The journey back to the Wailing Barrows was a pilgrimage of penance, not vengeance. Mehandi walked with a new purpose. The Veritas Stone, a smooth, obsidian orb that felt cool to the touch, was a heavy weight in his satchel—a symbol of a quest for truth, not retribution. He had come to understand that his power, born of life, was not meant for war, but for the quiet, patient work of healing. He had fought a war for his home, but now he was fighting to prove he was worthy of it.
As he neared the blighted land, he saw the results of his previous actions. The trees, once skeletal and twisted, now had a faint, ethereal green glow. The soil, though still weak, no longer felt hollow and corrupted. A few hardy weeds had begun to sprout in the ground, their leaves shimmering with a faint light. He had not just won a battle here; he had begun to restore a wound on the earth itself. He was not a destroyer, but a steward.
He reached the center of the barrows, the place where the necromancer had made his stand. The ground was still a ruin of scattered bones and aether-infused rock. He knelt and took the Veritas Stone from its box. It hummed in his hand, a magical recorder waiting for a memory. He closed his eyes and pushed his aetherial magic into the ground, not to destroy, but to listen. He reached for the echoes of the magical conflict, for the lingering resonance of his brothers' pact and the necromancer's foul power.
The stone glowed, its light illuminating a chilling series of ghostly images. He saw his brothers, their hands glowing with dark, ambitious magic as they knelt before the hooded figure. He saw the necromancer giving them their new, corrupted power, a power drawn from the spirits of the dead. He saw Leo's cackling as he sent forth a corrupted flame and Ivan's cold fury as he wielded his bone shard. The Veritas Stone was a perfect, silent witness, recording every detail of their vile pact.
As the last ghostly image faded, Mehandi felt a flicker of something in his periphery—a cold, calculated magic that was not his brothers' but something new and organized. He looked up to see three figures, cloaked in the black robes of the Sovereign Magisterium's enforcers, emerge from the shadows. Their hands were already glowing with mana, but it was not the pure, unyielding energy of the Magisters in the academy; it was a hungry, aggressive magic.
"The Volkov brothers' allies wish to make sure there is no witness to their... business," one of the enforcers said, his voice a low sneer. "Hand over the stone, and your exile will be a quiet one."
Mehandi stood, clutching the Veritas Stone. They weren't from the Magisterium; they were mercenaries hired by his brothers' allies to silence him. The political game was far more brutal than he had imagined. His victory over the necromancer was a personal triumph, but this was a different kind of war. This was a war for the truth, and his enemies were willing to kill to keep it buried. He had the proof, but now he had to protect it.