The streets of Vorelle had become a slaughterhouse.
Jonas ran, the air thick with the iron scent of blood and the acrid sting of smoke. The city walls had fallen, and the dead flooded through the ruined gate like a tidal wave. Behind him, the screams of the dying merged with the guttural moans of the undead.
His sword dripped black ichor. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Veyne ran beside him, her dark braid whipping behind her, blood smeared across her cheek. "We need to get to the Citadel!" she shouted over the din.
Jonas barely registered her words. The streets were unrecognizable—fire lit the rooftops, shadows twisted and stretched, and corpses littered the ground. Some still moved, broken hands clawing at the dirt as if they refused to accept death's grip.
A man in a torn officer's cloak stumbled toward them, his arm missing from the shoulder down. His eyes were wide with terror. "The—inner gates—" he wheezed, blood bubbling at his lips. "They're inside—"
A pair of skeletal hands erupted from the alley behind him and wrenched him backward. He didn't even have time to scream before his throat was torn open.
Jonas clenched his jaw and pressed forward.
They turned down a side street, trying to avoid the main roads. The dead had spread faster than he had thought possible. The Magi—the woman he had spared—had not merely controlled them. She had orchestrated the slaughter. The undead weren't moving aimlessly. They were hunting.
As they sprinted through the alleys, they passed the wreckage of civilization. A baker's stall overturned, loaves of bread scattered among trampled bodies. A toy doll, torn in half, it's stuffing wet with blood. A guard post was abandoned, and the bodies of its defenders piled outside as if they had been executed.
Jonas tightened his grip on his blade. There was no time for grief.
Veyne skidded to a stop, throwing out an arm to halt him. "Wait."
He turned to follow her gaze. The road ahead split into two paths. One led toward the Citadel, the last bastion within Vorelle, and the other twisted down into the lower quarters—where the streets were narrower, the buildings closer. A death trap.
Jonas exhaled sharply. "We don't have a choice. If we take the main road, we'll be overrun."
Veyne hesitated, then nodded. "Stay close."
They plunged into the lower quarters, weaving through the winding streets. The walls felt as if they were closing in on them, the flickering torchlight casting monstrous shapes against the stone. Every shadow could be hiding the undead. Every turn could be their last.
A scream echoed ahead.
Jonas gritted his teeth. They were close.
As they turned the corner, they nearly stumbled into a group of survivors. A woman cradled a crying child against her chest, her face streaked with soot. A bearded man held a rusted sword, his knuckles white. A younger boy—barely more than a child himself—held a sharpened piece of wood like a spear.
"Please," the woman sobbed. "Don't leave us."
Jonas' heart twisted. He had no room to carry the weight of strangers. Every extra life they took with them would slow them down. But he knew what would happen if they left them here.
Veyne sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "Damn it all. Fine. Keep up, and stay quiet."
The woman nodded frantically, her grip tightening around the child.
Jonas turned back toward the road ahead, his gut tight. The undead were moving faster than they should have been. They weren't mindless—something was directing them. Herding them.
And the Magi was still out there.
He didn't know how, but he could feel her presence. A whisper at the back of his mind, like fingers brushing against his thoughts. He had spared her life once.
He would not make that mistake again.
The group moved swiftly, the survivors struggling to keep up. The distant sound of the horde grew louder, the guttural growls closing in from all sides. The city was a maze of death, and there was no clear path forward. They had to keep moving.
As they rounded the next bend, Jonas saw it—a barricade of carriages and broken barrels, hastily erected to block the street. Someone had tried to make a stand here. It hadn't worked.
Bodies were strewn across the ground, some missing limbs, others twitching as if caught between life and undeath. But what made Jonas stop wasn't the bodies.
It was the silence.
The dead were everywhere. Dozens of them, standing in the streets beyond the barricade. But they weren't moving. They stood like statues, heads tilted slightly as if…listening.
Jonas' breath caught. The Magi.
The moment the thought crossed his mind, the stillness shattered.
The dead turned.
Their milky eyes locked onto the survivors. And they charged.
"Run!" Jonas shouted.
The barricade wouldn't hold for long, but it was their only chance. They scrambled over the debris, the bearded man nearly slipping before Jonas hauled him up. The woman passed her child over, hands shaking, before scrambling over herself.
Behind them, the dead crashed into the barricade. The wooden planks groaned under the pressure. Hands clawed through the gaps, fingers grasping at empty air. One corpse tried to crawl through, its ribs snapping as it forced itself between the gaps.
Jonas didn't wait to see if the barricade would hold.
The Citadel was close.
But so was the end.
And somewhere beyond the dead, beyond the fire and blood, he knew she was waiting.
The Magi. The woman he had spared.
And she was calling them all home.