After the scream, there was silence.
Not a peaceful one.
Panic was on the villagers' faces, they appeared to be screaming.
But nothing was heard.
Just the absence of sound—thick, oppressive, a ringing in the skull that refused to be released.
Across Ragla, people staggered where they stood. Hands clamped over ears. Mouths open in silent cries. Blood streamed freely from their orifices, splattering onto snow and stone alike. Some of those closer to the blast dropped to their knees, retching, their vision reduced to blinding white noise.
Others farther away swayed, eyes unfocused, disbelief frozen across their faces.
Those closest to the blast never rose at all.
They lay sprawled in the streets and homes nearest the guildhall—unconscious, bleeding from eyes, ears, and nose. Some twitched weakly.
Among them, many did not breathe.
They were the unlucky ones.
They were already dead.
A woman's scream cut through the quiet—high and broken—as she shook her husband's shoulders, her hands coming away slick and red.
A child sobbed, tugging at his father's coat, not understanding why he wouldn't wake.
Above them all, hovering amid drifting snow and settling dust, the banshee lifted her arms like a harbinger—a god of death.
The whole village felt it.
A pressure—silent, final—settled over Ragla like a shroud. The air grew heavy, the cold biting deeper than winter ever had. Mist thickened. Shadows stretched unnaturally long.
The banshee's mouth opened.
She began to chant.
The words were not meant for living ears.
They were old—older than religion, older than kingdoms—syllables shaped for graves and bone. Each phrase echoed faintly from all sides, as if spoken from beneath the earth itself.
"Velis nax-morr, thra'ka unvel."
"Keth nax-ethra vel senkai."
"Oh… Threx Morr'kael, Vaelor Supreme."
"Granteth ul-morr vel nax-chor."
Death mana bled outward from her like ink in water.
It seeped into stone. Into soil. Into splintered wood and shattered walls. The air filled with a faint, sickly haze—a miasma that clung to skin and lungs.
Cold.
Wrong.
The ground answered.
Fingers clawed up through snow-packed earth.
A hand burst through the floor of a collapsed house, nails blackened, flesh sloughing from bone. Another followed. Then a face—jaw hanging loose, eyes clouded and empty—dragged itself free with a wet, sucking sound.
A hord of zombies rose.
From shallow graves. From forgotten corners. From the very streets where villagers had fallen moments ago. Bodies twisted upright with broken motions, joints popping, limbs dragging. Some still wore familiar clothes. Aprons. Boots. Wedding bands.
They began to move.
Not fast—but relentless.
Certain.
Inevitable.
The miasma thickened around them, a sour stench of rot and old death permeating the air. Their mouths opened in silent moans as they shambled forward, arms reaching, feet crunching over snow and debris.
Then something else emerged.
From the shadows between ruined buildings, shapes detached themselves from the darkness—possessing dead pets and animals.
Those animals twisted instantly, growing larger, unrecognizable. Any semblance of a lovable form vanished, replaced by something sinister.
Dangerous.
They turned in to ghouls.
Roughly the height of an adolescent boy, they moved low and fast, bodies hunched, muscles coiled. Their forms were lean and bestial, jaws splitting wide to reveal rows of fangs. Claws scraped against stone as they sprinted, snow spraying beneath their feet.
One leapt—vaulting onto a rooftop with terrifying ease—then dropped into a fleeing villager.
The carnage began.
A man shoved his wife behind him, raising a woodcutting axe with shaking hands. He swung once—twice—splitting a zombie's skull, only to be dragged down as another clamped rotting teeth into his shoulder. He screamed as black veins crawled outward from the bite wound.
Nearby, a woman stabbed frantically with a kitchen knife while clutching her child to her chest—until a ghoul tore through her back in a spray of blood, its claws ripping flesh as if it weren't there at all. The child's scream cut off abruptly as its head was severed as well.
Fathers fought.
Mothers fought.
Neighbors fought.
The whole village fought.
And it was all in vain.
Zombies pulled people down beneath sheer numbers, their scratches burning with necrotic poison. Those who fell beneath the miasma felt their strength bleed away, their final breaths stolen before their souls could escape.
Ghouls were worse.
They ripped through barricades, scaled walls, burst through windows. One dragged a screaming man up a tree, only to tear him apart limb by limb as his family watched below.
Those who ran first—those who fled at the first sign of wrongness—made it to the safe zone Thomas had managed to form. Hunters and guards rallied, shields raised, torches burning bright against the dark.
Spears, arrows, and swords ready to defend the people behind them.
But Ragla burned before their eyes, and morale was at an all-time low.
Above all the carnage, the banshee watched.
Once again, with the same motion, she raised the newly dead adding them to her army—and watched some more.
A moment later—
Satisfied, she drifted backward, descending once more into the shattered depths beneath the guildhall. Her mission—and death—were not finished here. She had more to raise.
At her command, four ghouls remained behind.
They prowled near the broken dungeon entrance, pacing like guard dogs amid rubble and scorched stone.
Anyone who came close—scarred, bloodied, survivors of this onslaught—would be dealt with.
They hissed softly at the darkness, waiting for their master to return.
Talmir didn't hesitate.
The moment his ears stopped ringing—when the world staggered back into motion—he grabbed Teclos by the arm and ran toward the village gates.
Snow crunched beneath their boots as they burst away from the gates, away from the screams rising behind them. Teclos stumbled, breath hitching, terror still clawing at his chest.
"Dad—what—?"
"Listen to me, son," Talmir snapped, hauling him forward. His voice was commanding now. Focused. Afraid—but controlled.
They reached the outer path when Talmir stopped suddenly.
"You are going to run away—toward our village. No objections."
Teclos shook his head violently. "I'm not leaving you!"
"You are," Talmir said, harsh. Necessary. "You slow me down, and you're a liability."
The words hurt.
Both of them.
He knew they would.
Teclos stared at him, eyes shining, jaw trembling.
Talmir forced himself to continue.
"I'm giving you your first hunter mission. You're going to bring all the hunters…" He paused briefly. "With the full force of the Dawn Church—and Pella. You tell them what you felt and saw here. You tell them everything."
Teclos nodded.
Just then, one of the peddlers sprinted past them toward the barn near the gate, eyes wild, panic driving him blindly away from the village.
Steel flashed.
Talmir's sword stopped an inch from the man's throat.
"Don't move," Talmir said calmly.
The peddler froze.
Talmir turned to him. "You're running to Lupos, right? Then do it as fast as you can. Bring the church and the inquisitors. If the count sends knights, even better."
He paused, looking between them both.
"Wait…"
"Go together until Kolma," Talmir said, blade still steady. "I saw that you have a pegasus—you'll be faster than anything on the road. Once you reach Kolma, leave my son there. Then continue to Lupos."
The man nodded frantically.
Both of them did.
Talmir pushed Teclos toward the peddler, and they ran.
Snow sprayed behind them as they fled into the night.
Talmir turned back alone.
From the gates, he could already see Thomas—shouting orders, rallying hunters and guards, pulling survivors behind makeshift barricades. Torches flared. Steel rang.
Good, Talmir thought grimly. At least they established a barricade.
He broke into a sprint, wind gathering at his feet.
If Ragla was going to fall—
It wouldn't fall quietly.
Talmir jumped into the sky and slammed into the undead line like a mad man, reckless but heroic.
He spun wildly, releasing wind blades into the horde of undead, slicing them apart.
Thomas saw him through the smoke and torchlight and let out something between a laugh and a shout of relief. "You stubborn bastard," he barked, even as he drove a spear into a lunging corpse. "I thought you'd run."
"Not a chance," Talmir replied, ready to draw more unclean blood.
Irven and Tonka were there—bloodied, breathing hard, eyes sharp with exhaustion. Of the experienced hunters, they were all that remained. The rest lay scattered through the streets in front of them—or worse.
The guards held the flanks, shields braced, spears thrusting into the slow press of zombies. Ghouls skittered at the edges of torchlight, darting back whenever fire flared too close.
No area magic was used, as there were survivors still about.
Thomas was everywhere at once—shouting orders, striking down the dead, dragging wounded villagers behind barricades built from carts and splintered doors. He fought like a man who knew this place would not survive the night—only the people might.
"You're in charge of the retreat," Thomas said sharply as Talmir reached him. "I can't leave the front line."
Talmir nodded once.
No argument.
No wasted words.
He turned immediately, scanning the chaos with a keen eye.
People were shivering—not from cold, but from terror. Standing still. Screaming. Watching loved ones fall.
"Move!" Talmir roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "If you can walk, you help the wounded. If you're hurt but still breathing, get to the carts. Don't just stand there!"
Two young hunters stood nearby, pale and shaking, weapons hanging uselessly in their hands. Their eyes tracked movement but without the resolve to strike.
Talmir grabbed them both.
"You," he said, gripping their collars. "Focus! And look at me."
They did.
"Calm down and help me get people to safety. You don't have to fight the monsters but atleast help me out—less guilt for later."
His voice started to awaken them somewhat.
He shoved one toward a wounded man clutching his leg. "Carry him."
The other toward a woman slumped against a wall, blood matting her hair. "You carry her."
Their mouths opened.
"Now!" Talmir snapped.
Something in his tone broke through their brain fog and shock.
Their eyes cleared of confusion, and they began to move.
"Everyone else," he shouted, turning to the cluster of villagers huddled behind a barricade, "you know how to tie rope? Tear doors apart? Then make stretchers. Blankets, poles, cloaks—anything. Don't leave your neighbors on the ground."
Hands began to move.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
Fear gave way to purpose.
Talmir moved constantly—hauling the wounded back beyond the gates, pointing escape routes, redirecting panicked runners away from dead ends already overrun. More than once, he dragged someones body away from a ghoul's charge just before their claws struck where villager stood.
Above them, the night echoed with screams.
And in the center of all this, deeper underground—
Something laughed.
—
Teclos reached Kolma just before dawn.
His heart burned. His throat felt raw. The world had narrowed to shallow breaths, snow, and the pounding of his heart long before the village lights finally appeared through the trees.
Ronn the peddler slowed the pegasus as they landed in the outer fields.
"You're safe here," he said quietly.
Teclos slid down stiffly, nearly collapsing when his feet hit the ground. Ronn caught him by the arm, steadying him.
They stood there for a moment, the cold air biting, the night suddenly too quiet.
"I'm sorry," Ronn said after a pause.
Teclos looked up, confused.
"For your father," the peddler continued. "Men don't stay behind unless they have to protect something."
Teclos swallowed hard. "He told me to run," he said, looking toward the ground.
"That's what all good men say," Ronn replied. "It isn't easy being brave, but your father has what it takes to be a hero."
Teclos stared back toward the road they'd come from, jaw tight. "He said it was my first mission."
Ronn managed a small, sad smile. "Then don't fail it."
He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Run to the gates and alarm your village. I'll ride to Lupos now."
Teclos nodded.
He didn't trust his voice anymore. Would the village even listen to him?
—
Deep in the dungeon, the air twisted with miasma.
The shattered dungeon lay steeped in death mana now—thick, heavy, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. Broken stone floated in the air; reality was twisted in on itself.
At the center of a new magic circle, adorned with many runes and death mana, something stirred.
A familiar soul screamed, back to… unlife.
Not with pain—
But with confusion.
It remembered dying.
It remembered agony.
It remembered being torn apart.
So why did it still think… thoughts?
The form that rose from the circle was wrong—thin and stretched, edges blurred like smoke trying to remember flesh. Its face was a mockery of what it had been, features warped, eyes hollow pits glowing faintly with cold light.
A wraith.
Joe looked down at himself—at the absence of a body, the way his hands passed slightly through the air—and terror bloomed anew.
I'm still here.
Why am I still here?
The banshee hovered before him, her presence crushing, vast, insurmountable. She studied him the way a craftsman studied his work of art.
Curious.
Amused.
"You persist," she murmured, voice layered and echoing from all sides. "Most can not."
Joe tried to speak.
No sound came out.
Panic surged.
The banshee tilted her head, white hair drifting as though underwater.
"I liked your sacrifice, full of malice, full of vengeance," she said softly.
Her claws brushed against his essence—not unkindly anymore.
"So I'm going to give you a chance." A grotesque smile formed on her face, ready to unleash the first wraith upon the villagers.