(Darek POV)
Dawn had a funny way of looking dull and dangerous at the same time. Gray light seeped through half-collapsed arches and broken stone, dust floating lazily in the air. From where I stood, perched atop the cracked remains of some long-forgotten Elamite idol, everything below looked smaller, more manageable—like a board game, except every piece is bleeding and you're not sure who's winning. Or if anyone should.
That's the thing about borrowed eyes. Everything's distant, filtered. Convenient, yes, but messy.
Around me, Chosen clashed against misshapen fanatics—creatures too warped to be called human, too stubborn to fall quietly. The fight was nearly over, judging by the dwindling screams and fading bursts of spiritual energy.
Good.
I focused. Spiritual energy stirred at my call, golden-orange—the color of Papsukkal.
My fingertips traced the Divine Rune, the circles parallel, a horizontal loop binding them. It wouldn't knock down walls or melt faces—but knowledge was power, right? Or at least, knowing who was about to get their faces melted counted as a close second.
Sahir approached from below, climbing up to join me. He had that ever-present grimace, eyes hard and jaw set, like each inconvenience personally offended him. Battle-hardened and confident—sometimes a bit too much of both.
"How are things on the other fronts?" he asked without preamble.
"All under control. Except one." I didn't glance his way, still locked into the visions flickering across my mind, images borrowed from someone else's crisis.
"How bad is it?" Sahir folded his arms, prepared for the worst. Always prepared.
I hesitated. There's a difference between delivering bad news and really letting someone feel it. My Edict wouldn't let me speak lightly. I had to know precisely what I was sending his way.
"Bad enough" I finally said. "Thirty-two cultists, one ritual. Pretty sure they said the sacred lines. Everyone present went utterly mad—self-harm, screaming. Our people went in, cleaned it up quick. Mission accomplished, right?"
Sahir's eyes narrowed.
"But you know how these things go" I continued dryly. "They got back up. Rotten, broken, and much faster than a corpse should be. A god heard them. No reaction to pain. No stopping. Overwhelmed our side completely."
Sahir exhaled, eyes pinched at the corners. "Survivors?"
"Only Akhem. He wasn't near the bodies. He saw the others fall and bolted." I paused.
"I lost him when he entered a cave. Whatever that cave was, it didn't want me looking inside. My connection cut immediately."
He nodded, processing. Sahir's type hated variables—especially the kind that blocked vision.
"If your sight was cut, it's not a normal cave. Akhem might need help." He grimaced again, this time with intent.
"But the real issue is the temple. We secure that first, then check on Akhem."
It wasn't a suggestion. Sahir didn't make those.
I didn't argue. Arguing with Sahir was like wrestling a stone tablet—pointless and painful.
"I'll lead the way" I said lightly, letting the ability fade—I could feel my spiritual energy thinning out. My vision snapped back fully to myself, and the world seemed smaller, dirtier, and somehow more dangerous.
I hopped off the idol and stretched. Jokes faded now. Playtime over. Sahir walked past, already barking orders to anyone who could stand. Efficiency personified, wrapped in a military coat.
But beneath my casual act, gears spun silently. Nothing was meaningless. Not a rune, not a glance, not a dead man waking up.
Akhem was out there. The undead too. And if my sight couldn't follow him into that darkness, it meant something else was already waiting there, eyes wide open.
I fell into step behind Sahir, suddenly aware of each shadow, every uneven stone beneath my feet.
Humor kept me breathing.
Insight kept me alive.
…
The temple site was worse in person. It always is—even though I'd just seen it through Akhem's eyes.
By the time we arrived, first light was long gone. The little sun that pierced the gray sky didn't help. Everything was still. Too still. The kind of still that told you the fight had ended—but the war had stayed behind.
The bodies were all standing.
That would've been fine—horrific, but fine—if they weren't also torn apart. Gaping wounds across torsos, half-smashed skulls, arms that had clearly been severed and reattached at the wrong angle. And yet, there they were.
Still upright.
Still moving their jaws.
"N... N... Ner... ggg..."
The sound came in uneven loops, like broken records. Not words. Not even speech. Just noise that tasted like rot and failure.
The smell was unbearable—sweet, like old meat and spoiled incense. Flies buzzed around open cavities. Larvae clung to torn flesh.
Spiritual corruption hung in the air like smoke. Not divine. Not human either.
Sahir stood beside me, arms crossed. He scanned the damage—deep cuts, bones shattered. But the dead were still here. Still standing. Still whispering their half-prayer.
"We need fire" he said. "They have to be burned."
The others didn't argue.
We got to work.
Wood, oil, divine runes for ignition—it was methodical. Efficient. Sahir wouldn't allow hesitation. The bodies twitched when moved, a few even resisted with weak spasms, but nothing like what I'd seen with Akhem. This was easy. Controlled. I wished it had been like that for them.
Sahir glanced at me as the flames took hold, his eyes narrowing—silent, but asking. Weren't they supposed to be relentless? Unstoppable? Then why was this so easy?
I answered without being prompted.
"When they got up, it was different. Fast. Violent. Nothing like this."
He didn't reply. Just turned and watched the fire eat through what was left of them.
They wailed. But not from pain.
From memory.
"N... N... Ner... ggg..."
Smoke rose. The scent got worse. I backed away and wiped my face with the corner of my cloak. My eyes stung. My stomach clenched.
When it was done, there was no more whispering.
Just ash.
Sahir stood over the remains, silent. Then he turned to me.
"Let's go get Akhem."
I looked out past the tree line.
He turned to three nearby soldiers, regulars—not Chosen, but competent.
"You go with him" he ordered. "Find Akhem. Bring him back if you can."
They nodded. No questions. Just the tension of knowing we might be too late.
…
It wasn't a cave. It was a tunnel—and it looked smaller than I expected. But as I got closer, I felt it.
Wrong.
Not a smell. Not a sound. Just... wrong.
Still, I entered. The three soldiers followed in silence. Torchlight flickered across the tunnel walls, revealing symbols scratched by time. Just erosion and silence.
We moved until the tunnel opened into a chamber.
There, lying on the ground, was a body.
One of the soldiers rushed ahead. Another followed.
"Sir, there's no pulse!" one called out. "Bite marks—neck and arm!"
I approached more slowly. Torch held low. The body didn't move.
It was Akhem.
I crouched next to him, eyes on the neck. The bite was almost elegant—neat, controlled. But there was force behind it—two clean punctures, deep enough to punch through the neck like it was nothing.
Not the kind of wound you'd expect in a fight.
Then I noticed the weird part.
No blood.
Not soaked into the clothes, not crusted around the wound.
The only trace was the dry streak along his arm—the one I'd seen when he ran.
Just nothing else.
Like someone had drained him.
I touched his shoulder. His skin was cold. My hand trembled. We weren't exactly friends. Still… seeing him like that sucked.
I looked around the room.
And got that feeling again.
The one that said: this isn't done.
I didn't say it aloud.
But I felt it.