The morning came heavy and gray, skies smeared with a permanent overcast that dulled even the brightest flames. Fog clung low over the earth like a wet shroud, thickening as the army of the Twelfth Pillar trudged deeper into Dahaka's eastern boundary.
Boots sank into soft mud. Cloaks dragged through ash-laced puddles. The air smelled faintly of rot and iron.
Aden rode at the front, his expression unreadable as always, eyes scanning every ruined ridge and twisted tree. The terrain had shifted from broken hills to something darker—calcified earth, brittle like bone, and scattered with relics of things not quite dead.
Behind him marched over two thousand men. Knights, war mages, beast riders, and rearguard tacticians. The high-ranking officers rode a short distance behind him, led by Captain Ravel, a broad-shouldered knight with a spear marked in black runes.
"We're deep into uncharted filth now," Ravel muttered, wiping damp soot from his jaw. "If the Liches don't kill us, the air might."
"I'd rather fight a hundred ghouls than smell another breath of this place," added Arlen, one of the war mages, twirling a charm bead nervously. "Feels like we're walking inside someone's nightmare."
Egmund stirred in the back of Aden's head, his voice leaking into his thoughts like a whisper under the surface.
"Real charming spot," he said dryly. "You know, for a haunted pit of death and screams, the ambiance isn't bad. Just needs a few drapes and maybe a scented candle."
Aden didn't react at first. Then, under his breath, he muttered, "You're unusually talkative this morning."
Egmund chuckled. "Talkative's just code for 'nervous.' Even a demon knows when something's off. You feel that pulse in the ground? This place is alive. And pissed."
Aden's fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword. He could feel it too—that low, rhythmic thrum, like distant drums buried under a mountain of dirt.
From a rise ahead, the path gave way to a barren expanse of obsidian-black rock. Dotting the land were towering monoliths carved from ancient bone, standing at strange, slanted angles. Some were split, others bled slow trails of ghostlight—pale green and sickly blue, flickering like memories.
"That's it," Ravel said, nudging his horse forward to ride alongside Aden. "Those are bone beacons. Necromantic pylons. We've reached the edge of the Bone Citadel."
A murmur rippled through the ranks behind them. Even the war beasts—scaled hounds and ember-tusked boars—grew uneasy, growling low as they passed the first line of towers.
Egmund's voice returned, quieter this time.
"They say when you cross the outer veil of a Lich domain, it remembers you. Doesn't forget. Doesn't forgive."
Aden didn't reply, but his grip on the reins tightened.
He turned in his saddle. "Form recon pairs. Mages, release the owl spirits. I want eyes high and low."
"Yes, Lord Vasco," barked Arlen, snapping into command mode as three mages extended their hands. From the shimmer of spell circles, ghostly owls burst into the air, wings silent and gleaming.
Behind them, the mood grew heavier. Soldiers adjusted weapons, rechecked armor. Even seasoned veterans looked over their shoulders.
Senn Roka, the flame-caster captain with a scar splitting her lip, muttered to the soldier beside her, "This is the kind of silence that comes before a throat gets slit."
Ravel leaned closer to Aden. "The men are tense. They've seen undead before, but this... this is different. They know it. We all do."
"They should be tense," Aden said flatly. "Anything less would be foolish."
Ravel nodded grimly and fell back in line.
The fog parted briefly, revealing the first distant glimpse of the Bone Citadel.
It didn't rise—it slouched. Built from thousands of skeletal remains, it coiled into twisted spires and jagged battlements, like a cathedral shaped by grief and hatred. Soul-lanterns swung from rib cages. Giant bones crossed like arches. And at its center, a flame the size of a tree burned green and eternal.
Aden's breath escaped through his nose, frosted despite the warmth of his body.
"I remember this," he murmured aloud. "In the novel... the Bone Citadel was where the final named knight died. He lasted longer than anyone. But even he couldn't stop the tide."
Egmund whistled low. "Hell of a tour spot. We stopping in for lunch or just swinging by?"
Aden's eyes didn't leave the horizon. "We burn it down. Or we bury here."
The soldiers reached a ridge above the citadel. Aden raised a hand to halt the march.
Below them, a necrotic fog rolled out like a sea, sluggish but heavy, covering the open plain. Strange shadows moved within it—humanoid, but broken. Twisted limbs, bent spines. And the sound—scraping, whispering, like bones dragging across stone.
"Commanders," Aden called. "Final orders will be given at dusk. Until then, no fires. Double the ward lines. No scout returns after dark."
"Yes, Commander," came the collected reply.
Egmund spoke again, more serious now.
"We're not just knocking on the enemy's front door. We're breaking into their home, Aden. This won't be like before. This time... they'll be ready."
Aden glanced over the valley one last time before turning away. His voice came low and final:
"Let them be."
As the army began to set up a cold camp beneath the looming towers, a distant, inhuman howl echoed from deep within the fog. Not one beast. Not a pack.
An army of the dead, waking from their slumber.