Baal felt it first—an eerie stillness that spread over the lake like a shroud. The jubilant chatter dimmed in his ears as if muffled by an unseen force. And then he saw it: an undead figure emerging in slow motion from the tree line, shambling forward with a disturbing sense of purpose.

Their eyes, or what should have been eyes, were vacant sockets. Clothing clung to them in soiled, ragged patches, remnants of the royal guard uniform they had once led. Open wounds crawling with maggots, as if even in death, they were a breeding ground for filth and depravity. The skin was scorched by sunlight, melted, and adorned with blisters ready to pop with pus.

Their mouths were twisted into grotesque shapes, resulting from rigour mortis and decomposition. Yet, even though they had no lungs to draw breath, an unsettling guttural sound seemed to emanate from them—a sound that felt more than heard, vibrating in the pit of Baal's stomach, rattling his bones.

Perhaps most unnerving was how they moved in an eerie unison as if guided by a singular, vicious will. They didn't so much as look at one another; there was no need. They were all limbs and torsos and shuffling feet, moving steadily toward the gathered crowd as though magnetized by the warmth and life they lacked.

Baal's eyes narrowed, zeroing in on a detail he'd initially missed—a pair of puncture marks on the neck of one of the shambling horrors. His gut clenched, a new layer of dread settling over him like a shroud. These weren't just any undead; they were thralls, ghoulish foot soldiers birthed from the dark arts of vampirism.

Baal's eyes widened as large as they could and shouted once more, "Get out! Now!" His voice was a guttural growl, cutting across the laughter and happy chipper.

The first reactions were ones of confusion. A couple of heads turned in Baal's direction, their faces a mixture of puzzlement and mild irritation. Some even began to meander toward him, perhaps thinking it was a part of the night's festivities.

And then, the numbers changed. Instead of one undead, then broke through the shadows of the trees, a grotesque crowd of undead parade. Their eyes were hollow yet ablaze with an otherworldly light. As they began to shamble faster, the gravity of the situation descended like a hammer.

Panic erupted. People screamed, overturning baskets of food, decorations, and even small children in their scramble to flee. The once orderly procession disintegrated into a frenzied mob. The air was thick with sweat, fear, and putrification, cutting through the earlier scent of pine and burning candles.

As the horde swelled in number, ambling grotesquely toward Baal and Merlin, a sudden shower of arrows rained down from the trees surrounding the lake. Each shaft found its mark with a sickening thud, arresting the undead momentarily as they flinched and staggered.

"Good, we're not alone in this fight," Merlin murmured, seizing the opportunity. With a fluid motion, he thrust his staff into the iced earth. The tip glowed a frigid blue, and then a jagged wall of ice erupted from the ground, carving a frosty barrier between them and the encroaching abominations. It was as if the lake itself had extended its frozen fingers to shield the living from the dead.

For a moment, the thralls were baffled, pushing against the ice wall like flies stuck in amber. It wouldn't hold them for long, but perhaps long enough.

"Baal, go!" Merlin commanded.

Instead of retreating, Baal bolted forward, circling the edge of the ice wall, which now partially segmented the lake from the Morningstar estate. His eyes were aflame with fire, his fists clenched and ready. This barrier would give the townspeople and their guests a brief respite, a chance to seek refuge within the estate's fortified walls. And they took it, with faces etched in terror, they streamed toward the safety of the estate.

But Baal ran in the opposite direction. His only concern was Nord. Baal's eyes darted from thrall to thrall, his pulse quickening with his growing desperation. Where was she? Dodging arrows and evading outstretched, decaying arms, he wove through the monstrous crowd, his voice rising above the din. "Nord!"

Finally, like a beacon in a storm, he saw her. Nord was a whirlwind of motion, her twin daggers glinting menacingly as she dispatched thralls with deadly grace. Each cut of her blade seemed to release an alchemical energy, reducing the undead to ashes in an instant.

But even as he felt a surge of relief, Baal sensed her fatigue. Her movements were a beat slower, her blade a touch less precise. She had been working all day, her body pushed to the brink. She couldn't keep this up much longer.

Baal redoubled his pace, summoning every reserve of speed he possessed. He reached her just as a thrall lunged at her from behind, its rotted teeth aimed at her neck. With a swift, furious motion, he seized the creature's head and crushed it against the ice until it turned into dust.

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Nord glanced over. Her eyes widened in relief and exhaustion. "Took you long enough," she gasped, briefly staggering before righting herself.

"Happy to see you too, Morningstar," Baal said urgently. "You're exhausted. Let's pull back."

She shook her head stubbornly, her eyes flashing. "And let these things overrun us? I don't think so. Do better, Baal! Do fucking better," she shouted while diving her blade into the skull of a thrall.

Baal grimaced, knowing the argument would be futile. Instead, he positioned himself back-to-back with her, forming a makeshift perimeter. "Then let's make this count."

Nord nodded, tightening her grip on her daggers. "Alright, what's the plan?"

Baal's foot connected with one of the thrall's chests, sending the decaying figure sprawling backwards into a cluster of its kind while he was thinking of a plan. "Ready for this?"

Baal's eyes narrowed with determination as they took their defensive stances. "You've got an imp tattoo on your left rib cage, right? With a sword? Let's use it for a little demonic assistance. Ready?"

"Ready!" Nord shouted while crouching low to the ice, spreading her hand over its frosty surface. The cold gnawed at her skin, almost as if trying to claim her. "What are the words?"

Baal used his own body as a shield for Nord. Leaning down, his lips hovered near her ear as he began to recite in a hushed yet powerful voice, "As I was among the captives by the river, the hells were opened, and I saw your visions. And so I call you." His hand overlaid hers on the icy surface as he continued, "Come to my aid, so it is decreed, for my words are carved into my being—Baal Berith!"

Nord felt a jolt of energy at the mention of the name, an electric charge that seemed to resonate with the tattoo on her ribcage. With a voice stronger than she felt, amplified by adrenaline and desperation, she boomed the words back, "As I was among the captives by the river, the hells were opened, and I saw your visions. And so I call you. Come to my aid, so it is decreed, for my words are carved into my being—Baal Berith!"

As the final syllable left her lips, the tattoo on her ribcage seemed to ignite with a ghostly flame, burning but not consuming from the surface of the ice where their hands made contact, dark fissures branched out, twisting and turning like roots seeking nourishment. And then, rising from the fractures, a legion of imps materialized, each brandishing a wickedly deadly sword.

The sudden appearance of the imps caught the thralls off guard. They hesitated, their undead instincts confused by the new arrivals. Seizing the moment, the imps launched themselves into a frenzied attack, their swords slashing through rotten flesh and bone with surprising efficacy. The thralls began to disintegrate, their forms collapsing into ashes and dust, swept away by an invisible wind.

Baal's muscles tensed, his eyes darting from side to side, scanning for the next hidden threat. The summoned imps had shifted the tide, true, but something in the pit of his stomach told him that this was far from over.

The rain of arrows had ceased for the moment, yet Merlin's icy shards still flew in an unpredictable arc, and any one of them could turn lethal if they strayed too close.

Nord sensed his heightened alertness. "What is it?" she whispered, feeling the taut muscles of his arms around her. "We're winning, aren't we?"

Baal tightened his grip on Nord, his arm instinctively pulling her closer. "Winning's a strong word," he replied tersely. "I don't trust easy victories."

The air grew colder still, a deep, unnatural chill that seemed to seep into their bones. Merlin, in the distance, had ceased his incantations and was now murmuring something too soft for them to hear. What was he warning them about?

Baal straightened up, feeling a momentary sense of triumph wash over him as he helped Nord to her feet. The lake around them was now a battlefield covered in ashes, a testament to the sheer force they'd unleashed.

The imps, their job mostly done, were driving what remained of the undead into the depths of the forest. Baal looked around; aside from Nord and himself, the frozen lake was deserted.

Smiling at Nord, he said, "Well, I think it's over. Nice job, Morningstar."

Baal then turned and started walking towards Merlin, who was standing at a distance, the tip of his staff still glowing with lingering magic. But just as Baal took a step, he heard it—a sharp crack, like the sound of splintering ice. It seemed to echo all around him, and he felt the ground beneath his feet shudder.

Reacting almost on instinct, Baal surged forward, his boots pounding against the ice as he lunged towards solid ground. He knew that sound; the ice sheet on Tear Lake was giving way. But as he reached the safety of the shore, he turned back and saw Nord, her eyes wide with surprise and her mouth open in a soundless scream, swallowed whole by the collapsing sheet of ice.

"No!" Baal shouted, his voice tinged with both disbelief and despair. But it was too late. The frozen surface where Nord had stood moments before was now a gaping hole, a void filled with the dark, icy waters of Tear Lake.

His chest tightened as he realized she was gone—swallowed by the frozen waters, her form obscured by the darkness and floating ice shards. And there was nothing he could do to bring her back.

Baal's muscles quivered, coiled like a spring, his eyes riveted to the dark waters as if sheer willpower could summon her back. Then Merlin's gnarled hand clamped around his upper arm with a vice-like grip, halting him. "Boy, she is gone!"

The stark finality in Merlin's voice felt like a gut punch. Baal struggled, the raw desperation in his movements almost animalistic. But the old wizard's strength was otherworldly, immutable. It held him in place, as solid and unyielding as the earth itself.

Defeated, Baal sank to his knees, his gaze still locked onto the murky abyss below. The lake's surface had settled back into a deceptive serenity as if mocking him. As if it hadn't just swallowed the love of his life, his best friend and wife. No, she couldn't be gone. Not like this!

The weight of Merlin's hand lifted from his arm, but the burden it left was far heavier. "Baal," the wizard began, his timbre carrying a note of softness Baal had never heard before—a vulnerability that belonged in places deeper than any lake.

"Stop," Baal rasped, his voice choked with a bitter emotion he couldn't quite name—grief, rage, impotence—all jumbled into a toxic brew. "Just—stop. Let me go."

And Merlin did. The old wizard retreated a step, his staff clicking softly against the ice as he moved back. "No, she is not gone, not like this. Nord Morningstar is not going to die like this!"