The world came back slowly, in fragments of sensation and awareness. Cold earth clung to his brittle, withered bones as he pushed through the thin layer of soil. His fingers, skeletal and stained with dirt, clawed their way free first. He didn't remember how long he had slept beneath the graveyard's cursed ground, nor why he had awoken now.
He didn't feel fear—that was gone. No heart to quicken, no blood to chill. But anxiety? That lingered, gnawing at what little remained of his mind.
His skull broke the surface, and though he had no eyes, he could still see. Strange, shadowy forms wavered before him, a graveyard under a dim, violet sky. The world seemed drained of color, or perhaps it was his own perception that had dulled.
The necromancer's voice echoed through his hollow mind, a silent command that tugged at his limbs. Rise. Serve. Obey. He hated the voice already, though he didn't know why. He hated the way it pulled at him, as though he were a puppet of bone and will, his strings held by unseen hands.
His body moved without his consent. The bones creaked and groaned as they aligned, fitting together in unnatural harmony. He could feel the necromancer's magic binding him, holding him together like a grotesque mockery of life. His jaw worked, but no sound came. No voice. No words. His vocal cords, long decayed, could not form speech.
Others stirred around him—more skeletons, some broken and incomplete, others still draped in scraps of rotted flesh. One rose near him, its empty eye sockets glowing faintly with a sickly green light. Unlike him, it did not hesitate. It moved with purpose, or perhaps it simply lacked the remnants of a mind to resist.
He tried to resist. He tried to hold still, to stop his limbs from moving, but the necromancer's will was absolute. He lurched forward, dragged by unseen strings, his bony feet scraping against the gravestones as he joined the growing ranks of undead.
In life, he might have been a warrior or a commoner—he couldn't remember. Memories were scattered fragments, flickers of a past he could no longer grasp. He had a name once, but that, too, eluded him.
The necromancer stood atop a crumbling mausoleum, his robes dark and tattered, hands raised in grim invocation. A chill wind swept through the graveyard, carrying with it the scent of death and decay. The necromancer's voice echoed again in his mind, clearer this time, cold and commanding.
You are mine now. You will serve until the end.
He wanted to scream, to defy, but there was no way to voice his despair. His body moved with the others, forming a line before the necromancer. He could feel the presence of the other undead around him, a dull hum of magic binding them all together. They were nothing more than tools to the one who had raised them, mindless soldiers to be sent into battle or used for whatever dark purpose the necromancer desired.
Yet he wasn't entirely mindless. He could think, could feel in a strange, detached way. Anxiety gnawed at him, but so did something else—a flicker of defiance, a tiny spark that refused to be extinguished. He wondered if the others felt the same. Could they think? Could they remember their past lives, or were they truly lost?
The necromancer descended from the mausoleum, his eyes gleaming with an unnatural light. He spoke aloud now, though the words meant little to the undead gathered before him.
"You are my army, bound to my will. You will march where I command, fight whom I choose, and die a second death when I see fit."
The spark of defiance flared briefly in him, but he was powerless to act on it. He was a prisoner in his own body, trapped by magic stronger than his will. The necromancer waved a hand, and the line of undead turned as one, beginning a slow march toward the graveyard's edge.
As they moved, he noticed something strange. The other undead were silent, their minds empty of thought or emotion. He was alone in his awareness, isolated in a sea of mindless servitude. Why was he different? Why could he still think and feel?
They marched past ancient tombs and shattered gravestones, the ground beneath them cold and unyielding. He didn't know where they were going, only that he had no choice but to follow. Yet that spark within him refused to die. He couldn't resist the necromancer's will, but he could hold on to that tiny shred of himself, that flicker of who he had once been.
As they passed an ancient, weathered tree, he caught sight of something glinting beneath its roots—a small, silver medallion half-buried in the dirt. He didn't know why, but the sight of it stirred something within him, a memory long buried.
A name.
Orin.
His name had been Orin. He didn't know who he had been in life, but he clung to that name as though it were a lifeline. He couldn't speak it, couldn't even form the words in his mind, but he knew it was his.
And for the first time since his awakening, he felt something other than fear and despair. He felt hope. It was a faint, fragile thing, but it was there.
The march continued, the necromancer leading them into the darkness beyond the graveyard. Orin didn't know what lay ahead, but he knew one thing—he would not forget his name. He would not forget who he was.
Perhaps, one day, he might even find a way to break free.