All aspects had been weighed. The risks, abundant, and deadly. Rov knew that upon entering the throne room of the Cloaked, the infamous necromancer of the East, the likelihood of living was far less pronounced than the likelihood of death. But answers he needed. Strength he needed. After his last resurrection from the Nether, he knew something had been left behind. Something was off in his bones. The torch had been alighted, and yes, he had returned, sure to happen as the sun rising over the craggy peaks Broügrimnaire. However, something heavy felt, something of a nearing was held to him. Perhaps it was not what had been left behind, but what had been brought back. His demon’s final words haunted him, in a way they had never done.

“Just a couple more, old boy. Just a couple more trips, and you’re mine.”

He was sure of nothing, and…