The catacombs erupted into chaos.
The whispering of a thousand dead souls became a shriek that rattled the very stones. The green fire that burned in the sockets of skulls along the walls flared bright, casting the chamber in a twisted, flickering light. Shadows leapt and twisted like living things, writhing across the cracked walls as the army of the dead began to stir.
Arthur's men formed ranks by instinct, steel flashing as they drew blades, shields locking together in trembling formation. The sound of steel against bone filled the air as skeletal hands clawed their way from the packed earth beneath their boots.
"Hold your ground!" Arthur roared, his voice echoing through the chamber like thunder. "Do not falter! The light still burns!"
But even as he shouted, one of the soldiers screamed as a ghastly figure in a monk's robe had grabbed him by the throat, dragging him into the dark. The man's torch fell and rolled across the stone, its flame sputtering out. In that corner of the room, only the sickly glow of the dead remained.
"Saints preserve us!" another shouted, swinging his sword at a half-rotted priest that staggered forward, chanting through broken teeth. The blade cut deep, but no blood spilled, only a black mist that hissed as it touched the air.
The Keeper stood at the center of the chaos, unmoving, his skeletal fingers raised. The green light in his eyes pulsed in rhythm with the flickering of the runes on the walls. He was controlling them guiding the tide of the dead like a conductor of some infernal choir.
Arthur charged through the fray, striking down one of the risen monks with a crushing blow. "Rowan!" he called. "Get to the coffin! Break the runes!"
Rowan parried a strike from a bone-clad ghoul and shoved it back with his shield. "Aye, sir!"
The soldiers surged forward, hacking and slashing, but for every corpse that fell, two more clawed from the dirt. The chamber stank of decay and sweat and the sharp tang of iron. The walls seemed to breathe, the air thick with the moans of the damned.
Arthur's sword cut a wide arc through a group of the dead, splintering skulls and rending rotted flesh, but one of the creatures caught his arm with its claws. He grunted in pain, driving his knee into its chest and sending it sprawling. Its body burst apart like dust.
Rowan reached the coffin, ducking beneath a swinging bone club. He pressed his palm against one of the glowing runes it burned his flesh instantly, the smell of seared skin rising. But he gritted his teeth and slammed his sword into the symbol. Sparks flew, and the rune shattered, its light winking out.
The Keeper shrieked. The air itself seemed to twist, and the flames in the skulls dimmed for an instant. Several undead collapsed, twitching on the floor.
"You dare!" The Keeper's voice was no longer human it came from everywhere at once, rattling through bone and air. "You defile what is eternal!"
Arthur lunged, his sword cutting through the smoky haze. The Keeper met him with unnatural speed, catching the blade in one clawed hand. Sparks flew where metal met bone. The creature's other hand lashed out, striking Arthur across the chest and hurling him into a pile of skulls.
The impact knocked the breath from him, his armor denting under the force. The skulls tumbled and rolled, whispering in voices not their own. "Join us… join us…"
Arthur rose, gasping, blood dripping from his split lip. He could feel the weight of every life in the chamber pressing down on him—the dead, the living, and those caught in between.
"Not today," he growled.
He tore a torch from the wall and thrust it into a cluster of advancing corpses. The fire flared, catching on the dry, rotted robes. The dead shrieked as flames consumed them, the light reflecting in Arthur's eyes like madness.
But the Keeper only laughed a horrible, echoing sound that rattled the bones on the walls. "You burn the husks," it hissed. "But their souls remain. They are mine."
From the darkness above, the ceiling cracked, and chunks of stone fell as more of the dead descended some clinging to the walls like spiders, others crawling upside down across the ceiling. Their pale limbs twisted and snapped as they dropped among the soldiers.
One knight was dragged screaming into the dark before his comrades could react. Another had his throat torn out, his lifeblood splattering across the runes. The green light drank it in, pulsing brighter.
"Fall back toward the stairs!" Arthur bellowed, cutting down another ghoul. "Keep together!"
The men obeyed, forming a desperate defensive line as they retreated toward the exit. Rowan swung his sword in wide arcs, his armor splattered with blood both red and black.
A skeletal priest lunged at him, mouth open in a wordless prayer. Rowan's blade cleaved its skull in two, and for an instant he thought the way clear until he saw it.
The Keeper had raised both hands now. The runes on the coffin flared violently, cracks spreading through the stone. From within, something vast began to move.
Arthur saw it too. "Rowan! Away from the coffin!"
But it was too late. The lid exploded outward, shards of iron flying like knives. From within rose a figure unlike the others a corpse draped in regal vestments, crowned in rusted gold, its eyes twin embers of hatred. Chains hung from its wrists, each one etched with scripture.
"The First Saint," whispered one of the soldiers in horror. "That's his tomb… Gods forgive us…"
The chained saint turned its head toward the living, its jaw splitting open in an inhuman shriek. The air trembled. The torches died.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
Arthur swung blindly, his sword striking sparks against unseen stone. The chamber was now alive with motion-bones rattling, claws scraping, the screams of dying men mixing with the guttural chants of the risen clergy.
He felt something grab his shoulder a hand, cold as the grave. He spun and drove his sword through its chest, feeling the blade lodge deep in bone. When he pulled it free, the creature's head followed, rolling across the floor before vanishing into the dark.
"Rowan!" he shouted again, but there was no answer. Only the sound of battle and the endless whispering of the dead.
Somewhere in the dark, the Keeper's laughter rose again. "You cannot win, knight. This place has no dawn. The holy shall rise… and the living shall feed them."
Arthur grit his teeth, his sword raised though his arm trembled. "Then we'll see how many of your holy dead still stand when dawn comes."
He did not know if there would be a dawn.
The Keeper raised his arms once more, and the chained saint began to move, dragging its scripture-bound chains behind it, the symbols glowing like molten gold. Each step shook the earth, dislodging bones from the walls.
Arthur's men, what few remained, stood shoulder to shoulder with him, the fear plain on their faces. The undead closed in, their pale hands reaching from every direction.
"Hold," Arthur whispered. His voice was calm, cold, and resolute. "Hold… until the last breath."
The Keeper extended his clawed hand. The saint's chains uncoiled, lashing toward the living with the fury of divine judgment.
The catacombs roared with death and steel.
And somewhere, buried beneath the chaos, the faint toll of a church bell began to ring, mournful, and wrong.