The search party moved through the forest in uneasy silence, torches casting flickering shadows on the trees. Finn gripped his pitchfork tightly, its wooden handle slick with sweat. He was the youngest of the group, barely fourteen, but his father had told him that courage wasn’t about age.

The village would get through this, Finn told himself. It always had. The fields survived the worst droughts, and the harvests always came back stronger. The people of Brightford had each other, and no shadowy killer could break that.

“They’re saying it’s a curse,” muttered an older man walking nearby, breaking the quiet. “Something unnatural. Never seen a man bleed out without a single wound before.”

“Bandits,” another argued, hefting his axe. “They’re clever. Could be poison on their blades.”

Finn stayed quiet, listening as his courage wavered. What could his pitchfork do against something like that? He swallowed hard and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. No matter what came, he’d face it. He’d protect the village.

It started with the wind. The air grew colder, sharper, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of decay. The group slowed, their torches barely lighting the path ahead.

And then the forest came alive.

From the underbrush, skeletal hands clawed out, dragging shattered bodies into the torchlight. Rotten flesh clung to bone, and eyes burned with unnatural light. The search party erupted into screams, their earlier theories forgotten.

Finn froze as one of the undead lumbered toward him. Its jaw hung loose, swaying grotesquely with each step. A gaping hole in its chest revealed ribs twisted unnaturally inward, and its fingers, skeletal but disturbingly sharp, reached out as if beckoning him.

“Finn! Move!” someone yelled, but his legs locked in place. The creature’s head tilted, as though studying him, and a rasping growl escaped its throat. The world spun as Finn’s fear reached its peak.

Then, with a guttural scream, he dropped the pitchfork and ran.

The forest blurred around him as Finn fled, tears streaming down his face. His heart pounded in his chest, a deafening drumbeat against the chaos behind him. He could hear the screams of the others, could imagine their faces, their fear.

Coward. The word rang in his head, louder than anything else. He had run. He had left them behind.

“I’ll get help,” he muttered to himself between gasps for air. “I’ll…I’ll go back to the village. I’ll tell the mayor. I’ll save them.”

But the words felt hollow. He knew there would be no help in time, no saving anyone. And yet, the thought kept him running, kept him from stopping to face the guilt threatening to crush him.

The sight of the village tore the breath from his lungs.

Brightford was burning.

Flames devoured the wooden homes, rising high into the night sky. Villagers ran in every direction, some throwing buckets of water onto the blaze, others screaming names of loved ones they couldn’t find. The once-familiar streets were unrecognizable, twisted by smoke and ash.

Finn stumbled to a stop, his legs giving out beneath him. He fell to his knees, watching the inferno with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“No…” The word escaped in a whisper.

He had told himself the village would survive. He had promised himself it would be okay. And now everything was gone.

A dark shape caught his eye near the edge of the flames. A figure, silhouetted by the burning homes, stood motionless. Finn squinted, his heart thudding painfully as fear clawed its way back into his chest.

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Was it someone trying to help? Another survivor?

Or was it something worse?

The figure tilted its head, as though aware of his gaze.

Finn couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The flames roared louder, and the figure took a single step forward.

======

The necromancer emerged from the depths of the forest, his figure wreathed in shadow as the first signs of the village came into view. Smoke curled lazily into the night sky, an ominous signal of what awaited him. He paused, leaning lightly on his staff, his glowing eyes narrowing as he observed the horizon.

“So, the fire is not mine,” he muttered to himself, his voice a dry whisper. The distant flicker of flames illuminated the edge of the village in eerie, dancing light. "How quaint."

He moved forward with measured steps, his long robes trailing over the damp undergrowth. The forest thinned around him, the scent of ash growing stronger with every step. He let his mind wander as he walked, detached from the faint sounds of wildlife scattering in his wake.

“This will make things... simpler,” he mused. "If they're already broken, it saves me the trouble of applying the pressure myself. Desperation has its uses, though.”

The necromancer’s thoughts turned to the chaos he expected to find. He imagined panicked villagers scrambling to salvage their belongings, clinging to their loved ones, their lives unraveling like loose threads. He wondered if they would fight back—how foolishly human that instinct was. He almost relished the idea of quelling such rebellion, though not for any sense of satisfaction. Their resistance, their fleeting defiance, would merely be another resource.

“Their pain will linger in the wood, in the earth,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “It will make the work here... smoother.”

He reached the edge of the tree line, pausing as he studied the village before him. The flames licked hungrily at the blackened beams of homes, their glow reflecting off pools of water in the muddy streets. It was not yet entirely consumed, but it was clear that Brightford was no longer the sanctuary it once claimed to be.

His glowing eyes scanned the scene, his expression unmoving. The flicker of figures darting through the shadows caught his attention—a few survivors clutching what they could carry, running in no particular direction. Their movements were frantic, but he made no effort to follow. The weight of their despair hung in the air, ripe and lingering, enough to feed his craft for years if harnessed properly.

"These people," he muttered with a faint, almost imperceptible sneer, "cling to ashes as if it will preserve the fire. The sooner they scatter, the sooner they can join my collection."

He continued into the village, his footsteps silent as he passed the charred remains of a cart, its wheels half-melted and leaning precariously to one side. The scent of oil and smoke was thick now, clinging to the air and his robes alike.

The necromancer stopped in the middle of the street, surveying the destruction with cold detachment. He inhaled deeply, almost savoring the acrid taste of ruin. He had seen many villages fall—some by his hand, others by the careless cruelty of humans themselves. This one was no different, though its timing was... fortuitous.

"Brightford," he said softly, the name slipping from his lips like a long-forgotten prayer. "You are no longer a place, but a tool. And tools are best put to use before they rust."

He tilted his head toward the distant sound of shouting, his ears attuned to the voices of those few who remained. There was fear in their tone, but no unity. Disjointed cries for help mingled with aimless orders barked into the night. It was a symphony of disorder, a herald of their impending collapse.

This was no longer a village—it was a graveyard waiting to be filled.

The necromancer tapped his staff lightly against the ground and began his descent into the heart of Brightford. It was time to begin.

========

Malric walked away from the boy without a second glance. His bony fingers flexed absently as he pondered the fleeting figure. Finn had been nothing more than a flicker of life in a sea of flames. Weak, insignificant, and ultimately unworthy of further consideration. The boy's panicked retreat didn’t even warrant the effort of pursuit.

"One will do nothing," Malric muttered to himself, his voice raspy and dry like the crackling embers around him. "The fire will consume more than he ever could."

The skeleton strode into the heart of Brightford, the flames embracing him as if welcoming an old friend. Shadows danced wildly on the scorched walls of homes, their fiery tendrils licking at the sky. The inferno painted the village in shades of destruction, and Malric reveled in it.

The first villager he encountered—a man clutching a bucket of water in desperation—didn’t have time to scream. Malric’s hand shot out, skeletal fingers clamping around the man’s throat with unrelenting force. The bucket hit the ground, spilling its contents uselessly onto the scorched dirt.

As the man’s struggles ceased, Malric felt a strange, unfamiliar satisfaction bloom within him. It wasn’t the satisfaction of survival or necessity—it was deeper, darker.

He moved through the village with eerie calm, his pace unhurried but deliberate. Each step brought him closer to another soul, another life to snuff out. A woman, her hair singed and her hands trembling, tried to run when she saw him. Malric didn’t chase her. He simply moved toward her, relentless as the fire itself. She stumbled and fell, her cries drowned by the roaring flames.

Another life extinguished.

Malric felt... joy. It was a foreign sensation, yet undeniable. His form passed through the burning streets, his dark cloak alight, his gear smoldering. The fire was claiming everything he carried, reducing it to ash. He didn’t care. For now, all that mattered was the destruction.

A group of villagers gathered near the well, desperate to contain the flames. They didn’t notice Malric until he was upon them, and by then, it was too late. One by one, they fell to his unyielding assault, their cries of fear and pain filling the air.

The fire surged around him, consuming wood, flesh, and stone alike. Malric walked through it, unbothered by the heat that warped the air and scorched his brittle frame. His exposed bones blackened, his edges cracked under the strain, but he pressed on. He savored the chaos, the raw sensation of annihilation.

And then, there was silence.

Malric stood in the center of the smoldering ruins, his charred form wreathed in ash. There was no one left. No movement, no sound beyond the dying crackle of flames. The village was empty now, a hollow shell of what it once was.

He felt nothing. The joy he had tasted, fleeting and intoxicating, was gone. In its place was a vast, gnawing emptiness.

"I thought this would... fulfill something," Malric rasped, his voice lost in the stillness. He looked around at the blackened ruins, his hollow eyes scanning the devastation. "But it is the same. Always the same."

As he stood there, alone in the wreckage, a spark of energy caught his attention. It was faint but familiar, like an echo of something he had long forgotten. His gaze snapped to the horizon, where the remnants of the firelight reflected off the forest canopy.

The energy was moving, growing closer.

Malric’s head tilted, his skeletal frame still as he focused on the sensation. It was coming toward him, unrelenting, purposeful.

"Interesting," he muttered, his hollow voice tinged with the faintest hint of curiosity.

Whatever it was, it was unlike anything he had encountered before. And it was heading straight for him.