Chapter 8: March of the Undead

  Awakening in Shadow

  The fountain was gone, the dreamscape ripped away in an instant, but her body still felt trapped inside it.Pain lanced through her skull, and she pressed her fingers to her forehead, wincing as flashes of her nightmare clawed at the edges of her mind—the girl with hollow eyes that seemed to beg her for something, her old friend Vesper, the streets rushing back like a flood.And Magnus.Turning his dagger on her. The uncertainty. The fear.Something heavy hit her stomach.

  Sylvi shot up with a gasp, the fountain now gone and her eyes wide suddenly somewhere else. She brought her hand up to her forehead as pain shot through her head, the nightmarish dreamscape flashing before her eyes. The girl whose hollow eyes seemed to bore into her in pleas of sorrow. Her teenage friend Vesper - memories of the streets now coming at her like a flood. The worry that she had when Magnus turned his dagger on her not knowing how to subdue him and save him while getting out of there. She winced as the pain stabbed into her brain and she felt something heavy hit her in the stomach. “Ember!” she exclaimed, as she felt her familiar furry body curl up into her lap. The room became clearer around her as she blinked and looked around. Ashen was standing over the large, dark tattooed body of a man. His muscles, clearly once beautiful now began to lose their tautness and his limbs slackened, muscle and skin slumping inward like a balloon losing air. The powerful arms that had once bent reality at his whim now sagged against the stone floor, deflated and withering as if even the weight of the air itself pressed down too heavily. The unnatural grace that once shaped him was gone, leaving only a husk of strained flesh draped over fragile, alien bones.

  Without the heartbeat, the magic that once filled his form seemed to evaporate, leaving his muscles to collapse under their own weight. Sylvi could see the slow unraveling — tendons losing their pull, his chest hollowing slightly as if the weight of existence was too much for a lifeless djinn to bear.

  Her eyes traced across the room to Kaeric, covered in brown and black sludge and what seemed to be a white sticky substance. His lips seemed to curl into a smile letting his lower tusks gleam through as he caught her eye. He bowed his head and nodded in deference to her.

  “Sylvi! You’re alright! Thank goodness, we was worried about you,” her eyes came to the form of Berf. Sweat and blood ran down his body. He took a step towards her and stumbled before catching himself. “Sylvi, we came as soon as we knew you was missing. Right there, Berf was and I brought everyone.”

  “Thank you Berf,” she said immediately taking a moment to generate some good berries for him. He looked awful.

  “Oh thank you Ms Sylvi. It was looking pretty bad there for a minute, but I wasn’t gonna let these spiders get in the way. You weren’t moving and we couldn’t get to you and Magnus, he wasn’t moving and - ” Sylvi’s eyes shot open at his name. Magnus!

  “Where’s Magnus?” Sylvi looked at Ashen as he turned to her. She saw his body for the first time as her eyes followed his gaze. Ashen walked over to the other raised platform to where Magnus laid still unmoving.

  “Magnus! Hey Magnus!” Ashen tried to raise him as he remained still. “Magnus!”

  Sylvi scrambled to her feet, her legs still trembling beneath her, but the rush of adrenaline burned away the fog clouding her mind. Ember leapt from her lap with a startled yeowl as Sylvi stumbled forward, nearly slipping on the slick remains of some unidentifiable sludge.

  Ashen’s voice echoed in the chamber, desperate and tight.

  “Magnus! Come on, bard, wake up!”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Sylvi’s pulse roared in her ears as she made her way to the platform, each step heavier than the last. Her breath came quick and shallow, her mind racing through images of Magnus smiling, Magnus singing, Magnus cracking some absurd joke that wasn’t funny but somehow was. Magnus… still.

  She bent beside him, her trembling hands hovering just above his chest, terrified to touch, terrified to feel nothing beneath her fingertips.

  His skin was pale — too pale — the color of old parchment, and the faint shimmer of the djinn’s fading magic still clung to him like a ghost. His chest was still, no rise, no fall. No music, no words, no breath.

  “Magnus…” her voice cracked, the word barely escaping her throat.

  Ashen’s hand gripped her shoulder, his fingers gentle but his silence heavy with the same unspoken fear.

  “Please,” she whispered, pressing her hands to Magnus’ chest, willing life back into him, as if sheer willpower alone could spark his heart back to rhythm. Her magic flickered to her fingertips, but she couldn’t tell if it was working — couldn’t tell if there was anything left to reach.

  “Magnus!” her voice broke again, louder this time, the edges of panic cutting through.

  No response. No quip. No fluttering eyelids.

  Just the echo of her own voice bouncing off the stone walls and the quiet rustling of Ember, curling herself protectively at Magnus’ feet, as if her tiny presence could anchor him to the world.

  “Not like this,” Sylvi whispered, her fingers curling into his shirt, knuckles white, her breath coming faster. “Come back.”

  Ashen shifted beside her, his brow furrowed, uncertainty flickering in his eyes — not because he doubted her, but because none of them knew if there was anything left to come back. And for one awful, endless moment, the only sound in the room was the slow, patient drip of water from somewhere in the darkness.

  The silence hung, thick and terrible, until—

  A shallow, rasping breath broke through it.

  Sylvi’s heart lurched as Magnus’ chest hitched, his body shuddering like some long-dormant machine sputtering back to life. His eyelids fluttered, brows knitting together in confusion, and for a single breathless moment, he looked as though he might slip away again.

  But then—another breath, stronger this time. His fingers twitched, curling weakly against the cold stone.

  “Magnus!” Sylvi gasped, relief crashing into her so hard her knees nearly gave out. Ashen’s grip on her shoulder steadied her, but his eyes were locked on Magnus, wary and uncertain, like they were all standing on the edge of a fragile ledge.

  Magnus groaned softly, his head rolling to the side as his eyes squinted open, unfocused and glassy. The flickering torchlight painted shadows across faces leaning in—too close, all around him.

  “Wh—” His voice cracked, dry and thin. His muscles tensed beneath Sylvi’s hand, and the haze in his expression sharpened into something like alarm. “What’s—what’s happening?”

  The weight of their gazes pressed down on him — Sylvi, Ashen, Berf, Kaeric — all gathered, all staring. His breathing quickened, eyes darting around, the ceiling too low, the walls too close, the air too thick.

  “Give him space!” Sylvi blurted, suddenly aware of how tight they’d all crowded in. “Back up, back up.”

  Magnus’ hand instinctively came up to shield his face, blinking rapidly like the dim light was blinding. He tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt heavy and wrong, like they didn’t quite belong to him.

  “No no, I’m fine. I just … Hate clowns—I was just… asleep…” he mumbled, voice strained with confusion. “Why are you—why are you all looking at me like that?”

  His fingers found the edge of his shirt, tugging it down like he was trying to ground himself in something familiar. “What… what happened?”

  Sylvi opened her mouth to answer, but the words tangled in her throat. Where could she even begin?

  “Easy,” Ashen said quietly, stepping back but keeping his voice calm. “You’ve been through a lot. You’re safe.”

  “You try telling me I’m safe, you weren’t up to your ears in clowns!”, Magnus blurted.

  “What are you talking about clowns?” Ashen jabbed.

  “Awful little things. Two feet tall, with knives on their feet and big noses, hair out to here,” Magnus said, gesturing with his hands, as he recounted the nightmare. “We used to have them in the carnival. Gnomes would dress up like-” Ashen rolled his eyes as he spun on his heel.

  “Magnus is fine. Clown bullshit is weird. But Magnus is fine.” Ashen said with a groan. Kaeric covered his mouth to suppress a laugh as he looked at the scene unfolding in front of him.

  “Anyway, where are we? What happened?” Magnus asked.

  “You were kidnapped, Magnus!” Ashen shouted. He regained his composure. “You were kidnapped. You both were. We don’t know why, but this Djinn seems to have been influenced by Zarathrax and kidnapped the two of you and dragged you back through the city and into the sewer.”

  “So where was I?”Sylvi asked.

  “What do you mean, where was I? You’re … there.. On that platform. We couldn’t get to you, so we had to fight him to get him to release you.” Ashen said.

  “That’s not what I mean. I don’t think I was dreaming. I could feel it, smell it, everything felt real. Like I was reliving something.” Sylvi said.

  “Thankfully, mine was a dream and the sooner I can forget the clowns, the better. They were creepy then, they’re creepy now.” Magnus said, getting up and looking down at the sewage staining his clothes. With a wink and a blink he cleaned his clothes with a bit of prestidigitation.

  “No. It wasn’t like a dream. Or rather. Some things were. It was in my head, but not. It felt like I had been there.” Sylvi began to describe the scenes from her vivid dreamscape nightmare in detail - the servants quarters and the journal entry, seeing the ghostly hollow eyed sister, feeling the pain from her brother. She told them about what it was to stand in the mirrored dressing room looking at past present and future versions of herself. Passing through the hallway and finding the glyphs of the servant who stole the shadow for himself and killed the king. The taunts that she seemed to hear from Zarathrax himself. “Zarathrax is connected to the Amulet. He can sense where it is.” As Sylvi said this, her body went rigid. The words seeming to choke in her throat before she could force the next words out. “He knows we have it. He’s coming for us”

  Ashen gritted his teeth as realization came to him. “Fuck”

  A Beginner’s Guide to selling your soul

  “Ahem…”

  Ashen heard the deliberate throat clearing of an unfamiliar voice. Turning, he saw an imposing figure pulling back his hood. From a pocket, the figure produced a pair of spectacles, perching them on the bridge of his nose before screwing up his face at the dim surroundings.

  “I say again… ahem. You are Thaelon Velyr’aeth, I believe?” The man’s eyebrow arched sharply as his gaze landed on Ashen.

  Ashen stiffened. He wasn’t sure if the rest of the party even registered the use of his full name, given the revelation they’d all just heard.

  “Yes,” Ashen said cautiously.

  “Indeed,” the man said, his voice thin and nasally, but with the air of someone terribly pleased with himself. “It’s not for me to question the choices of my betters — so be it. Moving along.”

  He snapped his fingers, and Ashen’s whole body collapsed inward, power ripping free from him like strings cut from a marionette. The world around him fell into shadow, the others frozen in place, the only movement the slow collapse of flickering light. He was alone with the hooded figure.

  Well — almost alone.

  “And hello there!” Magnus, somehow unfrozen, crossed the room with a grin. “Can’t say I caught your name, but if we’re rating entrances, that one’s a winner.”

  The hooded man straightened, and his voice shifted from nasal officiousness to something that filled the chamber like rolling thunder.

  “Hear me and mark this well, for I am the duly appointed and eternally empowered Administrative Liaison and Principal Overseer of Initiation, Orientation, Contractual Sealing, and Soul-binding Accordances in direct service to the Ever-Veiled Hexblade, Keeper of Forgotten Pacts and Whisperer at the Edge of Dreams.”

  The space around him bulged, his shadow seeming to swell into the corners of the room, until it felt like the air itself was braced under the weight of his title.

  “It is by my quill and authority that all supplicants, thrice-damned seekers, and hapless wielders alike are recorded in the Ledger of Promised Flesh, their terms negotiated, their inevitable demise notarized, and their meager sparks of existence duly filed for later reclamation. Should you wish to barter, beg, or blaspheme your way into the Hexblade’s favor, you shall do so through me — Arbiter of the First Binding, Witness to the Final Breath, and humble custodian of the seals that lock your fate.”

  Magnus blinked. “Okay but… your name?”

  The hooded figure paused, thrown slightly off-course. “My… name?”

  “Yeah. Your name, moniker, nom de plume. Something shorter than all that. It’s gonna take half an hour to summon you otherwise.” Magnus’ smile was unfailing, his hands sweeping in exasperated circles.

  The looming presence deflated slightly.

  “...Steven.”

  The shadows shrunk back, the crushing weight of his authority easing until the man just looked like a tired clerk in a fancy robe.

  Ashen still felt hollow — his power was gone, not just blocked, but absent. And in that absence, he understood the truth: it was never his power at all. It had always belonged to the Hexblade. If he wanted it back, it wouldn’t come freely. It would cost. And it would cost forever.

  Steven produced a scroll from a pocket of shadow, letting it unfurl all the way to the floor.

  “Thaelon, you’ve reached the end of your trial period of patronage from the Hexblade, which means it’s time to make a very important decision.”

  Ashen’s knees felt weak, but he forced himself to stand straighter.

  “This is not a lifelong contract,” Steven continued. “This is a soul-bound contract. Are you familiar with those?”

  Ashen’s control returned to him and he felt more like himself, though he could tell that his powers weren’t just blocked. They were no longer his to control. Beyond that, he truly understood at this moment - the powers weren’t ever his. He was at the will of the Hexblade should he continue to use them. The powers were the Hexblade’s and he would be an instrument. This decision to use these powers was a sacrifice. A decision he was making on his own to forever sell a portion of his soul for eternity. There would be no true death and rest for as long as his soul existed - only service.

  Ashen’s voice was tight. “I am.”

  “Good.” Steven’s tone became brisk, businesslike again. “So, let’s walk through the clauses.” A quill of shadow appeared in his hand. “First off, the daily observances and self-flagellation requirements? Gone. Utterly archaic. No need for you to whip yourself bloody; that’s bad recruitment optics. We need warlocks who are alive and competent, not guilt-ridden wrecks bleeding all over the carpets.”

  Ashen gave him a narrow-eyed look. “I can carry out justice.”

  “Mm. We’ll see.” Steven’s eyes narrowed right back, tapping the quill against the scroll. “Do you understand each clause and your responsibilities to the Hexblade?”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Ashen gave a single, firm nod.

  Steven didn’t return it. “You say that, but let’s consider: it’s been a week, and the first time I see you — you’re standing over the corpse of a djinn. Did you think about what you were doing?”

  “Of course I thought about what I was doing, he was holding my friends captive.”

  Steven’s brow rose. “Did he harm them? Or did you just decide talking was too much work?”

  “We tried talking to him!” Ashen’s voice rose. “He couldn’t speak — something was controlling him.”

  “And that wasn’t a clue? Powerful djinn, clearly enslaved, and your first instinct was to hit him with Hexblade power — power you borrowed from a patron of justice?”

  Ashen’s fists clenched. “We didn’t have a choice. Berf was dying. Magnus and Sylvi were trapped. If we hadn’t stopped him, Zarathrax would have gotten the amulet. A lot more people would’ve died.”

  Steven considered this, his expression unreadable. Then:

  “The Hexblade’s warlocks make choices, Thaelon. Choices with consequences. You will always carry the weight of justice — by the edge of your blade. Be certain you can bear it.”

  The quill spun in his fingers, and the scroll shifted, revealing a signature line.

  “If you accept, sign here. In blood.”

  “Wait — me too?” Magnus’ voice cut in, baffled.

  “As a witness,” Steven said. “In case the contract is ever questioned, your testimony locks it.”

  The moment Ashen’s blood touched the parchment, his whole body flared with pain — not just physical, but something deeper. A scar forming on his soul, a reminder of the cost and the weight of every future decision.

  “With this,” Steven intoned, “it is done, Hexblade Warlock.”

  He snapped his fingers, vanishing into shadow.

  Ashen staggered, the Hexblade’s power rushing back into him, stronger than before — and heavier. His back was absolutely going to hurt in the morning.

  Warlocks and Wizards

  Magnus’ eyes went wide, his eyebrows arching as he processed what had just happened. He turned toward Ashen slowly. “Sooo… selling your soul?” The flow of time around Sylvi, Berf, and Kaeric seemed to rush back to normal as they turned their heads to hear the bard’s words.

  “Who sold their soul?”, Kaeric asked.

  Magnus gestured over to ashen and arched his brow. “Tall dark and gloomy over here sold his soul to be some arbiter of justice for Hesblade,” Magnus said.

  “Hexblade. And it was only a piece of my soul.” Ashen countered, raising his hands defensively.

  “A piece that will hold your existence into everlasting servitude even in death” Magnus said pointedly.

  “Well.. there’s that. But I needed to keep my magic,” Ashen replied.

  “I thought you were always magic?” Kaeric asked.

  “Well, yeh, but that’s just my Sorcerer magic. This is the magic that I have as a warlock with my patron of the Hexblade, arbiter of Justice.” Ashen replied.

  Kaeric turned his head to Magnus. “Magnus, what’s the difference between a Wizard and Sorcerer?”

  “You mean a Warlock?” Ashen asked.

  “Yes. A Warlock and a Sorcerer. What’s the difference?” Kaeric asked.

  "Ah, Kaeric, the difference between a warlock and a sorcerer?" Magnus tapped his chin, feigning deep thought. "It’s the difference between a man who finds a blade in the heart of a battlefield and claims it as his own… and a man who was born with steel in his bones."

  He turned slightly, hands spreading as he warmed to his favorite thing—telling a story. "A sorcerer’s power is like the blood in their veins—innate, unbidden, sometimes unruly. They inherit it, like a nobleman inheriting a kingdom. Their magic flows because it must, because fate or bloodline deemed it so."

  "But a warlock?" Magnus leaned in slightly, lowering his voice for effect. "Now, there is a story. A warlock is a gambler who made a deal in the dead of night. A beggar who stole fire from the gods. A poet who whispered to the void—" he flicked his fingers, mimicking a contract being sealed "—and had it whisper back."

  "A sorcerer is a river, flowing freely from the mountain’s heart. A warlock is a well, dug deep into the earth—one that never knows if, one day, it will run dry… or if something crawls up from the depths to drink first."

  He gave Ashen a pointed look.

  "In this case, Ashen sold his soul."

  Sylvi looked to Ashen with concern. “When did you do this?”

  "It was the night before we entered the swamp. We’d just destroyed the drow and taken on this mission to protect the Eye. And I realized… things were getting dangerous. Really dangerous."He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I went for a walk to clear my head. A hooded figure approached. We talked. We made a trade."

  Sylvi frowned. "A trade?"

  "I needed to keep my magic." Ashen met her gaze. "I don’t regret it. It’s not all of my soul, but it’s not nothing. It gives us a fighting chance against this cult."

  Sylvi frowned as she looked at him, but let his answer lie as her eyes traced through the foreign room to the Djinn’s desk. She crossed to examine it. “What are these?” she said examining a set of bottles.

  “I believe, what you’re looking at,” Ashen said. “ Is a set of poisons”. Ashen was referring to the five vials that had stoppers arrayed in an lifted set. Two of them looked very similar to the venom of the spiders they had just killed. He smiled to himself as he put them on his belt.

  “No, not those, these,”she said, pointing to a smaller set of brilliant colored sparkling ink bottles. Next to them was a small box with three different sized stylus that seemed to come to very sharp points. “It looks like an art set. Or maybe….” her voice trailed off for a moment as she covered her mouth and began to get very excited. “Tattoos!!” she exclaimed as she grabbed Ashen’s shoulders then went back to looking at them. “I want to get a tattoo! Oh! I want to tattoo you guys!”

  Magnus craned his neck around Ashen to look at Sylvi, his grin lazy and amused.

  "Do you… actually know how to tattoo someone?" Sylvi froze mid-bounce, her enthusiasm flickering as she blinked.

  "...Doesn’t matter!" she declared, recovering fast. "I’m down! Maybe outside of a dead spider-infested sewer?"Sylvi’s smile returned to her face as she beamed and began to bounce on her toes, collecting the tiny bottles of sparkling ink into the box and sliding it into her bag.

  “Sorry to interrupt,”Ashen said,”but this djinn seems to have been loaded.” He lifted up a small wooden box from the drawer as he began to count the coins within.”Uhm. Berf. Can you go guard the door from the outside?”

  “Oh alright! Being strongest, you need me just in case any more of these monsters sneak up on us. I’ll stand guard” Berf said as he exitted the Djinn’s room and began to keep guard outside.

  “Guys, Berf isn’t good with money. Maybe Sylvi you can hold on to his share so he doesn’t spend it all in two days?” Ashen suggested.

  Sylvi and Magnus looked at each other. “Just how much gold are we talking about?” Sylvi asked.

  “Uhm. It looks like 500 gold here.” Ashen paused. “For each of us”.

  Kaeric crossed the room quickly. “That’s a lot of sausages.”

  As Ashen distributed the gold, he called out to Berf. “Well that wasn’t long.” he said returning.

  “Yeh, Berf. So, Sylvi is going to give you 40 gold.”

  "Forty gold? Oh my lawd, that’s amazing!" Berf gasped, eyes wide. "Adventuring is incredible! Do you know how many dinners… how many nights at the stable that can buy?! I could live the rest of my life on this!"

  Sylvi exhaled slowly, watching him, already trying to calculate how many days it would actually last him.

  “So how did you find us here? Also uhm… walk and talk or I’m going to vomit down here. Yes? This is disgusting” Magnus frowned as he flared his nostrils then scrunched his nose.

  Ashen bent to pickup the Djinn’s scimitar and began to tell Sylvi and Magnus the details of how they followed the trail of smell Myrrh, Frankensense, and … sewage wafting lightly through the city, continuing on until he mentioned the small publisher.

  “I’m sorry, a what?” Magnus asked.

  “A publisher. Leaflets. A newspaper like thing. Apparently he caught wind of some kidnappings that had been happening in the slums but there weren’t anymore details than that. We were going to go investigate with the local law enforcement when Ember crashed into my legs and urged for us to follow her and -”

  "A publisher…?" Magnus repeated, his voice shifting from distracted to dangerously intrigued.

  "Yes," Ashen said slowly, already regretting saying anything.

  "A publisher." Magnus’ eyes lit up. "Point it out to me when we pass by. I thiiiink I have to make a stop."

  His voice was sing-song, mischievous.

  Sylvi groaned. "Oh no."

  the Rimefang

  Though the showers at the Merchant Guild Hall had been a welcome reprieve from the filth of the sewers, none of them could say they were particularly well-rested. Too much had happened. Too much still loomed ahead. Magnus, however, looked entirely too pleased with himself as he rejoined the group, his coin pouch noticeably lighter.

  “Well, my friends,” he announced, adjusting his sleeves with a theatrical flourish, “Greymoor will not soon forget us.”

  Ashen shot him a look. “What did you do, bard?”

  Magnus grinned. “Merely ensured our deeds were not left to the whims of time. A full retelling of our triumph—the fall of Greymoor’s blight, our daring heroism—committed to parchment and published for the masses.” He clapped a hand to his chest. “Four hundred and fifty gold well spent.”

  Kaeric exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Gods, you actually spent that much?”

  Magnus shrugged. “Legends don’t write themselves. And besides, imagine the possibilities! Think of the future patrons flocking to taverns to hear the great Magnus weave the tale firsthand!”

  Sylvi rolled her eyes, adjusting the strap of her pack. “Or the people hunting us down because you didn’t exactly keep our names out of it.”

  Magnus waved her off. “Minor detail. The real trouble is that I didn’t include an illustration of myself. Oh! and I also got this from him. It's a sample of the print quality that he has. Looks like it's very high quality ink, ” he said handing over a printed copy of a loose one sheet flyer to Kaeric. "It's an advertisement of sorts, I guess, but you get the general feel of it. The paper and ink quality is quite nice. And I guess if we want to chop some trees for this 'Blackroot' company, they are offering some good gold for it." Kaeric felt the texture of the sheet in his hand. It was not nearly as nice as an oiled leather.

  Ashen sighed and gestured for them to move out. “We’ll deal with your impending fame later. Let’s go.”

  And with that, they left the guild hall on their way to the eastern city gates to reach the Gloomwood, retrieve the ashes, and hopefully beat the cultists to find the Mirror.

  As they approached the gate, Kaeric noticed the raised voices of three orcs arguing with a street merchant for supplies. Their skin was light, but they were recognizable with broad-shoulders. Kaeric approached them, “What business do you have?”. Their leader turned towards him and looked down at him, his muscles getting stiff as he stared Kaeric down. He stood shoulder to shoulder with his peers who assessed him. The woman’s hair at his left was decorated with bones and trinkets. Small pouches hung from her side and her furs were lined with small plants and twigs. Kaeric knew she was a shamann. The man however was lightly covered with a longbow slung across his back.

  “You don’t know when to mind your own business do you?” the leader said to Kaeric inching closer to be facing him down, his large body imposing his will in his personal space.

  “I am Kaeric. I asked you a question. Why are you here in the city?” The woman orc seemed to be studying Kaeric’s face. Her gaze lingered on him as she squinted and said something imperceptible to the leader.

  The leader looked puzzled for a moment as he pushed Kaeric’s chest with two of his fingers. “You question every orc that you see in cities? As if you haven’t looked around?” His large arm gestured to the filled market street noting three or four other groups of orcs amidst the crowds of people. “Don’t bother us little orc and we won’t bother you”.

  Kaeric didn’t know what he was looking for from this, but he didn’t want to provoke a fight for no reason. “We’ll leave you now.” The woman took a small pouch from her belt and clasped it into Kaeric’s hand as she nodded to him.

  Ashen’s gaze sharpened immediately when the orcs furs shifted to show her shoulders. There was a sigil branded there. He looked to the others—crude but unmistakable—were not the markings of mere mercenaries. They bore the emblem of the Kingdom of Fastingbreak. It was unheard of to see an orc where an emblem of a kingdom.

  As they left the began to walk away, Magnus nudged Ashen. “Did you see her shoulder?”

  “Fastingbreak,” Ashen muttered under his breath. “This isn’t normal.”

  Sylvi exchanged a glance with him, then flicked her fingers. A subtle motion, barely perceptible—but enough to send Ember slinking into the crowd.

  The cat moved like liquid, her small form darting unnoticed through the street as she stalked the orcs from a distance.

  Sylvi slowed for a moment as Ember sent back some of the common tongue words that she understood—enough to make Sylvi’s stomach tighten.

  “…Base. Return by morning…”

  Sylvi pressed her lips together. “She’s tracking them.”

  “Good,” Ashen said, eyes still locked on the orcs as they disappeared from view. “Let’s see where they go.” As they set out towards the forest Ashen noticed a large bird overhead heading in their direction matching pace with their cart. When the finally arrived to the wood, the bird circled twice before continuing on and disappearing.

  Into the Gloomwood

  The Gloomwood was aptly named. Dense, towering trees loomed overhead, their tangled boughs blotting out most of the sky. The air felt cool and damp, thick with the scent of moss, earth, and something faintly metallic.

  They traveled for hours, following the winding road deeper into the woodlands. But despite the distance they covered, the landscape hardly seemed to change. The trees stretched on endlessly, each clearing blurring into the next.

  Sylvi shifted uncomfortably, rubbing her wrist where the Eye of Zarathrax rested beneath her bracer. It had been silent since they entered the forest. But now—now something was different.

  A dull tug in her chest. A feeling just beyond words, pulling her off the path.

  “…East,” she whispered.

  Kaeric frowned. “What?”

  “The Eye,” Sylvi murmured, her voice distant. “It’s pulling east.”

  The others hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances.

  “We’re not getting anywhere fast,” Ashen admitted. “If it’s leading us somewhere, we might as well listen.”

  “Well we shouldn’t leave the horses here alone,” Berf said. “I can stay to guard them”

  “And miss out on the adventure Berf? But what about the gold? Just leave the cart here. We can lead the horses by hand”

  They veered off the path, their steps cautious as the underbrush grew thicker around them.

  the Clearing

  The first sign that something was wrong was the silence.

  No birds. No insects. Nothing but the whisper of the wind through the leaves. Then they saw it. A small clearing littered with tools—axes and saws left scattered as if their owners had abandoned them mid-swing. The ground was torn up, deep grooves gouged into the dirt where something large had moved violently through the space.

  Sylvi knelt beside one of the axes, her fingers brushing the worn handle. It was still in good condition, as if dropped in a hurry rather than discarded.

  “…They left fast,” she murmured.

  Ashen crouched beside her, inspecting the marks on the trees. “Some kind of struggle. But no blood.”

  “No bodies, either,” Kaeric added, his hand drifting toward his weapon.

  The wind shifted. The scent of rot curled through the air.

  “…We should set camp soon. We’ve walked through the dark for quite a few hours. We should take some time to take cover before we turn in. I’ll take the first watch,” Ashen directed. “I don’t like this.”

  No one argued.

  Nightfall & The Attack

  Ashen stood in silence as the party slept. His muscles ached from the day’s journey, but his mind carried a heavier burden. Tracking Sylvi and Magnus through the city, wading through the sewers, the stench of decay—none of it compared to the weight of the Djinn’s death.

  He hadn’t freed him in time. A slave to Zarathrax, bound and controlled. What difference had there been between the Djinn and an innocent? Had he crossed a line? What other lines would he have to cross? How long would he be forced to make these decisions?

  The night air was still. Too still.

  Ashen’s eyes flicked to the treeline. Four distinct points of movement. Low, steady, circling.

  He flicked a hand up, sending an orb of dancing light arcing into the darkness. The pale glow revealed four wolves, hunched and prowling, their rotting hides stretched thin over exposed ribs, eyes clouded and vacant, lips drawn back over blackened fangs.

  Undead.

  His voice cut through the quiet: “It’s time to get the fuck up.” Ashen shouted.

  The first wolf launched from the shadows, its gaping maw aimed for his throat. Ashen reacted instantly, eldritch energy crackling in his palm—a blast of violet force slammed into the beast’s side, tearing through flesh and bone—but it wasn’t enough.

  The wolf hit him like a boulder, its rancid teeth sinking into his arm. He gritted his teeth against the pain just as two more lunged from the sides, a blur of snapping jaws. One missed. The other sank its fangs deep into his calf.

  Ashen snarled, eyes burning with cold fury. He raised a finger at the beast, his voice low and dangerous -“Burn.”

  Hellish flames engulfed the wolf, a flash of orange and black fire devouring its matted fur, the stench of burning rot filling the air. The creature yelped and writhed, the fire hollowing its body from the inside out. But the wolves did not falter. They did not snarl. They did not hesitate. They moved with terrifying precision, as if something unseen pulled their strings.

  And then they dragged Ashen down.

  Kaeric woke just in time to feel the weight of a wolf slamming into his chest, knocking him flat. Its claws raked across his armor, its teeth snapping inches from his face. “Whoa—these things need a mint.” With a sharp twist, Kaeric caught the wolf’s thick neck in his arms and rolled, flipping it onto its back. He pressed his weight down, reversing the advantage.

  Magnus scrambled up, using a tree for balance, still shaking off sleep. He drew a dagger and flung it toward Kaeric’s attacker. The dagger sailed wildly into the night. Even Magnus winced. “That… could’ve been better.” But before he could retrieve it, his eyes locked onto something worse.

  A much larger wolf stepped from the treeline. Twice the size of the others, its body stitched together from decay and malice, muscles moving wrong, bones clicking unnaturally beneath its skin. Its yellowed eyes locked onto Kaeric, ready to lunge.

  Kaeric slammed a fist into the wolf beneath him, ribs snapping like dry twigs. A thick, gelatinous black liquid oozed over his bracers, seeping from the wound. The pinned wolf didn’t even react. It simply kept biting, foam bubbling at its lips.

  Sylvi moved like a shadow, eyes fixed on the massive wolf stalking Kaeric. In a flash, she crossed the distance, her sickle carving through the air. The blade sliced through the creature’s side, but it was already lunging—its teeth sank deep into Kaeric’s shoulder, its weight nearly toppling him.

  Berf roared, his axe swinging in a deadly arc. The impact split the beast’s spine, its body folding in half before crashing to the ground, leaving Kaeric half-crushed beneath it.

  “Ugh—Berf!” Kaeric grunted. “Thanks, but... maybe warn me next time?”

  Berf barely had time to respond before Sylvi moved again. Ashen was still locked in battle, the final wolf snapping at his throat. She took three quick steps, planted her foot on the corpse of the fallen wolf, and launched herself into the air. The leap closed the ten-foot gap in a breath—her sickle flashing silver in the moonlight as she sliced clean through the final wolf’s throat. Thick, black blood sprayed across Ashen’s face as the body collapsed at his feet. She landed gracefully, dropping into a crouch, wiping her blade. She gave Ashen a single nod. He wiped a hand across his cheek. “...Thanks.”

  They didn’t have time to breathe. Ashen staggered forward—and then fire slammed into his back. A blast of eldritch energy sent him sprawling. From the shadows, three figures emerged—cloaked women in flowing, tattered robes, their eyes alight with malice.

  Necromancers.

  With them, three shambling corpses, blackened fingers clawing at the night air. The necromancers raised their hands—more crackling green energy coalescing in their palms. Sylvi and Ashen dodged just in time as two more blasts tore past their heads, searing into the dirt.

  Then Sylvi heard it. A rumbling deep beneath the ground. Leaves trembled. The earth hummed with a low vibration. “Ashen?” she called, gripping her sickle. But Ashen was already charging the nearest necromancer, his broadsword cleaving into her ribs.

  Sylvi staggered toward the trees, her grip tightening. A voice whispered in her mind.

  They are coming.

  She gritted her teeth. Who’s coming?

  Wait for them. Protectors.

  Magnus turned toward Ashen, muttering an incantation, his fingers glowing faintly. His spell worked—Ashen’s wounds stitched together slightly—but Magnus didn’t notice the two zombies lurching toward him. They struck as one. Teeth sank into his shoulder. Clawed hands dug into his side. His vision tilted, his legs gave out—and everything went dark.

  “Magnus!”

  Kaeric moved before he even thought—tearing through the zombies, then grabbing a healing potion from Magnus’ belt. He poured it into Magnus’ mouth, watching his chest rise again, shallow but steady. Magnus coughed, blinking up at him. “Kaeric. Buddy. You’ve saved me twice today.” Magnus said with a grin.

  Kaeric pulled him up. “Don’t make me go for three.” he said slyly.

  Their smiles lasted for only a moment until they felt the ground shake. Branches snapped like bones. Then—a deep, resonant bellow echoed through the clearing.

  “Brrrrrrrmmmmmmmm.”

  A massive shadow moved beyond the trees—then another. The necromancers turned just in time to see two towering figures step into the moonlight—

  Treants.

  Forty feet tall, their bark scarred with time, roots shifting like coiled muscle, their limbs moving with ancient, deliberate power.

  The necromancers screamed, unleashing blasts of energy—but it was already too late. The treants’ massive limbs came down in a single, crushing blow. The only sound was the snap of bones and the crack of skulls.

  The final zombie made a rush towards Magnus reaching out with his hands and growling. Magnus pulled back and stumbled to the floor as the creature pinned him and attempted to bite into him. Before he could blink, Kaeric delivered a crushing blow to his head. Black gelatinous blood exploded out over Magnus’ face.

  Then silence.The battle was over.The forest had made its judgment.