It was nearly midnight.
For three days Azzerad had been preparing the ritual that Bektaten had resurrect him with. For three days he had been gathering materials and rehearsing the precise incantations needed to bring back Claudius with sanity intact. For three days he had to stay in this wretched village known as Belisarius. Now, however, it was time to begin the ritual. As he stood over the grave of his old friend he looked back toward the village. The graveyard was on the outskirts of the village and he could see the small collection of houses and shops from here. He was fairly sure that they had become aware of his presence, but that didn't matter now.
As he looked back at the coffin he had dug up, he was hit with a pang of self doubt. Claudius was more than just a friend, he had been a mentor. If he got something wrong in the ritual, his friends once prestigious mind would be ripped asunder and he would be lost forever. But now was not the time for such thoughts and so he picked up a thick, leather bound grimoire, and spoke in a long dead language.