When we finally arrived, he stepped out of his tent, carrying a flag.
Not a sword.
Not a bow.
A flag.
We continued marching.
The castle loomed ahead, its massive iron gates standing slightly open, like the mouth of some slumbering beast. The walls, once symbols of strength, now bore the marks of battle—burned banners, shattered stone, blood staining the ground.
Something felt wrong.
The air was thick, heavy with the coppery scent of blood. The banners on the walls didn't flutter in the wind. They hung limp, stiff with dried gore.
And then—they came.
The first scream tore through the silence like a blade.
Then another.
A soldier beside me fell, gurgling, his throat ripped open. The shadows shifted, and then they were upon us—figures that should have been dead, their eyes hollow, their mouths twisted into silent screams.
Someone shouted orders, but they were swallowed by the chaos.
Swords clashed, arrows flew, men screamed.
And then—I saw them rise.
The fallen.
The men who had been alive moments ago—their bodies twisted, their limbs unnatural—were getting back up.
It had been a trap all along.
The city had already fallen.
I turned to run, but the dead were everywhere. Clawed hands tore at armor, broken teeth sank into flesh. A soldier tried to fight back, slashing wildly, but the thing that had once been his friend grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a mass of writhing bodies. He was swallowed whole, his screams cut short.
The commander fought, his blade flashing, but we all knew the truth—we were going to die.
And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw him.
The soldier with the flag.
He was on horseback, charging toward the tower that connected to the wall, screaming at the top of his lungs.
He looked majestic.
The dead—hundreds of them—froze.
Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, they turned.
And they followed him.
It was madness—one man, a mere soldier, leading the dead away like a shepherd guiding his flock.
That was the opening we needed.
"RUN!" someone shouted.
And we did.
I don't know how long we ran. But when we finally stopped, gasping for breath, miles from the city, we turned back.
And we saw it.
The flag.
Still waving atop the wall.
Surrounded by the dead.
He was fighting. Alone.
And then—the flag disappeared.
A second.
A minute.
An hour.
I couldn't tell. Time had lost all meaning.
Then—the flag rose again.
He was overwhelmed, but he kept fighting.
I could barely see him, just a lone figure against an ocean of death. He swung his weapon wildly, cutting down creatures that should not have been standing.
But they were endless.
He didn't want to die.
He wanted to live.
And then—everything became still.