The rising corpses stood like marionettes yanked upright by invisible strings. Most of them still bore intact bodies—at least in shape—but others were grotesquely mangled.
Some dragged crushed limbs behind them. The others walked with broken spines or shattered jaws hanging loose.
The way they moved was wrong. It was too sudden and too sharp. Like puppets missing their souls.
Caedryn didn't lift a finger to control them. He simply stood in the center of it all while the violet Mana burning bright in his eyes.
He had mastered the control appearantly, and it showed. He don't need a single command, or a chant. Yet the dead obeyed him without hesitation.
That violet glow around Caedryn's eyes and body. It was the same that Rama had seen deep beneath the Velmir'e ausoleum. The same curse that had bled from the throne in the catacombs.
Caedryn's grin widened as his gaze fixed on Rama. There was madness in his smile, but also something else, a flicker of genuine curiosity.
