The young man didn’t know why, but the Healer’s casual demeanor unsettled him.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this…

"Okay. Right. Firstly, where are we?"

"We’re in a tent, my sw-Ben."

Ben face-palmed and sighed dejectedly.

"What is the name of the land we are currently standing on?"

"Well, we’re sitting… but we’re currently in Moonvale, an eastern province in the Empire of Caemire. This camp is situated near the outskirts of the rift that is the Dark Lands. Soldiers have come to call this border the Fringe."

"What are the Dark Lands?"

Ann seemed to consider the question for a beat before answering.

"Nobody really knows what the Dark Lands are, and those who venture into that abyss, never return. What we do know is that the weave is very thin here, possibly frayed in the lands beyond the Fringe. As a result, mana flows without direction or purpose and saturates the land. The flora and fauna become twisted and eventually die from exposure."

A pause. Ben motioned with an open palm to indicate she should elaborate.

"The dead rise and become shambling husks that are driven by an insatiable hunger. The walking dead have been given many names. Devourers, ghouls, walkers, eaters. Ma, Dad, brother… But they are the least of the horrors that are inflicted on the land by the tear."

Ben mulled over her words. Hearing ‘the weave’ mentioned again and ‘mana’ brought about a flood of curiosity. Earlier, Jor had also mentioned not being able to use her ‘Avatar’ again. His head ached.

One thing at a time, Ben.

"I take it that this camp is here to repel or quell the monsters spawned by the tear?"

"Exactly. That is why we should see to your recovery as expediently as possible. When you’re ready, my heart, we are to leave this place and f-"

A loud scream from outside the tent interrupted Ann mid-sentence. The pair jolted up from their seats and went to investigate the cry of alarm. Before they made it to the tent’s entrance, something huge barreled through the sick bay, demolishing the tent and crushing the furniture that Ben and Ann were using moments before. Chaos. Cries of pain and alarm were a terrible symphony that spoke of the events occurring in camp.

Ben tried to scramble to his feet, but the canvas weighed heavily on his slight frame. He felt Ann’s frantic hands searching before finding purchase on his form in the rubble. She threw aside the heavy fabric that pinned him down and helped him to his feet. The look of relief in her eyes was quickly snuffed out as what greeted the pair was a scene of pure horror.

The camp had been overrun by the walking dead. Soldiers were overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. He saw the man who had argued with Ann, being eaten alive by several dead. He desperately called out for help. The utter terror in his voice froze Ben to the spot. He stared as the creatures gnawed on his fingers and exposed entrails.

He turned as he felt the ground tremble in a skittering rhythm and saw the cause of the sick bay’s demise. He took in the massive creature, barely ten paces in front of him. A giant, hairy arachnid, as big as an elephant, was wrapping some poor soul in what appeared to be putrid, yellow silk. The spider-like creature looked… wrong, Ben thought. It was missing the "foot" sections of several of its legs, and it reeked of decay and rot. Its hairs were thick gray spines that shuddered with every movement.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Ann grabbed his hand and pulled him away from his morbid fixation.

"We’ve got to go," she said in a breathy panic.

Ben allowed Ann to lead him away from the carnage. He stumbled as they ran while avoiding stray undead. Ben heard a subtle, high-pitched hum that grew in intensity. He turned his head to find the source, and saw a man in ornate, polished-steel plate armor, standing a few paces to his left. Two soldiers in the same drab, grey armor stood in fighting stances at his rear. The man observed the scene with casual indifference in his eyes. He had lifted a long, slender, jagged ivory great sword and held it aloft in front of him with one hand, chin raised. He pointed it towards where the undead arachnid was stalking.

The hum reached a climax, and all sound stopped. Heat. Time seemed to yield to the display of violence that was to come. Eerily silent, a great-thick beam of blinding-white light erupted from the tip of the great sword. Ben felt his bones vibrate, his jaw clench, and his vision dance. All in the path of the beam were reduced to charred effigies. The discharge lasted only a heartbeat.

Slowly, sound found purchase on reality once more, and Ben heard the sizzle of steam hissing from mud and puddles. The man stood at the vertex of a conically shaped area of destruction, about ten paces away from his quarry, which had become nothing more than a steaming black husk of chitin and bubbling pus. The man was indiscriminate in his destruction, incinerating both the undead and allied soldiers who were unfortunate enough to be in the line of fire. He lowered his great sword, which seemed to physically ripple through the air due to the sheer heat it radiated.

The display felt surreal. Ben fell to his hands and knees and ejected a payload of his own. He remained in that compromising position for a moment, afraid that if he looked up, he would be unable to deny the reality of the carnage. Ann was at his side, imploring him to get up and leave, but Ben couldn’t hear her voice. The hairs on his neck stood up, and a chill seemed to cascade over his body. His eyes were drawn from his vomit to the man, who obviously had little regard for the lives of the camp’s defenders.

The man’s presence felt heavy to Ben. He was tall, probably a hair taller than Jor. The thick plate armor he wore so casually suggested that there was muscle underneath the cold steel. He had short, well-groomed, light blonde hair and unblemished fair skin. His jaw was strong and chiseled. Ben thought that he would have been handsome if not for the eyes that were a cold, indifferent blue.

The man’s gaze swept the camp in front of him before settling on Ben. He gestured with a dismissive flick of his free wrist for the pair of soldiers to advance. The guard immediately obeyed and left to engage the attackers. Ben felt as if he knelt before a massive tidal wave, resigned to the fact that there was nothing he could do to stop it if he tried.

"What’s this? It seems Jor’s stray survived after all."

A warm, even tone conveyed the man’s words. It was a juxtaposition to the oppressive aura he emanated. He tilted his head and appeared to be considering something. He slowly raised the ivory sword, and the tip came to rest, inhumanly still, a hand span away from Ben’s throat. The weapon radiated heat, and it began to dry the cold sweat from the kneeling man. The sounds of conflict all around the trio were a distant susurration to the exchange.

"Why does one lacking so much… substance, burn so brightly?"

He paused, remaining perfectly still.

"Are you, perhaps, the cause of this little mishap?" he asked rhetorically.

Ben could feel his heart thrumming in his throat. He tried to address the man, but it was as if his body acknowledged that it would be futile to reason with a monster. He blinked.

He heard the whip of fabric from behind, and a beige blur filled his vision. He realized that he was staring at Ann’s ample posterior. The armored man had also moved. He stood about five paces away from the pair, great sword held with both hands in an overhand grip, point aiming down in a defensive stance. Ann stood upright, feet together, back straight. Her posture suggested either supreme self-confidence or resignation. She didn’t have any weapons that he could see.

He blinked again and tried to make sense of what his eyes failed to observe. It was as if the pair didn’t move at all. One moment they were somewhere, and the next, they were somewhere else. His mind struggled to accept that these people were capable of feats that defied the rules of nature. His head spun, and he felt a second bout of nausea pushing at his throat from his stomach.

"A Keeper in a backwater province like this? Wearing the garb of a Healer. Has the order of ________ fallen so far as to have to resort to subterfuge?" The man taunted, less arrogant and indifferent than before. A thin line on the bridge of his nose wept a tear of blood.