The hall of Lord Dareth was dimly lit, the candle flames trembling in the draft that whispered through the narrow windows. The air smelled faintly of smoke and iron, an omen that did not go unnoticed. Behind the great oak desk, the lord leaned forward, his sharp eyes fixed upon the armored knight standing before him.
"Arther," Dareth said, his voice low and measured. "What is your opinion on the events taking place in Iron Creek?"
Arthur bowed slightly, his gauntlet pressed to his chest. "Milord, I fear that half of the allegations are but gossip from the rumor mill. The villagers tend to speak of curses when they cannot explain what they see."
Lord Dareth's gaze hardened. "And if the other half proves true?"
"Then Iron Creek is in grave peril," Arthur replied.
Dareth stood, his cloak dragging across the floor like a shadow. "If that is so, then I will have to send you there to verify the claims for yourself. Take a battalion. I want answers before the week's end."
Arthur bowed again, though unease twisted deep in his gut. "As you command, milord."
Outside, the last light of day was dying. The courtyard glowed faintly red as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, and the shadows of the castle walls stretched long and crooked across the cobblestones. A chill wind whispered through the barracks as Arthur's men gathered, faces grim, armor polished, and eyes wary.
The sun sank fully, and darkness crept in like an unseen tide. The realm would later remember this night as the beginning of the Endless Night, when the warmth of day became a memory, and whispers of dread filled every hearth.
Those not strong enough to endure would fall quickly. From nobles to peasants, from peasants to prey. But for now, only fate knew what awaited them.
Arthur tightened the straps of his armor, his expression calm though his thoughts were far from it. He looked to the men before him. Fifty riders, loyal and ready. The banners of House Dareth fluttered in the cold wind, black and silver against the pale moonlight.
"It's half a day's ride before we reach Iron Creek," Arthur said, his voice carrying over the soft clatter of hooves and steel. "Make sure you are ready for the worst."
His words hung heavy in the air. The men stood straighter, their armor gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Then, with a thunderous shout, they answered in unison, "YES, SIR!"
The gates creaked open. Beyond them lay the endless road, darkened by night and lined with twisted trees that clawed toward the stars. The forest swallowed them one by one, their torches flickering like dying fireflies.
The farther they rode, the quieter it became. Even the horses grew uneasy, snorting and tossing their heads at the scent of decay that drifted on the wind. The moon hung low and blood-colored, casting the road in an eerie crimson hue.
Sir Rowan, Arthur's second-in-command, rode beside him. "They say the creek runs red these days," he muttered. "Some claim it's the iron in the soil. Others…" His voice trailed off.
"Others say it's blood," Arthur finished grimly. "I've heard the tales. I've also heard the dead walk its banks at night."
Rowan nodded once, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Do you believe such things, sir?"
Arthur's eyes narrowed beneath his helm. "I believe that fear often tells the truth before men do."
They pressed onward. The road narrowed, winding between barren trees whose branches hung low, heavy with frost and something darker like dried sap, though black as ink. The sound of distant crows echoed through the silence.
By midnight, a heavy fog had risen from the ground, wrapping around the horses' legs like ghostly hands. The men's torches struggled against it, their flames flickering weakly.
Then came the first sign.
A shape lay in the road ahead, pale and motionless. Arthur raised his hand, signaling the column to halt. He dismounted, his boots crunching against the frosted earth. As he drew near, the smell hit him, rot thick and foul.
It was a man. Or what was left of one. His armor was torn open, his face twisted in silent terror. Something had clawed through his chest, and the ground around him was soaked dark.
Rowan knelt beside the corpse. "Gods have mercy… this armor's from the Iron Creek militia."
Arthur's gaze swept the tree line, his hand tightening on his sword. The woods were silent, but not still. Somewhere in the mist, something moved.
"Form ranks," he ordered softly. "Eyes sharp. No one strays from the road."
The battalion obeyed, the air thick with unease. As they rode past the corpse, more shapes appeared half buried in the dirt, some slumped against trees. Their faces were pale, their eyes open. Not a single bird dared touch them.
One soldier crossed himself. "Sir… what could've done this?"
Arthur didn't answer. He already had his suspicions.
When the first cry rang out, it came from the rear of the formation. A scream cut short, followed by the sound of tearing metal. Torches wavered as the men turned, blades drawn.
Through the fog came a figure, staggering forward. His armor bore the crest of Dareth, but his flesh was gray, and his eyes burned faintly red. The smell of death followed him like a cloak.
Rowan whispered, "By the gods…"
The creature lunged. Steel clashed, sparks flew, and the night erupted with shouts and the ring of blades. But for every fallen ghoul, another seemed to rise from the fog, dragging itself from the soil, from the darkness, from nowhere at all.
Arthur fought like a man possessed, his blade flashing in the moonlight. He drove his sword through one creature's chest, twisting until the red light in its eyes dimmed. But even as it fell, he could hear more of them—crawling, whispering, laughing in voices that once belonged to men.
"Fall back!" Arthur shouted. "To the ridge!"
The surviving soldiers rallied to him, bloodied and breathless, retreating up the rocky incline. The fog thinned as they climbed, revealing the distant lights of Iron Creek flickering faintly in the valley below.
But even from here, Arthur could see that something was wrong. The village fires burned green.
He stared for a long moment, his sword dripping red against the cold stone. "By dawn," he murmured, "we'll know the truth."
Behind him, the corpses in the fog began to stir once more.