The fires burned long into the night. By dawn, the city of Vorelle was little more than a smouldering ruin, its streets thick with the stink of charred flesh and old blood. The Magi purge had been swift, and merciless. Few had been granted quick deaths. Fewer still had escaped.
Jonas Halewood had not slept.
He stood atop the watchtower overlooking the eastern gate, the weight of his sword feeling heavier than it had the night before. Below him, the corpses had been stacked into pyres, blackened hands still reaching skyward, as if clawing for salvation.
He told himself he should feel relief. The Magi were gone. The undead would have no reason to swarm Vorelle now.
But then why did the hunger still scratch at the gates?
"They're not leaving," Captain Veyne muttered beside him. She leaned against the stone battlement, her eyes hollowed from exhaustion. "We burned them all. Their magic should be gone."
Jonas said nothing. He could hear the dead below.
Soft movements. Slow, dragging footsteps. Low murmurs, like the wind twisting through bones.
It wasn't natural. The undead were supposed to be mindless, drawn only to the living and to magic. But something else had them lingering here. Something that made Jonas' skin crawl.
A horn sounded from the lower district. The morning patrol. The few survivors that still remained inside the walls were being gathered, forced to swear loyalty to the High Lords, to swear they had no magic in their blood.
A lie wouldn't save them if suspicion took root.
Jonas knew that now.
His fingers twitched. He had made a mistake last night.
He had let one escape.
Veyne turned to him, her grey eyes sharp. "You hesitated."
Jonas forced himself to meet her gaze. "What?"
"You had your sword drawn, but you didn't strike. I saw you." Her tone was calm, unreadable, but Jonas knew her well enough to hear the accusation beneath it.
A wrong answer would get him killed.
He exhaled slowly. "The fire blocked my view. I didn't see where she ran."
Veyne stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. "If you did, you would've cut her down?"
Jonas hesitated. Just for a breath.
It was enough.
A loud crash rang from below. The eastern gate shuddered. The moaning of the dead grew louder.
Jonas turned toward the gates, instinct kicking in, but Veyne was already walking away.
"We march at noon," she said over her shoulder. "If she's still alive, we'll find her."
Jonas nodded, watching as she disappeared down the watchtower steps.
He should have felt relief. But as the undead below let out another low, hungry whisper, he knew relief was a lie.
And the dead were learning how to speak.
The moaning continued long after Veyne was gone. Jonas lingered at the watchtower, staring down at the shifting shapes below the gate. Shadows flickered between gaps in the stone, bodies moving but never pressing forward, as if they were waiting. Watching.
That was wrong.
The undead had no patience. They should have been clawing at the walls, driven mad by the scent of life within. Instead, they lingered like jackals circling a wounded beast. It made his skin crawl.
Jonas turned his gaze westward, toward the river that ran through the city ruins. Smoke still rose from the charred remnants of the Magi sanctum. Where once scholars and sorcerers had walked, there was now only ash and the stink of burned flesh. The High Lords had ensured no trace of magic remained.
Or so they thought.
Jonas clenched his fists. The woman he had let escape had been injured. If she hadn't bled out in some alley, she would be hiding in the undercity, where the patrols rarely dared to go. If Veyne was sending men at noon, they would find her soon enough.
And if they did, he would have to make a choice.
Jonas pushed away from the battlements and descended the watchtower steps. He moved quickly through the inner keep, past rows of weary soldiers tending their wounds. The night's purge had been costly. Magic had not gone quietly.
At the barracks, he found his cot untouched, the blanket still folded at its foot. He had meant to sleep, but the thought of closing his eyes, of seeing the burning city behind his lids, made his stomach churn. Instead, he sat on the edge of the cot, running a hand over his face.
The undead were changing. He could feel it, though he dared not say it aloud. The others believed the dead to be mindless. But Jonas had been watching. Listening.
The sounds they made were no longer simple groans and gurgles. Sometimes, if he listened long enough, he swore he could hear them trying to form words.
He shuddered.
A sharp knock at the barracks door jolted him from his thoughts. A young soldier, barely past his sixteenth year, stood stiffly at the entrance. His armour was too big for him, the chainmail hanging loose at his shoulders.
"Sir Halewood," the boy stammered. "The Captain wants you at the main gate."
Jonas pushed to his feet, nodding. "Did she say why?"
The boy hesitated. "There's been... movement. The dead. They're not attacking, but... you should see it for yourself."
Jonas grabbed his sword and followed the boy out into the morning light.
The streets were quiet, the survivors huddled in alleys or peering cautiously from shattered windows. The fires had burned away most of the city's grandeur, leaving only blackened stone and the acrid scent of death.
When he reached the main gate, Veyne was already there, her face pale. She didn't look at him as he approached, only nodded toward the wooden slats of the gate.
"Tell me what you see," she muttered.
Jonas stepped forward and peered through the gap.
The dead were standing still.
Not shuffling, not reaching. Just standing. As if waiting for something.
Then, in the distance, a single figure moved.
A woman. Barefoot, bloodied, robes torn but still trailing behind her in the dust. She walked among the dead untouched, her steps slow and deliberate. As if she was leading them.
Jonas' breath hitched. He knew her face.
The Magi he had spared.
And when she lifted her head, her lips parted, whispering something too faint to hear.
But the dead reacted.
Every last one of them turned to face the gate.