The War Council
The war chamber of Blackridge Fort was silent, save for the crackling of torches lining the stone walls. The air was thick with tension, pressing against the gathered officers like an invisible weight.
At the head of the long wooden war table, General Aldric Voss sat, his fingers drumming against the rough surface. The flickering candlelight cast deep shadows on his scarred, weathered face.
Voss was a man of order and discipline—a man who had fought wars and won.
But war had rules.
And tonight, for the first time, he wasn't sure they still applied.
Across from him, Commander Rykard, his second-in-command, exhaled sharply.
"You mean the rumors from Kasian?" Rykard muttered.
"Rumors," another officer scoffed. "Zombies don't organize. They don't coordinate. They don't lead."
Voss said nothing. He slowly unrolled a map of the region, his fingers tracing the roads leading from Kasian to Blackridge.
"The way I see it, we have two options," Voss said. His voice was calm, but absolute.
"We either ignore what happened in Kasian—assume it was another outbreak—or we treat this as a true threat."
Rykard exhaled sharply. "You don't seriously think—"
Voss cut him off with a glare.
"Scouts," Voss said. "I want confirmation. If this is just another wandering horde, we'll crush it and move on. If it's worse, I want to know before it's on our doorstep."
He turned to Lieutenant Gale, a younger but experienced officer.
"Take twenty of your best men. Ride to Kasian. Check the surroundings. Report back before sundown."
Gale nodded without hesitation. "It'll be done."
Voss's expression darkened.
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"I don't like what I'm hearing. I don't like what we don't know. But for now, we wait for the scouts. Until then, prepare the men."
The meeting ended in grim silence.
Something was wrong.
Voss just didn't know what.
---
The Second War Council
The next evening, Voss stood once more in the war chamber.
The atmosphere was different now.
More tense. More uncertain.
The first scout party had not returned.
Now, there was no more denying it.
Voss leaned forward, his steel-gray gaze scanning the room.
"Where are the scouts?" Captain Erwin asked, his voice sharp.
No one answered.
"That's the real question, isn't it?" Rykard muttered. "Twenty men. Trained scouts. They were supposed to be back yesterday." He looked around the table.
"They aren't."
A murmur spread among the officers.
"They may have been delayed," one of the older commanders suggested.
"Or they may be dead," Erwin countered.
A long silence.
Voss's fingers tapped against the table. Some of these men still wanted to believe this was just another minor outbreak—something they could handle.
But deep down, Voss already knew.
This was different.
Voss exhaled. "We're not going in blind. We send another group—this time, warriors. Small in number. Armed for battle. They'll confirm what happened before we commit to the full force."
Erwin nodded. "I'll pick the men myself."
---
The Second Scout Party
By mid-afternoon, ten hand-picked warriors rode out from Blackridge Fort.
Unlike the first scouts, they traveled in armor, weapons drawn, expecting a fight.
Some carried early-model flintlock rifles, crude but deadly at close range. They were slow to reload, unreliable in damp weather—but against the undead, a well-placed shot could shatter a skull before a sword was ever drawn.
They disappeared into the mist.
They did not return.
By nightfall, Blackridge knew the truth.
Something had taken them.
Just like it had taken the first scouts.
There was no more doubt.
Only grim certainty.
---
The Decision to March
By the time news spread of the second party's disappearance, the atmosphere in Blackridge had shifted.
The streets, once filled with structured patrols and quiet industry, were now tense with whispers.
The forges burned longer.
The barracks were restless.
Even the civilians felt it.
Something was coming.
Something worse than anyone had faced before.
Inside the war chamber, Voss made his choice.
"Send word to the commanders," he ordered. "We march at dusk."
Rykard stiffened. "Are you sure?"
Voss met his gaze. "That's precisely why we go now. Before it grows into something worse."
Erwin smirked, adjusting his sword belt. "Besides," he said, "if we don't act, the people will lose confidence."
A ripple of agreement spread across the officers.
Blackridge had always faced its enemies head-on.
This time would be no different.
---
The City Prepares for War
The call to arms rang through the fortress-city.
Blacksmiths' forges burned hotter, hammering out last-minute repairs to armor and weapons.
Inside the barracks, warriors strapped on breastplates, adjusted shields, and tested their blades.
Some checked their firearms, ensuring the delicate mechanisms weren't clogged with ash or moisture.
No magic.
No enchantments.
No sorcery.
Blackridge prided itself on discipline, science, and steel.
Witches were blamed for the undead plague, just like the rest of the world.
No one trusted magic, and those who wielded it were hunted down or exiled.
Even the civilians felt the tension.
Some stood at their doors, watching as columns of soldiers moved toward the gates.
Others whispered prayers, hoping their warriors would return.
Blackridge had never fallen.
But for the first time… it felt like the city was preparing for something far worse than an ordinary battle.
---
The March Toward Kasian
As the final light of day faded beyond the mountains, the gates of Blackridge groaned open.
Two hundred warriors—knights, archers, and gunners—marched in formation.
Their shields gleamed in the torchlight.
Their banners billowed in the wind.
At the front, General Voss rode on horseback, his expression cold and unreadable.
They rode toward Kasian.
Toward the unknown.
Toward the first battle in a war they did not yet understand.