quexill retained his composure nonetheless. If he remained silent, there was a slim chance the overconfident fool would let slip some tidbit of information Quexill could use to his advantage.

“You see, while serving under the good priest’s sanction,” K’Jartan continued, as if sharing some private confidence with his guild master, “I have honed my abilities well beyond what they were during the trials to which you so aptly refer—honed to the point that not even you can thwart them. It was my gift for serving as I am.”

“Then why observe the wood elf, Glazn?” Quexill asked quietly. “If it’s Dreketh’s cooperation you wish to usurp in surrendering the Chalice, you should be observing her instead.”

“Two reasons.” The youth ticked off his fingers as he spoke. “One, to keep you off the scent. Two, because if matters took a turn for the worse, there was every chance that the druid could, in fact, overwhelm and defeat your daughter in toe-to-toe combat. Dreketh’s compliance can be had in a myriad of ways, but above all else, I cannot permit Tunare’s claim on the Chalice. So long as the druid lives, so lives that possibility. Ergo, she will be eliminated.”

With that, K’Jartan flagrantly turned his back on his guild master.

“You disappoint me, Glazn,” Quexill spoke to the retreating youth. “I thought you knew better than to place such faith in a madman. Follow through with what you’re saying, and the Teir’Dal will become extinct. Kill the druid and we all perish!”

“Save your desperate lies for someone else, ‘Master’ Xon,” K’Jartan scoffed, facing them once again amidst his armed guard. “And by the way, it is not enough that I simply ‘kill the druid.’ She will die, but Innoruuk has mandated a far more tortured demise for Tunare’s advocate. For her nefarious role in the Pact of Zeranon, Laera Nellynwae is to become the prize member of His undead legion—a memento of His divine ascendancy.

“The observance has gifted me with a unique insight into her mind,” the young necromancer boasted. “She will be transformed into the very object of her own nightmares. Centuries shall pass as she’s relegated to fulfill the Prince of Hate’s every whim that pleases Him. Her tortured and lifeless flesh will carry out every aspect of Innoruuk’s will, her soul never to gain the respite of her weak and absent goddess. Such is the fate that is visited upon all who-”

Instantly, Netheel’s hands became awash in flame.

“I’ve heard enough!” the headmistress declared, throwing her arms forth.

Her spell cast, the young Teir’Dal became engulfed in explosive flames, the ensuing blast knocking his neighboring guardsmen from their feet. The ardent shock wave reverberated throughout the cavern, causing several stalactites to break loose and fall to the ground. Cries rang out from the multitudes of dark elves as they tried in vain to escape the falling debris of massing stone all around them.

Quexill wasted no time amidst the distraction. Before the flames of the blast could clear, the master necromancer sent forth his own magical assault that would cause the young upstart’s blood to boil in his veins. It was a spell Quexill prided himself in mastering, and even improving upon as head of the guild. He had every confidence K’Jartan would remain helpless to resist its effects.

Contrary to all expectations, a blue hand emerged from the roiling fire towards the headmistress, who became surrounded by a dazzling shower of light. Quexill recognized it as the debilitating spell of disease—one of the most powerful castings he’d seen, rivaling even his own ability.

Indeed, it seemed his student had learned a great deal under the priest’s sanction. Powerless to intercede, the master necromancer watched as Headmistress Netheel crumpled under K’Jartan’s wrath, clutching her stomach as waves of nausea enveloped her.

Thinking quickly, Quexill began casting.

In the face of such power that appeared to transcend his own, he thought it best to start by limiting his opponent’s avenues. Hands balled into fists, Quexill brought them out to his sides, forming an inverted “V” shape as K’Jartan’s feet became immobilized, magically rooted as they were to the ground.

With a look of pure enmity, the youth turned his attention toward his most recent assailant, the words of magical death on his lips.

But Quexill had already embarked on his subsequent spell. Bringing his arms up, the master necromancer crossed them at the wrists before his own bowed head, hands still clenched tightly as he awaited the youth’s inevitable attack.

As expected, he felt the impact of K’Jartan’s spell spread across his protective shield he’d cast before himself. Magic clashed with magic in a cacophony of light as the two necromancers fought their test of wills.

Ultimately, Quexill felt his shield split asunder, fragmented by the young Teir’Dal’s intractable power. Falling back amidst the assault, the master necromancer became suffused with magical energies that pierced into his very being. Life’s energies escaped him in a flood as his soul was tapped of its life-giving power. So invasive was the spell that arcs of brilliant green flashed through the air between victim and caster, each spark drawing Quexill inexorably closer to death by inches.

Mercifully, the spell ended, leaving the guild master weak and feeble on the cold floor.

“Come now, Xon. Surely you can do better than that in your sleep,” K’Jartan taunted, standing arms akimbo among his fellow Teir’Dal. “Here I thought to bring an army in order to defeat you, but it appears they won’t be needed after all. My dominion of the guild is assured in the casting of a few quick spells. I’m almost disappointed.”

Gritting his teeth, Quexill brought himself up to rest on his elbows and knees. Time was what the master necromancer needed now, but he could hardly stand, much less find strength to cast the spell he required.

“Your domination is short-lived, Glazn,” he croaked, still attempting to recover. “The Lodge of the Dead will soon be devoid of followers to hail you as their leader. Mark my words.”

“And you mark mine, ‘Master’ Quexill,” K’Jartan replied. “The power of Innoruuk has squelched your pathetic prophecy of an heretical goddess. Be certain to give my regards to the Prince.”

Closing his eyes, the young Teir’Dal spread his arms wide as he began casting his final spell. Unable to do so much as kneel, Quexill braced himself for the end as a surge of power washed over him. Strength bolstered his limbs with sudden electrifying energy, his muscles firming in the rush of hardened vigor.

“Kill the little urchin,” the headmistress’s voice muttered from behind.

No time to question, Quexill let loose the spell he desired, praying that K’Jartan was too occupied to counter it. His prayers were answered as shades of inky blackness appeared from out of thin air near the distracted necromancer, enshrouding him with their debilitating blindness. Glazn K’Jartan’s refined words of magic fell to tortured cries of pain as the darkness slowly eroded his skin wherever it touched.

Stunned by the spectacle of their leader’s plight as he writhed about, the dark elf guardsmen took a collective step back.

Hands pressed to his eyes, K’Jartan realized what had happened. His vision impaired as it was amid the clinging darkness surrounding him, his feet still rooted firmly in place as they were, he was unable to press the attack or affect a retreat. The once self-assured Teir’Dal was now rendered helpless.

“Kill him, you imbeciles!” he shouted, gesturing frantically in the master necromancer’s direction.

“That won’t be necessary,” a female voice called out, forestalling any advance the guardsmen might have made.

All eyes, save for K’Jartan’s, fell on the vault entrance to find Innoruuk’s advocate standing alone in the cavern’s light, framed by the darkness of the tunnel behind her. Clad in her mother’s bronze, Dreketh stood tall, her face implacable as marble.

In the hushed silence, Xon Quexill, much of his strength restored, shuffled quietly toward the crystal steps leading up to his daughter, careful not to touch them lest he feel the shield’s wrath. Not a trace of emotion betrayed the shadow knight as her cool azure eyes observed the approach of her former master below.

“Advocate of Innoruuk,” he said in a measured voice. “Where is the Chalice of Zeranon?”

Her face still cold and passionless, and with the utmost care lest she spill any of its contents, Dreketh brought forth her prize for all to see. A hushed stirring emitted from those assembled at seeing its stony black surface and gleaming brass bowl resting atop.

“Advocate of Innoruuk,” Quexill continued, speaking slowly, “where is your companion?”

In response, the shadow knight’s lip curled into a sneer. Bringing her other hand up, she drew her father’s sword over her shoulder, the sound of steel echoing about the cavern. Without a word, she held aloft the shining weapon high overhead, its surface reflecting the cavern’s light in glaring contrast to the tunnel beyond.

Headmistress Netheel let out a strangled cry.

“Look closely,” Dreketh advised, her voice matching the calm of the necromancer’s. “Look hard, and you will see the truth.”

His eyes narrowing, Quexill examined the blade held proudly above him. All appeared as it should be until he noticed something was oddly different. Even at this distance, he plainly recognized the weapon as her birthfather’s, except the two-handed blade only reached a length comparable to that of a longsword—a noticeably shorter class of weapon. Instead of tapering to a sharpened point, the blade’s end was squared off, a healthy portion of its tip missing.

Seeing the look of realization mark her father’s face, the shadow knight thrust the sword out into the open air. Breathless moments passed as the sundered weapon fell to land against the steps at Quexill’s feet with a jarring clatter.

“Though the blood of gods yet mingles in the Cup of Ages,” declared Dreketh, “the blood of innocents will not be spilled by the sword of my father. Now or ever.”

With this, Tunare’s advocate stepped from the shadows of the tunnel to meet the astonished gasps of those assembled. Clad all in leather, the wood elf shown wholly unscathed as she took her place next to her dark elf companion, her manner one of composed dignity.

“As it was spoken by the tongue of Erollisi Marr, so it shall be,” Dreketh announced, holding forth the Cup of Ages before her. “Sundered light and shadow will be cast upon mortal soil, wielded…”

The echoes of her voice died out as every living soul hung on her very words.

“…in the hand of innocence!” she finished, turning to present the Chalice to the wood elf.

Commotion broke out as the voices of a hundred panicked Teir’Dal shouted in desperation to the shadow knight. Threats were levied and pleas were made as the druid’s smooth hands took possession of the accursed artifact of power.

Glazn K’Jartan clawed furiously at his afflicted eyes, his lips cursing in bitter frustration. Time was slipping away from beneath his feet. Even now, it might already have been too late as Tunare’s advocate drank of the blood of the Chalice, forever putting his ambitions and those of his god to rest. Never before had he even considered failure to be an option until that moment as he railed impotently against the enchantment, yearning for it to dissipate by sheer force of will.

As if in response to his desperation, the necromancer’s vision cleared in a piercing glow of light as it filled his eyes, causing him to wince in the brightness. Blinking furiously to clear the blur, K’Jartan saw the wood elf standing atop the crystal staircase, her face becoming obscured by the stony blackness of the Chalice as she began to tilt her head back.

Xon Quexill felt the enchantment diminish as well. Turning his back on the events unfolding before him, the master necromancer whirled about to find his liberated victim squinting painfully in the light. Realizing there was no time to recast the darkness, Quexill desperately brought his hands up to weave a magical shield of force before the wood elf, hoping to protect her from K’Jartan’s imminent spell.

His efforts were for naught, as the young necromancer released the spell linked to his observation, shattering the master necromancer’s feeble shield into pieces numbering a thousand strong. Having mounted its energies over the course of days, the nefarious spell impacted with its target, the blood of gods half an inch from the druid’s lips.

Laera felt the magic penetrate her being, causing her muscles to seize violently. Blood from the Chalice spilled onto the crystalline floor as the dreadful chills returned to haunt her with a vengeance. Icy fingers ripped through her spine, splitting off to course down her arms and legs like hideous snakes worming their way through her body. The world spun in a bewildering tumult as she lost control of her legs and fell, landing in the firm, reassuring clutches of her trusted companion.

Catching the druid in one arm, Dreketh grabbed hold of the Chalice before it escaped the wood elf’s flaccid hands—before any more of the precious blood fell useless to the ground. Her breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed inside the bowl.

A single man’s cry of victory went up. Arms outstretched and palms raised, K’Jartan appealed himself to the cavern ceiling, and presumably beyond to the ears of his god.

“It is done!” he shouted maniacally. “Innoruuk! Prince of Hate! Thy pious servant has stripped Tunare of Her prize!”

“What have you done!” Dreketh screamed as she gently lowered the convulsing druid to the floor. “She was about to destroy the Chalice, not surrender it to Tunare!”

“All the same, I have secured Innoruuk’s claim on the Cup of Ages!” The necromancer gestured to the bloodstained crystal floor at the shadow knight’s feet. “See! The blood of the Chalice is spent! You have no power to prevent it! None of you! I invoke thee, almighty Prince of Hate! Come now and claim thy prize!”

Dreketh stood tall to confront the boisterous necromancer in the distance. Held firmly in the grasp of her bronze fingers, she raised Zeranon’s Chalice at arm’s length toward the necromancer, her azure eyes peering at him from over its brass rim.

“You spout supposition as though it were fact!” she called out. “You’ve not seen the inside of the Chalice to verify the truth of your words!”

“Spare me your empty posturing, elf lover!” K’Jartan scoffed, calling her bluff. “There lies enough blood at your feet to fill that bowl!”

“You eyes must be failing you, Glazn,” the shadow knight shouted back with conviction. “There lies enough blood at my feet to fill this Chalice thrice over!”

Dreketh brought the Cup of Ages to her lips. Closing her eyes, Innoruuk’s advocate slowly inclined her head, tilting the Chalice back as if to drink.

Chuckling his own mirth at the shadow knight’s hapless ploy, K’Jartan’s laughter ceased abruptly at the sight of twin crimson trails spilling from the corners of her mouth. It was undeniable. Blood coursed down Dreketh’s chin and onto her chest as she drank deeply of the whispered convergence of power.

The cloying taste of blood washed over her tongue as she swallowed. Every closure of her throat sent mouthfuls of the immortal liquid into her person, its raw power effusing every corner of the shadow knight’s soul. Visions and memories of the gods passed unbidden through her mind, sending her consciousness soaring past the boundaries of dimensional space. She saw vast worlds whose numbers reached beyond all comprehension, each one harboring its own manner of life, both grotesque and beautiful. The power intoxicated Dreketh like no liquor ever could, seducing her with vibrant imagery of countless possibilities now open to her. Sultry temptations ran like flame through her very essence. Through it all, she began to understand the true nature of the Chalice, and why the Queen of Love sought so desperately to hide it away from the likes of gods—even Herself.

With determination born of the strident, practical nature of mortality, Dreketh seized control of the quixotic power. Her emotions firmly leashed, the dark elf’s consciousness returned to Norrath as she opened her eyes and lowered the empty Cup of Ages—its power now embodied by its keeper.

Three succinct claps echoed through the cavern, Glazn K’Jartan’s hands languidly offering their mock applause.

“Bravo,” he said, his grave expression adding the lie to his words. “Congratulations, shadow knight. The whispered convergence of power is now yours to command for as long as the Cup of Ages exists.”

Dreketh cast a hesitant look to her father below. The master necromancer’s face shown as implacable as his daughter's as he watched history unfold before his very eyes. It was as if he feared making the slightest movement, lest the prophecy unravel, dooming them all to oblivion.

“Ironically, the choice of evils burdens you nonetheless,” K’Jartan continued, drawing the shadow knight’s attention to himself again.

Headmistress Netheel sidled up to Xon Quexill, a hand clutched against her twisting abdomen from the magical disease.

“What is he saying?” she asked in a whisper.

Quexill muttered under his breath.

“As our illustrious Zeranon discovered, the power of the Chalice is not absolute. Dreketh now has a difficult choice to make.”

K’Jartan spread his arms wide, taking in a deep breath through his nose.

“Feel that, shadow knight?” he asked. “Do you feel His divine presence? Upon invocation, Innoruuk awaits in his infinite patience.”

“Meaning what?” Netheel whispered, grasping at the master necromancer’s robe.

Quexill hesitated in his reply.

“Meaning the Prince of Hate is poised, ready to claim the Chalice at the earliest opportunity. For now, the whispered convergence of power holds Him at bay. Should there be a lapse in that power…”

“Time grows short,” K’Jartan continued his taunt. “Every second brings your loved one closer to destiny. Choose.”

Terrible meaning struck the head mistress as she looked over to the forgotten druid lying at the shadow knight’s feet. Should Dreketh choose to destroy the Chalice, it would sentence Laera to an unspeakable fate as one of the undead. Should she use her power to save her friend, Innoruuk would claim the Chalice. A quivering breath escaped Headmistress Netheel’s chest as she fell to her knees beside the master necromancer.

A choice of lesser evils.

Muscles in the shadow knight’s jaw worked frantically as she thought of what to do. The whispered convergence of power flowed through her veins, but like the gods whose sundered light and shadow thrived within her, she was no master of time. All the power and knowledge she gained served little more than to mock her as she fell victim to one of life’s simple antilogies.

“Dreketh…” the druid’s choked voice spoke. “Dreketh, where are you? I can’t see you anymore.”

Turning, the shadow knight discarded such troublesome thoughts in favor of attending her friend. Kneeling over the wood elf, she brought her face to hover before Laera’s eyes as they stared sightlessly up at the cavern above.

“I’m here,” she whispered, looking into her friend’s face. “Do you see me now?”

Laera swallowed nervously.

“No… I saw the ceiling before, but now I can’t,” she replied.

Reaching out uncertainly in search of the shadow knight, Laera encountered the cold, reassuring grip of her friend’s gauntleted hand. With a sigh of relief, she held tightly to that grip with every ounce of her strength.

“They’re coming for me,” she whispered. “They’re getting closer, Dreketh, and I can’t stop them. I can’t…” The druid’s chin furrowed as she shook her head back and forth along the ground. “Merciful Tunare, I can’t stop them from taking me!”

“I know,” the shadow knight said, holding fast to her friend.

The druid’s brow twisted, growing terrified.

“I’m so scared,” she gasped, her voice breaking into a sob. “Please don’t let them take me, Dreketh. Please, please don’t let them!”

Scowling back the tears that threatened to escape her strict control, Dreketh prepared herself for the most difficult words she’d spoken in her life.

“I can’t,” she muttered, her own voice breaking. “Gods forgive me, I can’t.”

Biting her lip, Laera’s face twisted in agony, her nostrils flaring with the silent heaves that seized her.

“You promised me,” she mouthed, her voice barely audible. “You promised not to let me down, Dreketh. You promised not to let me down!”

The tears breached her defenses as Dreketh closed her eyes tightly shut. Her head shaking from side to side, she buried her forehead against their clenched hands.

“Please,” Laera made one last desperate plea before the endless night took her. “Please, my friend, end it before it’s too late. Allow my soul to flee-”

The dark elf’s head snapped up furiously.

“I won’t kill you!” she shrieked in anguish at the wood elf, the image of her friend blurred by the tears that now ran unchecked down her face.

Mouth agape, Laera’s eyes moved precariously, wavering about to finally focus on the dark elf’s grief-stricken face next to her. Releasing one of her hands from their mutual grip, she brought it up to brush aside the stark white hair dangling in her companion’s eyes.

“There you are,” she said, her face breaking into a fond smile.

The sight of the Teir’Dal’s blue features filled Laera’s spirit as she traced them with her fingertips. The supple curves of her jaw, the tapering of her cheeks as they met with her lips entranced the wood elf, fascinated as she watched her own hand brush against the warmth of her friend’s skin—blue skin that wouldn’t wash away. She hadn’t realized it before, but her friend was truly quite beautiful. She couldn’t remember a time when the dark elf’s eyes looked more lovely, now that the cruel cynicism was missing from within.

“It will be all right,” Laera confided, all traces of fear gone from her fading eyes. “Tunare awaits me. I feel her call. Please, Dreketh… use your spell. Please… use it to make us one. Make us one forever.”

Her own chest heaving uncontrollably, Dreketh lifted her tear-streaked face to the ceiling. The wood elf’s meaning was unmistakable, even as her grip loosened on the shadow knight’s hand. Looking down, the dark elf took the limp form of her companion’s body, no trace of cognizance filling the emerald green eyes.

The time was now, if it was going to be at all.

Frantically, Dreketh pulled at her gauntlets, the very things that separated her from her friend’s touch. With fevered quickness, she yanked off the infernal things, tossing them aside as she grabbed hold of the wood elf’s shoulders to lay her auburn-haired head in her lap. Taking the druid’s hands in one of her own, she placed them palms down against the caducel symbol gracing the center of Laera’s chest.

Hunching over, Dreketh pressed tremulous lips against her friend’s forehead in an extended kiss, the tears of her cheek falling upon the wood elf’s brow.

Holding her friend solidly against herself, the shadow knight whispered into the wood elf’s pointed ear.

“I love you.”

Magic surged from within as it flowed through her arm and into her companion’s unresisting body, leeching away what scant energies of her life that remained. Within a breath’s time, the shrill sound of the spell faded away, leaving Dreketh’s anguished cry to fill the cavern as it too fell to placid silence.

The cavern’s occupants watched quietly in the tranquil peace that ensued as the dark elf spared herself a few brief moments before letting go of her friend. Dreketh held tightly, finding a small amount of comfort in her one-sided embrace.

Sniffling softly, she pulled back to look into the lifeless eyes of Laera Nellynwae as they gazed up to the ceiling, their spark of life forever gone.

Jaw muscles clenched, Dreketh gritted her teeth in despair when the glimmer of brass caught the corner of her eye. Somehow in all the turmoil, she had absently set down the Chalice of Zeranon to rest on the floor next to her leg.

Fierce anger rushed in to fill the void inside her as the Cup of Ages shown reflected in the shadow knight’s eyes. This was the real instrument of her pain. This vile artifact had been the one true source of her torment from the very first day Kella N’Threk coerced her into making that dreadful request to abandon her father’s guild. This was the object responsible for her torture in Neriak, and for the death of Ranin Treestalker who shielded her very life with his own, down to his last breath on this world.

This was the tool that spelled the doom of the greatest, most devout friend the shadow knight ever had.

Sliding on her knees through half-dried blood on the crystal floor, Dreketh moved to straddle Zeranon’s Chalice, taking it up in both her hands. Eyes filled with the hatred of her race, she raised the item before her, the brass bowl winking its ridicule in the surrounding light.

“So ends your onerous legacy, Zeranon…” she growled. “Rot in the abyss, you reckless bastard.”

With all her strength born of sundered light and shadow, Dreketh brought down the Cup of Ages to strike the crystal floor between her bronze knees. Obsidian pieces shattered in a resounding thunderclap, the brass bowl tumbling in the chaos of its destruction at the hands of the merciless shadow knight.

Its power unleashed, the elements answered the Chalice’s demise with their own ire. A gale twisted within the shock wave’s front as it emanated from the dark elf, laced all about with flame and lightning in a dissonance of blinding rage all throughout the cavern. The very bedrock trembled violently beneath their feet, causing the vault of Erollisi Marr to shudder on its foundation. Fracturing under such otherworldly stress, the crystal façade splintered in loud, head-piercing cracks as it too added to the bedlam of the cavern.

Xon Quexill shielded himself as best he could from the pandemonium that ruled supreme in his world. Risking a concerned peek, he looked up to where his daughter knelt moments before, only to find her standing tall, not a hair on her head so much as stirred by the breath-stealing wind. Cowed by the Chalice’s unchecked fury, the master necromancer watched as his daughter knelt on one knee to take up her fallen companion in her arms as she would a newborn babe.

So burdened, Dreketh stood, the lifeless form of Laera Nellynwae clutched to her chest. Turning, oblivious to the upheaval surrounding her, she descended the crystal stairs with a measured step, her face solemn. Blinking, Quexill realized that Dreketh was granting her friend a solitary procession in what was to be the only memorial service the wood elf was likely to receive on Norrath.

As feet met with stone, a shining circle of light went forth from the shadow knight to spread across the entire cavern. Every person the circle touched sent them to their knees, demanding solemnity for the departed. Teir’Dal the cavern over fell to offer their enforced respects for the fallen druid. Even Glazn K’Jartan appeared forcibly penitent, much to Dreketh’s dire satisfaction.

The clamor and confusion continuing unabated, the shadow knight stepped unchallenged as she walked her long path amidst those of her race. Without further word or ceremony, Xon Quexill watched helplessly as his daughter carried her companion through the inscribed doors to disappear from sight down the frozen passageway.

The necromancer’s service as custodian of the Pact of Zeranon was at an end.

Epilogue