Inside the fortress.
The scent of blood was thick in the air.
It clung to the damp stone walls, seeped into the cracks of the floor, and filled the dimly lit chamber where Reynard hung in chains.
The once-proud captain of Blackridge was barely recognizable.
His face—swollen, bruised, misshapen. His once-polished armor stripped away, leaving him in torn, bloodstained cloth. His body sagged, held up only by rusted chains, the metal biting deep into his wrists.
But he was alive.
For now.
Across from him, Gufran sat.
Still. Unreadable.
Not cruel. Not angry. Just watching.
Beside him stood Kendrick. Silent. Waiting.
The air was heavy. Not just with blood, but with something else. A pressure. A presence that pressed down on the room, thick and suffocating, as if the very walls were holding their breath.
Then—
Gufran spoke.
"How many men does Blackridge have?"
Reynard didn’t say a word.
Not at first.
His one good eye twitched open, half-lidded, clouded with pain and exhaustion. His breath came in ragged pulls.
Then—he laughed.
Weak. Broken. But laughter nonetheless.
"You think this is over?" His voice was hoarse, raw from screaming. "You think killing me will stop them?"
Gufran tilted his head slightly. Curious. Amused.
"Stop them?" he echoed.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers clasped together.
"No, Captain."
His voice was quiet. Almost gentle.
"I don’t want to stop them."
Reynard’s breath hitched.
Gufran smiled.
"I want them to come."
Silence.
For the first time—Reynard had no response.
Then—Kendrick moved.
Slow. Deliberate.
His elongated fingers wrapped around Reynard’s jaw like iron shackles.
And tilted his head to the side.
Gufran watched. Unblinking.
"Tell me, Captian."
He reached out, dragging a single clawed finger across Reynard’s cheek. Barely touching. Just enough for the man to flinch.
"Do you fear dying---"Gufran's voice barely above a whisper.
"---or what comes after?"
Reynard gritted his teeth.
He didn’t answer.
So—Gufran let Kendrick have some fun.
A flash of movement.
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A wet, sharp snap.
Reynard screamed.
Kendrick had taken two fingers. Just two.
Blood dripped onto the floor, pooling, spreading, darkening the cracks in the stone. Reynard’s chest heaved. His body convulsed, wracked with fresh agony.
Gufran sighed.
"This is tedious."
A lazy gesture.
"Take his head. We’re done."
Kendrick obeyed.
One swift motion—
A clean sever.
The body slumped forward. Blood pooling. Twitching.
The head—**Reynard’s head—**rolled once, twice, then stopped at Gufran’s feet.
Gufran stared at it.
Then—he grinned.
"Take it to Blackridge."
---
The gates of Blackridge loomed against the night—towering walls of iron and stone, reinforced with ancient runes meant to ward off the dead.
The guards stood at their posts, torches flickering in the frigid air, eyes scanning the distant road.
A lone figure approached.
At first, they barely noticed him—just another shadow moving through the mist. The night swallowed most details, reducing him to something indistinct. But as he stepped closer, the firelight caught his face.
Thin. Pale. Wrong.
He walked with purpose. No stumble. No limp.
Not the way the undead moved.
Too smooth. Too deliberate.
"Finally," one of the guards muttered. "They’re back."
Another exhaled. "Took them long enough."
They had been expecting the hunting party.
But as the figure stepped into full view, they realized—
This was not them.
There was only one.
And in his hands—
A box.
Blackwood, bound in iron.
The guards froze.
One of them frowned. "Who goes there?"
No answer.
The figure stepped closer.
And spoke.
"Open the gates."
A simple request.
Spoken too clearly. Too calmly.
The guards stiffened. Something was wrong.
"Identify yourself!" another barked.
The figure tilted his head slightly, as if considering the demand. Then—
He opened the box.
A severed head tumbled onto the ground.
It landed with a wet thud.
Blood seeped into the dirt. The eyes—frozen wide in terror. The mouth—twisted mid-scream.
The guards staggered back. One of them gasped.
Captain Reynard.
Leader of the hunting party.
Dead.
The air around them seemed to constrict, thick and suffocating. The torches flickered. Hands tightened around weapons.
One of the guards swallowed hard, forcing his voice through the sudden weight of silence.
"What… What is this?"
---
Kendrick took another step forward.
The torchlight caught his face.
And finally—they saw him.
Not just a shadow. Not just a figure in the mist.
His skin—pale, stretched too tight. His eyes—wrong, gleaming with something the undead weren’t supposed to have.
The guards remained frozen.
Shock rooting them in place.
Every instinct, every fiber of their being screamed danger.
But their bodies refused to move.
Because for the first time in their lives—
They weren’t sure of, what they were looking at.
Then Kendrick spoke.
"A message."
A pause.
"A message from my king."
The guards didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
"King of the undead?"
The thought went unspoken, but it lingered in the air, thick and suffocating.
The man continued, his tone steady. Controlled.
"Your sent hunters to us."
A slow tilt of the head.
"We return them as prey."
The guards stiffened.
Then—
"Your city has been noticed by my king."
Not a threat.
Not a demand.
A statement.
And somehow—that was worse.
Blackridge had spent centuries believing itself untouchable. Runes carved into its walls, steel gates sealed tight.
But now—the king of the dead had sent a messenger.
Delivering proof.
Proof that their warriors—**their best—**had been butchered.
And that they weren’t finished.
The guards didn’t know what to do.
Not fight.
Not run.
Not speak.
They had spent their lives hunting monsters.
But this?
This wasn’t a monster.
This was something else.
Something thinking.
Something watching.
And then—
He smiled.
Not wide. Not exaggerated.
Just the barest curl of his lips.
"His Majesty Gufran has spoken."
Then—
He turned.
And walked away.
Back into the mist.
Back into the night.
Not in fear.
Not in haste.
Because he knew they wouldn’t follow.
Because they couldn’t.
---
The severed head of Captain Reynard sat on the war table.
No one spoke.
No one breathed.
The council members of Blackridge—the most powerful men in the stronghold—stared at it, their faces pale.
Not in grief.
Not in anger.
In fear.
Voss stood apart from them, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Watching.
Because now—
Now, they understood.
"This…" One of the councilmen finally whispered, his voice shaking. "This cannot be allowed to stand."
Another swallowed hard. "We… we underestimated him."
At this point, they all knew.
This was not the work of a mindless horde.
This was not random brutality.
This was a declaration of war.
And Gufran had just made his first move.
---
The council erupted into heated debate.
"We must retaliate—"
"Against what?" another snapped. "An army of corpses?"
"They aren’t just corpses anymore."
Voss remained silent. Listening. Calculating.
He could feel it in the air.
They were scared.
For the first time in Blackridge’s history, they weren’t the ones hunting.
They were the ones being hunted.
And if they didn’t act soon—
They would be next.
Finally, Lord Regent Rhygar slammed his fist onto the table.
"This city will not kneel to the dead." His voice was steady, but even he couldn’t mask the tension beneath it. "We will burn that fortress to the ground."
Murmurs of agreement.
A battle plan forming.
But Voss…
Voss knew it wouldn’t be that simple.
This wasn’t a monster to be slain.
This was a war.
And wars weren’t won by brute force alone.
---
As the meeting adjourned, Voss lingered.
His hands rested on the war table, his fingers trailing over the blood-stained map of the frontier.
This wasn’t over.
It had only just begun.
And Gufran…
Gufran was watching.
Waiting.
Because he knew—
They would come.
And when they did—
He would be ready.