Oliver Looked at the dark lumps of land and saw movement. Someone or something followed him. It didn’t appear undead, as he’d passed a few skeletal things meandering around a huddle of farmsteads.

The ground dried below the foothills, and the group of five traveled through the night toward silvery waters, some large lake with forest skirting it. They followed a stream for hours until the sky disappeared behind a broad-leaved canopy.

The forest grew denser. Shadows stretched and tilted across a narrow path marked with a dry-rotten sign that read Thornsfield. Oliver led the way, his swordstaff in hand, its weight a comforting presence in the unknown.

Beside him walked the barbarians Halfdan and Sigrid, whose knowledge of these lands seemed as sparse as Saj. Saj's jovial demeanor increased after leaving the mud behind. Charity trailed the four, silent as ever, her eyes fixed on the ground.

"We need shelter," Sigrid said, scanning the darkening woods. "I can’t see my hand in front of my face."

As if in agreement, the trees parted to reveal a meadow with a cabin at the far end. The cabin’s walls were overrun with ivy and moss. Smoke curled lazily from a stone chimney, and the faint glow of firelight flickered through a window.

"Looks like someone's home," Saj noted, though his tone was not enthusiastic.

Halfdan walked toward the cabin. "It’s not good luck setting up camp after sunset.”

They approached cautiously. Before stepping foot in the meadow, the cabin's door creaked open, and an old woman emerged. Her back was hunched, and a tattered shawl draped over her thin shoulders. Her eyes were milky white, staring vacantly ahead, but she walked without a cane.

She walked up a small hill and crushed a wilted rose in a gnarled hand. Three simple graves stood at her feet.

"What is she doing?" Saj asked.

"Paying respects, perhaps," Sigrid replied, though her brow furrowed.

They watched as the old woman knelt before the graves. She crumbled the rose over each, drew a knife, and sliced her palm. Bblood dripped onto the earth as she chanted.

A chill wind swept through the clearing, rustling the leaves and shivering down Oliver's spine.

"By the spirits," Halfdan muttered, his hand moving to the hilt of his axe.

The old woman rose slowly, tucking the knife away. Without acknowledging them, she disappeared back into the cabin.

Silence settled over the clearing. Then, the ground before the graves began to stir. The soil bulged and cracked. Skeletal hands broke the surface, grasping at the air.

"She’s raised her family," Sigrid said, stepping back.

Three decomposed figures pulled themselves from the earth. Their flesh hung in tatters, exposing bone and sinew, and their empty eye sockets seemed to fixate on the group.

"Don’t run!" Oliver said, positioning himself between the undead and his companions. He needed the experience.

The first creature waded through the grass to the trees and lunged toward him. Oliver swung his swordstaff, the blade slicing cleanly through its torso. The undead staggered but did not fall, its bony fingers reaching for him.

Haldan darted forward with a flurry of axe strikes. "They don't die easy," His target’s arm detached, and it grabbed it as a cudgel.

Sigrid loosed an arrow that embedded itself in the third undead's skull. With its head facing the sky, it lost balance and toppled. "Go for the head.".

Saj held a branch defensively, eyes wide with terror.

Oliver ducked under a swipe from the first undead and retaliated with a powerful upward thrust. The creature collapsed, finally still.

Halfdan grappled with the second, wrestling it to the ground. "A little help here."

Sigrid drew a dagger and plunged it into the undead's neck. Together, they dismembered it until it moved no more.

The third undead closed in on Saj, who stumbled backward and raised his hands against gnashing teeth.

Oliver hurled his swordstaff, impaling the creature through the chest and pinning it to a tree. It thrashed violently.

Retrieving his weapon, Oliver severed its head with a swift strike. The forest fell silent again, save for the buzz of crickets and cicadas.

"I think we should go." Saj panted.

"Dark Magic," Sigrid said. "I don’t like it, but it’s not always evil."

"It’s only one old lady.” Oliver crossed the meadow to the cabin.

Halfdan followed and caught him by the shoulder. "There are things you can’t see. If she invites us in, we must listen to your guts.”

"Yes," Sigrid said. "We kill her if we so much as get a chill up our spines."

"Take a breath," Oliver said. “I’ve seen stranger shit than this.”

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They approached the cabin with weapons at their hips and hands itching to grab them. Oliver rapped on the door.

The door swung open, perhaps from the force of the knock.

The interior was lit by a fire crackling at the hearth. Herbs and dried plants hung from the rafters. The old woman sat in a chair, cutting meat and vegetables.

"Excuse us," Oliver began cautiously. "I didn’t mean to open your door. We’re travel…"

She cackled. Her eyes, cloudy and sunken, snapped toward them. "Visitors? Oh, how lovely. It's been ages."

"We're travelers seeking shelter for the night," Sigrid said. "May we share your heart?"

"Of course, dearies. I called you visitors, did I not?" She smiled toothlessly. "I was just fixing supper."

They exchanged uneasy glances but stepped inside.

"I'm Agatha," she introduced herself. "Please, leave your cloaks and boots at the door." She ladled a thick stew into bread bowls and set them on a rickety table. The concoction emitted a pungent odor.

"Rat stew," she announced proudly. "Caught them myself. Just a name, though. Some of it is mice and rabbit."

Saj gulped audibly. "How, uh, delightful. So, tell me, do you have a husband?"

“Yes. Dead. Sons, too. They died fighting the elves long ago. Well, not the elves exactly, just their stand-ins. The pointy ears never fight themselves, you know. They can’t have others do the dirty work. Now it comes again. I raised him and my boys so they could fight again, as is tradition.”

Oliver met eyes with his companions. They’d just dispatched her whole family. He wouldn’t feel guilty. They were dead. Of course, so was he, but that was different.

They took seats around the table. Agatha placed the bread bowls before them. They pretended to eat as Agatha sat with them, her gaze unfocused.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Oliver said, feigning a sip.

"Oh, it's no trouble," she said. "Good to be around others."

As she prattled on about the solitude of the woods, they discreetly dumped their portions out of the window.

Charity remained silent, seated right next to the old lady. Her food sat untouched. She smelled it as if thinking of eating it but just pushed a chunk of meat around with a wooden fork. Perhaps she was starving.

"Not hungry, dear?" Agatha asked, turning her head slightly toward Charity.

"I'm... not feeling well," Charity murmured.

"Ah, I have just the remedy," Agatha offered, rising unsteadily.

"That's quite all right," Sigrid interjected quickly. "She just needs rest. We’ve pushed ourselves."

"Very well," Agatha shuffled toward a curtained alcove. "Lay beside the hearth and dream about whatever young people dream."

Once she was out of earshot, Halfdan whispered, "We should leave at first light."

Oliver lay on his side. "Agreed.”

They lay close and silent, each lost in their thoughts.

In the pre-dawn, after only a couple hours of sleep, Oliver awoke to faint whispers. He strained to listen but could not discern the words.

He considered investigating but thought better of it. Instead, he tightened his grip on his swordstaff.

The group departed the cabin at sunrise, thanking Agatha, who waved them off cheerfully from her porch. The forest thinned as they traveled, giving way to open fields and rolling hills.

Saj rubbed his stomach. “Perhaps we should have tried her food. I think she was just a nice old lady, and we feared the worst.”

They approached a small village beside where the stream became a river and a vast lake. The sight of smoke rising from chimneys and the distant hum of activity lifted their spirits.

"I want carrots," Saj said. “And apples. Carrots and apples and a nap.”

Halfdan grunted. “Ribs.”

As they entered the village, a sense of unease settled over them. The streets were eerily quiet, the villagers hurrying about with downcast eyes. On the outskirts, they passed a series of wooden stakes driven into the ground. Atop each stood a charred, lifeless figure.

"Why?" Charity said.

They all looked at her since she’d hardly spoken.

Halfdan fingered the axe at his belt. "I don’t like it.”

Oliver waved them on. "Not our business." Maybe when he rose in the ranks he’d try and fix things, but who knew how much crazy shit was happening in this world.

A farmer at the outskirts of the crowd around the stakes nodded to them. “Travelers. We don’t get many of them. What news from abroad?”

"Good day," Oliver greeted. "There’s an army coming toward you. Though I imagine you know about that."

The man wiped his brow. "We’ve known before they even crossed the pass," he said. "Normally, we’d be long gone, but Lord Reynold hasn’t given permission to flee."

"Why is that?" Sigrid inquired.

He hesitated before muttering, "Some say the Witchfriends got to him. I don’t buy into any of that. No one’s done a better job of rooting them out."

"Is there a place we might find food?" Saj asked.

The farmer pointed to a dilapidated building at the village center. "You could try the alehouse. That’s about the only place open." He made turned as the crowd gasped. The figure on the stake moved, though it was burned black. “Hard to kill a witchfriend.”

They made their way to a small building marked as an alehouse by faded signage. The floorboards creaked. A few patrons cast suspicious glances their way.

A woman wiping a goblet clean looked them over with tired eyes. "One for all of you?"

"Food, too," Oliver asked.

“I’ll see what I can scrape up.”

They settled at a corner table as the innkeeper brought out bowls and mugs of ale.

Saj took a sip and then another. "A very—I don’t want to say plain—people. Very down to earth."

"Darkness hangs over this place," Sigrid said.

Oliver didn’t like how Sigrid and the locals stared at each other. “Let’s just try to blend in. We’ll be out of here in no time.”

As they ate, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense. One by one, the patrons finished their meals and departed.

"Is something wrong?" Oliver asked.

She paused, her expression grim, looking into the distance. "We woke the graveyard. We shouldn’t be here. It’s not how it’s supposed to be done." She walked away. “I’d find a safe place if I were you, but not here. Move along.”

Saj stood, stretching his back. “Come to think of it, I’ve heard of these people. They say they’re so stubborn they won’t stay in the ground.”

From outside came the sound of shuffling feet and low, guttural moans. The villagers scrambled to barricade their homes, doors slamming and bolts ramming into place.

Oliver jammed his staff end into the door before the woman could close it. "We need to secure this place," Oliver said.

She struggled to close it. "No, get out of my house. We have burglars."

Oliver shoved her aside, and his companions worked to reinforce the entrances with heavy furniture. The moans grew louder. Shadows moved behind the shutters.

An old man burst from a dark room and stood beside the woman. He froze in a stance with a raised fist and an open mouth. He had a glass tube in one hand. Then, he said, “Oliver?”

Oliver couldn’t believe it. “Eldrin?”