The dead had walked for three days before Dorian returned to the city.
He stood at the edge of the ruins that had once been Gathridge, staring down into a valley of broken stone and silence. Smoke curled in thin ribbons from charred rooftops. The streets were eerily empty—not even the stench of rot lingered. Something worse had passed through here. Something thorough.
Dorian adjusted the strap of his satchel and stepped into the ruins. Every footfall crunched over ash and brittle bones. The silence clawed at his ears, pressing against his mind with a phantom weight. He raised a gloved hand and whispered a binding incantation. A faint glow pulsed from the ring on his index finger, and the world seemed to breathe again—just enough to keep him tethered.
"Not yet," he muttered to himself. "You don't get to die yet."
He made his way down the main boulevard, past crumbled storefronts and overturned carts. He avoided the open square where the pyres had been. The black stains on the stones were enough to tell him that the people hadn't fled. They had been offered.
The Choir had been here.
The memory struck hard and fast: robes of bone-white, faces veiled in gold, singing in a language older than any book. The Prophet at their center, holding the sacred flame aloft as the dead rose—not just as puppets, but as instruments of divine judgment.
Dorian pushed the memory away.
He didn't come for vengeance.
He came for the girl.
At the center of Gathridge stood the cathedral, or what remained of it. Its spire was split in two, and most of the eastern wall had caved in. Still, the doorways remained intact, carved with old runes Dorian recognized from his studies. They shimmered faintly with residual magic—protective, sacred, and now cracked.
He stepped through, eyes adjusting to the dimness. The pews had been overturned, the altar blackened with soot. A trail of blood led down into the crypt.
Dorian followed.
He descended the stairs slowly, whispering a deadlight charm. A flicker of blue flame appeared in his palm, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. At the bottom, a figure sat curled in the corner, unmoving.
He approached cautiously.
"Rhea?"
The figure stirred.
She was young—maybe sixteen—with tangled hair and wide eyes that shimmered unnaturally. Her skin was pale, lips cracked. But she was alive. And more importantly, she was glowing.
Dorian knelt beside her. "You're the last Pale Line, aren't you?"
She blinked. "You're… not one of them?"
"No," he said softly. "I'm worse. I'm the one they failed to kill."
She studied him. "You smell like death."
"It's a cologne."
A faint, trembling smile touched her lips.
Good.
That meant she could still laugh.
He offered her a small bottle of water. "Drink. Slowly."
As she sipped, Dorian examined her aura. She radiated raw energy—not necromancy, not divine. Something ancient. Something the Choir had feared.
He had to get her out.
By nightfall, the skies turned a deep, unnatural red. Dorian carried Rhea on his back through side alleys and ruins, avoiding patrols of undead that still wandered aimlessly. Each one hummed with the Prophet's residual command. But without direct guidance, they were slow. Thoughtless.
At one point, a skeletal priest spotted them and began chanting. Dorian dropped Rhea and summoned a revenant from the ground—one of the city's fallen guards. The revenant smashed the priest to bone shards before disintegrating itself.
"You didn't have to kill it," Rhea said quietly.
"Yes, I did."
"He was praying."
Dorian paused. "He was singing death into the world."
She didn't reply.
They moved on.
By the time they reached the forest's edge, Dorian was limping. The binding charm on his leg was beginning to fade. A wolfbite from days ago, now blackening. He collapsed against a tree, pulling Rhea close behind him under a tangle of roots.
"Rest here," he whispered. "We'll move at dawn."
She curled beside him, head resting on his shoulder.
"Why did you come for me?" she asked.
Dorian stared up at the stars, or what remained of them.
"Because you're the last spark," he said. "And I'm the only one stupid enough to try and protect it."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, softly:
"Were you always like this?"
He chuckled. "No. Once, I was a scholar. A healer. A fool who thought knowledge alone could save the world."
"What changed?"
"The world."
As sleep overtook them, the forest whispered.
Not with wind.
But with watching eyes.