Chapter 1 - In Deaths Wake (Short Story)

In Death's Wake

I whisper a guttural syllable into the dusk of a dead city—and the corpse at my feet begins to stir. Milky, clouded eyes flutter open in the ruined face. The body, a long-dead man half-buried in ash, jerks unnaturally as the shriveled tendons remaining in his limbs obey my command. A stench of old decay wafts up as he rises. I wrinkle my nose at the grotesque perfume; even after all this time, death's scent still makes me want to gag.

This corpse once had a name, a life, perhaps even a family. Now he's just another puppet in my wandering carnival of the dead. He stands before me awaiting purpose, head tilted at an awkward angle where the neck was broken, jaw hanging slack. Bits of ashen debris slide from his tattered coat with each movement. In the coppery twilight bleeding through the dust-choked sky, I almost imagine a spark of life in those pale eyes—a trick of the failing light.

"Who were you?" I find myself asking softly. My voice echoes in the hollow street, disturbed only by distant wind. Of course, he gives no answer beyond a wet gurgle—a sigh of stale air escaping rotten lungs. They never answer. Not with their own voices, at least. Any words he spoke would be mine, put in his mouth like a ventriloquist's dummy.

I sigh and flick my wrist, signaling the corpse to follow. It obeys clumsily, shuffling behind me as I walk down what used to be a broad boulevard. Shattered storefronts and crumbling high-rises loom on either side, their windows like empty eye sockets watching our passage. Each step I take grinds charred debris and bone fragments under my boot soles. Once, ages ago, I might have walked these streets alongside living, breathing people—heard laughter ringing out of taverns, music from open doorways, the aroma of street food mingling with summer air. Ghosts of memory flit at the edges of my mind. Now, there is nothing but silence and the constant presence of death that I carry with me.

A low moan carries on the wind. I halt, raising a hand to motion my new servant still. The sound wasn't from him; it came from somewhere ahead. The city is not truly empty—few places are, not since the Cataclysm. The dead linger, and other things sometimes prowl the ruins.

I strain my ears. The moan comes again, accompanied by a scraping shuffle of movement echoing between gutted buildings. I murmur an incantation under my breath and feel a familiar tug in my mind—my vision blurs as I project my sight through the eyes of my thrall. The world takes on a hazy, milky cast from his perspective. With a mental nudge, I send the corpse shuffling forward ahead of me while I remain hidden in the doorway of a burnt-out husk of a building.

Through him, I peer around a collapsed wall. There—a shape dragging itself along the asphalt a short distance away. It's a corpse, but not one under my control. This one is feral. I can tell by the way it moves: erratic, twitchy, driven by a blind hunger. A woman by the remnants of its form, though one leg is missing from the knee down, trailing a dark, dried smear of viscera behind. Even from here I can see one of her arms is just a gnawed bone.

For a brief moment, pity and revulsion twist in my gut. The poor soul likely died in agony and rose in confusion. These mindless ones have no purpose except to feed on flesh—living or dead, they're not particular.

I withdraw my vision back to my own eyes and step out into the street, my real sight returning sharp and colored. The feral corpse immediately senses me—perhaps drawn by the sound of my footfalls or the subtle warmth of life in my flesh. It turns its half-skeletal head toward me and lets out a snarl, if the wet gurgle from a throat hanging in ribbons can be called that. What remains of its face is a horror: one eye gone, the other filmed over, patches of skin sloughed away to reveal jaw and teeth in a deathly grin.

It begins to pull itself in my direction with surprising speed, fingers scrabbling on cracked asphalt. I plant my feet and speak clearly, voice low but carrying in the stillness: "You have two choices. Lie back down and be dead… or serve me."

It hisses and drags itself faster, fingernails tearing off against the pavement in its frenzy. Perhaps it lacks the intellect to understand, or perhaps whatever shred of mind remains simply doesn't care. Not all the dead can be reasoned with; in fact, few can.

"Always the hard way," I mutter, resigned. With a swift motion, I draw the long knife from my belt. The blade catches the dim, reddish light—a cruel, jagged thing I forged myself from scrap metal and bone. I wait until the creature lunges close, then sidestep its grasp with practiced ease. As it lunges past, I swing the knife in a precise arc. The blade shears clean through the withered sinew of its neck.

Blackened blood, thick as tar, oozes out as the head tumbles free and thuds to the ground. The body collapses, finally still. The head's remaining eye blinks once, twice, then goes glassy. A faint whine escapes the severed throat and then fades into nothing.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The whole encounter was over in seconds. Bending down, I wipe the blade on a relatively clean patch of the corpse's tattered clothing. A few sticky flecks of foul blood have spattered my pants and boots. The smell is atrocious up close—a mix of bile and rot. I've smelled worse, but it still turns my stomach.

"I gave you a chance," I murmur to the severed head. Its slack jaw offers no retort. Not that I expected one. Still, I feel a pang of guilt, as irrational as that is. This walking cadaver would have devoured me given the chance, yet here I am apologizing to it. Or perhaps I'm apologizing to the person it used to be, for not being able to save them from this fate.

Behind me, my thrall shambles into view, drawn by the commotion. He lets out a low moan, a question without words. I realize I'm still clutching the knife tightly, my arm trembling from adrenaline. With effort, I relax my grip and slide the weapon back into its sheath.

"It's nothing," I call softly over my shoulder, as much to reassure myself as him. "Just a stray." The thrall's pale eyes regard the now inert corpse at my feet blankly. Satisfied that the threat is handled, I give a mental command and he falls in step behind me once more.

As we continue down the boulevard, I pass wreckage that feels achingly familiar. Here, a collapsed stone fountain in what was once a park, a mossy, headless statue still standing in its center. I remember that fountain; water once flowed there, glittering in the sunlight while children played. There, half buried in rubble, the rusted hulk of a streetcar lies on its side, wheels to the sky. I recall how those streetcars used to clatter along, carrying commuters and tourists alike. A torn banner flaps from a skeletal lamppost, its slogan long bleached illegible by sun and ash. Ghosts of the old world everywhere I look.

Everywhere, signs of life that was—life that is no more.

It wasn't always like this, I remind myself for the thousandth time. The world wasn't always a charnel house under a poisoned sky. But the memories of how it used to be are slippery; each year of solitude and horror erodes them a bit more. Sometimes I fear that if this continues, I'll forget the color of a clear morning sky, or the sound of genuine laughter.

Unbidden, my mind drifts back to that day—the day everything changed. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, trying to dislodge the recollection, but it comes in flashes anyway: the distant thunder of explosions; an orange inferno consuming the horizon; buildings toppling like toy blocks; the cacophony of thousands of screams; and over it all, the insidious chanting that rose from below the city streets, the ritual that cracked the very heavens and let all hell loose.

My jaw tightens. Enough. I force the memories back into the depths of my mind. I need to stay focused on the present, on surviving the next hour, the next night. The past is a burden I cannot afford to carry fully; it will crush me if I let it.

By the time night falls, I reach the outskirts of the city. I make camp in the shell of an old cathedral that stands at a crossroads leading out to the wasteland. Its towering spires are shattered, one fallen across the roof. Most of the stained glass windows are blown out, but a few fragments cling stubbornly to the frames. By the last dim light of dusk, I can make out a mosaic of color: an angel's serene face here, a spread wing there, all surrounded by spiderweb cracks. I wonder if this place gave comfort to anyone in the final days.

My thrall waits outside while I set up a small camp within the nave. There's no need for a fire—I dare not risk the light drawing unwanted attention, and besides, it's not terribly cold. Instead, I rely on the deep blue glow of the dying day filtering in and the eventual rise of the moon. In one corner of the cathedral, beneath the broken gaze of a marble saint, I find a place to sit on a pile of rubble. I chew a strip of dried meat from my pack. It's tough as leather and tastes of salt and ashes, but it quiets the gnawing in my belly.

High above, the remnants of a rose window let a shaft of moonlight through. Dust motes dance in that pale beam. I tilt my head back, looking up at the night sky through the broken rooftop. Only a few stars are visible through the haze of lingering smoke and ash in the atmosphere. The moon is a sickly crescent.

My eyes drift to one intact pane of stained glass still set in a far arch. It depicts a stern-faced holy man in robes, holding a staff, eyes uplifted. A saint of some sort, I guess—I was never devout. He's missing an arm and half his face thanks to the damage, giving him a lopsided look of shock.

A wry smirk tugs at my lips. "Go on, judge me," I murmur up at the painted glass figure. "If any gods are left, they haven't struck me down yet." The saint offers no reply. He simply regards me with that one intact painted eye, as if condemning my very presence.

With a snort, I tear off another bite of the jerky. Talking to statues now, are we? That's a new low, even for me.

Outside, the wind picks up a little, its sound a distant howl as it winds through the empty streets and shattered structures. It almost sounds like a cry, some forlorn spirit wailing for the dead. I close my eyes and let the sound wash over me. It's strange, but I find a kind of solace in the howling wind. At least it's something beyond the silence.

A noise pricks my ears—a moan, but not from the wind. I sit upright, instantly alert. It's my thrall; I recognize the tone. Through the subtle link that binds him to my will, I feel a sudden unease. He is sensing something. Instinctively, I reach out with my mind, not quite possessing him as before but touching the edges of his awareness. What he "feels" trickles into me: the cool night air against dead flesh that cannot truly feel, the dull ache of perpetual hunger in his belly (not truly his, just a phantom of the corpse's last sensations), and… there. A prickle of alertness, a primitive fear response lodged in dead nerves. Something approaches, triggering the remnants of fight-or-flight that even death hasn't entirely erased.

I rise to my feet, heart thumping. Gripping my staff—a sturdy length of iron rebar I scavenged long ago and wrapped in leather and talismans—I move quietly toward the gaping doorway of the cathedral. The engraved double doors lay splintered on the ground, leaving the entrance yawning like the maw of a beheaded giant.

The moonlight outside is just bright enough to reveal the open courtyard beyond, dotted with tilted gravestones and scraggly weeds. My thrall stands at the top of the steps, his posture stiff, head cocked as he listens.

Then I hear it: a shriek, high and shrill, ripping through the night. My blood goes cold. That cry is not human—I know it too well. Ghouls.

Even before the Cataclysm, ghouls were spoken of in dark myth—once-human monsters feeding on corpses. Now, in this ruined world, they are no myth. They are an ever-present danger: creatures warped by whatever foul magic or contagion came with the fall, lurking in tombs and dark corners, feasting on the dead and occasionally the living.

A scuttling shape darts between two gravestones. Then another, on all fours, skitters behind the crumbling stone wall that encircles the old churchyard. I glimpse eyes shining with greenish luminescence. They are circling.

My mind races. I count at least three, maybe four ghouls, moving with unsettling speed and coordination. They must have caught scent of my thrall—or me. Hunger draws them like moths to flame.

"Back," I hiss to my thrall, pushing a command his way. He growls and lurches down a step, placing himself at the base of the stairs, between me and the prowling ghouls. A good servant.

I lean the staff against my shoulder for a moment and hastily draw a circle in the dust on the stone floor around my feet, whispering a quick protective charm. It's a weak ward, but might slow a ghoul if one gets past. Then I grip my staff properly and step just outside the doorway, bracing myself at the top of the steps.

One of the ghouls creeps forward into a moonbeam. The sight of it sends a shiver through me: it's emaciated, almost skeletal, skin stretched taut and leathery over bones. Tufts of patchy hair cling to its misshapen head. Its eyes burn like witch-fires in hollow sockets, fixated on my thrall. A long tongue lolls out between blackened teeth as it hisses.

The first ghoul leaps at my thrall with frightening speed, limbs flailing. They collide with a snarl and tumble down the steps in a tangle. My thrall might not feel pain or fear, but he's outmatched in agility. The two creatures wrestle, rolling over the flagstones. I hear the ghoul screech and the heavy grunt of the corpse as they struggle.

Two more ghouls rush from the sides, emboldened by the attack. One skitters toward the melee, hoping for a share of the prey, but the other makes straight for me, perhaps sensing the warm blood in my veins as a tastier prize.

It bounds over a fallen gravestone, claws clicking on the stone steps as it charges upward. I thrust out my free hand, fingers splayed, and bark a word of power. Pale fire erupts from my palm—a plume of ghostly blue-white flame. It engulfs the charging ghoul, who shrieks hideously. The witchfire clings to its body not like normal fire to flesh, but as if burning the very essence within. The ghoul's shriek rises to a keening wail as it twists in agony, the spectral flames consuming it from the inside out. In seconds, the creature collapses into a heap of smoking skin and bones, the unearthly light flickering out. A few wisps of ash drift away on the breeze where it lay.

I allow myself a grim smile—one down. But there's no time to celebrate. The ghoul that had hesitated now decides to attack, perhaps enraged by the death of its kin. It rushes me in a blur of gaunt limbs and gnashing teeth.

I swing my staff in a wide arc, catching the ghoul in the side of the head as it lunges. The blow would have shattered a human skull, but ghouls are tough; it merely staggers, a chunk of withered flesh torn from its cheek. It hisses and swipes at me with clawed fingers. I jump back, narrowly avoiding having my face raked off, and counter with a sharp jab of my staff into its midsection. Ribs crack under the force, and the creature is knocked backward, momentarily winded—or whatever the undead equivalent is.

Below, my thrall and the first ghoul are still scrapping. My thrall's large hands are locked around the ghoul's throat as it straddles him, and I hear a sickening crunch as he squeezes; but the ghoul retaliates with its claws, rending into the dead man's back, tearing out chunks of rotten flesh. My thrall doesn't react to pain, only focuses on his grip, but I can see he's losing integrity rapidly.

"Finish it!" I command through gritted teeth. He responds with a guttural moan and in one powerful twist, wrenches the ghoul's head to the side until I hear the spine snap. The creature goes limp atop him, finally slain. My thrall shoves it off and tries to rise, bits of himself sloughing away from the wounds.

The remaining ghoul in front of me recovers with a snarl, evidently deciding to ignore my staff's reach. It lunges low and tackles me around the waist. We slam back against the stone doorway. Its breath is a cloud of rot in my face as it snaps its jaws inches from my throat. I snarl right back, grappling with it. It's surprisingly strong for such a starved frame. I manage to shove my forearm under its chin, keeping those snapping fangs at bay, while my other hand fumbles at my belt. The ghoul's claws rake my side, finding purchase between the overlapping plates of scavenged armor under my coat. Hot blood wells from the wound, and I gasp at the sudden pain.

But I finally draw the little iron spike I keep at my waist—a makeshift dagger inscribed with holy sigils. With a yell, I drive it up under the ghoul's ribcage. The sigils flare on contact with the creature's foul flesh. The ghoul shrieks, a high, desperate sound, and scrambles back off me, the spike still embedded deep in its torso.

Seizing my chance, I lunge forward and swing my staff in a crushing overhead blow. It connects with the crown of the ghoul's skull, and this time the bone yields, shattering with a wet crunch. The ghoul collapses at my feet, half of its head caved in, black ichor leaking out to mingle with the dust.

Chest heaving, I plant the butt of my staff on the ground to steady myself. The adrenaline that lit my nerves is ebbing, leaving behind a trembling weakness. I press a hand to my side and it comes away wet. The cuts are shallow, luckily—just claw marks, not disembowelment. My coat is shredded where the creature grabbed me.

A low groan draws my attention. My thrall has managed to stand but is badly damaged. One arm hangs by threads of sinew; deep gouges expose bone along his spine. He takes a step toward me, his remaining eye (the other now a dangling jelly) fixed on me as if awaiting orders or reassurance.

"It's over," I say, more to myself than him. I listen for any further sounds of attack. Nothing but the wind and my own ragged breathing. The last ghoul that fled is gone into the night, and I doubt it will return knowing three of its pack lie dead here.

I limp down the steps, retrieving my bloodied iron spike from the corpse of the ghoul. The holy sigils on it have gone dark; it will need to be ritually cleansed and re-inscribed later, if I get the chance. Right now, I just wipe it on a rag and stow it away.

The three ghouls lie in grotesque poses. One decapitated by witchfire and half-crumbled to ash, one with a broken neck courtesy of my thrall, and the last with its skull smashed in. The smell of their remains is pungent—like an opened crypt mixed with ammonia. I try breathing through my mouth as I approach the one with the crushed skull. With a quick prayer to any listening spirits (force of habit), I deliver a final merciful stab through its heart—just to ensure it won't rise again in some new form. You can never be too careful.

Exhaustion hits me like a wave. My side throbs, and warm blood trickles down my flank. I'm smeared with black gore and dirt. The night suddenly feels much colder. Another day, another battle in an endless string of battles. Some days I truly wonder: what's the point? Survive this night to face the next threat tomorrow, and the next, until someday one of these horrors takes me down and I become just another corpse in someone else's path.

I shake the dark thought off and turn to my thrall. "You did well," I commend him in a soft voice. He only sways on his feet, ruined face blank. Still, I pat his shoulder in thanks. My hand comes away sticky with ghoul ichor and rotted flesh. The sight of his current state makes me grimace; the corpse is barely holding together now. I only animated him a few hours ago and he's already nearly done for.

"Rest," I say, and with a simple mental command, I sever the animating tether that binds the dead man to my will. With a sigh like a released breath, the corpse collapses to the ground, inert. The light in his eyes goes out. Now he is truly just dead matter again.

I drag the bodies (including my now inert thrall) off to one side of the yard, piling them in a shallow crater that might have once been a landscaped flower bed. It's grisly work, but leaving them strewn about could attract other predators or scavengers by the scent. At least contained in one spot, the lingering magic of this place might keep others at bay for a time.

While I'm at it, I carefully cut out the blackened hearts of the ghouls. Each is a shriveled lump of muscle, tough as leather and cold as ice. Holding them in my gloved hand, I can sense the faint flicker of remaining energy. I carry them inside the cathedral, to the altar where I was eating earlier.

Sweeping aside my meager dinner remnants, I place the hearts in a clay bowl I scrounged from the wreckage and crush them with the hilt of my knife. Mixing in a pinch of powdered bone (scraped from a nearby cracked tombstone) and a few drops of my own blood from my side wound, I begin to chant lowly over the bowl. The mixture begins to sizzle and emit a pale greenish flame, casting eerie shadows on the cathedral's walls. Fumes, acrid and tinged with a sulfur-sweetness, curl up.

I inhale the vapors deeply, closing my eyes. It's a repulsive practice—ghoul essence is foul—but it replenishes some of the energy I spent fighting and casting spells. Immediately I feel a hot, sickly strength flow through my limbs, accompanied by a nauseating wave. I brace myself on the altar until the feeling equalizes. Every time I resort to this, I wonder what little piece of my humanity I barter away. But power is currency in this dead world, and I'll take whatever advantage I can get if it means seeing the next dawn.

When I've taken all I can from the ritual, I extinguish the flame with a word. Only black sludge remains in the bowl. I push it aside and slump against the altar, suddenly bone-tired. The events of the day and night catch up to me: the walking, the raising, the fighting. My body, while strengthened momentarily by dark magic, is still battered and mortal. Every scratch and bruise now clamors for attention. The claw wounds on my side need tending; I clean them as best I can with a bit of strong liquor from my flask (it burns like hell, making me hiss) and bind a clean strip of cloth around my waist.

I settle back and try to rest. Sleep is a risky proposition alone in the ruins, but I'm beyond careful calculation at this point. I need to close my eyes, if only for an hour or two. The cathedral is silent now except for the occasional drip of water from the cracked roof and the far-off hooting of some night creature.

My dreams, as always, find me.

I stand in a field of corpses stretching to the horizon. The sky above is an endless twilight, neither day nor night. I walk forward and every footstep lands on flesh or bone. She is there—Mira—suddenly before me. Alive, whole, untouched by the ruin around us. Her dark hair blows across her face, and her eyes—oh, those gentle eyes—look at me with such sadness.

"You left me," she whispers.

My throat tightens. I try to speak, to say it wasn't by choice, to say I searched, to say something, but no sound comes out. I reach for her, desperate to feel that she's real.

Her hand lifts, fingers almost touching mine… then her skin begins to wither under my gaze, her cheeks sinking, flesh peeling away as if years of decay happen in mere seconds. Her eyes cloud white and roll back, and black blood gushes from her mouth.

I scream, scrambling back, only to feel skeletal hands clawing at my ankles, dragging me down. The field of corpses is moving now, grasping at me, a thousand dead faces leering and Mira's corpse among them, mouth opening in a horrible rasp of a laugh. They pull me into a pit of darkness filled with chattering skulls. I fall and fall, the sound of Mira's voice—now echoing that awful chorus from Cataclysm day—chasing me down into oblivion…

I jolt awake with a strangled cry, sweat cold on my skin. It takes a few seconds to remember where I am. The cathedral. Early dawn light is just barely starting to creep in, a cold grayness. My heart pounds against my ribs. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to banish the remnants of the nightmare.

Mira. Always, in the end, it comes back to her.

I haven't spoken her name aloud in a long time. In this lonely pilgrimage of mine, I tried to bury her memory deep, telling myself it was for my own sanity. But in truth, I think it was because that memory is one of the few precious things I have left, and I guard it fiercely, even from myself. In sleep, though, I have no defenses.

Leaning forward, elbows on knees, I let out a shuddering breath. Is she even still alive in this world? The odds are slim. After the Cataclysm, everything and everyone in our city… well, few survived. And those who did were scattered. I looked for her in the aftermath, oh how I looked. For months that bled into years, scouring refugee camps, decimated towns, following every rumor or whisper of a dark-haired healer who matched her description. Nothing.

I should assume she died that day, like so many. The rational part of me knows this. Perhaps one of the shambling dead I've dispatched over the years was her, and I didn't even recognize what remained. The thought is almost too much to bear.

I rub my sternum, where an ache has formed. If she is gone… if she is dead… then some deranged part of me holds out hope that my art could undo that finality. But necromancy is a cruel science; I know the truth. I could animate her corpse, if I found it, make it dance and talk. I could even call forth a shadow of her spirit, bind it to her body or something approximating it. But it wouldn't truly be her. Not the gentle, kind soul I loved. Just a mockery, an animated shell that might even despise me for the violation.

No, best I not dwell on that path. That way lies only deeper madness.

I haul myself up. My body protests—stiff from combat and sleeping on cold stone. Outside, the dawn is spreading, a sullen, reddish glow on the horizon filtered through the perpetual haze. The remains of last night's carnage lie where I left them; no scavengers came, thankfully.

Time to move. I gather my things: a small pack with my few supplies, my half-empty water flask, a coil of rope, some enchanted trinkets and bones wrapped carefully in cloth. I make sure the ring of protective charms is still secured around my left forearm (tiny reliquaries of saints and demons alike; I'm not picky who lends a bit of power). My knife is at my belt, my spike dagger tucked in my boot, my staff in hand. The familiar weight of gear is a small comfort.

One last task—I kneel by the corpse of my fallen thrall, the big man who served me briefly. His blank face stares at the sky. "No rest for you last night," I murmur, patting his cold shoulder. "But maybe now." Out of respect (and pragmatism), I drag his body into the shadow of the cathedral's entrance. With luck, it will remain undisturbed; perhaps I'll find him still here if I ever pass this way again, and grant him a final duty.

I leave the dead city behind as the new day lightens. As I walk away from the crumbled skyline, I glance back once. The cathedral's silhouette stands stark against the dawn, its broken spire like a mourning figure reaching to heaven. If there is any mercy left in this world, I think, let that place be quieter tonight. Let the dead there rest awhile.

Beyond the city's outskirts, the world stretches out as a vast graveyard of civilization. The highway leading south is cracked and buckled, chunks of asphalt thrust upward by ancient upheavals. To the east and west, fields of gray dust and ashen soil spread into low hills, dotted with the skeletal remains of trees that burned long ago. In the far distance, I see the silhouettes of other structures—maybe farmhouses, silos, or small towns—collapsed and half-buried. Everything is tinted in the dull ruddy light filtering through the particulate-laden sky. The sun itself is a faint disc, more orange than yellow, like a dying ember in the firmament.

I pull up my scarf to cover my mouth and nose. The air tastes of smoke and metal. It's slightly easier to breathe out here than inside the city ruins where the stench of decay concentrates, but not by much. They say that in the first year after the Cataclysm, the sun never once pierced the clouds of dust and magic that were thrown up. Supposedly it snowed in midsummer, and strange lights danced on the horizon at night as reality bent under the weight of sorcery unleashed. I missed those early horrors, thank the fates; I was in a coma for weeks from my injuries, lying in a mass grave until I woke surrounded by corpses. Some would say that was when I truly learned necromancy—dragging myself half-dead from a pile of bodies and forcing a few of them to carry me, guided only by instinct and delirium. But that's a story for another time.

According to my calculations and the scraps of old maps I've collected, my destination lies perhaps two days' walk to the south: the Temple of the Unwritten. That's what the texts called it. Seat of an ancient death cult and, I hope, a repository of secrets that might help me understand the forces that shattered the world—and possibly how to control or reverse them.

I first learned of the place from a moldering journal I found in the flooded library of Haverford University. It belonged to a professor of arcane history, one of the last keepers of forbidden lore. In frantic scrawls he described how the cult's ritual had gone out of control and merged with the bombs and plagues in some unholy cascade. He'd hoped that some answers or countermeasures might be found in the cult's temple far to the south. Unfortunately for him, he never made it out of the library; his skeleton was still hunched over the desk when I discovered it.

But his final writings gave me a sliver of direction, a purpose beyond mere survival: Find the Temple of the Unwritten, he said. If any hope remains to stem the tide of death, it lies there. I've chased thinner leads in my time, so what choice did I have but to follow it?

I walk the highway for hours, the silence broken only by the crunch of my boots and the occasional skitter of a lizard or mutated rodent darting away. Twice, I pass rusted vehicles—a sedan overturned in a ditch, its windows gone and interior gnawed by time; a delivery truck jackknifed and fused with the asphalt by some intense heat, perhaps a blast wave from afar. I rummage briefly through them out of habit, but they were cleaned out long ago by scavengers or other travelers. Only sun-bleached bones in the back seat of the sedan, and nothing of use in the truck except a twisted crowbar which I already have plenty of.

The land gently rises and falls, and near midday, I crest a hill of debris that might have been a collapsed overpass. Stretching out ahead is a shallow valley where the highway snakes through. Squinting, I spot movement down on the road, perhaps a mile away. Instinctively, I drop into a crouch behind the cover of a rusted-out bus frame and peer carefully.

A small caravan is making its way along the cracked road: I count two wagons drawn by a pair of tired-looking oxen (or oxen-like creatures—mutations have been kinder to beasts of burden than to people, it seems). Around the wagons walk a handful of figures. People. Living people.

My heart gives a curious flutter at the sight. It's a rare thing these days to see a group of the living on the move, rather than solitary scavengers or shambling packs of undead. I adjust my eyepatch (the leather chafes at my sweat-damp temple) and blink, ensuring the vision is no mirage. No, they are real enough. Likely a family or band of survivors migrating somewhere. I wonder where they're headed—some rumored safe haven, perhaps? There are always rumors: a town untouched by blight, a fortified settlement where humanity still thrives, an enclave of healers who cured the plague. I've never found more than fleeting pockets of people, usually as desperate and broken as anywhere else. But hope is its own kind of sustenance, and clearly these travelers have enough to keep them going.

My throat tightens unexpectedly as I watch them plod onward. It's been… how long since I've spoken with another living soul? Months, at least. Possibly more than a year since I last dared approach anyone. The last time ended poorly—fear, a scuffle, someone dead by accident and me fleeing under a hail of bullets. After that I swore off trying to socialize. Better to keep my distance, for everyone's sake.

And yet… the thought of another night alone with only ghosts and my own rot for company fills me with a sharp, sudden longing. What I wouldn't give to sit near a fire with companions, to share a meal, to exchange even a few simple words. Loneliness has been my armor, protecting me from betrayal and hurt, but it's a heavy armor. So very heavy.

I chew my lip, indecision gnawing at me. The caravan is drawing closer, though I'm well concealed from their view by distance and rubble. If I do nothing, they'll pass by and be gone. Perhaps I could just follow at a distance for a while, observe them, pretend I'm part of the group from afar—no, that's pathetic. I either approach or let them go.

They might welcome another able body. They might shoot me on sight. Much would depend on how I present myself. I'd need to hide any signs of necromancy; people are understandably skittish about sorcerers of death, given recent years. My left eye… I have an eyepatch covering the right, but the left occasionally shows the black veins of corruption if I've done heavy magic. I think I'm fine for now; the eye feels normal. Regardless, I can keep my hood low. And any magic I use must appear benign. Small wards and charms only—no raising the dead, obviously.

Decision made, I swallow my nerves and begin a cautious descent along the slope, paralleling the road. I won't approach outright just yet; first I'll follow and see how many they are, how they're armed, and if there's any immediate danger (to them or from them).

By the time the sun is westering, I've trailed them for a couple of miles. They move slowly, as expected with wagons and a child among them (I spotted a smaller figure—likely a child—riding in the second wagon). There appear to be five travelers in total: two men, two women, and the child. They rotate positions now and then, one scouting a bit ahead, one hanging back as rear guard, the rest near the wagons. It's clear they know what they're doing; these are seasoned survivors, cautious and coordinated. That's promising—they're less likely to panic at the first strange encounter.

Eventually, they make camp near an old roadside gas station. The structure is mostly intact, providing a windbreak and some cover. I watch from behind the rusting frame of an advertising billboard as they unhitch the oxen and settle in. A small fire is lit once the sun dips, carefully shielded by metal sheets to prevent the glow from spreading far. Efficient, I note with appreciation.

My stomach rumbles as a faint breeze carries the smell of something cooking—meat stew, perhaps. I close my eyes and savor the smell for a moment. It's been too long since I had anything but dried provisions. My mouth waters.

There's a risk in approaching, yes. But the desire for human contact (and okay, hot food) outweighs my fear at this point. I'd rather risk rejection than skulk off into the dark alone one more night with only my demons for company.

I circle a bit to come from the road, not directly out of the wasteland which might spook them. As I approach within earshot, I deliberately scuff my boot on some loose gravel, making a noticeable noise. Immediately, one of the men—tall, broad-shouldered, armed with a crossbow—springs up, weapon in hand.

"Who's there?!" he calls, voice hard. The others freeze, hands going to weapons. I see the woman nearest the child push the boy behind her protectively.

Heart pounding, I step out from behind a derelict car, keeping my hands visible and spread in a gesture of peace. "Ho there!" I call back, mustering a weary but nonthreatening tone. "I'm a traveler… alive and alone. I saw your fire and was hoping to share its warmth. May I approach?"

In the dim firelight, I see them exchanging glances. I must look a sight: a tall, gaunt figure wrapped in a faded, dusty longcoat and scarf, the hood of which I've now pushed back to show my face. That face is probably hollow-cheeked and streaked with grime. A short beard covers my jaw (I haven't had a chance to shave in weeks). My right eye is hidden by a black leather patch; the left one, I hope, just looks tired and not unnaturally tainted in this light. At least I am clearly not a corpse and I have no weapons drawn—my staff is in my hand but I hold it like a walking stick, and my hands are up.

The man with the crossbow, likely the leader or at least the guard, narrows his eyes. "Step forward slowly. And keep those hands where I can see 'em."

I nod amiably. "Understood." I approach at a measured pace. As I near the ring of firelight, I can make out their faces better. The crossbowman is middle-aged, scar down his cheek, eyes wary. The other man is younger, wiry, clutching a machete; he has a nervous energy about him. One woman has a bow in hand, half-drawn, an arrow at the ready—she's tall, with short-cropped hair and keen eyes flicking over me for any threat. The other woman is by the boy, a long kitchen knife in her grip; she has a fierce, maternal look, ready to defend the child to the death.

"Alright, that's far enough," the crossbowman—stocky, salt-and-pepper hair—barks when I'm about ten paces from their fire. I comply, stopping and slowly lowering my hands, but keeping them visible.

"I don't mean any trouble," I say. Up close, my voice sounds rough from disuse. I clear my throat and offer what I hope passes for a friendly smile. "My name is Corvus. I've been on my own for a long while. It's good to see people. Real people."

They still eye me with caution. Fair enough. The younger man with the machete, perhaps trying to ease tension, asks, "Where you headed, Corvus? Or are you just wandering?"

I hesitate a split second. I don't want to lie more than necessary, but the truth—"to a possibly haunted death temple to learn forbidden necromancy"—might not go over well. "South," I answer. "Looking for a place called the Temple of the Unwritten. It's… some old world site I read about. I'm hoping it might have supplies or information." That last part at least sounds practical.

None of them seem to recognize the name, which is just as well. The archer woman, still half-drawn, speaks with a level tone, "We're heading south-east, toward the coast. Heard there's a safehold there called Last Shore Haven. You're welcome to travel with us until our paths split." She casts a glance at the crossbowman, daring him to contradict her.

He grunts, lowering his weapon slightly. "Mira's right. Could use an extra set of eyes, and you don't look like trouble."

My gaze flicks to the archer woman. Mira. That name. It's like a physical blow to hear it spoken. For a heartbeat, my vision tunnels and I see her again in my mind's eye—my Mira—smiling as she tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear. But this Mira is not her. I blink away the momentary lapse.

"Thank you," I say earnestly. "You won't regret it. I can keep watch, handle myself in a fight, and I have a bit of knowledge about… the dangers out here."

The group slowly relaxes. Weapons are lowered, though kept close at hand. The boy peeks out from behind the woman with the knife. He's maybe ten, with wide curious eyes and a face smudged with dirt.

I step nearer to the fire, feeling its glorious warmth on my cold skin. The crossbowman (who introduces himself as Thom) gestures for me to sit on an empty upturned bucket. I do so gratefully. The others introduce themselves more guardedly: the second man is Raul, the woman with the knife is Jenna and the boy is her son Leo, and the archer is indeed Mira. Up close, she looks to be in her thirties, around my age, with sun-browned skin and a lean build, a few faint scars on her cheek and brow. Nothing like my lost love aside from the name, I sternly remind my sentimental heart.

They offer me a portion of their stew—thin but hot, with bits of some rodent-like meat and wild tubers. I at first decline, not wanting to take their precious food, but Jenna insists, saying I look half-starved. She's not wrong. I relish each spoonful, trying not to devour it too fast.

Conversation comes slowly. They are understandably guarded, and I am not used to talking. But Raul, the younger man, is friendly enough. He asks about my travels, and I share a carefully edited version—omitting the necromantic bits. I tell them I survived the Cataclysm in a collapsed building and learned some "old-world magic" tricks to ward off the dead. I mention I was part of a group for a while (true) but that we got separated (not entirely true—"separated" sounds better than "I accidentally raised one as a ghoul that killed the others"… I'll keep that to myself).

In turn, they share a little. They came from a settlement far north that finally fell to a combination of famine and raiders. They've been on the road for months, following rumors of better lands by the ocean. Thom and Jenna are siblings, Mira was a hunter who joined up with them, and Raul was a drifter they picked up along the way. They all treat Leo like their collective responsibility; he's the last child of their old settlement, born just before the world ended. A symbol of hope, I suppose.

Leo, staring intently at me, suddenly asks, "Mister, is it true there are zombies around here?" He's clearly been itching to ask, the way children will. Jenna shushes him, but I smile a little.

"It's alright," I say. "Yes, there are… zombies. We usually call them shamblers or undead. But they're nothing you need to worry about if you're careful."

He nods seriously. "Uncle Thom says I have to hide if I see one."

"Smart lad," I reply. "Hiding or running is often the best move. They're slow, usually. And not very smart."

His eyes are huge. "Have you seen a lot of them? Have you killed any?"

"Leo!" Jenna scolds, mortified. "Don't ask such things."

I chuckle softly and wave off her apology. "I don't mind. Yes, I've seen plenty. And… I've had to kill a few, to protect myself." My mind flashes to the countless faces—slack-jawed, decayed faces—that I've put down. No need to burden the boy with those images. "But you know what? They're more afraid of fire and loud noise than you are of them. A torch or a good bonfire will keep most of them at bay."

Thom gives me a nod of approval at this harmless half-truth. It's true many of the simpler dead dislike flames, though "afraid" might be an overstatement. Still, it's good for the kid to hear reassuring things.

Soon after, Leo is tucked into a makeshift bed in the wagon. Night has fully fallen, and the group establishes their watch shifts. I volunteer to take a turn—I feel I owe them—but Thom insists I rest as their guest, since I took some bruises on my own before (I had mentioned a scrape with a ghoul a few days past to explain my battered appearance). Not wanting to argue, I acquiesce. They don't fully trust me yet; leaving me awake while they sleep is probably not in their comfort zone anyway.

So Thom takes first watch, Mira second, Raul third. They even let their oxen rest without hobbling, trusting the beasts to be too tired to wander off.

I curl up not far from the fire, wrapped in my threadbare blanket. The others lie down as well, a soft chorus of exhaustion-induced snores soon following. I remain awake a while, simply enjoying the feeling of safety in numbers. Thom's silhouette is just visible, perched on top of a chunk of concrete, crossbow in lap as he scans the darkness.

This small circle of warmth and companionship feels fragile and precious. I keep expecting something to ruin it—perhaps my own guilt or the weight of secrets. But for now, I let myself drift in the unfamiliar comfort.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I fall asleep with a smile just hinting at my lips.

I wake to a rough hand shaking my boot. It's still dark; the fire's embers cast a faint glow. Mira crouches next to me. "Your turn," she whispers.

I blink blearily. "M-my turn?"

She nods. "I figured you'd want to contribute. Take the last watch with me."

Rubbing my eyes, I sit up. Thom and Raul are already back asleep; Mira must have swapped me in quietly. I'm grateful she didn't rouse the others—maybe she sensed I'd prefer this arrangement.

I pull my blanket around my shoulders to ward off the night chill and join Mira a short distance from camp, where she's taken up watch behind an old concrete barrier. The moon has set, leaving only starlight and the faint pre-dawn pallor on the eastern horizon.

We sit in silence for a while, listening to the night. Insects chirr somewhere among the weeds. The wind has died down, making it eerily quiet.

"You handle yourself well," Mira says softly, finally breaking the silence.

I glance at her, surprised. She's still scanning the darkness, bow at the ready, but a small smile touches her lips. "Back when those raiders attacked," she continues. "That was a neat trick with the dust."

"Ah." I feel a slight flush. "Just a little cantrip. Distract and blind, old street magician's trick."

"Still saved Jenna and Leo from a nasty encounter," Mira replies. "We're not ungrateful."

I'm not sure what to say. I end up nodding. "I did what I could."

Another pause. Then, quieter, she adds, "We know you're not telling us everything."

My stomach clenches. Here it is. I slowly turn my head to find her studying me. Her gaze isn't hostile, just… direct.

"Thom's suspicious by nature," she says. "And in times like these, who isn't hiding something? You included. But I want you to know, we don't need to know your past if you don't want to share it. We judge you by what you do, Corvus, not what you did before."

I release a breath I hadn't realized was locked in my chest. She's giving me an opening—a chance to maintain my privacy without losing their trust.

"I appreciate that," I say softly. "Truly. I have… done things I'm not proud of to survive. I've lost people. I'm sure we all have. Sometimes it's easier not to talk about it."

Mira nods, her eyes reflecting a distant star. "I lost my brother to raiders two years back. And my fiancé to the plague right after the Cataclysm." Her voice is steady, but I can hear the thread of pain woven through. "We all carry ghosts."

We do indeed. Some of us more literally than others, I think wryly. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

She turns that steady gaze back to me. "What about you? That someone you mentioned last night—the Mira you knew. Was she…?"

"My wife-to-be," I murmur before I can stop myself. It's the first time I've spoken of my Mira to anyone in so long. The words come hesitantly. "We were separated during… everything. I never found her. I still… I still look, in a way."

Mira's features soften with sympathy. "I hope you find her then. Or find peace if not."

We hold each other's eyes for a moment. There's understanding there, a bond formed in shared loss. I feel a surprising sting of tears and quickly look away, pretending to scan the horizon. This is too much, too fast; I can't let emotions breach the dam.

Suddenly, Mira stiffens. "Did you hear that?"

I hold my breath. Then I catch it: a faint scrape of rock on rock, somewhere out in the dark beyond the station ruins. My necromancer's intuition flares—something is out there.

I rise slowly, gripping my staff. Mira nocks an arrow, her stance fluid and silent. We move as one, creeping along the barrier to peer past the edge.

At first I see nothing. Then—a flicker of movement near a toppled gas pump about twenty yards off. It looks like a human figure, hunched low.

Could it be the raider who fled earlier, come back? Or another scout? My hand tightens on my staff. If it's a threat, I need to neutralize it before it endangers the others.

Mira whispers close to my ear, "Stay here, cover me." Before I can protest, she melts into the shadows, circling wide with the grace of a hunting cat.

I'm left watching intently, heart thudding. I quietly utter a sight-enhancement charm, my left eye briefly glimmering. In the gloom, I now see the figure more distinctly: it's crouched, dragging itself almost—oh no.

The posture, the awkward movements, the faint ghastly shine of an eye… It's an undead. I realize with horror that it's the raider rifleman from earlier. Thom's shot must have eventually killed him, and now he's risen as a shambler, drawn perhaps by the scent of our camp.

He's perilously close to where Leo and Jenna sleep in the wagon. If he rushes in… a bite or even just panic could be deadly.

I have to act, now, quietly. I make a snap decision and break from cover, skirting behind debris to approach the undead from its blind side. Mira sees me moving and pauses, likely confused but holding her shot.

The reanimated raider sniffs at the air, a rasping rattle in his throat. Just as he starts to shuffle toward the wagon, I lunge out of the shadows behind him. In one hand I hold my knife, in the other a small talisman etched with binding runes.

Before the creature can moan a warning, I clamp my hand with the talisman onto its forehead and drive my knife up under its chin with the other. The binding sigil flashes, flooding the corpse's skull with a brief light. The zombie stiffens, paralyzed by the ward, and my blade spears its brain from below, angling into that sweet spot at the brain stem.

The body goes limp, collapsing in my arms with a faint thud. I ease it to the ground quietly. Black blood dribbles over my hands, but I ignore it, eyes darting about for any other threats. None immediately present.

Mira appears at my side, arrow drawn but unsure of what just unfolded. She sees the corpse at my feet and recognition lights in her eyes—by the tattered clothes, it's clearly the raider.

"Damn," she breathes. "Persistent bastard."

I force a grin, wiping my blade clean on the corpse's rag. "He won't be bothering us now."

She relaxes, lowering the bow. In the dim light, however, I see her looking at me strangely. Not fear… something else. Perhaps she glimpsed the light of my binding sigil or noticed how efficiently I dispatched the undead. I worry she'll ask questions I can't fully answer.

But she surprises me. She simply steps closer and places a hand on my shoulder. "Thank you," she says quietly. "You just saved us a lot of trouble."

I nod. "Couldn't risk it creeping up on the boy." My voice shakes slightly from the adrenaline.

Mira gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before releasing me. "Let's drag it further out. I don't want Leo or Jenna seeing it in the morning."

Together, we haul the body a good distance from camp, leaving it in a ditch. In passing, I swiftly reclaim my talisman from its forehead, pocketing the small bone disk before Mira notices (hopefully).

Back at camp, the others remain sound asleep, blissfully unaware. The sky in the east hints at coming dawn.

Mira and I resume our watch positions for the remaining hour of our shift. She glances at me sidelong. "You really know your way around those things."

I keep my face neutral. "I've had to learn. The dead are everywhere, after all."

She nods slowly. "Most people just run screaming or spray bullets wildly. You kept calm and did what needed doing. That's rare."

I find myself chuckling softly. "When you've been around them as much as I have, you get used to it."

She falls silent, then: "Thom might not trust easily, but you've done right by us. By me." A pause. "Just thought you should know."

I allow myself a small, genuine smile. "That means more to me than you know."

When dawn arrives in earnest, I help Jenna and Raul cook a meager breakfast (toasting some stale flatbread and sharing a bit of my jerky to add to their foraged greens). We pack up the camp. No one mentions any nighttime disturbances; the raider's absence among the living goes unremarked, and Mira apparently chooses not to alarm them with the tale. For all they know, he bled out somewhere far away.

Before long, we find ourselves at a literal crossroads. The cracked highway splits here: one path veers south-east toward the far-off glimmer that might be the sea, the other heads due south into bleaker lands that match the descriptions I've read of the temple's vicinity.

I feel a heaviness in my chest as I slow my steps. This is where we part ways.

Thom turns to me, extending a hand. "Reckon this is where we say goodbye, Corvus. It's been good having you along." He actually smiles a little. "You watch yourself out there, y'hear?"

I grip his hand firmly. "You too, Thom. Keep Leo safe. And I hope that haven by the coast is all you dream."

Raul claps me on the back. "If you ever wander over that way, look for us. I owe you a drink after that dust trick." He grins.

Jenna surprises me with a brief hug. "Thank you," she whispers, "for helping with Leo… for everything."

I pat her arm awkwardly. "He's a good kid. Take care of each other."

Finally, Mira stands before me. The others politely busy themselves with the wagons to give us a moment.

She offers her hand, but when I take it, she pulls me into a quick embrace instead. It startles me, but I return it lightly. I can smell the faint scent of smoke and sage in her hair.

"Good luck, Corvus," she says softly near my ear. "I hope you find what you're looking for in that temple."

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. "Good luck, Mira. And thank you… for trusting me."

She pulls back and searches my face with those keen eyes. "Not all strangers are enemies. Some might even be friends, given a chance." A ghost of a smile.

I nod, not trusting my voice for a second. With a final squeeze of her hand, I step away.

I watch them depart, standing by the old signpost that points towards their hopeful future. Leo waves vigorously from the wagon; I wave back with a genuine smile. My heart aches a little as they disappear into the haze, but I take solace knowing I helped them reach another day.

Then I turn towards the path of my own destiny. The road that leads to the Temple of the Unwritten.

The land quickly grows desolate once I leave the main thoroughfare. This region was sparsely populated even before the end, and what remains is a ragged wilderness of dust and rocks. Scraggly bushes, half dead, dot the landscape. In the distance, low mesas and jagged hills rise, marking the beginning of the badlands where the temple supposedly lies hidden.

Without the company of others, the old loneliness wraps around me again. It almost feels like a physical presence, a cold companion at my side. I trudge on through the day, mind wandering as it does when there's nothing but the crunch of gravel and the sound of my breathing.

I think of Mira (both Miras, past and present), of little Leo and his future, of the odd chance that brought me that brief camaraderie. It feels unreal now, like I dreamed it. If I hadn't the faint scent of their campfire still clinging to my coat, I might believe I imagined the whole encounter out of desperation.

By noon, the sun is a pale disk overhead, more light managing to pierce the thinning haze here. I stop to sip water under the skeletal remains of a tree, its branches charred and twisted. There's a warmth on my face from the sun that I haven't felt in a long time. It reminds me that the world still has some life, some hope of recovery perhaps.

Maybe, just maybe, if I can find a way to curb the tide of undeath, people like that family can start rebuilding something resembling a normal life. That thought buoys me.

In the afternoon, as I crest a ridge of sandstone, I spy a curious sight below: an entire field of flowers, or what remains of them. The valley beyond is carpeted in blackened petals. I approach and kneel, picking one up. It crumbles between my fingers, leaving a dark smear. It's as if there was once a great bloom here, and someone burned it all in a flash. The ash of countless blossoms swirls in little eddies around my feet. It's strangely beautiful in a melancholy way—an echo of fertility snuffed out.

The terrain begins to rise into foothills. My legs burn with fatigue, but I push on. The presence of ambient magic grows stronger with each mile now; I feel it buzzing at the edges of my senses. Could be natural—the earth here scarred by spells from the Cataclysm—or it could be I'm nearing my goal.

As dusk approaches, I finally see it: perched on a plateau ahead, half-hidden by encircling cliffs of red rock, the Temple of the Unwritten. My breath catches.

Even in ruin, it's an imposing structure. A great octagonal fortress of obsidian-black stone, partially collapsed on one side where the earth likely swallowed it in a quake. Two tall, narrow towers flank what appears to be the main entrance, though one tower has crumbled to half its height. Weathered statues line a wide set of stairs leading up to a gaping doorway—statues of cloaked figures with indistinct faces, their forms unnaturally elongated. As I draw nearer, a prickling feeling crawls over my skin. This place is steeped in death and secrecy; it all but radiates menace.

And yet, there is also a pull. A strange tug at my very soul, as if the temple is calling to me. Or to the necromantic energy that clings to me like a second skin. I swallow hard. This is it. The culmination of my journey.

The daylight is almost gone, bleeding out in a final blaze of orange behind the distant peaks. I decide not to delay. I'd rather explore with at least a little light. After a moment's thought, I retrieve a small vial from my pack and drink the concoction within. It's a night-vision brew I traded for months ago—smells foul and tastes worse, but it should give me a few hours of clear sight in darkness without needing to carry a bright torch advertising my presence.

The potion makes my head swim for a moment, and the world takes on a sharp, high-contrast clarity, even as the sun fully sets. Satisfied, I approach the temple's steps.

The statues that line the way are unnerving up close. Each is about twice human height, carved from some polished black stone that reflects the starlight. They depict robed figures holding various objects: an hourglass, a scythe, a book, a skull, a scale, a flame. The faces are blank ovals—featureless, as if to say that Death wears many faces or none at all.

I can't read the runes on the archway above the entrance—some ancient script rarely seen. But I sense wards woven into the very stones. They tingle at my passing, probing. Perhaps once they would have blasted intruders with curses or flame. But now, after so long, they're like dormant snakes only half-aware of my tread.

Beyond the archway lies a grand hall. I step inside, and my footfalls echo unnaturally loud in the cavernous space. The ceiling rises into a dome far above (I see a jagged tear where part of it fell in). The walls are engraved with murals and more writing in that unknown script. Enormous stone braziers line the center aisle, long cold. At the far end, on a dais of steps, stands an altar and behind it a massive relief carving dominating the wall.

It's cold in here. The air feels heavy, as if saturated with sorrow. I shiver, pulling my coat tighter.

I don't call out—if anyone or anything sentient remains here, I'd rather not announce myself just yet. Instead, I proceed cautiously, staff in one hand, the other tracing a simple detection spell in the air. Wisps of pale light emanate from my fingers, drifting forth. When they touch the floor and walls, they flicker, revealing brief glimpses of the magic auras present. The entire chamber glows faintly—residual power, like the afterimage of a great flash. Toward the altar, the glow brightens. And beneath my feet, I sense something pulsing far below, like a heartbeat deep in the earth.

Likely the Well of Souls that the professor's journal mentioned—the core of this cult's power, and perhaps the source of the necromantic plague.

As I advance, the whispering begins. At first I think it a draft, but no—soft, indistinct whispers seem to slither along the walls, like a crowd just out of sight muttering secrets.

I pause, straining to catch any words, but they overlap too much, an ocean of susurrus. Occasionally I pick out what might be my name, or a laugh, or sobbing. The hair on my arms rises. This place is thick with spirits, their voices trapped in an eternal loop.

At the center of the hall lies a scattering of what looks like recent debris: a torn backpack, some broken bones, rust-colored stains. I kneel and examine them. The pack contains rotted food, a knife, and a journal. The latter crumbles in my hand as I open it, too decayed to read. Unlucky prior pilgrims, no doubt. I eye the bones and notice tool marks—teeth marks actually—on a femur. Something feasted on these poor souls.

As if on cue, one of the whispers rises to a wet gurgling giggle. I spin, staff at the ready. One of the shadows behind a pillar moves of its own accord.

"Who's there?" I call, voice echoing.

In response, a shape skitters into view on the far side of the hall. It clings to the wall, halfway up like an insect. My enhanced night vision catches a pallid, long-limbed form—like a human stretched and twisted, crawling on all fours but vertically. Its eyes catch a glint of my light, shining a dull red.

It gives a clicking hiss and vanishes behind a column with disturbing speed. A temple guardian? Or some creature drawn by the death here? Could be a ghoul variant… or something worse, something that perhaps once was a cultist and is now changed.

My heart thumps. "I come in peace," I say aloud. My voice does not sound entirely confident.

A chorus of chuckles echoes from the darkness, seeming to come from all around, as if mocking my statement. Great, the ghosts here have a sense of humor.

I decide to show strength instead of pleading. Tapping my staff on the stone floor, I bark out, "I am a servant of Death as well, come to learn and add to this sanctuary, not to despoil it! Show yourself!"

For a moment, silence. Then, directly ahead, halfway between me and the altar, a figure does appear, stepping out from behind a cracked pillar. It's another robed statue, I think at first—so still and black it blends with the stone. But then it bows slightly, and I realize it's no statue at all, but a living (or unliving) being.

The figure is tall and clad in tattered black robes that merge with the gloom. A hood is drawn low over its face, and in its hand it holds a staff topped with a crescent symbol. I see no feet beneath the robe hem—it may be floating slightly above the ground.

"Seeker…" it says in a dry, papery voice that nonetheless fills the hall. "You are expected."

I blink. "Expected? By whom?"

It tilts its head, the movement oddly fluid. I catch a glimpse under the hood—a skull's grin, maybe, or just a gaunt face? Hard to tell. "By those who remain. By the temple itself. The moment you set foot on this hallowed ground, your presence was known."

I tighten my grip on my staff, unsure whether to be relieved or more alarmed. "I came to find answers," I say carefully. "Knowledge to stem the tide of undeath that plagues our world."

At this, the robed figure chuckles—a dry rattling sound. "To stem the tide of undeath… how quaint. The tide is already receding, young one. The flood has come and gone, and now we dwell in the new sea it left behind."

I frown. Riddles and metaphors. Possibly an unhinged spirit or a ghost of one of the cult priests. "Then perhaps to control it, at least. Or understand it. If not stop, then guide. Our world cannot continue like this."

The being drifts closer by a few feet. I sense power from it, but restrained. "What is your name, seeker?"

I hesitate. Names have power, especially here. But I sense deception will not serve me. "My name is…" I pause, almost giving the alias, but in this sanctum of truth I decide otherwise. "…Arlen." It's been a long time since I spoke my real name. It feels foreign.

"Arlen." The hooded head inclines. "Why do you want to guide undeath, Arlen? Why do you, a mortal still living, tread the path of the necromancer?"

Images flash in my mind: Mira's smile, Alden's laughter, the faces of the caravan, the endless hungry eyes of corpses in the dark. "Because someone has to," I say bitterly. "Because the dead don't stay dead, and the living are too few and weak. Because I lost everything—everyone—and I refuse to let that be the end. If I must use the dead to protect the living, so be it. If I must become something other than human to fix this broken world… so be it."

My voice echoes, fading to reveal the whispering chorus now eerily silent, as if listening.

The robed figure is motionless for a time. Then it speaks, voice echoing strangely, as if multiple tones at once: "Power. Hope. Desperation. All mixed within you. You reek of grief and resolve, and the taint of grave magic clings to you like a shroud." It raises one skeletal hand from within the robe and points at me. "Are you prepared to give yourself to the truth here? The truth will consume you. It may destroy you."

I lick my dry lips. "I have already given up a great deal to come here. If it destroys me, so be it. I have little left to lose."

A lie, perhaps—I have my life, my lingering hope for Mira—but I muster conviction.

The figure bows its head. "Brave or foolish. In the end, all who seek the Unwritten must prove themselves likewise willing."

It retreats slightly and gestures to the great relief carving behind the altar. "There lies the testament of our order. Approach."

I walk slowly down the central aisle toward the dais. The carving on the wall becomes clearer in my enhanced vision. It's massive—depicting a swirling void, out of which arms and faces emerge in torment or supplication. Around this central motif are inscribed words in dozens of languages, some I recognize, most I don't. Snippets of prayers, spells, names of the dead.

At the center of the altar itself rests a large book with iron bindings. Could it be intact knowledge? I reach out, but the hooded guardian is suddenly by my side, startlingly fast. "Not yet," it rasps.

I snatch my hand back. The guardian extends its staff toward the book. The crescent symbol at the tip begins to glow with faint blue light. In response, the iron bindings of the tome snap open and the book flips slowly open on its own. The pages are empty—no, not empty. There's writing appearing now, lines of glowing script forming before my eyes.

I lean in, squinting. It's in the common tongue now, shifting from one language to another like an illusion until settling on words I can read. It says:

"Let the one who seeks the Unwritten speak their loss, speak their desire, and drink of this cup."

As I read it aloud under my breath, I notice something forming beside the book: a stone basin rising from the altar's surface, and within it, a dark liquid swirling into existence.

The guardian speaks close to my ear, making me flinch: "Your loss. Your desire. Speak them. Then drink, if your will remains true."

I glance at the creature. "What is that liquid?"

"A draught of shadows. A gift of our temple. Or a curse, if you are found unworthy. It will rend the veil in your mind and allow communion with the Unwritten truths."

Black magical hallucinogen, then. Great.

My loss. My desire. They want a confession? An offering of pain?

I swallow, staring into the dark swirling basin. I see my reflection, ghostly pale, one-eyed and haggard. I see behind it shapes of faces—the dead I carry with me.

"I have lost… everything," I begin, voice trembling despite myself. The silence of the hall urges me on, as if the walls themselves lean in to listen. "I lost my home to fire and ruin. I lost my friends to violence and horror. I lost the woman I loved to the chaos of that day, and I don't even know if she lives or died. I have been alone ever since, save for the dead who offer only hollow company. I have lost my hope a thousand times, only to pick it up again like a fool because I don't know what else to do but keep moving."

My words echo, and with them the whispering returns, repeating fragments—lost, loved, alone, fool…—like an audience murmuring commentary.

I continue, steadier now as emotion gives way to the stark truth. "I am mad perhaps. Mad with grief and anger. But that madness gives me purpose. I desire the power to fix this broken world. I desire to end the curse that keeps the dead from resting. I desire… I desire to see those I loved once more, even if only in dreams or beyond this life."

The last admission slips out before I can stop it, and I feel hot tears on my cheeks. Embarrassed, I wipe them quickly. They fall, a couple of drops, into the basin, rippling the darkness.

The guardian is silent. The temple itself seems to hold its breath.

I look into the basin. The dark liquid has changed, lightening where my tears fell, forming a faint swirl of gray within black. I steel myself, then lift the basin in both hands. It's heavy, stone cold to the touch. The liquid within smells of nothing, which is disconcerting.

"Bottoms up," I whisper, and bring it to my lips. I drink.

It's like swallowing ice and fire at once. The liquid has no taste, but I feel it slide down like a living thing. My vision darkens at the edges. I gasp and would have dropped the basin, but it vanishes from my hands, its purpose done.

I sway on my feet, clutching the altar for support. The guardian's bony hand rests on my back, whether to steady or trap me I'm not sure.

The whispers grow to a cacophony and my vision goes completely black. Then, within that void, images burst forth.

I see a great spiral of souls rising from a pit, circling a pale moon. I see robed figures—cultists—chanting in a hall just like this one, their voices fervent as the ground shakes. I see the moment the veil tore: a rift in the air, a howling darkness pouring out, enveloping the world. The dead rising in waves, screaming.

My heart hammers. I witness the cult's end: some consumed by their own unleashed magic, some turning on each other in madness, a few sobbing in regret as the roof caved in.

Then the visions shift to something more personal: I see myself, a younger me, crawling from rubble, surrounded by corpses. I see a black-haired woman (Mira!) standing on a hill, reaching out to me, but I can't reach her, corpses dragging me back. I see myself wandering through endless night, guided by a distant green flame.

And then… light. Blinding light, and a giant gate of bone and gold. Beyond it, a figure sits on a throne of skulls—the figure is both man and woman, both skeleton and flesh, ever-changing. It leans forward and whispers a single word: "Choice."

I jolt, suddenly back in my body on the cold floor of the temple hall. I'm on my knees, apparently—I must have fallen. My throat is raw as if I've been screaming, though I don't remember if I did.

The guardian stands a few feet away now, watching me intently with twin pinpoints of blue in that hooded void.

I gather myself and stand shakily. The effects of the potion are fading, leaving me with a splitting headache and a weight on my soul from what I saw.

The book on the altar is glowing, text filling its pages faster than my eyes can follow, then fading. Knowledge being recorded or transferred, I'm not sure.

The guardian speaks, sounding almost gentle now. "The Unwritten accepts your offering. Your pain, your desire—they are acknowledged."

"Good to know," I croak, rubbing my temple. "Now what?"

"Now you shall receive what you came for… and face the consequences of knowing." It points the staff at the book again.

The text on the pages coalesces into a shape—a sigil that I don't recognize. It pulses with light. Without warning, the sigil lifts off the page and flies at me.

I flinch, raising an arm, but it strikes my forehead and passes inside. I feel a surge of searing cold in my skull, and then—

Clarity.

I see, with perfect understanding, the nature of the plague of undeath. The Well of Souls—here, beneath this temple—was formed by the mass death and ritual. It's like a wound in reality, leaking necromantic energy. As long as it remains, the dead will rise spontaneously, the balance broken. To close it… a sacrifice is needed. A life, freely given, of one suffused in both life and death—a bridge. A person like me. One who has one foot in each realm.

I stumble back, this revelation crashing into me harder than any blow. "To stop it… someone like me has to die? To throw themselves into the Well and seal it?"

The guardian inclines its head slowly. "One final gift of life, to mend the tear between life and death. That is the price to heal the world."

It almost feels like a joke. I came all this way, did all this, to be told that I must die to accomplish my goal. A bitter laugh escapes me. "Of course it is. Of course."

I pace, half-laughing, half-weeping in frustration. "Save the world, but you won't get to see it. End the curse, at the cost of your own cursed life." I run a hand through my hair. The logic makes sense, ironically. A closed loop—a life for death, to restore balance. It's poetic.

And I hate it.

The guardian watches quietly. Maybe it expected this reaction.

I whirl on it. "How do I know this even works? Did any of your cult try? Or were you all too cowardly to jump into your own damned Well?"

It doesn't rise to the bait, simply answers, "None who came before were willing. They clung to life, or feared oblivion. Thus, the curse reigns still. We have waited, watched, for one who would be willing."

I slump against the altar, mind racing. Could I be that person? Am I truly willing to give myself up?

I think of everything I've endured. Every horror, every lonely night. I think of Alden's joking voice, of Mira's face, of those people who showed me kindness just last night around a fire.

If I do this, I'll never find out if my Mira lived. I'll never see the new world that might be born from this act. I'll never again share a meal with friends, never feel the sun… it'll be over.

But if I don't… what then? Continue wandering, a renegade raising corpses until eventually I fall and become one myself, and the world stays as broken as ever. Maybe someone else would come along decades or centuries later and face this same choice. How many more would suffer in that time?

I sink to a sit on the dusty step, head in hands. The whispering in the hall has gone quiet again, as if awaiting my decision.

Slowly, I become aware of another presence—a phantom sensation like a warm hand on my shoulder. I look up, half-expecting the guardian, but it's still across from me. This is… something else. A familiar scent, a familiar feeling. Mira? Or Alden? Something of my own conjuring maybe, or the spirits trying to comfort or influence me.

Quietly, I speak into the emptiness: "I don't want to die."

The confession echoes.

"I'm so tired… but I still… I still had hoped to…" I choke up.

The presence seems to press gently, encouragingly, as if to say it's alright.

I wipe my face and stand. The weight of responsibility is immense, crushing. And yet, beneath it, a small flicker of pride? destiny? something ignites. Maybe… maybe this is what I was meant to do. Every step, every loss, leading me here to be the one to set things right.

If that's true, then perhaps my life can finally mean something beyond just surviving.

I inhale deeply, steadying myself. "Alright," I whisper. "Alright."

I meet the guardian's gaze (or I assume I do, beneath that hood). "Take me to the Well."

It bows, a surprisingly solemn and respectful gesture. Then it glides to the far corner of the hall where a large circular stone in the floor lies. With a wave of its staff, the stone grinds aside, revealing a spiral stair descending into blackness.

Torches along the stairway spontaneously ignite with cold blue flame, illuminating the path downward. I follow the guardian, my boots echoing on the stone steps. The air grows noticeably colder with each turn.

The whispers continue to accompany us from the walls, like a soft dirge. Strangely, I feel calm now—a kind of acceptance. Maybe the draught is still dulling my fear, or maybe I'm just beyond it.

Down and down we go, far below ground, farther than seems possible. This place is deep.

Eventually, the staircase opens into a vast cavern. I step down onto uneven rock and catch my breath at the sight.

We stand on a ledge overlooking a chamber so large I cannot see the far end. Bioluminescent fungi provide dim ghostly light across the ceiling like a star field. And at the center, about fifty yards from us, is the Well.

It's an enormous circular pit, perhaps thirty feet across, filled with… something. From here it looks like a roiling mass of mist and liquid combined, glowing faintly green and blue. It churns and swirls as if stirred by an invisible hand. And within it, shapes constantly form and dissolve—faces, hands, whole phantom bodies, reaching, twisting.

The sound it makes is like a distant ocean combined with a million sighs.

Even knowing what it is, my skin crawls at the sheer wrongness of it. This concentration of lost souls, all trapped together… no wonder the world above is in torment.

The guardian floats down beside me on the ledge that encircles the cavern toward the well. There are smaller pools or rivulets off to the sides where liquid from the well has overflowed—these lie stagnant, shimmering with pale light. I realize these might be what spawn certain undead if they seep to the surface, like toxic waste giving off fumes of necromancy.

"Step into the Well and speak the sealing rite," the guardian instructs quietly. "You know the words now."

I do. They sit in my brain like an old lullaby—gifted by the knowledge earlier. They're in no language I know, likely the language of creation or something similarly grand.

I nod. My mouth is dry, heart thumping again in spite of my resolve.

Slowly, I approach the Well. There is no railing or ceremony here, just raw existence. The souls within sense me, or sense the life in me. They surge upward near the edge where I stand, a crowd of wailing visages and grasping arms made of light. They do not climb out—they seem bound within a certain radius—but they clamour toward me.

In them, I see flickers: a child's face contorted in pain, an old man's silent scream, a dozen others overlapping. Perhaps my own mind playing tricks. Perhaps real souls begging for release.

I grip the haft of my staff one last time, then decide to let it fall. I won't need it where I'm going. The clatter of it on the rock startles some of the ghosts and they recoil briefly.

Taking a deep breath, I step forward and descend a short set of rough steps into the Well.

The substance envelops my boots and calves. It's ice cold and yet burning at the same time, like plunging into extremely salted water. My legs immediately feel both numb and in pain. I grit my teeth and push forward, step by step. With each movement, I feel resistance—like thousands of hands trying to push me back, or maybe pull me deeper, hard to tell.

The liquid (if that's what it is) reaches my waist, my chest. When I'm nearly shoulder-deep, I stop. I'm essentially standing amid swirling soul-energy, on the last bit of solid ground at the bottom of the steps, with the bottom of the pit presumably somewhere below my feet (if there is a bottom).

Faces drift by mine, and whispers surround me, but oddly none of it is hostile. If anything, the souls seem curious, some even almost gentle as they brush by, leaving tingling trails on my skin.

I catch sight of one face, a woman with hollow eyes, dark hair billowing… My heart lurches. "Mira?" I breathe. It's gone in a blink, and I'm left unsure if I really saw her or just projected her everywhere in these last moments.

No time for doubt.

I begin to chant the rite.

The words flow from me in a strong, clear voice, despite the emotion choking my throat:

"Omnia mortuis ad vitam, omnia vivis ad mortem, circulus numquam intermissus…"

The effect is immediate and violent. The entire cavern trembles. The light in the well intensifies. Souls thrash and cry out, whether in pain or release I cannot tell. The guardian watches from the ledge, its form flickering in the tumult.

I continue, raising my voice over the cacophony:

"Vita in mortem, mors in vitam…"

The swirling energies begin to spiral, drawn towards me. I feel them pouring through my body—cold burning streams of them—as the words shape reality's fabric. It hurts. Gods, it hurts like nothing I've felt. Every nerve on fire, every memory, every thought flayed open as the souls pass through me, seeking passage to peace that my living essence can provide.

I scream the final line:

"Et in fine… pax!" (And in the end… peace.)

With that, I let go. I release myself to the Well, plunging fully into its embrace.

Searing agony, blinding light. The sound of my heartbeat roaring in my ears, then being drowned out by a thousand voices, then silence.

For a moment, I feel myself falling in endless light, and within that light, shadows of figures gather around me. I think I see Alden grinning, offering a hand. I think I see Mira—my Mira—laughing with tears in her eyes, reaching for me. I even see the weary face of Thom, and Leo's bright eyes, somewhere far above.

Is this death? I wonder vaguely. Or something beyond?

My consciousness dims…

I awaken to warmth on my face.

The first thing I notice is the sky—a clear, radiant blue stretching overhead, with the golden light of morning spilling over me. I'm lying on solid ground, coarse grass beneath my fingers. Grass?

I sit up with a jolt. I'm outside, on a slope near the temple's entrance. The temple! I whirl around. Behind me, the black stones of the Temple of the Unwritten are crumbling, collapsing inward even as I watch. The great structure is in its final death throes, perhaps the consequence of what I did. Dust plumes rise as entire walls fall.

I scramble to my feet, checking myself. I'm… alive? I feel my chest, my face. Solid. Breathing. My heart hammering.

"How—?" I mutter aloud.

The last thing I recall was… dying. Or so I thought. Did the Well spare me? Or spit me out like a foreign object? I have no idea.

All I know is I feel… different. Lighter, somehow. I glance at my hands and arms. The faint tracery of dark veins that had marked me from heavy necromancy use is gone. My skin looks, well, like a normal human's. I feel warmth, real warmth of life in my limbs. Could it be that by closing the source, I've cleansed myself too?

The realization hits: I can no longer sense the dead. That constant pressure at the back of my mind, the whispers of restless souls—gone. Silence. Peaceful silence.

Tears unexpectedly well up. I didn't realize how loud it all was until it was gone. It's like a weight lifted from my very soul.

I turn my gaze to the land around. Already I notice subtle changes: the air is clearer, the sky brighter than I recall seeing in ages. The perpetual pall of gloom is dissipating. And the silence… it's normal. No distant moans or eerie wails. Just the breeze and the chirp of some hardy insects, perhaps a bird.

It worked. By all the gods, old and new, it actually worked.

A laugh bubbles out of me, half hysterical, half joyous. I did it. The curse is lifted. The dead will sleep now.

My laughter quickly turns to sobbing. I fall to my knees, overcome by a confusing wash of relief, grief, and disbelief. I weep openly, alone on the hillside, as behind me the last standing spire of the temple collapses in a thunderous cloud.

I cry for those lost, for my own survival, for the sheer miracle of a second chance.

Eventually, as the sun climbs, I collect myself. I stand and wipe my face, looking out at the horizon. In the distance, I can just make out the glint of what might be the sea to the south-east, and maybe a hint of green to the north where life might be returning already.

I retrieve my pack—somehow it's here beside me, though I don't remember carrying it out. Inside, I find all the usual items undisturbed. Even Alden's finger bones in their pouch. I hesitate, then pull them out. In the bright day, they look like ordinary old bones. I attempt a small summoning—an old habit—but nothing stirs. They remain inert.

"Thank you, my friend," I whisper to them, even if he can't hear. I wrap them back up and stow them gently.

At the edge of the collapsed temple, something catches my eye: my old staff, miraculously intact, lies among the rubble. I walk over and pick it up. The charms on it jingle softly. Many of them have gone dark, but one charm—a simple wooden carving of a dove that Mira from the caravan gave me last night for luck (I recall she pressed it into my hand after the raid fight)—that charm is warm. I swear I see a tiny green sprout growing from it, like the wood coming back to life.

Smiling, I attach it firmly to the staff and use the staff to help me walk. My body is still sore (sealing a cosmic rift apparently doesn't leave one unbruised), but I feel strength returning.

I have a long journey ahead. Perhaps I will head to that Haven by the coast, see if my brief friends made it. Perhaps I will wander to other ruined towns and spread the word that the dead won't rise anymore—that we can bury our loved ones without fear.

There will still be dangers. The world isn't magically healed overnight. There are raiders, mutated beasts, ruins to rebuild, diseases, hunger. But one great horror is gone, and that's no small thing.

As I take my first steps away from the ruins of the temple, I pause and glance back one last time. In the settling dust, amid the black stone debris, I almost think I see figures—like robed silhouettes standing and watching me. I blink, and they're gone. Probably just a trick of light and shadow.

"Rest now," I whisper to where the Well once was. "You all can rest now."

The wind picks up gently, carrying what might be the softest hint of distant voices—no longer anguished, but… singing? Or maybe it's just the rustle of the grass. Either way, it feels like a farewell.

I turn and face the open road. The sun is warm on my face, truly warm. I never realized how much I missed this feeling. I reach up and gingerly lift the eyepatch from my right eye. I haven't taken it off in daylight in so long. The socket beneath is empty and scarred (that eye I sacrificed in a dark bargain long ago). But maybe I'll find a healer someday who can mend even that. For now, I let the sunlight touch the scar. It doesn't hurt anymore.

With a deep, steadying breath, I begin walking. Each step feels strangely light. I half expect a zombie to lurch out of the bushes or a ghost to whisper at my ear, but nothing of the sort happens. A bunny—an actual live brown rabbit—hops across the road about twenty paces ahead, pauses to look at me, then scurries into a thicket. I grin at that like a fool. Imagine, wildlife returning to these parts.

I have no clear plan, for the first time. My life was singularly aimed at one goal for so long. Now… I'm free. What does an anti-hero do after he's saved the world, albeit with no one watching or praising? Perhaps find a nice cottage and plant turnips? The absurdity of that thought makes me chuckle.

More likely, I'll still roam for a time, helping where I can. And maybe, just maybe, I'll find her. If Mira survived, she might head to where survivors gather. If not… if not, I hope to find closure. Maybe I'll even dare to perform one last necromantic rite: not to reanimate her, no, but to speak to her spirit, to tell her I made things right. But that's for later.

Right now, I'm content to just walk under the open sky as a living man among the living earth.

The road beckons, and I follow it, one foot after the other, leaving behind the wasteland of yesterday and heading toward the promise of tomorrow.

In death's wake, I walk on—alive.