Beneath the pall of a moonless night, the female necromancer, Lyra, descended into the bowels of the forgotten tomb. Her dark robes whispered against the cold stone steps as she clutched a flickering lantern in one hand and her ancient grimoire in the other. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the scent of decay and old magic. Lyra’s eyes, like two gleaming obsidian shards, swept the shadowed walls, catching glimpses of faded murals depicting the infamous knight, Sir Torin, in battle. Two hundred years had passed since his legendary exploits, but his name still invoked fear and respect among the people of Aiel. She reached the burial chamber, her heart pounding with a mix of trepidation and excitement. Before her lay the sarcophagus, an ornate coffin engraved with protective runes now dulled with age. Lyra set down her lantern, its dim light casting eerie shadows that danced on the walls. With a deep breath, she began the incantation. Her voice, a soft yet commanding murmur, filled the chamber. The air vibrated with power, and the ground beneath her feet seemed to pulse with an ancient rhythm. The runes on the sarcophagus flared to life, burning with a sickly green glow. The stone lid slid open with a grating sound, revealing the mummified remains of Sir Torin. Lyra’s lips curled into a dark smile. She had done it. With a final, powerful word, she commanded the knight to rise. Torin’s eyes snapped open, glowing with an unnatural light. He sat up slowly, his movements stiff and mechanical. As he stood before her, towering and formidable even in death, Lyra felt a thrill of triumph. She had found her herald, the one who would lead her army and crush any who opposed her reign. “Arise, Sir Torin,” she whispered, her voice dripping with authority. “By my will, you shall lead my forces and bring the lands of Aiel to their knees.” The knight bowed his head, acknowledging his new mistress. Lyra’s laughter echoed through the tomb, a chilling promise of the dark days to come for the lands of Aiel.