The inner walls of the Citadel loomed around them, cold and lifeless. The torches burned, but no one stood watch. The silence was worse than the screams outside.
Jonas wiped the blood from his blade and scanned their surroundings. "We need to keep moving."
Veyne nodded, but her grip on her dagger was tight. The survivors huddled together, trembling. The boy clung to his mother, eyes darting to every shadow.
The bearded man spat on the ground. "So this is what they left us for? An empty fortress?"
Jonas didn't answer. He had hoped, despite everything, that there would be some kind of order within these walls. Some last remnant of leadership. But now, he feared they had escaped one death trap only to walk into another.
A rustling came from an alleyway. Jonas tensed, raising his sword.
Then, from the darkness, a voice.
"You shouldn't be here."
A figure stepped into the torchlight. A soldier—his armour battered, his face gaunt. He wasn't undead, but he might as well have been. His eyes were hollow.
Veyne took a step forward. "Where is everyone?"
The soldier exhaled shakily. "Dead. Fled. Or worse."
Jonas didn't like that answer. "Who locked the gates?"
"The High Lord," the soldier said bitterly. "Sealed himself inside the keep with his nobles. They left the rest of us to rot." He glanced at the survivors. "But you already knew that."
Jonas exchanged a glance with Veyne. This city wasn't a refuge. It was a tomb.
And the dead were still coming.
Jonas looked past the soldier to the long, empty avenues stretching toward the heart of the Citadel. The fortress was massive, its roads wide, its buildings once grand. Now they stood abandoned, dark and hollow. The city had become a mausoleum.
"We need shelter," Veyne muttered. "Somewhere defensible."
Daric, the soldier, ran a hand down his face. "Not many places left for that." He hesitated, then gestured toward the watchtower near the gate. "That's where we've been keeping watch. But it won't hold forever."
Jonas nodded. It was a start.
As they moved, the city pressed in around them. The silence was thick, unnatural. The few survivors that remained kept to the shadows, watching with hollow eyes but making no attempt to approach. They had seen too much, lost too much.
A door creaked somewhere. Jonas turned sharply, but there was nothing—only the wind, whistling through the ruined streets.
Then the ground trembled.
It was faint, but unmistakable. A deep, rhythmic vibration, as if something massive was shifting beneath the city.
Daric's face paled. "You feel that?"
Veyne nodded, fingers tightening around her dagger. "What in the hells is it?"
Daric hesitated. "The Magi say the city is built on tunnels. That there are things beneath us."
Jonas narrowed his eyes. "Things?"
Daric shook his head. "I don't know. But the dead aren't the only ones hunting now."
The words sat heavy between them. The undead were relentless, but at least they were understood. Whatever lurked beneath the city… wasn't.
They reached the watchtower. Daric ushered them inside, barricading the door with practiced movements. The interior was sparse—a few crates, bedrolls, and weapons scavenged from the fallen. It smelled of sweat and fear.
Jonas exhaled, dropping onto an empty crate. "How long have you been here?"
Daric shrugged. "A week. Maybe more." He looked toward the narrow window, watching the dark streets. "Time's lost meaning."
Jonas understood that feeling too well.
A sudden, distant howl echoed through the city. It wasn't a human sound. It wasn't even undead.
Daric's face hardened. "It's getting worse."
Jonas met his gaze. "What is?"
Daric swallowed. "The city's waking up."
No one spoke after that. Outside, the silence stretched, heavy and waiting.
Jonas wasn't sure what they had walked into.
But he knew one thing.
They weren't alone in this city.