The forest reeked of death. It wasn’t the natural decay of autumn leaves, nor the musk of damp soil after rain—it was the iron stench of rot, a sll that clung to the lungs like burning ash. Two riders pressed forward, their cloaks dragging shadows behind them as the last threads of daylight bled into the horizon.
Elara’s white mare snorted nervously, its ears twitching at every distant moan. She tightened her grip on the reins, her face pale beneath the hood. “They’re closer tonight,” she whispered, her voice nearly stolen by the howling wind.
Beside her, Kael urged his black stallion forward. His jaw was set, his eyes scanning the tree line where skeletal figures shifted against the fiery dusk. “Closer doesn’t matter,” he said grimly. “What matters is how many.”
The fog thickened, rolling in like a tide, painting every branch into grotesque silhouettes. From within that crimson haze ca the groans—the ceaseless cries of the dead. Shadows wavered, then solidified into forms: gaunt bodies with sunken eyes, their limbs jerking like broken puppets.
One of them lunged too soon. A hand, skin stretched tight over bone, clawed from the earth near Elara’s horse. The mare reared, screaming, and Elara nearly lost her seat. But Kael was faster—his blade hissed through the air, severing the creature’s arm before it could drag itself further from the dirt.
The severed limb twitched for a mont, fingers clawing at the soil, before going still.
“We can’t keep doing this,” Elara said, her breath coming sharp and uneven. “Every night, more of them rise. It’s as if the whole land is feeding them.”
Kael glanced at her, but his expression softened for only a heartbeat before hardening again. “Then we ride faster. Until we find the one who started this.”
The ground shuddered as though the forest itself responded to his words. From the fog ahead ca a sound unlike the others—low, guttural, and commanding. The lesser moans of the horde hushed, replaced by silence so heavy it pressed against their chests.
Elara’s hands trembled against the reins. “That wasn’t them...”
“No,” Kael muttered. He tightened his grip on his sword. “That was their master.”
The fog swirled, parting just enough to reveal a figure at its heart. Cloaked in tatters, its face obscured, it stood tall while the corpses around it bowed like worshippers before a priest. Its arm rose, slow and deliberate, and the dead mirrored the gesture.
Kael’s stallion stamped and snorted, restless under the weight of the mont.
The figure spoke—not in words, but in a resonance that echoed through marrow and bone. A command, ancient and unyielding. The horde advanced as one.
Kael looked to Elara, his eyes lit by the glow of fire skies. “This is where it begins.”
And with that, the riders spurred their mounts forward—into the maw of death itself.
User Comments
0 comments from readers