The night was still, and the twin moons of Tarmynia bathed the land in their pale silver glow. Hakun walked the ramparts of Fort Sundalo with an easy, unhurried stride, his armor creaking softly with each step. The red and black of his uniform, once a badge of honor on the battlefield, had become a mere formality in this quiet outpost on the edge of the Unclaimed Lands. A breeze stirred his mostly greying hair, streaked with stubborn traces of brown, and rustled the grizzled beard that framed his weathered face. He ran a gloved hand over the deep scar on his cheek, a relic of battles long past, and let out a contented sigh. His build was not imposing, but sturdy—compact and strong like a man honed by years of service rather than bulk. Yet it was his eyes that defied time the most—brown and alert, filled with a youthful sharpness that no scar or season had managed to dim. The scent of pine drifted on the breeze from the northern woods, mingling with the distant howl of some lone creature in the dark. Below, the torches of the fort flickered like restless spirits, and somewhere in the barracks, a soldier coughed in his sleep. For the first time in weeks, Hakun felt something he didn’t fully trust—peace.
The Unclaimed Lands stretched before him—vast, barren, and unchanging. Beyond the rolling fields of dry grass and the jagged foothills of the Gol Mountain Range, there was nothing but emptiness. No villages, no roads, no reason for any man to wander into that forsaken place. In all his years as a soldier, Hakun had heard whispers of ancient ruins and restless spirits lurking in those lands, but they were stories told to frighten green recruits, not seasoned veterans like himself.
This posting was a final stop for men like him—too old for the front lines, but not yet ready to lay down their swords. Fort Sundalo had not seen conflict since long before Hakun donned his armor. It was a place of waiting, a reminder that his days of war were behind him. And he found that he rather enjoyed the peace. He leaned against the weathered stone of the rampart, gazing into the distance with a calm expression. The quiet suited him.
He chuckled to himself and shook his head. Perhaps he was getting sentimental in his old age. Retirement loomed, and he would do well to savor these tranquil nights while they lasted. Even the old instincts that occasionally stirred in the back of his mind could not dampen his growing sense of ease.
Hakun turned his gaze towards the fort’s tower, where a large banner hung—a red glowing sun and a trident, the symbol of the Kingdom of Sariyaz. He let his eyes linger on it for a moment before noticing a familiar figure approaching. His old comrade, Yorges, was making his way towards him. Like Hakun, Yorges was in the twilight of his military career.
Hakun grinned. “Hey, you old goat!”
Yorges smirked and shook his head. “Hey, you old mooflook,” he retorted, using the Sariyan term for ‘dumb cow.’ It was a nickname they’d given each other back when they first started serving in the military, back when they were just two young soldiers fighting side by side on the battlefields of Sariyaz.
The two men shared more than just a long history together—they had each other’s backs for over thirty years. From the early days when they’d both enlisted as fresh-faced recruits, eager to prove themselves, to the countless battles they had fought through, and the victories they’d shared—though not without the scars of loss. Hakun remembered the first time they’d fought side by side in the harsh deserts of Sariyaz, defending the kingdom’s borders from marauding raiders. Yorges had saved his life more times than he could count, always with a grin on his face and a sarcastic remark ready to follow.
“Still walking, huh?” Hakun chuckled, raising an eyebrow as he scanned Yorges’ grizzled appearance. “Not bad for a guy who’s seen more blood than the rats in the gutter.”
Yorges gave a short laugh, leaning against a nearby pillar as he stared at the towering fort. “I’ve seen more blood than I care to remember, Hakun. More than enough for a lifetime. But we made it, didn’t we? Thirty years of hell, and we’re still here. I guess that counts for something.”
Hakun’s expression softened. “Aye, we made it. Not many of the old crew are left standing. We watched each other’s backs through thick and thin—when the odds were stacked against us, and when the enemy seemed endless.
Yorges nodded, “I couldn’t have done it without you. And you know it.”
The two men shared a moment of silence, the weight of their shared history hanging heavy between them. Despite the years of battles, they had never stopped trusting each other.
But this time, things were different. This time, their service had come to an end. Fort Sundalo, a lonely military post along the borders, had become their last duty station. The final chapter in their careers, the last post before they could finally lay down their arms. This was it—the final stop before retirement.
“Alright, old friend,” Hakun said, breaking the silence with a lighthearted chuckle, “let’s see if we can’t get through another day of this nonsense. Together. Last time, after all.”
Yorges smirked. “Always, Hakun. Always. But after this, I think I’m looking forward to a bit of peace, maybe a warm fire and a drink. No more fighting… for once.”
Hakun chuckled and slapped his comrade’s back. “Aye. We’ve earned that much, haven’t we?”
They both turned to look out at the vast, desolate fields, standing side by side in silence. For a moment, neither spoke. Finally, it was Hakun who broke the silence, his voice steady but carrying the weight of memories. “I’ve heard… that the Unclaimed Lands were once a fertile and lush place.”
Yorges glanced at him, his brow furrowing in slight disbelief. “What?… Where did you hear that?”
Hakun’s gaze remained on the desolate land, as though searching for something buried beneath its surface. “From travelers. Those who’ve ventured far east, past the Kingdoms of Sariyaz and Geldanos. They speak of it—of a time before the curse.” His voice softened, as if reluctant to give too much weight to the old stories. “They say this land was once a paradise, until something terrible happened.”
Yorges turned to him, a glint of recognition in his eyes. “You mean, from travelers that ventured to the lands of Ansell-Vend, land of the Elves, and Darven-Imus, the mountains of the dwarves?”
Hakun nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the barren land. “Yes, that’s right. The travelers speak of a legend, one passed down for millenia. They say 2,000 years ago, an alliance of elves, dwarves, and men fought a great evil right here, in the heart of these wastelands. The alliance won the battle, but the evil, in its dying breath, unleashed a terrible magic—a curse that consumed every living thing around it.”
Yorges raised an eyebrow, his expression a mixture of doubt and curiosity. “And the land… it was cursed? That’s why nothing grows here?”
Hakun’s gaze grew distant as he spoke, as though seeing the long-forgotten battle in his mind’s eye. “Yes. The magic was so powerful that it left the land barren. Nothing could grow here again, no matter how much time passed. The curse still lingers, haunting the soil and the air.”
Yorges shook his head, his voice filled with skepticism. “A battle 2,000 years ago, a curse that still holds sway over the land… Seems like nothing more than an old tale to me.”
Hakun didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked out over the wasteland, his gaze distant. “Perhaps, Yorges. But those old stories often have some truth to it. The land before us… perhaps… wasn’t always like this. And somewhere, buried in the dust of time, there might still be something to those tales.”
Yorges scoffed lightly but said nothing more, unsure of what to make of Hakun’s words. “Even so, no kingdom in its right mind would want to claim this place. Sariyaz, Geldanos… none of them would bother with a land like this.”
Hakun let out a low chuckle, his expression grim. “You’re right, Yorges. The Unclaimed Lands are… just that. Unclaimed.”
Yorges looked over at Hakun, curiosity edging into his voice. “You said there was an alliance of elves, dwarves, and men. Were there other men here before our ancestors came from the old continent?”
Hakun nodded, his gaze still fixed on the distant horizon. “Yes, the people of the Shadow Lands. They were the first to inhabit this land, long before our ancestors crossed the seas. Now, they live on the island of Shanda-Wold, far to the north. Their history, like the island itself, is steeped in mystery.”
Hakun stood silently, his gaze locked on the horizon as though searching for something beyond the horizon. Yorges, ever curious, leaned in slightly, sensing a story waiting to be told.
Hakun’s eyes flickered momentarily, as though torn between the past and the present. Finally, he nodded slowly, beginning his tale. “The Shadow Lands were the birthplace of the first people to walk Tarmynia. Long before our ancestors arrived from across the sea, the Shadow Lands were home to the three tribes who lived in harmony with the shadows. They were not like us. Their power over the shadows was both a gift and a curse.”
Yorges’ brow furrowed in thought. “Three tribes, you say, that lived here before our ancestors? What happened to them?”
Hakun’s jaw tightened, the words coming slowly. “The kingdoms that came to this land saw those powers as something to be exploited. They didn’t see people—they saw tools. The Shadow Lands’ tribes were used to wage wars, to end them, to manipulate entire nations. Their magic, their very lives, were bartered away. But the people of the Shadow Lands did not accept that fate without resistance.”
Yorges leaned forward, sensing the weight of the tale. “They fought back?”
“Aye,” Hakun muttered, his voice dropping low. “For centuries, they fought. But there were always more soldiers, more armies. The kingdoms were powerful. The tribes of the Shadow Lands were outnumbered, their magic twisted and turned into instruments of war. They never had a chance. One by one, the tribes were hunted down, enslaved. Their land was ravaged, their people shattered. All the while, the world saw them only as tools, not as people.”
Yorges’ heart tightened as he absorbed the heavy truth of it all. “And then what? They just… vanished?”
“No,” Hakun replied, his eyes hardening with the memory. “The tribes retreated. They fled north, seeking refuge. An island, far from Tarmynia, now known as Shanda-Wold. But even there, they found no peace. They carry their history with them, buried deep beneath the weight of their past. They live, but they are not what they once were.”
Yorges remained silent for a long moment, trying to grasp the enormity of what Hakun had just revealed. “So, they were betrayed… used as weapons for other kingdoms’ gain.”
Hakun nodded solemnly. “Yes. But their story doesn’t end there. The Shadow Lands’ people keep to themselves, hiding in the shadows of their past. You won’t hear from them easily, Yorges. They trust no one.”
A contemplative silence followed, the air thick with the weight of the past. Yorges finally broke the quiet, his voice quieter now, almost to himself. “But… things can change, right? People can change.”
Hakun turned to him, the lines of his face etched with years of knowing. “Maybe. But the scars run deep. They’ve learned the cost of trust. Don’t expect any easy answers from them.”
Yorges’ eyes gleamed with determination, his thoughts already racing ahead. “You never know. Something tells me this isn’t the last we’ll hear of the Shadow Lands.”
The two old soldiers stood in silence, the wind picking up around them, carrying with it the secrets of an age long passed.
Yorges broke the silence, a wry grin spreading across his face. “Well, if the legend happened or not, the Unclaimed Lands is just that, unclaimed! No kingdom or country wants to claim it. It’s not worth it. I am even surprised we needed a fort here.”
Hakun chuckled, shaking his head. The two of them shared a knowing glance, and then, as though they were sharing an inside joke, they both laughed together, the sound echoing through the empty wasteland, a fleeting moment of lightness in a land that held nothing but shadows.
As Hakun and Yorges laughed, the sound of their mirth was suddenly cut short. Hakun’s eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon, his expression shifting from amusement to confusion.
“Hey, Yorges, I thought I saw something in the field,” Hakun said, his voice laced with concern.
He shook his head, squinting into the darkness, trying to make sense of what he’d glimpsed.
He raised a hand, pointing into the night. “There, in the distance,” he muttered.
Yorges followed Hakun’s finger, his heart skipping a beat. At first, it seemed like nothing more than a dark mist—or maybe just a trick of the light. But as his eyes adjusted, the shape became clearer, a mass of shifting figures steadily moving toward the fort. The air grew colder, and the night’s silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of dragging footsteps.
“Gods…” Yorges whispered, his voice barely audible. “It’s coming closer.”
Yorges squinted harder, his mind racing for an explanation. “Is it a herd of animals of some sort? Perhaps scavenging for food?” he asked, though the idea felt weak even as he spoke it.
Hakun shook his head with a grim frown. “Nay, no food or critter can be found in those godsforsaken lands. Whatever it is, it’s not of this world.”
With urgency, Hakun dashed across the rampart’s platform, grabbing his bow from its resting place. His practiced hands quickly lit the fire arrow, the flames flickering in the wind. He notched it and took a steady breath, his eyes fixed on the distant mass. Without hesitation, he pulled the string back and released the arrow. It soared through the night air, cutting through the darkness like a streak of fire.
The arrow landed deep within the mass, igniting the earth beneath it. For a brief moment, the flames illuminated the scene, revealing the horrifying truth: an army of undead, their eyes empty and cold, their bodies rotting and twisted. The firelight flickered across their skeletal faces, and the stench of death wafted toward the fort.
Hakun’s heart sank. “By the gods… sound the alarm!”
Yorges didn’t waste a moment. He nodded sharply at Hakun, understanding the urgency in his command. Without another word, he sprinted toward the highest point of the tower, the sound of his boots echoing as he ascended. Reaching the bell, Yorges gripped the thick rope and pulled hard, sending the alarm’s shrill cry across the fort. The warning cut through the night, rousing every soldier within earshot.
Meanwhile, Hakun took off, his footsteps pounding against the stone ramparts as he sprinted toward the command post. His heart raced with each stride, adrenaline surging through his veins. As he reached the entrance, he shoved the door open and stepped inside, where the fortress guard captain and some soldiers have already gathered.
Captain Josquin, tall and broad-shouldered, stood at the center of the room, his red armor gleaming faintly in the dim light. The sun and trident emblazoned on his chest seemed to burn with an intensity that mirrored his unwavering gaze.
“What’s the emergency, Hakun?” Captain Josquin demanded, his voice steady but laced with concern.
Hakun didn’t waste time with pleasantries. His breath was short, but his voice carried the weight of his words.
“It’s…… the Undead,” he said urgently. “The Undead have come!”
Captain Josquin’s stern gaze never wavered as he turned to Hakun, his brow furrowing in disbelief.
“Are you sure it’s the Undead?” Captain Josquin asked, his voice steady but tinged with doubt. “You’ve seen them clearly?”
Before Hakun could answer, the door swung open, and Yorges entered, breathless but resolute. His face was pale, his eyes wide with urgency. “It’s true, Captain,” Yorges confirmed, his voice firm. “I saw them myself. The Undead—they’re right on us.”
Captain Josquin didn’t waste another moment. Without a word, he turned on his heel, his red armor flashing as he made for the exit. “We need eyes on the field now,” he ordered, his voice carrying authority.
Hakun and Yorges exchanged a brief look, then followed swiftly behind Captain Josquin as he climbed the stone steps to the ramparts. The night air was colder now, charged with a foreboding tension that hung heavily over the fort. When they reached the top, Josquin’s gaze shot across the horizon, and his breath caught in his chest.
The moonlight illuminated a vast sea of undead, their forms shifting and writhing as they moved toward the fort with unnatural speed. The army stretched far beyond what the eye could see, a suffocating tide of death.
Josquin’s eyes narrowed as he looked down toward the walls. The ground was alive with movement, and to his horror, he saw skeleton soldiers—clad in rusted armor and carrying crude weapons—scaling the walls with surprising speed. Their bony fingers dug into the stone as they climbed, their hollow eyes fixed on the defenders above.
“They’re already here,” Josquin muttered under his breath. “Prepare yourselves.”
The clash of steel against bone rang out, echoing over the walls of Fort Sundalo like a death knell. Captain Josquin’s grip tightened around his sword and shield as he met each strike with unyielding force. His red shield slammed into another skeleton, sending it hurtling to the ground with a deafening crack. His sword cleaved through the next with a sharp hiss of steel, but for each one he felled, another appeared in its place. The skeletal army had breached the walls, and they were not stopping.
“Why?” Josquin growled under his breath, his eyes scanning the endless sea of bone. “Why now? Why here?” His heart thundered in his chest as he struck again, his movements a dance of violence and survival. He had fought in countless battles, but this was something else—something far darker than he had ever imagined. The undead, creatures of myth and nightmare, now poured over the walls like a flood, their hollow eyes glinting with an unnatural hunger.
Yorges, his silver hair slick with sweat, grunted underneath his beard as his sword cleaved through another skeleton. His voice, though steady, was thick with disbelief. “I thought they were just stories… tales told to frighten the children,” he muttered, his sword moving mechanically. The lines of his face were hard, the weight of realization settling in.
Hakun, always the pragmatist, nocked another arrow with deadly precision. His bowstring snapped, sending the arrow flying with a sickening thud. A bone soldier exploded into fragments, but Hakun didn’t flinch. He had no time for disbelief. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice cold and resolute. “They are here. We fight.”
Captain Josquin’s eyes snapped back to the battlefield, his heart sinking as he saw the overwhelming tide of undead. His men, steadfast as they were, were beginning to falter. For every skeleton they destroyed, dozens more took their place, each one more relentless than the last. Josquin’s breath came faster, his muscles aching as he pushed forward with his shield raised high. His soldiers, brave though they were, were being slowly overwhelmed. They were holding the line—barely—but the cracks were showing. It was no longer a question of if the fortress would fall, but when. The sheer numbers were too much.
Captain Josquin’s mind raced as he glanced around, but there was no sign of help. He thought to himself, If only I had mages who could cast fire magic, or a priest who could raise holy barriers. But this was a remote outpost, a place the kingdom had long deemed negligible. Mages and priests were reserved for important posts, like palaces and fortresses at the heart of the kingdom. It was just his men, himself, and the relentless tide of the undead.
With a fierce roar, Captain Josquin readied his large red shield. He charged once more, using the shield to batter through the front lines of the skeleton soldiers. Each strike shattered rusted swords and broken bones, clearing a path through the horde.
He turned to Hakun and Yorges, both standing firm amidst the chaos. “Follow me to the courtyard!” Captain Josquin commanded, his voice cutting through the din of battle.
Without hesitation, Hakun knocked an arrow and sent it soaring into the chest of a bone soldier, felling it with ease. Yorges followed closely behind, sword raised high.
They moved through the ramparts and into the courtyard, their boots echoing on the stone floor. But as they rounded the corner, their hearts sank. The massive gate, once sturdy and strong, was buckling under the pressure. They watched as it groaned, splintering at the hinges, the wood cracking and splintering with a terrifying roar.
Captain Josquin’s eyes widened. “No… they’re breaking through!”
With a final shudder, the gate gave way, splintering into pieces. The floodgates were open.
And then, like a swarm of locusts, the undead rushed in.
Captain Josquin’s mind raced as he observed the relentless march of the undead. The walls of Fort Sundalo had held, but just barely. The advancing army of bones and shadows could not be stopped, not here, not by this small band of soldiers. The best they could do now was buy time for a more urgent message to be sent. A message that would hopefully save the Sariyaz kingdom.
He turned to face his weary soldiers, their faces etched with fear but determination in their eyes.
“Hold the courtyard!” he shouted, his voice booming over the chaos. “We must buy as much time as we can!”
His soldiers nodded and swiftly positioned themselves, weapons ready. The sound of clashing steel rang out once again, their efforts a desperate, defiant barrier against the tide of death. Josquin turned back to his two veteran soldiers, his voice lowering with urgency.
“Hakun, Yorges, with me.”
The three men sprinted through the fortress, the clang of their boots against stone echoing in the halls as they reached the tower’s inner sanctum.
Inside, the dim glow of lanterns flickered, casting shadows across the stone walls. Captain Josquin rushed past shelves filled with old scrolls and maps, his mind focused on one thing: getting word out before it was too late.
His desk was cluttered with parchments, but none mattered now except the one he would write on. With swift, practiced hands, Josquin grabbed a quill and dipped it in ink, the scratching of the pen the only sound as he wrote furiously.
“We don’t have much time,” he muttered aloud, his voice tight with tension. “We need to alert the Sariyan capital… and our allies in the north, Geldanos… about the advance of the Army of Undead.”
He paused, staring at the parchment. A message was all they had left now—no soldiers to spare, no time for reinforcements. It had to work.
With a heavy sigh, Captain Josquin reached for two small seals from a hidden drawer. The first, an intricately carved sun, gleamed in the dim light. The second, a trident, sharp and simple. He pressed each seal into a block of wax, marking the letters he’d just written as urgent and official.
“Yorges,” he said, his voice steady despite the looming chaos. “Take this to the capital. They’ll know you’re a trusted messenger with the seal.”
Yorges, ever the stoic veteran, nodded without hesitation. He took the parchment and the seal, tucking them safely into his pack.
“And Hakun,” Josquin continued, turning to Hakun, “take this to Geldanos. The seal ensures there will be no questions about the authenticity. Do not fail.”
Hakun, his face set in grim determination, took the second parchment and seal. He said nothing, but the resolve in his eyes said it all—he understood the gravity of the task ahead.
Captain Josquin turned toward the door, the sounds of battle growing louder with each passing second.
Captain Josquin then turned to the two men, his face hard as stone, but there was a flicker of something deep in his eyes—regret, sorrow, and perhaps a sense of finality.
“I’ll go with you,” he said, his voice resolute, though a storm brewed within him. “I’ll make sure you reach the stables.”
Yorges, his weathered face etched with years of loyalty, stepped forward, gripping Josquin’s arm. “Captain, you should come with us. The fort’s done for. We need you. You’re the heart of this garrison—without you, we…”
Captain Josquin shook his head, cutting him off with a quiet intensity. “I cannot.” His voice was firm, but it cracked ever so slightly. “My duty is here. I’ve led these men to death, and I’ll be damned if I run while they fight.” He cast a long, lingering look at the fort behind him, knowing this could very well be the last time he saw it standing. “You two… You must escape. You must get word to the Sariyan capital. To Geldanos. The kingdoms must know what’s coming.”
Yorges’s mouth opened as if to protest, but no words came. Hakun, silent as ever, simply placed a hand on his shoulder, and with a sharp nod, acknowledged the inevitable. Hakun had known Josquin for years—his sense of duty was his strength, and his curse.
Without another word, the three men moved swiftly toward the hidden door. The narrow, damp passage led them away from the chaos, into the cold night air of the stable yard. The tension between them was tangible—every step filled with the weight of what was to come.
As they stepped into the yard, the air was thick with the scent of earth and fear. The sound of hooves echoed as horses shifted uneasily in their stalls, sensing the danger that loomed. And then they saw it—more undead.
The undead poured into the yard, their bones clattering as they crawled over the courtyard’s walls like a tide of death. Empty sockets stared at them with a predatory hunger, and the sound of their hollow footsteps filled the air, an oppressive reminder of their relentless nature.
Captain Josquin froze, his heart heavy. The sight was more than just an army of the dead—it was the end of everything they had fought for. But there was no time for fear now.
“Go!” Josquin’s voice cracked through the stillness, commanding and full of raw urgency. His hand tightened around his sword’s hilt. “You have to get to the stables. Now!”
Yorges hesitated for just a moment, his eyes meeting Josquin’s, but the Captain’s gaze was hard, unwavering. He nodded and turned, pushing forward toward the stables with Hakun right behind him.
But Captain Josquin didn’t follow. He stayed rooted to the ground, his shield raised, his sword ready. The undead were almost upon him, and he could hear their footsteps growing louder, echoing in the cold night like the death march of inevitability.
This was it. This was the last stand.
“I will hold them off,” Josquin whispered to himself, his voice breaking under the weight of it. He turned to face the oncoming horde. There was no turning back now. “Go… don’t look back.”
Captain Josquin turned to face the oncoming undead horde. A sea of twisted, skeletal figures stretched before him, their hollow eyes burning with an unholy glow. Hundreds of them.
Bone soldiers wielding rusted swords and shattered spears. Some still bore the tattered remnants of ancient armor, relics of long-forgotten wars. The air was thick with the stench of decay and the whisper of cursed souls.
Fort Sundalo was lost. The towering walls, once a proud station of Sariyaz, now crawled with the vile undead. Flames consumed the tower, licking the night sky with an eerie orange glow. His soldiers—his brothers-in-arms—had fallen. Their last cries had already faded into silence.
And now, he alone remained. The final shield between the undead and his two messengers, Hakun and Yorges.
A deep sorrow welled within him, but he swallowed it down. There was no room for mourning. Only battle.
Gritting his teeth, he raised his blade high, its edge gleaming in the firelight. His voice thundered over the chaos, a final act of defiance against the darkness.
“I am Josquin Nez Toron, of House Toron! Captain of the Fort Guard! Knight of Sariyaz!”
He took a step forward, planting his feet firm upon the ground.
“Come at me, you wretched souls! Let me send you back to the abyss where you belong!”
The undead lurched at Captain Josquin, their skeletal limbs clawing hungrily at him.
Josquin gritted his teeth and raised his shield high. With a mighty roar, he slammed it down with all his strength. The force of the impact rippled through the ground, blasting the nearest undead backward. Their brittle bones shattered upon impact, disintegrating into dust and splintered remains.
Meanwhile, Hakun and Yorges reached the stables, their hands shaking as they fumbled with the reins. The horses neighed anxiously, sensing the chaos erupting around them.
Josquin inhaled sharply, ignoring the searing pain of his wounds. He tightened his grip on his sword, mana surging through the blade. With a powerful swing, he carved through the air, unleashing a wide arc of pure energy. A blinding crescent of light erupted from his strike, cleaving through the undead ranks like a divine judgment. Dozens of skeletal warriors were obliterated, their cursed forms vanishing in a violent burst of energy.
At last, Hakun and Yorges mounted their horses, kicking their heels into the beasts’ flanks. The stallions bolted, their hooves thundering against the earth. But the gates were still blocked by the overwhelming horde.
Josquin knew what he had to do.
With a warrior’s fury, he raised his shield and charged—his target was the fort’s gate. If the path remained closed, Hakun and Yorges would never escape. He barreled forward, a wall of muscle and steel, his only thought to carve a way through.
The undead closed in around him, their rusted blades slashing at his flesh, their spears tearing through his armor. Pain flared through his body, but he did not slow. He would not slow.
With a final, explosive burst of strength, he plowed through the mass of enemies, his shield a battering ram of unyielding steel. Hundreds of undead were sent flying, their bodies crumbling upon impact. The way was clear.
Through his blurred vision, he watched as Hakun and Yorges disappeared into the darkness, hoping their mission would be successful. A wave of relief washed over him.
And then, his strength gave out. His knees buckled, his breath ragged.
Captain Josquin can hear the sickening shuffle of the undead as their footsteps circle him, relentless and closing in. His vision is fading, a haze of blood and exhaustion clouding his mind as he struggles to stay awake.
The weight of his red armor presses down on him like an anchor, each breath a ragged gasp. His body is on the verge of collapse, but his will refuses to break.
Through blurred eyes, he manages to glance toward the fort’s tower. The large banner of the Kingdom of Sariyaz flaps weakly in the wind, the red sun and trident engulfed in flames. A symbol of power. A symbol of hope.
But Josquin knows—this is the end. The banner will fall with him, his last stand vanishing into the darkness of defeat.
A strange peace settles over him. Hakun and Yorges made it. They had escaped. They would warn the capital, would rally their forces, and raise the kingdom’s might against the horrors that had overrun the fort. His soldiers, his brothers-in-arms, would carry the weight of this last battle.
With a final, slow breath, Captain Josquin closes his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable.
And then, a low, chilling laugh fills the air—a sound that freezes his very soul. The laugh is cruel, mocking, and it drips with malice. It slithers through the shadows, sending a wave of cold dread through his already shattered body.
With his last breath, Captain Josquin forces the words from his cracked lips, the ancient rites of St. Leanor—a prayer for the departed and the forsaken. His voice trembles, but he clings to the sacred words as his soul teeters on the edge of oblivion.
“Blessed Leanor, guide me through the dark, for I have fought with honor, and my soul now belongs to you…”
But before he can finish, the cold, merciless hands of the undead seize him. Their touch is like ice, their rotten claws tearing through his flesh with brutal precision. The words falter, dying on his tongue as his vision blurs further.
The shrill, mocking laugh erupts again, louder now, seeping into his very bones. It echoes through the broken walls of the fort, a sound of pure, unrelenting malice. The undead press closer, their eyes hollow, their hunger insatiable. The laugh intensifies, each note a cruel reminder of the horrors that have overtaken the world.
Captain Josquin’s heart stills. His hand drops, his prayer unfinished. The light fades from his eyes as the shadows swallow him whole.
The laugh rings out one last time, reverberating in the silence that follows.